Christianity-Theosophy Conference: The Imperative of Love

The Imperative of Love

By David Bland

Many of us have seen the brightly colored string or beaded bracelet around a friend's wrist, decorated with the letters "WWJD." The phrase these letters capture--"What would Jesus do?"--was coined by a Sunday School teacher as a way to help remind her students that all of life must be tested against the example of the historical Jesus.

Just what was that example? It was of the man who showed compassion for a woman, outcast because of her state of uncleanness caused by a twelve-year-long issue of blood. It was of the man who saw in little children the real embodiment of the divine--the ultimate meaning of the Kingdom of God. It was of the man who went beyond efforts to entrap him so he could be an instrument for a man to regain his sight. But the epitome of the example this Jesus of Nazareth embodies is summarized in what he gave all of us as the Great Commandment, "that you love one another."

In that golden nugget At the Feet of the Master, we are told, "Of all the qualifications, Love is the most important,for if it is strong enough in a man, it forces him to acquire all the rest, and all the rest without it would never be sufficient." In every faith tradition there are comparable calls for us to actualize that one quality that can give us the wings to soar with the eagles rather than to be immersed in the morass of pettiness, selfishness, and inhumanness. However, as our histories so graphically portray, we have chosen many things over the joy and freedom that can be ours when we open ourselves to love. Today's religious writers and speakers urge us audience to reclaim the "high-ground," to ask the WWJD question, or its moral equivalent within the other faith traditions such as Buddhist, Hindu, or Muslim.

Through the years, the Theosophical Society has provided an unencumbered arena in which to explore life's questions with believers of the world's religions. In the workshop recently held to explore a greater interface between the Theosophical Society and the Christian tradition, it was recognized that some Christian faith tenets can indeed inhibit dialogue and create what may appear as in surmountable barriers to open exploration. As the participants in that workshop, members of the Society from various Christian backgrounds, worked through these issues, we identified our dilemma. Each of us recognized that dogmas, if accepted at face value, will continue to be a chasm, but we also realized that there are principles that can bridge that chasm.

If one accepts the imperative of love, the interpretations that would divide can be placed to the side, and an atmosphere of love and understanding created. Once we have walked around each other's house, or shared fellowship, and experienced the presence of the Christ in one another, we will ratchet down our defenses and really begin to know the answer to the WWJD question. The apostle Paul wrote to a church to which he had given some of his most creative ministry:

Love is patient; love is kind and envies no one. Love is never boastful, nor conceited, nor rude; never selfish, not quick to take offence. Love keeps no score of wrongs; does not gloat over other men's sins, but delights in the truth. There is nothing love cannot face; there is no limit to its faith, its hope, and its endurance. Love will never come to an end. . . . In a word, there are three things that last forever: faith, hope, and love; but the greatest of them all is love. [I Cor. 13.4-13, New English Bible)

There can and must be an expanded and enlightened exploration of how Theosophy complements and enhances Christianity's message of love to all mankind. The recent workshop has given all of us who participated in it an opportunity to bring into focus this dialogue, incorporating the principles that unite rather than divide. We have made a beginning. Let us love one another.


David Bland has degrees from Wake Forest University, North Carolina State University, and Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary. He is CEO fo rMcGregor Industries, an architectural steel fabrication and installation company. A member of the Theosophical Society since 1970, he is committed to increasing dialogue and understanding between Christianity and Theosophy.


The Next Stages in Human Spiritual Evolution, Part Two

By Robert Ellwood

Theosophical Society - Robert Ellwood is emeritus professor of religion at the University of Southern California and a former vice-president of the Theosophical Society in America. He currently resides at the Krotona School of Theosophy.What will the religion of the sixth and seventh root races be? The seventh'swill no doubt be whatever the religion of a single human megabrain is like, but that gets ahead of the story-one thing at a time. The contours of faith in the sixth root race are now beginning to emerge. Signs abound; the transition appears to be already underway. The twentieth century was a time of great religious change, much of it beneath the surface of exoteric religious institutions.

Although regrettably plenty of iron-hard attitudes remain in the world around religious nationalism and dogmatism, it must be acknowledged that at least the religious "playing field" has changed dramatically since about 1900. Virtually everyone must now recognize that the arguments about religious truth take place in a pluralistic world, and this realization changes our concept of the very nature of belief. A worldview, even a conservative, traditionalist one, must now be seen as a choice made in the face of the possibility of other choices, rather than simply imposed by tradition or authority.

In such an age, an independent organization like the Theosophical Society can have an important role: first, as a paradigm or model of a movement based on the free choice and affiliation of mature members, each in his or her own way; second, as an organization whose teaching affirms the intrinsic value of pluralism as such, recognizing that the knowledge of the Ancient Wisdom each of us has individually is imperfect.

An attitude of respectful pluralism is, in fact, a growing reality at the end of the twentieth century. Even though many people are not yet ready to acknowledge the new reality openly, one can see widespread evidence that religions are actually increasingly regarded as subjective structures that we ourselves construct to negotiate our relation to absolute reality, rather than as objective truths. People change religions freely; they "blend" religions in the increasing number of interreligious marriages and families; they accept that most of the societies of the world are pluralistic ones in which people need to get along with each other. I know of Christian-Jewish families who observe both Christmas and Passover, and Christian-Buddhist families who display both the cross and the image of the Enlightened One in their home.

There are exceptions, but throughout present-day culture, religions are often no longer seen as matters for doctrinal or logical consistency, or for institutional loyalty, as admirable as those virtues may be in some contexts. Instead, they are perceived as invaluable but flexible symbol-systems that maybe employed by individuals in a variety of ways: as instruments of family or community cohesion, as channels for one's aspirations toward the highest realities, as cultural heritages, as inspirations for good living and spirituality, with a dimension of depth.

