Explorations: Beyond the Mask

by Arlene Gay Levine

Originally printed in the JANUARY- FEBRUARY 2008 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Levine, Arlene Gay. "Beyond the Mask." Quest  96.1 (JANUARY- FEBRUARY 2008): 26-27.

Theosophical Society -  Arlene Gay Levine, author of Thirty-Nine Ways to Open Your Heart: An Illuminated Meditation (Conan Press) and Movie Life (Finishing Line Press), has had poetry appear in many venues, including The New York Times, an off-Broadway show, and on CD. She served as a judge in the 2011 and 2012 Illinois State Poetry Society Contest. Her article "Seasonal Poetry: A Path through the Woods" appeared in Quest, Spring 2011. Visit her Web site at www.arlenegaylevine.com/.Some twenty years ago, hurtling toward an appointment, my mood was typical of that turbulent period of my life: angry. A red traffic light gave me another reason to fume. Waves of people crossed in front of me; at first, I surveyed them critically: this one was obese, another bedraggled, that one pushing through the crowd. As I focused on the ocean of humanity, a sensation of expansion took hold of my heart. My thoughts spun around 180 degrees. I was suddenly possessed by an almost physical sensation of overwhelming compassion for these people making their way across the busy intersection, trying to live their lives under difficult circumstances, just like me.

The moment this new thought entered my mind, everything went ablaze. Here was something I had never even imagined: an all encompassing, fiery light that embodied everyone and everything in the environment, including me. There was no voice, but I knew the Light as Love. The building block of all things—the cars, the stores, the birds, the trees, and me—all was Love.

This Light that was Love continued to radiate. The sheer ecstasy of it made me weep. I could not say how long the experience lasted, though it felt timeless; then, without warning, a symphony of car horns and a green light greeted my return to the present. Picture having to drive after such a revelation! Yet drive I did, tears of joy still running down my face.

The most amazing event of my life had occurred and I was afraid to speak of it for fear people would think me mad. Seasons changed before I found the courage to share the experience: a very rare glimpse into an invisible world, perhaps more real than the one we walk in. Yet, it can be seen only for a brief moment, when the veil is lifted, and the privileged viewer experiences the truth beyond that which mundane sense reports.

Perhaps you are wondering how drastically my life must have transformed after that event; it did not. There was no forgetting or doubting what happened. It is simply that we are so attached to things the way they are that even the blinding flash of God waking us from our dream can be ignored in order to go back to the status quo.

As John Donne described it, "I throw my selfe down in my Chamber, and I invite God and his angels thither, and when they are there, I neglect God and his angels, for the noise of a file, for the rattling of a Coach, for the whining of a door."

Oh, just let me live quietly behind this familiar mask. Yes, I know it is not who I am and that I am suffocating here. Life is sorely lacking and somewhere deep down I know that is not the way it is meant to be or could be, but do not make me take off this comfortable disguise.

Then I would have to be willing to look past the known and confront an enigma I may not be able to handle. This little life behind the mask may not be much, but at least I know what to expect. One can go on like this for years. It is like wandering through a desert and knowing that you have seen water, a resplendent oasis tempting beyond words, yet being afraid to explore far enough to find it again.

There will be days when your thirst forces you to journey. Maybe, despite all the obstacles, you may even catch a flash of that glorious spot and imagine what it would be like to arrive there once more. Before long, the sandstorm of your ego will rise up around you or voices from the wilderness, of those you left behind, will call you back, their siren song of familiar woe so painfully comforting. You turn back. Still you will not cease from venturing out anew, now that you know it exists.

We enter this world free of camouflage. As we grow up, like actors in a great drama, we find a mask to help us survive despite the pain of the many difficult conditions in our childhood. We can become the family clown, the good girl, the martyr, the scapegoat, the black sheep or any number of roles that are not really us. However, because we felt safe hiding for so long, we tend to keep living out these parts long after the need is gone.
Sometimes these masks are so much a part of us we do not realize we are wearing them. Mine was The Rebel, a smooth fit for all the unexamined rage I liked to project on the world at large; it brought me no peace. We know we are unhappy at finding ourselves in situations that seem like replays of other unacceptable moments, yet we cannot for the life of us understand how we have managed to trap ourselves again.

But I was tired of the game and now I knew something entirely different was possible. If I was willing to look in the mirror, past the reflection of who I thought I was, I would see what needed to be loved: that fragile little kid who never got the support or acceptance from her folks that she craved.

Moving from childhood to adolescence and young adulthood, we often resent our parents, teachers, religious leaders and the restrictions of society for having made us who we think we are. Yet behind the parts of ourselves, and others, that we find unlovable is the same beautiful face: Love, temporarily disguised by illusions we have chosen to believe are genuine.

Just like the person who knows he has a safe refuge waiting for him at the end of the day, I knew I could discover my calm center. The key was to base every thought, word and deed on the understanding that the phenomenon I had experienced truly existed, not only somewhere beyond the everyday world, but also within. It required me to acknowledge this kingdom of Light, of Love in everyone I met, beginning with me.

In the quiet of my heart, I began to find communion with all that is true. Here I learned to remove my mask by bringing my fears as bait, becoming a patient fisherman in these tranquil waters. Over the years, as I learned to focus gently on the problem I needed help with, an answer would arise and swallow my lure whole. Love provides what we need, if we ask.

I see a woman walking a path toward home. She, and every fellow traveler along the way, is like the terrain: blistered highway, sweet green meadow, lush snake river, winding passes, sculpted rock reaching heavenward. This road also lives inside them; it spirals into the clarity of a conscious mind willing to embrace the mystery: hunchback or halfback, star or stone, beggar or beloved, man or woman - dreaming itself many from the One.


Homuncli, Golems, and Artificial Life

By Gary Lachman

Originally printed in the JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2006 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Lachman, Gary. "Homunculi, Golems, and Artificial Life." Quest  94.1 (JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2006):7-10.