All the ideas outlined here are very much in line with the Theosophical expectation that we are now moving into the era of the sixth root race, or perhaps more technically, the sixth subrace of the fifth root race, which will prepare for the sixth. We need first to remind ourselves again that the present fifth root race was intended especially to explore and experience the meaning of the material plane. That is its particular role in the course of our long pilgrimage from out of the Halls of Light, which are our true home, for the sake of experience in this and other worlds before our return, enriched and ennobled, to the Source.

For the most part we have done well what we were supposed to do: explore and understand the material composition of the universe. Our science and technology have brought us incomparable knowledge of the laws of nature, of the atom and the galaxy, and of the application of these laws in the making of tools from the flint blade to the computer. There have, of course, been down sides, beginning with the terrible misuse of technology for human exploitation and war, owing to the dismal fact that our moral evolution has hardly kept pace with out scientific progress.

A no less grievous consequence is that the very success of the scientific way of thinking has suggested it as a model of philosophizing in other spheres where its application is more dubious, such as the religious. A master in The Mahatma Letters speaks of our civilization as one which "rests so exclusively upon intellect." Insofar as this applies to religion, it points to the way religion has been seen so much as a matter of dogmas, like scientific axioms or laws, which entail other doctrines with virtually mathematical logic, all of which need to be imposed with the harsh rigor of nature itself.

But this is a very fifth-race way of looking at religion, and not at all the only way possible. The great religions themselves, for all their doctrines, gesture in another direction by holding up conscience, and above all love, as the final court of appeal in the mind and in ethics. If supremacy of conscience means anything, it means that the inner integrity of the individual is more important than any mental construct. If love means anything, it means accepting others in their differences from oneself as well as in their similarities. It says that we want to grow mutually by exploring those differences with appreciation and that this experience of mutuality is deeper and better than just preaching one's dogma at others, take it or leave it.

Increasingly in our world we are coming to see this interactive loving kind of understanding as the way the world ought to be, across religions, castes, races, nationalities, personal differences all areas in which we have laid down many rigid rules as the shadow side of fifth-root-race thinking, with its scientific or pseudoscientific logic. In the sixth root race our calling will not be to pursue some one way with exclusive consistency, but to expand our capacity for love by embracing persons of all kinds and to explore their inwardness with sensitivity and appreciation. Along with this, will come an appropriate recovery of psychic and mystical capacities, the necessary tools for truly profound understanding of ourselves and of that which is beyond ourselves.

There will still be problems, of course, for the sixth root race is not the end of the journey, and some issues, perhaps unimaginable to us now, will remain to be resolved in the seventh or on other worlds. One is fairly familiar: how does one respond in love to another whose way of life one honestly believes to contain evil? Other issues may be a little further down the road: do the coming biological engineering and neurotechnological techniques mean enhanced human freedom, or do they only invite totalitarian control of whatever is left of the individual? It seems clear that the world is now making the transition to new kinds of thinking that spell a new stage in evolution, and before long the remaining moral and ethical issues will be dealt with in fresh ways.

This is how I see the coming sixth root race: a people of pluralism, individuality, new ways of image-based reading and thinking, leading up to an amalgamation of all those relatively enlightened individual humans into what is really a transhuman stage, the neuro technological linkage of all minds into a grand array of consciousness. That united supermind will be the seventh rootrace, the last which will have need at all for this physical world and which we hope will live on a spiritual level appropriate to its tremendous leap into cosmic consciousness.

What signs are pointing to that unimaginable future, and what is the shape of that which comes? First let us consider future scenarios from the scientific sphere. The distinguished physicist and master of scientific speculation Freeman Dyson has suggested, in Imagined Worlds, an awesome list of awaiting technological revolutions. From our point of view, these will be material concomitants and expressions of the changing consciousness and spirituality of the sixth root race. First, genetic engineering, already commenced but still ata very crude level, within two or three centuries will produce biological entities virtually on demand, including Jurassic Park animals, plus new and improved human bodies, to reflect the undogmatic plasticity of sixth-root-race consciousness.

One of the most dramatic prospects awaiting us in biological engineering will call for new thought patterns and new religious concepts. Sooner than we now think, it may be possible to reverse the aging process through cellular modification or transplants and so create immunity to most of the ailments from which we die. This would result in very long life spans of hundreds or even thousands of years, indeed perhaps virtual immortality.

One can only begin to conjecture what kind of effect this development would have on the world's religions, since they now exist in large part as guides for how to live within a very limited span of years and in the face of mortality, and include strong elements of hope and fear regarding the afterlife. Remove the specter of the man with the scythe more or less indefinitely and, if religion as we know it does not simply wither away, other features of faith than those centering around death will no doubt gain prominence, ones that some of us might consider healthier concerns: community, ethics, and the spiritual quality of life.

But even virtual immortality is as nothing compared to the prospects lurking within the emerging science of neurotechnology. The premier art of that field, splicing biological beings with computerized intelligence (miniaturized and flexible far beyond present capability), will then be ready to equip the new man and woman with remarkable combinations of human mind and artificial intelligence. Dyson among others has suggested that before long we may be able to download data and ideas directly from computers to our brains, and from brains to databases. Perhaps the computers themselves would be organic and, as it were, grafted-on brain-enhancing body parts.