Theosophical Society - Gary Lachman is the author of In Search of P. D. Ouspensky:The Genius in the Shadow of Gurdjieff and the Politics and the Occult:The Left, the Right, and the Radically Unseen, and, as Gary Valentine, New York Rocker: My Life in the Blank Generation. His new book, A Secret History of Consciousness. A regular contributor to Fortean Times, Times Literary Supplement, Quest, and other journals, he lives in London with his partner and their two sons.

The notion of "man-made humans," or other living creatures fashioned by human hands, has a long history in mythology and folklore. In recent years, with the development of genetic engineering, virtual reality, and artificial life of various sorts, it has gained a new significance. But our current fascination with—not to mention dread over—the increasing likelihood of genetically modified and artificial humans is not, in essence, a particularly new development. It touches on some of the central themes of religion and the occult and magical practices that emerged from a once-powerful but now submerged spiritual belief

 

The Kabbalah, for example, includes legends and stories about the alchemical homunculus, or "little man," and the golem, a kind of proto–Frankenstein's monster. In both cases the idea is that through certain secret magical practices, human beings can share in the creative power of God. To the orthodox believers of both Judaism and Christianity such a notion is considered blasphemous and betrays either the hubris of humanity or the work of the devil. How much the orthodox misunderstanding and rejection of these ideas helped to distort them is unclear, and space and time prevent me from exploring this question. Although ostensibly concerned with very similar objectives—the creation of an "artificial man"—the alchemical homunculus and the kabbalistic golem are quite different. The popular understanding of these esoteric themes has for the most part focused on a literal interpretation, and their resurgence in our contemporary consciousness threatens to take that literalism seriously.

Prior to the rise of science and the mechanical vision of human life and the universe, the idea of creating human simulacra had a strong organic foundation. The homunculus was something one grew; the popular belief was that homunculi could be grown from the mandrake root, whose shape lent itself to anthropomorphic speculation. The golem, too, although not quite as organic as the homunculus, was nevertheless not pieced together bit by bit, as Mary Shelley's monster would be; it was fashioned, molded from clay or soil and then miraculously brought to life.

To be sure, the prescientific age had mechanical marvels as well. Hero of Alexandria in the second century wrote manuals on how to construct moving god images and other automated devices. Using steam and sand, Hero was able to animate singing mechanical birds, to rotate statues, and to power a miniature puppet theater. There is evidence that such mechanical wonders were used as much for entertainment as for religious purposes. And we also know that animated statues played an important part in the religious rites of the NeoPlatonic schools of late antiquity, a practice that resurfaced in the folk traditions of the Middle Ages. Pope Sylvester II was said to have consulted a mechanical "talking head," and the same was said of the monk Roger Bacon and the Dominican friar and natural philosopher Albertus Magnus.

As Victoria Nelson shows in her fascinating book The Secret Life of Puppets, this tradition of animated god images carried on in the popular fascination with puppets. The ancients, however, didn't view their animated images as human simulacra but more as a kind of magical magnet used to attract divine energies. To animate a god image was to perform theurgy, to create the god, to bring the god to physical manifestation. For ancients like the philosophers Plotinus, Proclus, Porphyry, and Iamblichus, this meant drawing down the god-force that resided in the stars and embodying it in the image of the god. Although this was a form of "giving life" to inanimate objects, it was concerned not with creating humans but with making the divine present.

The question arises then: What is the homunculus and what is the golem? Franz Hartmann's 1896 Life of Paracelsus defines homunculi as "artificially made human beings, generated from the sperm without the assistance of the female organism (black magic.)" The Swiss alchemist Theophrastus Bombast von Hohenheim, otherwise known as Paracelsus (1493–1541), is recognized by many as an early master of holistic medicine and natural healing. It was from Paracelsus that Goethe, a great reader of alchemical and occult literature, got the idea of the homunculus which he used in the second part of Faust. Paracelsus offered a complete recipe for creating a homunculus:

If the sperma, enclosed in a hermetically sealed glass, is buried in horse manure for forty days, and properly magnetized, it begins to live and move. After such a time it bears the form and resemblance of a human being, but it will be transparent and without a body. If it is now artificially fed with the Arcanum sanguinis hominis until it is about forty weeks old, and if allowed to remain during that time in horse manure in a continually equal temperature, it will grow into a human child, with all its members developed like any other child, such as could be born by a woman; only it will be much smaller. We call such a being a homunculus, and it may be raised and educated like any other child, until it grows older and obtains reason and intellect, and is able to take care of itself.

Hartmann notes that Paracelsus has been taken to task for believing in the literal creation of such a being, but in Paracelsus's defense, he offers a story purporting to give evidence for the reality of such things. It's easy to assume that Paracelsus was taken in by the common, literal understanding of what the homunculus is. But there's also the possibility that Paracelsus was aware of this understanding and used the superstition to communicate secret teachings. References to the need to bury the sperm in horse manure, to keep it there for forty days, and to feed it with the Arcanum sanguinis hominis, the "secret blood of man," suggest that Paracelsus may have been making reference to mythic rather than literal ideas.

Ronald D. Gray, in his book Goethe the Alchemist, argues that there's a great deal of evidence showing that the homunculus was one of many names used by the alchemists to designate the secret aim of the alchemical Great Work. To most of us, alchemy is a primitive forerunner of chemistry, and if we know anything about alchemy it's that it was concerned with turning lead into gold. Many calling themselves alchemists convinced themselves and many others that this was indeed the aim of the Royal Art and that it was possible. Many sought the secrets of alchemy out of sheer greed, and many would-be alchemists found a comfortable niche or, perhaps more often, an undesirable end, in the employ of a king or queen.

But there's another way to read the alchemical project, and that is that the transformation had more to do with the alchemists themselves than with a lump of metal. Turning lead into gold was a symbolic way of describing the true aim of alchemy: the spiritual transformation of the alchemist. If one takes the time to read the alchemical literature, it's easy to come away feeling absolutely muddled. Strange creatures, impossible landscapes, paradoxes, and downright illogic seem to dominate; the closest thing to any modern is the writings and art of the surrealists, who, ironically, looked to the alchemists for inspiration or interpretation of dreams.