Then as the third radical development after virtual immortality and neuro-computer linkages, it will be possible to transmit data by what Dyson calls radio telepathy, "brain waves" or neuron charges translated by a small implanted sender into radio waves that could be picked up by a computer receiver or by another brain. Radio telepathy will allow all these enhanced minds to be directly linked like computer arrays on the level of memory, thought, and will. This vast human computer array could be moving into place by the end of the next millennium, in a thousand years or less.

Radio telepathy could be achieved either through tiny transmitters placed in the brain or through the genetic engineering of cerebral biology to electrify, computerize, and "radioize" the human brain, on the model of the electric organs that already exist in electric eels and electric catfish. It would then permit the direct communication of signals and information from one brain to another, and no doubt also from associated computerized databases. Books, videos, spoken language, and other primitive means of transmitting information through verbal symbols encoded on paper or film or in combinations of sound waves, and received by means of the senses, will then be as outdated as those bards who, before the invention of writing, had to commit vast amounts of tribal lore to memory.

Radio telepathy, whether from data bases to brain or from brain to brain, would certainly be as revolutionary an advance in communication, and even in the human meaning of knowledge, as was the invention of writing, which those powerful new information engines will displace. It would deliver to us a world as different from the age of literacy as that age was from the preliterate stone-age world that went before. At best, reading, writing, and speaking would now be used only for historical, recreational, or aesthetic purposes. Another thought: it might also be possible by this means, Dyson suggests, to connect with the minds of other species and for the first time to know directly the subjective world of a cat, a dog, an eagle, or a dolphin.

From here only a small step will carry us to the most revolutionary development of all, one that we might wish to term the seventh root race. The next stage,though dramatic and irreversible, would be comparatively easy after radio telepathy, and probably would not be long resisted, though it would mean nothing less than changing human beings as we know ourselves into something that is not merely another species, or another genera, but virtually a whole new order of life.

For a thousand years from now or perhaps sooner, undoubtedly it will be possible to unite those radio telepathically implanted brains into great arrays of tens,hundreds, even thousands of units capable of problem-solving and achievement not to mention pleasure on an unimaginable scale. But within a collective like this,one imagines the individual, and with it individual consciousness, fading and failing in the face of the vastly larger collective mind's power.

One can project vast disquietude by humans in the immediate face of this prospect, but it would not be resisted long. The newest and most powerful technology never is, and the competitive edge going to those accessing large-array brains would make this neurological leap imperative for the rest. Nonetheless this awesome change in human nature would clearly overturn all existing institutions. The profoundest challenge of this eventuality, as in the case of biological individual immortality, would be to religion, whatever form it has taken a millennium from now. For religion as we know it depends fundamentally on the idea of the responsible individual self, and the self would now be shown to be outdated, a puny instrument in the eyes of something immensely greater.

Death would indeed no longer have its sting nor the grave its victory, at least not to the collective consciousness, which will increasingly simply be the consciousness of each entity within its hold. The whole would undoubtedly soon,and irreversibly, supplant individual human consciousness like a far more powerful radio signal drowning out lesser stations. Its mental energies, its brilliance of intellect, its determined will and purpose, its breadth of information and awareness, its inconceivable joys and raptures, will dwarf anything we, or rather our distant progeny, could possibly sustain on our own, and we, or they, would become it. So it is that the entire part of religion that deals with individual preparation for death, the trauma of dying, final judgment, and immortality or resurrection will retain little meaning.

And what is the spiritual status of a radio telepathically-linked collective mind? Is it itself a person in the religious sense, a soul, capable of sin and salvation, or of karma and enlightenment the great idea of axial-age, fifth-root-race religion? Or is the new human megabrain a demonic entity that has swallowed up the greatest of God's creations, the individual soul? Or can souls somehow still be found within it? At our present level of consciousness, these questions are simply unanswerable.

Nor is that all. For the collective, for all intents and purposes, would be immortal, at least until the collapse and death of this particular universe eighty billion years hence and by then the array, perhaps by now united into one vast universal consciousness of billions of parts, could be a mind invincible enough to prevail even against that ultimate termination. Life and death will be as insignificant to the collective as the individual. Any one unit within it, upon failing, would easily be replaced by another, no doubt quickly constructed for the purpose by biological engineering.

It can be argued, of course, and probably will be at the time, that religion has other foci than the separate individual, indeed that it insists the separate individual is not the ultimate focus of meaning. In Christianity, individuals are supposed to be parts of the body of Christ, like cells or organs in a physical body, almost like a spiritual anticipation of the collective. The Hindu social order, with its castes and roles, is based on an organic more than an individualistic model of society. Priests and preachers will endeavor to spiritualize the collective in some such manner as this. Yet to see the spiritual ideal become everyday physical and biological reality will be no small challenge to conventional religion. How can Theosophy respond to this and the other challenges of the occult future?

We have a couple of hints about Theosophy and this "science fiction" future in a classic Theosophical text. The Mahatma Letters to A. P. Sinnett (letter 66 in the chronological edition, 14 in the third edition, part 7b) tell us: "The principle of acceleration and retardation applies itself in such a way, as to .. . leave but a single superior one [stock] to make the last ring." As the text makes clear, this final superior entity is also the culmination of the seventh root race. And (letter 93B, 23B): "The last seventh race will have its Buddha as every one of the predecessors had; but its adepts will be far higher than any of the present race, for among them will abide the future Planetary, the Dhyan Chohan" or meditation buddha, whose contemplative aura can embrace a planet and who will instruct the next still higher level of development that will pass beyond our world altogether.

One can easily imagine that, at this level, those other adepts and that superior stock would harmoniously and without coercion be embraced within the Dhyan Chohan's single incomparable mind. These no doubt partial and tentative glimpses into the distant spiritual future, couched in traditional language and concepts,hint at one important idea: that the separate individual human self as we now know it is far from the final stage of spiritual evolution. At higher and higher levels, both selection and increasing harmony in freedom will move us together toward a single transcendent consciousness capable of almost unimaginable wisdom, power, and bliss. In that buddhic mind, consciousness and all experience will be united and fulfilled in a way that is now only potential and barely felt by most.

If these developments include the use of technological, or neuro technological, innovations as well as purely "spiritual" means of evolution, that should not surprise us nor discredit the advance. Theosophy has never imposed a rigid dualism between the sprit and the flesh, or the spiritual and the technological,but rather accepts, with the Mahatmas of the Letters, that manifest reality isin fact all material as well as spiritual. Matter, however, is capable of higher and subtler refinements than most of us can conceive and is susceptible to scientific and technological as well as subjective means of evolution.

Matter and spirit express each other, and to set them in opposition is a false dualism. We are material and are meant to use matter as we continue our evolution, letting its deep interplay with consciousness direct us toward the spiritual values of oneness and love. But we are also creatures of free will, and so able to abuse anything. The sixth-root-race values of tolerance and the seventh of oneness of consciousness could of course lead to subtle kinds of evil magic. But they need not.

From the point of view of the tremendous overall Theosophical model of spiritual evolution, we can be optimistic about the future. We can and must believe that the new spiritual energies which are released into the world with each upward movement, and which are being powerfully released now despite often discouraging appearances, have the power to overcome the negatives and bring us closer to the Halls of Light. Ultimately, they will. If we work with them with selflessness and wisdom, they will raise us quickly and easily. If not, the job will take longer and will be much harder.

For us as Theosophists, then, I offer two reflections. First, we must not think that we are outdated or irrelevant in this rapidly changing world, as I am sure we are sometimes tempted to think. I am convinced that the deepest relevance of the Theosophical message is only beginning to be apparent, that we are among those who really know what is going on, both historically and spiritually, and we are desperately needed to put it in the largest possible perspective.

Second, the task does not call for arrogance, but more love and service, our great ideal virtues, with a bit of upaya, skill-in-means, thrown in. As new languages, new thoughts, new worlds arrive, we must be there at the cutting edge of change, expressing Theosophy in fresh media, showing that any emergent era is ours in the sense that we have equipment for understanding it and shaping it to the right ends of human freedom and brotherhood, rather than giving over to those dark forces that would make new developments only novel means of enslavement.

How this is done will be up to the now-young generation of Theosophists. But the next stage of human evolution may not wait much longer than that before commencing radically to remake our human world. We must all be, in the familiar title from the Adyar Theosophist, "on the watchtower."


Robert Ellwood, a noted authority in the history of religion, is the author of many works of scholarship, including Alternative Altars: Unconventional and Eastern Spirituality in America (University of Chicago Press) and The Politics of Myth: A Study of C. G. Jung, Mircea Eliade, and Joseph Campbell (StateUniversity of New York Press). He is also the author of several Quest Books: The Cross and the Grail: Esoteric Christianity for the 21st Century, Finding the Quiet Mind, The Pilgrim Self, and Theosophy. He has long had a love of science fiction and speculative science, as well as amateur astronomy.


Arise and Go Now: A Chosen Fate

J. D. Walker

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there . . . .
. . . for always night and day
I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

from "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" by W. B. Yeats

 

One of my favorite branches of lore is hermitage literature: the stories, legends, and poetry handed down from generations of hermits across the world. Perhaps its fascination lies in the metaphor of the house as an image of the householder, or of the particular kind of life lived within its walls. I picked up a bamboo paint brush for the first time one day in my early twenties and discovered the idea of the hermitage standing in it, smiling, as if it had just been waiting for me to open that door.

When decades later I declared my intention to follow the ancients to the mountain for a solitary retreat in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, this decision was met with joy and support on the Buddhist side of my life, and astonishment and dismay, deepening to outright protest, on the Western side. Some said I was not suited to the enclosed life. Zeus said he would not permit me to go if he had anything to say about it. Listening to my litany of reasons, "Too much 'me' in it!" he rumbled. Some acclaimed the virtues of the active life and opined that to make such a retreat was to shirk responsibility. One even insisted that East and West ought never meet.

When one commits oneself to a sacred task or spiritual purpose, the commitment seems to activate fate in a sometimes most trying way. Things unaccountably change; things or places or people long known and loved may fall away, at least temporarily, until nothing remains of familiar touchstones. One finds oneself in a condition of unknowing and can only follow where the inevitable leads. Like yeast that acts inexorably according to its nature to leaven or raise the loaf, so this commitment leavens one's life. It is subtle but produces an irresistible transformation. If fate, or karma, informs the realm of action, then commitment could be called the engine of fate's fulfilment.

One goes or is carried, whether or not one understands precisely why, exactly where one is needed, with exactly the gifts that the fate requires. Fate itself is always flowing on, driven by what Buddhist texts call the red wind of karma. It is in our bloodstream; our minds and our speech are full of it--yet, until we choose it we have no power to navigate the currents and shoals of the river, like Jonah running from his calling until the belly of the great fish became inevitable. When one chooses to respond, life begins again on a new footing. We learn, sooner or later, to recognize our fate when it comes, as a signpost of our personal purpose or destiny.