It is in the psychological literature of the last half century, especially in the Jungian school, that we find great correspondence with alchemical thought. The true goal of the alchemists, the real aim of all the preparation and cumbersome apparatus, was to unite their earthly, mortal soul with that of the Creator, to participate in the divine, to reawaken their spiritual consciousness, and to grasp the secret forces at work behind the natural world. In this the alchemists carried on the same work as their Neoplatonic forebears.

Success in this work depended on following the proper procedures, which included astrological concerns, exemplifying the alchemist's belief that the cosmos was a unified whole and that each part of it embodied the divine force animating everything. For the alchemist, matter was not the dead, inert stuff it is for us: it was a living body, one that could respond to a person's attention. As the alchemists transformed the matter in their alembic through the alchemical process, their own inner world experienced similar changes. The entire process centered on the idea of rebirth. The alchemists were to "die" in a sense—to lose their earthly, mortal being—and, if the procedure was successful, would be reborn.

Death was an essential aspect of the alchemical process; it was out of death that new life could emerge, as it did in the Frankenstein's monster. In Paracelsus's recipe for the homunculus, the horse manure represents the putrefaction needed to begin the process of rebirth. This is the first step in the alchemical work. The old self, the old Adam, must be broken down until we arrive at the prima materia, the primordial stuff, the unformed matter out of which any future creation can take place. The forty days in which the sperma is buried in the horse manure parallel Christ's forty days in the desert, when he is tempted by Satan. This means that the alchemist must undergo trials, must endure some suffering, and that the alchemical process is not something going on outside of oneself but is something that must be lived through. This is also suggested in the idea that the homunculus, the little man who is the alchemist reborn, must be fed by the alchemist's own secret blood. The alchemist's attention, concentration, mind, or soul must be completely focused on the task variously known as the creation or discovery of the philosopher's stone, the elixir of life, potable gold, the universal solvent, and, very often, the creation of the homunculus depicted in numerous alchemical illustrations, often as the god Mercury encased in the alchemical vessel.

That the alchemists would speak of this in parable, allegory, and obscure language shouldn't be surprising. It's difficult enough for us, who have the advantage of familiarity with self-help and psychotherapeutic literature, to grasp the meaning of rebirth. For the literal-minded of the Middle Ages, who were taught that all magic and occult knowledge was the work of the devil, this would be a subtle notion indeed. The idea that by going through the alchemical rebirth, one would become as Christ—regenerated—would strike them as blasphemous. What was left was the literal idea of making an actual man or woman, just like the idea of making actual gold from lead or finding an actual stone. Yet a famous alchemical maxim reads: "Our gold is not the vulgar gold." Clearly, making material gold was not what they were after. Creating an actual tiny human being was always recognized as a display of power that went beyond nature. This is a dim and distorted echo of the alchemists' belief that their art was against nature in the sense that it both sped up a natural process and redeemed its practitioners from a life lived solely at the natural, Adamic, unregenerate level.

The legend of the golem has also suffered from a too-literal interpretation. Probably the most well known version of the golem story is Gustav Meyrink's classic expressionistic novel The Golem, published in 1915. Several film versions of the golem story have been made; the best-known is probably Paul Wegener's 1920 version. In the first film to deal with the theme, Otto Rippert's 1916 Homunculus, a scientist creates an artificial man and endows him with more than human powers. When this superman discovers his true origin—that he is not human at all and can never feel love—he reacts violently and inaugurates a reign of terror that leads to his destruction. This notion of a lack, of something missing, also haunts homunculi in future storytelling.

The popular idea of the golem had its start in the 1890s, when the creature became associated with the legends surrounding the famous Rabbi Loew of Prague, an almost mythic figure of the sixteenth century. In one version, Rabbi Loew creates the golem to protect the Jewish population of Prague from one of Emperor Rudolph II's pogroms. Prague is perhaps the most occult and alchemical city in Europe; aside from the golem legends, it has a long tradition of puppets, dolls, and magic shows of various kinds.

Although the popular idea of the golem is associated with the magical powers of Rabbi Loew—and there is no evidence that the rabbi himself ever attempted to make a golem—the term has a long. if obscure history in Talmudic literature. The word golem is mentioned once in the Bible, in Psalm 139; today it's often translated as "embryo." Golem itself means "unformed"; it's the hyle of the ancients, the chaotic, inchoate state of matter before it is given form by the Creator. The similarity between this and the alchemical prima materia seems clear. In the Talmudic Aggadah, Adam is referred to as "golem." In a midrash from the second and third centuries, Adam is described as a kind of cosmic golem, an immense being whose body is as large as the universe and who can see the entire history of the world, its past and future—an echo of Madame Blavatsky's akashic record.

This description relates to the kabbalistic idea, also shared by hermetic, alchemical, and Gnostic beliefs, that the universe itself is a kind of man, Adam Kadmon, and that each of us is a microcosm, a universe in miniature: the universe is a Great Man, and we are all little universes. There is a story that when God was creating the world, he made Adam first but left him unfinished, in a golem state, fearing that if he completed him and then went on to create the universe, Adam himself might get the credit for the work (which implies something about the character of the Creator). So God left Adam unfinished, and only after creating the world did he breathe life into him. One symbolic interpretation of this story, which relates to the alchemical "little man," is that we all are golems until the breath of the divine enters us. We are all unfinished, incomplete, until regenerated.