The world and the hermit's hill called back and forth to each other through my heart for many years, as I meditated and pondered and made any small retreats I could, both East and West. At forty-six I wrapped up my life in California and headed for the East Coast, where I had been offered a place to make my hermitage. A generous household had bought the house across the road from our lama's meditation center. When he got a look at the room over the garage, he thought it would be ideal for someone to enter the traditional three-year retreat, far enough from the house for solitude, surrounded by miles of state and regional forest. I would meditate, and they would provide the room, wood for the woodstove, and weekly grocery shopping. Together, as Milarepa sang, patron sand hermit would use their karmic connection to walk the path toward enlightenment.

By that time, I had become at last a bit like my new forest home, cut to the bone to feed the furnaces of a steel mill in the valley, now decades gone. Like my hill, my life, not protesting too much, fed the monster of modernity, puffing out the smoke and fumes of what passed for progress. Busy among the grey pavements, I slowly ceased to inhabit my "deep heart's core" and the inward hill with its imagined hermitage. And perhaps that loosing was a necessary prelude to my eventual finding.

Maryland's Catoctin Mountain is to my Sierra-formed California eye a mere rocky hillock, but local custom insists on calling it a mountain. Its forest is new, the hill having been logged to the last tree and replanted perhaps eighty years ago. I have lived here, a backyard hermit, for seven years. This was, I now think, inevitable, given another hill that intervened in my fate twenty years ago. I fell finally and irretrievably in love with a hermit's hut and its lore during the four years I lived in Taiwan, studying and practicing in theCh'an Buddhist tradition, the ancient school that is the mother of Japanese Zen, now so familiar to us in the West.

Dharma Cloud Ch'an Temple stands among its pines and gardens nearly at the top of a vertical mountain clad in primordial bamboo forest, leaping sheer out of a remote river valley in central Taiwan. Beyond the temple, nestled in a shaded clearing just below the peak, was the tiny cement and brick hut of a hermit, its wide red-painted wooded doors facing a bit of grass and a simple flower garden. The hermit, named Mr. Lin, had been a soldier in his youth, one of the many men who found themselves stranded on Taiwan after the painful Chinese civil war that brought Mao to power. He claimed to have become a Buddhist "by accident," having had a spontaneous inner experience that led him more and more deeply into the practice of meditation.

As students of the same master, Mr. Lin and I had met before in the city, but I had not yet taken up his invitation to see his mountain retreat. The invisible hut on the mountain drew me somehow, steeped as I had become in the work of the poets and painters of China's great periods, when the hermitic life also flourished both as an ideal and as an actual way of living. Tang poet Wang Wei(699 -759) wrote of his retreat at Mount Chung-nan:

My heart in middle age found the Way,
And I came to dwell at the foot of this mountain.
When the spirit moves, I wander alone
Amid beauty that is all for me.
I will walk till the water checks my path,
Then sit and watch the rising clouds
And some day meet an old woodcutter
And talk and laugh and never return.

In his own middle age, Mr. Lin had made his hermitage here among fruit trees on the site of an older hermitage gone to ruin long before. A companion  and I set out to visit him at the end of a day's sunshine, pursued by black clouds that we did not take seriously enough. Up the winding path from Dharma Cloud we went, until suddenly, as happens in those mountains in the rainy season, we were soaked and covered with red mud to our knees between one step and the next. We had gone too far to turn back easily, so on we sloshed, singing in the rain.

Although the arrival of two drenched American women on his remote door step must have been surprising, he welcomed us warmly and set about making us comfortable. Soon, wearing his old clothes and wrapped in blankets while our clothing dried on a large upturned basket over his fire pot, we were deep in cups of good tea and laughter and dharma talk. We sat by the open doors of his two-room hut watching the rain cascade off the wide eaves, chuckling away down the brick walk and dissolving the day into mist.

He would not hear of us slipping and sliding back down to the temple in the dusk, so he cooked us a simple vegetarian supper. After we had cleaned up our bowls and chopsticks, the storm had passed by and the night was fragrant with the flowers in his small garden. The temple bell below us sent its one hundred and eight deep tones across the steep valleys, as temple bells have done for centuries of evenings. Local legend has it that, when it first rang out, the voice of that bell converted all the local people around to the Buddha dharma.

My hermitic future was sealed as Mr. Lin turned on the single dim light bulb that hung concealed among the leaves of a tree outside his door, and in his grey cotton robes proceeded with his nightly practice of Tai Chi Chuan in its shadowy light. This all seemed like an old ink painting come to life, a poem breathing its original breath into my heart with a breath taking familiarity. As his movements flowed seamlessly, contemplatively one into another, I silently vowed that someday I too would have a hut of my own. Fate was as ever listening, but the hut would be a long time coming.

A true fate needs to be fed. In the course of reading every account I could get my hands on about retreats and hermits and huts, I devoured poems inscribed on paintings of solitary dwellings among wild mountains, and the life and songs of the Tibetan poet-sage Milarepa, the early Christian desert Fathers and Mothers, Sufi tales, and the stories of the eighty-four Mahasiddhas of the early periods of Buddhism in India. In the accounts of those great enlightened adepts of India, I found that my backyard hermitage is not by any means the first in Buddhist history, however uncommon it may be in the present-day West. The following tale about a weaver, for example, illustrates how a fate may wait to be discovered and fulfilled until all the conditions are right.

The weaver Tantipa lived a long and very successful life, amassing great wealth, which he passed on in time to his sons and their wives. As he grew old and senile, his daughters-in-law built him a little grass hut in his garden and fed him there, so as to avoid the embarrassment of his decrepit presence. There he stayed, and one evening, perhaps by chance, a wandering guru approached the weaver's sons for food. They invited him to stay, and because he would not sleep under a roof, they offered him a place in the garden.

The old weaver heard a stranger's voice in his quiet refuge and called out to see who it was. As the old man recounted the story of his familial woes, the guru suddenly interrupted and asked Tantipa if he wanted the Dharma. The weaver replied, "I want it." Thus he met his master and his exile became his retreat; the thatched hut in his garden served by his children became his perfectly open, perfectly concealed hermitage. He committed his teacher's instructions to memory and practiced them secretly for twelve years, attaining many qualities unobserved by anybody, until late one night, having forgotten to take him his meal, one of his daughters-in-law entered the garden and observed a brilliant light within the backyard hut.

To her amazement, the old man appeared surrounded by celestial maidens and many delicacies. She fetched her husband and his guests, who ran to see, and by morning word had spread and all the citizens of the town came to do reverence to the old weaver. He came forth, transforming his body into that of a sixteen-year-old youth, gleaming with rays of light. He became famous everywhere and did numberless deeds for the benefit of living beings.

Without the seeming chance of the guru's arrival there is no story. Buddhism claims that there is no such thing as chance, as nothing can exist without a sufficient cause, whether we recognize it or not. We tend to resist this idea, thinking that if something is fated, it must be predestined, and predestination renders life meaningless and devoid of flavor and spontaneity. But it is exactly fate--perhaps the term providence might suffice us better--that produces the sufferings and joys that often reveal the deepest meaning of life.

Fate is the source of all movement, story, myth. Being by nature inevitable,fate can only be. It acts as a lens that heats up the waters of unconscious habit we float in; it intensifies experience to the point where we must choose. Because of it, we act; and pushed beyond the limits of self, we come at last to wholeness. Without its commanding question, "Do you want this?" we would remain peacefully sitting in the garden, asleep, the slaves of permanence. Perhaps we need fate to fill a lack in ourselves.

Sitting in my own hermitage one day not long ago, telling a lama the story of how I came to be in retreat, I wondered at how it had found me, how all that was needed had somehow come, and all that was being held onto had almost automatically fallen away. "You decided!" he replied, as if I should have seen so obvious a thing. And like many others before me, having said "yes," I had to endure all that followed, for the sake of what that "yes" would open.

One last hermit tale I offer, in service of the most important element in the ever unfolding, demanding path of those who take the hand of fate. The Zen poet Basho made a six-month hermitage in the latter part of 1690, on a hillside overlooking Lake Biwa east of Kyoto. There he found an abandoned hut called the Hut of the Phantom Dwelling. This curious name repays reflection. The poet likens his fragile refuge to the nest of the grebe, a water bird that attaches its floating home to a reed so that the current will not wash it away.

The wanderer finds himself musing on his rootless ways, expending his feeling on flowers and birds, keeping company with his shadow by moonlight, and contemplating his wholehearted commitment to the poet's fate. He acknowledges without complaint that we all live in a "phantom dwelling" and concludes his account of his hermitage with a haiku:

Among these summer trees
a Formosan oak--
something to count on

Basho recalls us to what we already know--the thing we can count on is just this phantom dwelling, representing equally the flowing, changeful nature of fate and of the self we cling to like the little grebe's slender reed. What else is thereafter all to look to, if we do not trust in the gifts of fate--even the flood--as our homeward road? Thus does fate become our fortune: a blessing opening us into new worlds, an invitation to ripening. Arise and go now!


J. D. Walker is an artist in the Chinese ink painting tradition and a hermit in the Tibetan Drikung Kagyud tradition of Vajrayana Buddhism. Her article "A Poem in a Brushstroke" appeared in the Quest of March-April 2000.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there . . . .
. . . for always night and day
I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.


Psychotherapy East and West

By John Welwood

WHY IS IT SO EASY to see the value of psychological work for Western people, yet so hard to imagine traditional Asian people utilizing the services of a psychotherapist? And why do most of the Eastern spiritual teachers I know have so much difficulty understanding psychological work and its potential value fora spiritual practitioner? What accounts for this disparity?

In presenting my hypotheses about this, I am not trying to advance a full-blown anthropological theory. Nor do I wish to idealize the societies of ancient India or Tibet, which certainly have many serious problems of their own. Rather, my intention is to point out some (admittedly generalized) social and cultural differences that may help us consider how we in the West may have a somewhat different course of psycho spiritual development to follow than people in the traditional cultures where the great meditative practices first arose and flourished.

Some would argue that psychotherapy is a sign of how spoiled or narcissistic Westerners are--that we can afford the luxury of delving into our psyches and fiddling with our personal problems while Rome burns all around. Yet though industrial society has alleviated many of the grosser forms of physical pain, it has also created difficult kinds of personal and social fragmentation that were unknown in premodern societies, generating a new kind of psychological suffering that led to the development of modern psychotherapy.

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Traditional Asian culture did not engender the pronounced split between mind and body that we in the West know so well. In giving priority to the welfare of the collective, Asian societies also did not foster the division between self and other, individual and society, that is endemic to the Westernmind. There was neither a generation gap nor the pervasive social alienation that has become a hallmark of modern life.

In this sense, the villages and extended families of traditional India or Tibet actually seem to have built sturdier ego structures, not so debilitated by the inner divisions--between mind and body, individual and society, parent and child, or weak ego and harsh, punishing superego--characteristic of the modern self. The "upper stories" of spiritual development in Asian culture could be built on a more stable and cohesive "ground floor" human foundation.