The kabbalist scholar Gershom Scholem tells us that "the golem is a creature, particularly a human being, made in an artificial way by virtue of a magic act, through the use of holy names." In kabbalistic tradition, the golem, like Adam, is made of clay or soil. He is molded into human form, and then the mystical name of God, the Tetragrammaton, JHVH, is written on a piece of paper and placed on his mouth. The motif of a magical word or name shows the importance of writing and language in the Jewish mystical tradition. Kabbalah itself is a mystical interpretation of the Bible, and the interplay of words, their rearrangement into other words, and their numerical values all play an important role in understanding the secret laws behind creation. Whereas in the alchemical idea of the homunculus the alchemist himself is re-created, here the kabbalist echoes God's creative power and creates a kind of life himself.

There is some practical value in this, in that the golem is often used as a kind of slave or worker who, takes care of many otherwise onerous tasks, similar to the modern robot or android. The golem, however, is a kind of sorcerer's apprentice, and, as in the Frankenstein tale, the monster gets out of hand. In many versions, the golem continues to grow and grow and soon becomes too big for the magician to handle.

There are different versions about how the golem is stopped. In the most popular one, the word emeth, "truth," is written on the golem's forehead, and this gives it life. In order to stop it from destroying the ghetto, the magician rubs out the first letter of the word, leaving meth, which means "death." The man of clay then tumbles to the ground and shatters. In Gustav Meyrink's novel the golem, a metaphor of the novelist's true self, is brought to light through the act of writing. In one of the many film versions, the golem falls in love with the magician's daughter and, like the homunculus, turns violent and has to be destroyed. Gershom Scholem points out that, in keeping with kabbalistic tradition, the golem always lacks some essential quality. In some versions it lacks the power to speak, emphasizing that the magical power of words is reserved for God and his devout believers. In others it lacks intelligence or some other positive human quality. All golem stories, however, portray the golem, no matter how strong, as less than fully human. The imperfection of their creature shows that the magicians, no matter how knowledgeable, are still far short of God, a point that contemporary advocates of "man-made humans" may wish to ponder.


Gary Lachman is the author of In Search of P.D. Ouspensky: The Genius in the Shadow of Gurdjieff  (Quest Books, 2004). His most recent book is A Dark Muse (Thunder's Mouth Press, 2005). He is currently writing a book about Rudolf Steiner, to be published in 2007.


Beatrice Lane Suzuki: An American Theosophist in Japan

By Adele S. Algeo

Originally printed in the JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2007 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Algeo, Adele S. "Beatrice Lane Suzuki: An American Theosophist in Japan." Quest  95.1 (JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2007):
13-17.

Theosophical Society - Adele Algeo Mrs. Algeo was a longtime editorial collaborator with Dr. Algeo in both Theosophical and linguistic pursuits. Regarding the latter, she assisted Dr. Algeo in the publication, Among the New Words: A Dictionary of Neologisms: 1941–1991 (1991), based upon the column appearing in American Speech, “Among the New Words.” Beatrice Lane Suzuki was the American wife of D. T. Suzuki, the well-known philosopher, Buddhist scholar, and Zen popularizer in the West. Her name is familiar to few Theosophists, yet she played an important role in Japanese Theosophy.

In a 2003 lecture in London titled "Japanese Buddhism and the Theosophical Movement," Professor Shinichi Yoshinaga mentioned the reported participation of D. T. Suzuki, about which little was known. In response to that clue, I consulted the archives at Adyar, which contain much information concerning Theosophical work in Japan, including the participation of the Suzukis during the 1920s and 1930s. The Suzukis had married in 1911 in Yokohama, at which time Beatrice became a Japanese citizen. They spent much of their married life in Japan, teaching at various universities, publishing an English-language quarterly, The Eastern Buddhist, and interpreting Buddhism for the West through their many translations.

Beatrice Lane Suzuki was an American from New Jersey who had graduated from Radcliffe (and while there took courses from William James, an early member of the Theosophical Society). She also did graduate work at Columbia University, where she earned a Master of Arts and a certificate in social work in 1908. She worked with her husband in all his enterprises, but the year before her death in 1939, she published her own work, Mahayana Buddhism, which is well regarded and still in print today.

There is no evidence that either of the Suzukis were Theosophists before they joined the Tokyo International Lodge in 1920. That is also true of Beatrice's mother, Dr. Emma Erskine Hahn, who lived with the Suzukis and joined the lodge at the same time. In fact, in her first letter to Adyar, dated June 1924, Beatrice states that the three of them joined at the time the Tokyo Lodge was formed.

After Colonel Olcott's visits to Japan in the late nineteenth century, no further work by the Adyar Theosophical Society occurred until Dr. James H. Cousins spent a year in Japan in 1919-1920 as a professor of modern English poetry at Keio University in Tokyo (Cousins and Cousins, 348-69). At this time, he helped form the Tokyo International Lodge. In a letter dated February 15, 1920, Cousins wrote to the international headquarters at Adyar about the lodge's beginnings with eleven members: five Japanese and six international members from America, Korea, Greece, and India.

Cousins himself did not remain in Japan much longer, leaving in March to return to Adyar. It is unclear if Cousins knew the Suzukis at this time, as they are not mentioned in his autobiographical account of his year in Japan. They may have been among the Japanese members who were recruited after his departure, as they were not among the original eleven.

The membership list sent to Adyar, dated May 12, 1920, contained twenty-one names, the first being Captain B. Kon, secretary of the lodge, the second, J. R. Brinkley, and the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth, Mrs. Erskine Hahn, M.D., Mrs. B. L. Suzuki, and Mr. T. Suzuki. In a letter of September 1920 to the international secretary of the Theosophical Society at Adyar, Jack Brinkley wrote that Captain B. Kon had to retire for personal reasons and that he had been elected to fill the vacancy. He also mentioned that the lodge had been reorganized to ensure there were enough officers to do the necessary work and enclosed a list of the officers which included Mr. T. Suzuki as President and Mrs. B. L. Suzuki on the Lodge Committee (along with four other members, including J. Brinkley as Secretary and Treasurer).