Early child-rearing practices in some traditional Asian cultures, while often far from ideal, were in some ways more wholesome than in the modern West. Asian mothers often had a strong dedication to providing their children with strong, sustained early bonding. Young Indian and Tibetan children, for instance, are continually held, often sharing their parents' bed for their first two or three years. As Alan Roland, a psychoanalyst who spent many years studying cross-cultural differences in Asian and Western self-development, describes Indian child rearing:

Intense, prolonged maternal involvement in the first four or five years with the young child, with adoration of the young child to the extent of treating him or her as godlike, develops a central core of heightened well-being in the child. Mothers, grandmothers, aunts, servants, older sisters and cousin-sisters are all involved in the pervasive mirroring that is incorporated into an inner core of extremely high feelings of esteem. . . . Indian childrearing and the inner structuralization of heightened esteem are profoundly psychologically congruent with the basic Hindu concept that the individual soul is essentially the godhead (atman-brahman). A heightened sense of inner regard and the premise that a person can strive to become godlike are strongly connected. . . . This is in contrast to the Western Christian premise of original sin.

According to Roland, this nurturing quality of the Indian extended family helps the child develop an ego structure whose boundaries are "on the whole more flexible and permeable than in most Westerners," and "less rigorously drawn."(One telling sign of the difference between child rearing influences East and West is that Tibetan teachers, who traditionally begin compassion practices by instructing students to regard all sentient beings as their mothers, have been surprised and dismayed by the difficulty many American students have in using their mothers as a starting point for developing compassion.)

Growing up in extended families, Asian children are also exposed to a wide variety of role models and sources of nurturance, even if the primary parents are not very available. Tibetan tribal villages, for instance, usually regarded the children as belonging to everyone, and everyone's responsibility. Extended families mitigate the parents' tendency to possess their children psychologically. By contrast, parents in nuclear families often have more investment in "This is my child; my child is an extension of me"--which contributes to narcissistic injury and intense fixations on parents that persist for many Westerners throughout their lives.

Certain developmental psychologists have argued that children with deficient parenting hold on to the internalized traces of their parents more rigidly inside themselves. This might explain why the Tibetans I know do not seem to suffer from the heavy parental fixations that many Westerners have. Their self/other (object relational) complexes would not be as tight or conflicted as for Westerners who lack good early bonding and who spend their first eighteen years in an isolated nuclear family with one or two adults, who themselves are alienated from both folk wisdom and spiritual understanding. Asian children would be less burdened by the emotional plague of modern civilization: ego weakness, the lack of a grounded, confident sense of oneself and one's capacities.

In addition to fostering strong mother-infant bonding, intact extended families, and a life attuned to the rhythms of the natural world, traditional Asian societies maintained the sacred at the center of social life. A culture that provides individuals with shared myths, meanings, religious values, and rituals provides a source of support and guidance that helps people make sense of their lives. In all these ways, a traditional Asian child would likely grow up more nurtured by what pediatrician and psychoanalyst D. W. Winnicott called the "holding environment"--a context of love, support, belonging, and meaning that contributes to a basic sense of confidence and to healthy psychological development in general. By contrast, children today who grow up in fragmented families, glued to television sets that continually transmit images of a spiritually lost, fragmented, and narcissistic world, lack a meaningful context in which to situate their lives.

One way these differences manifest is in how people inhabit their bodies. In observing Tibetans, I am often struck by how centered they are in the lower half of the body and how powerfully they are connected to the ground beneath their feet. Tibetans naturally seem to possess a great deal of hara--grounded presence in the belly--which is no doubt a result of the factors mentioned above.Westerners, by contrast, are generally more centered in the upper half of their body and weak in their connection to the lower half.

Hara, the vital center or earth center, is connected with issues of confidence, power, will, groundedness, trust, support, and equanimity. The child-rearing deficiencies, disconnection from the earth, and over emphasis on rational intellect in Western culture all contribute to loss of hara. To compensate for the lack of a sense of support and trust in the belly, Westerners often try to achieve security and control by going "upstairs"--trying to control life with their mind. But behind the ego's attempts to control reality with the mind lies a pervasive sense of fear, anxiety, and insecurity.

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Another difference that has important consequences for psycho-spiritual development is the greater value traditional Asian cultures place on being, in contrast to Western cultures, which put more emphasis on doing. Winnicott in particular stressed the importance of allowing a young child to remain in unstructured states of being: "The mother's nondemanding presence makes the experience of formlessness and comfortable solitude possible, and this capacity becomes a central feature in the development of a stable and personal self. . . . This makes it possible for the infant to experience . . . a state of 'going-on-being' out of which . . . spontaneous gestures emerge."

Winnicott used the term impingement to describe a parent's tendency to interrupt these formless moments, forcing children to separate abruptly from the continuity of their "going-on-being." The child is "wrenched from his quiescent state and forced to respond . . . and to mold himself to what is provided for him. The major consequence of prolonged impingement is fragmentation of the infant's experience. Out of necessity he becomes prematurely and compulsively attuned to the claims of others. . . . He loses touch with his own spontaneous needs and gestures . . . [and develops] a false self on a compliant basis."

Traditional Asian families often give the young child plenty of room and permission just to be, in an unstructured way, free from the pressures to respond and perform that Western parents often place on their children at a nearly age. Allowed to be in that way, these children would be more comfortable with emptiness, which we could define here as unstructured being.

But in our culture, which emphasizes doing, having, and achieving at the expense of simply being, emptiness can seem quite alien, threatening, and terrifying. In a family or society that does not recognize or value being,children are more likely to interpret their own unstructured being as some kind of deficiency, as failure to measure up, as an inadequacy or lack. Thus the Western ego structure seems to form in a more rigid and defended way, in part toward off a terrifying sense of deficiency born out of fear of the open,unstructured nature of one's very being.