Things did not go smoothly for the new lodge, however, and in July 1921, Maurice A. Browne, a member of the Council, wrote to the recording secretary at Adyar that Jack Brinkley "has been absent in Europe for many months. Mrs. B. L. Suzuki, 572 Zoshigaya, Takatamachi, Tokyo-fu, has been Acting Secretary in his absence."

In a second letter, dated October 1921, Browne reported that "The Acting Secretary, Mrs. B. L. Suzuki, is going to Kyoto soon, but I have no doubt she will write to you about it and make such arrangements as are necessary until the return of the Secretary, Mr. Jack Brinkley."

A third letter from Browne, dated January 1922, indicated that he and his wife were moving to Shanghai. He continued: "The Secretary of the Tokyo International Lodge, Captain Jack Brinkley, has not returned to Japan, and the Lodge here is in a poor way. . . No doubt the Acting Secretary, Mrs. Suzuki, has notified you of her new address, c/o Professor Suzuki, Otani University, Muromachi, Kyoto, but of course at that distance she cannot do much for Tokyo."

In a letter received at Adyar in December 1923, Mr. K. R Sabarwal, number twelve on the original list of members, reported: "There is no Lodge of the Theosophical Society in Tokyo now. Can you let me know what formalities I shall have to undergo for becoming a member of Adyar?"

On moving to Kyoto, the Suzukis formed a new lodge of the Theosophical Society called the Mahayana Lodge. In a series of six handwritten letters and reports dating from 1924 to 1928, Beatrice Lane Suzuki outlined the formation of the lodge, its membership, problems encountered in keeping it going, and her understanding of the Japanese religious sensibility that made it difficult for Theosophy to have a long-term appeal among the Japanese (Algeo).

In the first letter, written in June 1924, she described the formation of the Mahayana Lodge on May 8 (White Lotus Day) with fourteen members: nine new ones, two who had joined in America, and the Suzukis and Beatrice's mother from the Tokyo Lodge. She mentioned that almost all the members were professors at either Otani University or Ryukoku University, both Buddhist institutions, and indicated their intention to have regular meetings in the fall. She was serving as secretary of the lodge and thus sent yearly reports to the headquarters at Adyar.

Beatrice's second letter was written in October 1924, in which she again described the formation of Mahayana Lodge and discussed business matters like dues, the charter, and the number of Adyar Bulletins to send the members. She stated, "As yet we have not elected any president but have a committee consisting of Mr. Yamabe, Mr. Utsuki and myself to perform the duties of president at present. I understand that Mr. Labberton of Orpheus Lodge, Tokyo, wrote you that I was the president of the Mahayana Lodge, but this is not correct. I have been asked to be the president, but being a woman and a foreigner I thought it wiser not to accept the position. We have had three meetings so far of the new lodge, two of them before the summer vacation and one since."

Beatrice went on to discuss a matter weighing on her mind: she still possessed the charter for the now-defunct Tokyo International Lodge and wished to send it back to Adyar. A new lodge, Orpheus, had been formed in Tokyo, with a new president, D. van Hinloopen Labberton. She wrote, "The International Lodge broke up when almost all of its members left Tokyo in 1921. . . . As I am no longer in Tokyo nor likely to be and now doing what work I can for Theosophy in connection with the Mahayana Lodge, I presume it is best to consider the International Lodge no more in existence. While it lasted, it was quite flourishing and had many interesting meetings and its members belonged to many different nationalities and it certainly is the seed from which both the present Orpheus and Mahayana lodges have sprung, three old members of the International being now in the Mahayana and two of them in the Orpheus. I feel that we owe to Mr. Cousins the spark which started the fire of Theosophy in Japan."

The third letter, written in November 1925, discussed a number of matters relating to the Lodge and also included, in a separate report, a brief history of Theosophy in Japan. Beatrice wrote of sending a painting to Adyar in response to a request of her friend Madame de Manziarly for a contribution to the Arts and Crafts Exhibition to be held there during Convention: "The subject of the picture is a Buddhist one and represents the Buddha Shakamuni with Manjushri and Samantabhadra and the guardian Bodhisattvas. It is a copy (but the copy is also old) of a famous painting 750 years old which is in the temple of Enryakuji of Mt. Hiei near Kyoto. Please have the picture exhibited during the Arts and Crafts Exhibition and then afterwards given in my name to either the Museum or the Library. I wanted very much to come to the Convention but it was impossible so I send the picture in my place."

Her report of the year's work stated: "The plan of the lodge is now to have papers prepared by the members on subjects connected with Buddhist and Theosophical subjects and later to have these papers published in a book, this book to be the contribution of the Mahayana Lodge to the cause of Theosophy. The lodge is a small one and circumstances and conditions here do not permit great activities but the aim of the members is to keep the light burning here in Japan and even though the light may not be such a bright one, never to permit it to go out."

In the fourth letter, written in November 1926, Beatrice hoped that she was not too late to get her report delivered in time for the annual Convention held at the end of December. Because of her own ill health, the Lodge had been very quiet during 1926. She wrote, "We have lost three members and gained two: Mrs. Hibino of Sendai (as absent member) and Mr. Jugaku whose application I herewith enclose. We have now therefore fourteen members. During 1927 we hope to be more active. My husband and I have offered our home to be used for lodge meetings. At the last meeting held a few days ago, Professor Izumi of Otani University spoke on 'Life After Death.' "

The fifth letter, written in February 1928, reported: "We have now twelve members ... My mother, Dr. Emma Erskine Hahn, one of our members, died on August 22. Prof Akamatsu moved to Korea and has not kept up his membership. Mrs. Hibino moved to Kyoto from Sendai in June 1927, and has become an active member of the Society.... Mrs. Hibino and I have started a little centre for the Order of the Star and we are about to distribute a booklet in Japanese on the work of the Star (Ransom). During 1928, we hope to distribute one on Theosophy."

This letter also included a separate report on Lodge activities for 1927: "During 1927 very few meetings were held. Mrs. Suzuki, the Secretary, spent some time in a hospital and her mother, Dr. Emma Erskine Hahn, a member of the Lodge, after an illness of several months died on August 22. These two events made it difficult to arrange meetings as they are generally held at the home of Prof. and Mrs Suzuki and the circumstances did not permit meetings at their home during most of the year. But in October 1927, the lodge resumed meetings. At the October gathering, Mrs. Setti Line Hibino spoke upon 'The Order of the Star'; at the November meeting Rev. B. Jugaku gave an interesting lecture upon 'The Poetry and Mysticism of William Blake.' In December Professor Teitaro Suzuki addressed the lodge on the subject 'What Appeals to Me in Buddhism.' All these meetings were well attended, a number of non-members being invited. In December the first meetings in Japan of the Order of the Star were held and it is hoped to do some work for the Star: this work has been started by two members of the Mahauna Lodge."

The sixth letter, written in November 1928, is the last letter by Beatrice Lane Suzuki in the Adyar Archives and, in fact, contains the last reference to the Kyoto Mahãyãna Lodge. In it, Beatrice talked about some of the difficulties of spreading Theosophy in Japan:

It seems difficult for Theosophy to make much growth here just for this reason that it is so similar in its teachings to Buddhism. There seems to be a general idea, especially among Theosophists, that the Japanese are not a spiritual people and do not care for spiritual things. In my opinion this idea is entirely wrong. I consider the Japanese very spiritual; all that is best in their culture is based upon religion. No one could pass through this period of the Emperor's coronation without feeling how near the spiritual world is to the Japanese. But with regard to Theosophy, Theosophy comes not as something new but as a variant of their own Buddhist teaching and for this reason they are slow to come to it. The appeal of Universal Brotherhood is the note that must be struck by Theosophists for the Japanese. It is just the same too in regard to the Order of the Star. Their own great teachers like Kobo Daishi [774-835, founder of the esoteric Shingon school of Buddhism], Shinran Shonin [1173-1262 or 1263, founder of the True Pure Land school of Buddhism], and others stand still too close to theirs in time and they feel that they have not yet fully absorbed the teachings of these great ones, and therefore they do not feel the call to look elsewhere. In my opinion it is not because of their unspirituality that they fail to do so but on account of their strong religious feeling for their own religious leaders. Personally I should like to have a larger membership for I am deeply interested in the Society, but at the same time I appreciate the reasons why it is more difficult than it is in Western countries.

What happened to the Mahayana Lodge after this time is not known, but judging from Mrs. Suzuki's letters and reports, the lodge probably became inactive at some point, though it was still meeting in 1929 when Dr. James Cousins and his wife, Margaret E. Cousins, spent two weeks in Japan, where Dr. Cousins introduced his wife to many of the friends he had made during his earlier stay in Japan. Mrs. Cousins, who was an ardent worker for women's rights, reported: "We were in Kyoto next day (October 5) at the other end of the 400-mile road from Tokyo. We were put up in the hospitable home of Professor T. Suzuki of Otani Buddhist University, noted writer on Buddhism, and his western wife whom he had met while mutually studying in a German University. She had formed a Lodge of The Theosophical Society, and a meeting with the members gave me another centre from which to radiate the Women's Conference idea." (Cousins and Cousins, 504)

The last mention of the Suzukis in the Adyar Archives is from the late 1930s. When C. Jinarajadasa, who later became international president of the Theosophical Society, made a short visit to Tokyo in 1937, he gave two lectures at Miroku Lodge. These lectures were translated into Japanese by Dr. Suzuki.

The later history of the Theosophical lodge in Tokyo, however, is rather different from that of the one in Kyoto. The first two Tokyo lodges (Tokyo International and Orpheus) seem to have been dependent on a few foreign members who did not stay long, and whose departure caused the groups to become inactive. A third group (Miroku), founded in the late 1920s, was more lasting, and Theosophical activities continued in Japan right up to the start of World War II. After that war, a Theosophical group was reactivated in Tokyo in 1947, and it continues until the present day. Membership in Japan has never been large, but there has always been a core of dedicated people.

When Beatrice Lane Suzuki died in 1939, Miriam Salanave, a friend who had known her in Japan, wrote in an obituary for her in the American Theosophist (v. 27, no. 9, September 1939):

Although a Buddhist Mrs. Suzuki never lost her interest in Theosophy and once was head of the T.S. in Japan. She told me that Prof. Suzuki's first gift to her was the "Voice of the Silence" which he wrote her was "pure Mahayana Buddhism." He was a student at Oxford at the time and she was at Columbia University. Mrs. Suzuki was devoted to Dr. Besant and Theosophical notables visiting Japan were always welcome guests....

It was her interest in esoteric Theosophy that attracted her to the esoteric teachings of the Shingon Buddhist sect. When I was living in Kyoto she urged me to take the Bodhisattva-Sila with her, an opportunity considered to be a rare privilege. Accordingly special arrangements were made at Toji, an important Shingon temple, for this impressive ceremony which I cherish among numerous other unforgettable Eastern experiences.

The vows taken during the Bosatsukai are indeed solemn and toward the end of the long ritual candidates ask that whatever merits accruing from taking these Bodhisattva vows may be distributed among all beings. I quote in part: "I pray that this merit will extend everywhere so that not only we, but all other beings may attain to the path of Buddhahood ... All these merits I wish to extend all over the world and after my death, together with all beings I wish to be born in that Buddha land, where, listening to the Dharma, I may come to the realization of it . . ." The dying wish of Beatrice Lane Suzuki, I am sure, must have been the same wish expressed above. "There is but one road to the Path, at its very end alone the 'Voice of the Silence' can be heard."

References

Algeo, Adele S. "Beatrice Lane Suzuki and Theosophy in Japan." Theosophical History 11.3 (July 2005). This article contains the complete text of the letters. I am grateful to the editor of that journal, James Santucci, for permission to use the article as the basis for this one.