As a result of this brittle ego having to work overtime to compensate for a lack of inner trust and confidence, many Western seekers find that they are not ready, willing, or able to let go of their ego defenses, despite all their spiritual practice and realization. On a deep, subconscious level, it is too threatening to let go of the little security that their shaky ego structure provides. That is why it can also be helpful for Westerners to work on dismantling their defensive personality structure in a more gradual and deliberate way, through psychological inquiry--examining, understanding, and dissolving all their false self-images, their self-deceptions, their distorted projections, and their habitual emotional reactions, one by one--and developing a fuller, richer connection with themselves in the process.

In sum, to the extent that traditional Asian children grew up supported by a nurturing holding environment, they would be more likely to receive more of what Winnicott defined as the two essential elements of parenting in early childhood: sustained emotional bonding and space to be, to rest in unstructured being. As are sult, these children would tend to grow up with a more stable, grounded sense of confidence and well-being--what we call in the West "ego strength"--in contrast to the self-hatred, insecurity, and shaky sense of self that modern Western people often suffer from.

In discussing Asian child development here, I am speaking of influences in the first few years of childhood, when the ego structure first starts to coalesce. In later childhood, many Asian parents become much more controlling, exerting strong pressure on children to conform and to subordinate their individuality to collective rules and roles. Thus Roland notes that most neurotic conflicts among modern Asians are found in the area of family enmeshment and difficulties with self-differentiation. Indeed, while Eastern culture more generally values and understands being and emptiness, as well as interconnectedness, the West values and has a deeper appreciation of individuation.

Cultivating one's own individual vision, qualities, and potentials is of much greater significance in the West than in traditional Asia, where spiritual development could more easily coexist alongside a low level of individuation.Here is where psychological work may serve another important function forWesterners, by helping them to individuate--to listen to and trust their own experience, to develop an authentic personal vision and sense of direction, and to clear up the psychological conflicts that prevent them from authentically being themselves.

Buddhist scholar Robert Thurman has argued that since Buddhism is a path of individuation, it is inaccurate to characterize this tradition as not promoting individual development. Certainly the Buddha gave birth to a new vision that encouraged individuals to pursue their own spiritual development, instead of depending on conventional religious rituals. In that broad sense, Buddhism can be regarded as a path of individuation. But this is a different model of individuation from the one that has developed in the West. As Roland notes, individuation in Asian cultures was usually limited to the arena of spiritual practice, rather than supported as a general norm.

The Western notion of individuation involves finding one's own unique calling, vision, and path, and embodying these in the way one lives. To become oneself in this sense often involves innovation, experimentation, and the questioning of received knowledge. As Buddhist scholar Anne Klein notes:"Tibetans, like many Asians who have grown up outside Western influence, do not cultivate this sense of individuality."

In traditional Asia, the teachings of liberation were geared toward people who were, if anything, too earthbound, too involved in family roles and social obligations. The highest, non-dual teachings of Buddhism and Hinduism--which show that who you really are is absolute reality, beyond you--provided a way out of the social maze, helping people discover the trans-human absolute that lies beyond all worldly concerns and entanglements. Yet these teachings rest on and presume a rich underpinning of human community, religious customs, and moral values, like a mountain arising out of a network of foothills and valleys below.The soulful social and religious customs of traditional India and Tibet provided a firm human base out of which spiritual aspirations for a transhuman absolute, beyond human relationships and human society, could arise.

Because the traditional Asian's sense of self is embedded in a soulful culture rich in tradition, ritual, and close-knit family and community life, people in these cultures did not lose themselves or become alienated from their own humanness in the way that Westerners have. And since soul--the deep, rich,colorful qualities of our humanness--permeated the whole culture, the need to develop individuated soul qualities never assumed the importance that it has in the West. Never having lost their soul, traditional Asians never had to develop any consciousness about how to find it--that is, how to individuate in a distinctly personal way.

In the modern West, it is quite common to feel alienated from the larger social whole--whose public spaces and architecture, celebrations, institutions,family life, and even food are lacking in nourishing soul qualities that allow people to feel deeply connected to these aspects of life, as well as to one another. The good news, however, is that the soullessness of our culture is forcing us to develop a new consciousness about forging an individuated soul--an authentic inner source of personal vision, meaning, and purpose. One important out growth of this is a refined and sophisticated capacity for nuanced personal awareness, personal sensitivity, and personal presence.

This is not something the Asian traditions can teach us much about. If the great gift of the East is its focus on absolute true nature--impersonal and shared by all alike--the gift of the West is the impetus it provides to develop an individuated expression of true nature--which we could also call soul or personal presence. Individuated true nature is the unique way that each of us can serve as a vehicle for embodying the suprapersonal wisdom, compassion, and truth of absolute true nature.

We in the West clearly have much to learn from the Eastern contemplative teachings. But if we only try to adhere to the Eastern focus on the transhuman,or suprapersonal, while failing to develop a grounded, personal way of relating to life, we may have a hard time integrating our larger nature into the way we actually live.


John Welwood, associate editor of the Journal of Transpersonal Psychology, is a clinical psychologist and a thirty-year student of Tibetan Buddhism. His article "The Play of the Mind" appeared in the September-October 2000 Quest magazine. This article is excerpted from his recent book, Toward a Psychology of Awakening: Buddhism, Psychotherapy, and the Path of Personal and Spiritual Transformation (Shambhala, 2000).


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