Cousins, James H. and Margaret E. Cousins. We Two Together. Madras: Ganesh, 1950. See chapter 33, "A Japanese Year," and page 504.

Ransom, Josephine. A Short History of the Theosophical Society. Adyar: Theosophical Publishing House, 1938. Pages 390-1 and 415 contain information on the order of the Star in the East, founded by Annie Besant in 1911.


Open Wide the Gates

By Betty Bland

Originally printed in the JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2007 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation:  "Open Wide the Gates." Quest  95.1 (JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2007):4-5.

Theosophical Society - Betty Bland joined the Theosophical Society on April 30, 1970. She helped to establish the Mt. Gilead, North Carolina Study Center.  Mrs. Bland served as President of the Theosophical Society of America from 2002 to 2011. In the volatile region of the Middle East, what strange circumstance could result in a person of the Muslim faith being the gatekeeper for the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, one of the holiest shrines in all of Christendom? Once again, we find that truth is stranger than fiction. Several years ago, the Associated Press told the story of Wajeeh Nuseibeh whose family has monitored those massive doors for more than a thousand years due to sectarian squabbling among the Christians.

 

A source of stability through centuries of discord has been an agreement made in 638 CE, between the conquering Muslim Caliph, Omar Ibn al-Khattab, and the Greek patriarch. In accordance with this agreement, a series of several families have assumed that gate keeping responsibility. The shrine, re-built by European crusaders in 1099, at the site purported to be the burial tomb of Jesus, has been the destination for holy pilgrimages of many different sects of Christianity since its earliest foundation. Yet, for the very reason that it is so revered, it continues to be a source of contention. Because many sects have had to share this most holy of sites, no one can agree as to who should maintain control. As recently as July 28, 2005, Coptic and Ethiopian monks engaged in rock-throwing and fighting over a perceived challenge of control over a courtyard in the shrine. Tensions run high among all the groups who want to worship there.

 

Only the long established ritual of gate keeping by our Muslim brothers maintains the peace. Every morning a Joudeh, another Muslim family who guards the ten inch iron key, hands the key to a Nuseibeh. Following his family tradition as he has done for the last twenty-five years, fifty year-old Wajeeh Nuseibah, then climbs a wooden ladder passed down by a priest from within the shrine, and opens the spring-loaded iron lock. Wajeeh has 400 year-old documents declaring his family's control of the gates, while the Joudeh family's management of the key dates back to the Ottoman rule, which began in 1517.

 

During the recent turmoil, the families have had to send surrogates to open the gates at four in the morning in order to avoid the dangers of the nighttime streets, but they still maintain enough control to keep peace among the various factions. Wajeeh says that these Muslim families act as a people of peace for the church.

 

Gates provide an access point. They are the way in and out. In the case of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher the gates control who goes in and out—and when. But just as importantly, gates also mark entry points. Gates provide the way to enter into another territory. The very presence of a gate indicates that there is more beyond. In our own lives we can see the importance of discovering the gate within that leads to deeper understanding.

 

Just as Wajeeh makes it possible for the Christians to enter the shrine in peace, each one of us can be a gatekeeper for Theosophy—not to keep people out (although by our poor example this may sometimes be the unintended result), but to indicate that there is an open door available to any earnest seeker. To the extent of our knowledge we can point out the way—the way to explore and grow in understanding, with abundant resources, which is unfettered by the narrowness of sectarian views. We can herald that entrance and hope that those who pass through on our watch will pay us the ultimate compliment for any teacher—that of surpassing us in knowledge and application of principles.

 

As Theosophists we may be cautious about giving out our views to others in any way that might be seen as proselytizing. In fact, we usually bend over backwards to be sure that we honor all approaches to religion and the riddles of life. This is as it should be if we are talking about imposing our views on others, but we have to face up to the awesome responsibility of sharing whatever level of understanding we have attained in order to benefit our fellows in this life journey. There are many people for whom our gate is virtually invisible unless we make it known.

 

Madame Blavatsky talks about this responsibility in The Key to Theosophy:

ENQUIRER: Is it the duty of every member to teach others and preach Theosophy?

THEOSOPHIST: It is indeed. No fellow has a right to remain idle, on the excuse that he knows too little to teach. For he may always be sure that he will find others who know still less than himself. And also it is not until a man begins to try to teach others, that he discovers his own ignorance and tries to remove it.

We might wonder, "How can I be a gatekeeper to point the way for others? What do I know that can point the way to the gate?" In notes from Light on the Path, the answer is given: "Hardness of heart belongs to the selfish man, the egotist, to whom the gate is for ever closed."

 

The gift of Theosophy is a worldview that forever shatters selfishness and hardness of heart. As given by Madam Blavatsky in The Secret Doctrine, the first fundamental principle takes us directly to the key for that gate. It states that there is one omnipotent boundless ALL, called God by some—and it leads us to an understanding that there is only one unitive principle within which all else, including ourselves, exists. If we take to heart this one factor, we will naturally open the gate within ourselves, and become a beacon to others.

 

We may not necessarily know the particular answers to another's questions, but with humility and open heart, we will be able to point the way. We can say, "There is a gate. Look inside and see if you find the way to the sense of completeness you seek." We can open wide the gate that will draw them toward their own inner truth.


The Theosophy of Immanuel Kant

By Robert Bonnell

Originally printed in the JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2007 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation:Bonnell, Robert  "The Theosophy of Immanuel Kant." Quest  95.1 (JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2007):30-31.

Theosophical Society - Robert Bonnell A lifetime fellow of the Theosophical Society in America, Robert Bonnell has been a lecturer and writer on esoteric themes for over 50 years. He is President and Program Chairman for the Long Beach Theosophical Society and has held these posts for the greater part of 45 years. In addition to his work with the Long Beach Theosophical Society, Robert served on the Board of Directors of the Theosophical Society in America for six years (1996-2002).Immanuel Kant, German Philosopher (1724-1804) and Professor of Philosophy at the University of Koneisberg, was a key figure in the period referred to as the German Enlightenment. In addition to his philosophical treatises, Kant wrote extensively on the theory of the heavens, origins of the planetary systems, effects of the tides upon the earth's rotation, causes of earthquakes, volcanoes on the moon, and other subjects. His treatise on eternal peace formed the basis for the United Nations Charter. Although he was raised Lutheran, he rejected conventional doctrine early in life and regarded independent spiritual integrity as the highest form of morality. In contrast to his brilliant intellect and Prussian rigidity, Kant confessed to moments of passive contemplation and listened to the music of the spheres on numerous occasions.

 

His intellectual prowess and lifestyle displayed a dedication to his calling, which remains beyond question. Despite occasional misinterpretations of his work by thinkers and politicians of questionable integrity, Kant is considered to be Europe's most respected philosopher. In fact, it's been said that all modern philosophy must orient itself to Kant.

 

Though Kant is not at the center of Theosophy, it might be helpful for theosophists, who value varied wisdom traditions, to understand the similarities between Kantian thought and theosophy. The terms at the top of the adjacent chart are Kant's terminology, while the terms in the parentheses below are the terminology most akin to that of the Wisdom or Theosophical Tradition.

 

Kant suggested that humans have two basic ways of knowing, a priori and a posteriori. These two kinds of knowledge are key to the development of human consciousness, instrumental in the pursuit of a moral and constructive state of being—which Kant calls "Pure Reason." Kant's "Noumenal Principle," what we might call the unknowable, is that which is beyond experience but somehow involved in it—something like H.P.B's "unutterable" or Thoreau's "impersonal spectator." According to Kant, a priori knowledge emerges from this Noumenal Principle, this "unknowable." It is, in effect, a representative of the Noumenal Principle deep within the human consciousness. And it recognizes a "voice from afar," independent of human experience as we know it. The a priori knowledge that emerges from the Noumenal Principle is innate knowledge akin to Theosophy's atmic influence. It precedes human experience and serves as a sort of judge and jury (conscience).

 

For Kant, it is possible for human beings to remain largely unaware of the a priori knowledge available to them. Manifestation of a priori knowledge is dependent in part upon Time, or the readiness (precision) to manifest, and Space, or the direction of its influence. It is also dependent upon moral development. People who adhere to certain moral principles allow a priori knowledge to unfold into consciousness and become available for use—much as etheric energies blend, by way of chakras, into electromagnetic states the body can use.

 

The first moral principle necessary for the unfolding of a priori knowledge is what Kant calls the "Transcendental Aesthetic." Similar to Theosophy's concept of innate goodness, metaphysical transcendence motivates the use of a priori knowledge and also becomes the modus operandi for its use.

 

The second moral principle is Synthetic Judgment, a deductive process by which one can move the a priori toward its objective. As theosophists note "I must believe before I can understand," Kant declares that a sense of "revelation" furthers synthetic judgment and opens the way to wisdom.

 

The third moral principle is Intuition, which has been defined by Spinoza as "higher knowledge." Intuition works with Synthetic Judgment and compounds into an array of invisible insights; perhaps akin to Theosophy's spiritual awareness!

 

The fourth moral principle is Descending Will, by which one makes use of Time and Space to develop the will to enter the exalted state of Pure Reason. As Theosophy celebrates the idea whose time has come, Kant celebrates the moment in which Will carries one deeper into knowledge.

 

For Kant, a posteriori knowledge, or knowledge gained by experience, is a product of the Phenomenal Principle. It is exoteric, shadowed by the world of sense perception, and regulated to a large extent by the basic instincts of Experience and Assimilation. These two represent the physical exposure to the elemental realities of the corporeal world and an intellectual growth of the world as it is; perhaps liken to Theosophy's psychophysical confrontations. Thus, a posteriori knowledge is incomplete and in need of things outside itself. Yet it proceeds upward toward the goal of Pure Reason. Like a priori knowledge, a posteriori knowledge requires adaptations in order to proceed toward Pure Reason.

 

The first adaptation is Earthly Tribulation, which represents the trials and tribulations of the emotional mind as it seeks to satisfy our moral obligations and fulfillments; we may liken it to Theosophy's karmic interludes.

 

The second adaptation, Analytical Judgment, is the brainchild, so to speak, of the empirical path and its inductive guidelines. Because analytical judgment moderates and refines a posteriori knowledge, it may the closest Kant gets to Theosophy's middle path.

 

The third Adaptation is what Kant calls Understanding, Proper. It represents the coming forth of accumulative knowledge in highly mechanical but necessary material form, similar to Theosophy's incarnated necessities.

 

The fourth Adaptation is Ascending Will, by which Experience and Assimilation form the path of both willfulness and wellness. Thus they allow the a posteriori to enter, in a practical manner, Kant's exalted state of Pure Reason. As Theosophy celebrates the need whose karmic time has come, Kant celebrates the path by which a posteriori knowledge is transformed.

 

The remaining aspect of Kant's exalted state of Pure Reason is assigned to the Aesthetical, which cradles within it ethics, morality, goodness, and beauty. In Kantian philosophy, these nearly synonymous terms underpin the Categorical Imperative. They are something like the Vedic Tattwas, in that they are fundamental to the awakened moral state in which a human being acts for the good of all humanity. They form the basis for a sort of Nirvana.

 

As our chart illustrates, the pragmatic value of Kant's philosophy lies in its exploration of the relationship between Thought, a well-adjusted thinking process and attitude, and Action, rational behavior under all circumstances. Immanuel Kant might leave the esoteric mind somewhat unfulfilled, but we must realize the reactionary atmosphere at the time and place in which he made his ideas known. These ideas made a profound and expansive impact upon the somewhat crystallized boundaries of academic philosophy which resulted in the popular adage, "If you do not know Kant, you do not know Philosophy." Western philosophy and theology have been forced to acknowledge the basic fact of our incarnation and the sources of wisdom that lie therein.


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