Quest Magazine

Printed in the  Spring 2023 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Kinney, Jay,  "Imagining God Imagining the World: When Either-Or Becomes Both-And" Quest 111:2, pg 33-35

By Jay Kinney

Longtime readers with strong memories may recall that I’ve written here before about my on-again, off-again, love affair with Islam, specifically with its mystical branch of Sufism. As I related previously (see “Losing My Religion” in Quest, summer 2009), in the years after the 9/11 terror attack and the hard-to-ignore rise of violent jihadism, I had real trouble continuing to resonate with a set of religious metaphors and practices that could also birth obscenities such as suicide bombers yelling “!Allahu akbar!” (“Allah is great!”) as they blew themselves up while targeting wedding parties and the like.

I knew, deep down, that such sad souls didn’t so much represent Islam as betray it, but that didn’t prevent me from having a strong emotional revulsion that alienated me from a spiritual path that I had been treading for more than a decade. But time heals all wounds (or at least softens reactive states), and over the last few years, roughly coinciding with the pandemic, I’ve found myself heeding an inner call to get back on track and quit letting a bunch of fundamentalist maniacs cut off my nose to spite my face.

To mix scriptural sources, I felt like the proverbial prodigal son welcomed home again after straying far afield. It’s not that I had stopped sensing that there was One God with a multitude of faces, but my sense of connection had gotten stretched almost to the breaking point. Then, as if I had jumped off a bridge wearing Allah’s bungee cord, I came bouncing back, ready for another round.

All these metaphors would seem to imply an externality to God that I don’t really profess. There is a Qur’anic verse (50:16) where Allah says, “It is We who have created man, and We know what his innermost self whispers within him: for We are closer to him than his jugular vein.” Indeed, when I’ve felt most connected to God, I have experienced it as an interior resonance or state. So, in a way, my sense of alienation or distance from God was deep within myself. Allah might indeed be closer than my jugular vein, but if I wasn’t feeling that or wasn’t encouraging myself to reach out to that hidden presence, I couldn’t exactly blame it on terrorists halfway around the globe, much less on Allah Himself.

* * *

For much of the time that I’ve been engaged with Sufism, my main guide has been Muhyiddin Ibn ‘Arabi, the great mystical shaikh (master) of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, whose philosophy of the Unity of Being teaches that the Absolute, the indescribable intelligence and creative force that sustains all of creation, expresses itself such that all beings are particularizations of the Divine Being, and that God is within us and we are within God, both at the same time. Ibn ‘Arabi scholars note the similarity of this perspective to that of Advaita Vedanta or of Christian mystics such as Meister Eckhart.

However, it is one thing to accept this teaching as a grand abstraction and something else to experience it as our underlying reality. During my period of alienation, I found it beyond my capacity to comprehend that, in some real sense, the violent jihadi terrorist is no less a manifestation of God than anyone or anything else. For many of us, this would seem to be one claim too far. Yet is it really?

If we view the natural world as a core manifestation of divine order, not just a clockwork churning of DNA and survival of the fittest, then we must struggle to accept that the powerful lion taking down the beautiful gazelle to feast upon is not an evil activity, but a manifestation of the chain of being.

Carnivores are acting from their innate instincts, which lead them to kill and eat those further down the food chain. They would seem not to have much of a say in the matter. We humans, however, are said to have free will. While we are answerable to a higher morality, we are quite capable of ignoring God’s presence within ourselves—and within others—and talking ourselves into any number of evil acts under the delusion that we are following God’s will. Sunnis attacking Shi’ites and vice versa would be just one example of this capacity. Allah may be at the core of our own being, but the heart is a muscle that needs to be exercised in order to function properly, and while mercy and compassion are cardinal virtues, they must be consciously practiced.

Of course the Sufi belief in the combined transcendence (tanzih) and immanence (tashbih) of God is not shared by all Muslims, by any means. Many jurists and theologians, as well as common believers, emphasize Allah’s absolute uniqueness and transcendence above all creation. God is thus rendered into an Other who shares no human attributes and is largely unknowable, except through the Qur’an, the hadiths (sayings or traditions of the Prophet Muhammad), and various schools of jurisprudence. At its most extreme, this monotheism rejects any knowledge of or belief in God’s immanence as a form of shirk or idolatry.

Paradoxically, such austere conservatism does not preclude many Muslims from praying for divine intercession or favors in the smallest details of their lives. The common phrase In sha’a-llah (“If God wills”) is invoked in speaking of future events, with the assumption that Allah has the final say on whether some hoped-for outcome will come to pass.

I used to think that this notion of God’s involvement in every aspect of one’s life was that of an Orwellian busybody, but I now think that perhaps I was just running into the limits of my own powers of imagination. If, metaphorically speaking, Allah is (at least in part) the outpouring of love and natural order from the heart of Creation, whose infinite Being sustains all that is, we are not talking about anything that can be fully conceived of, much less described. Exit science and enter poetry.

I’m reminded of the scene in a 1930s Our Gang episode where one of the little rascals is about to purloin a freshly baked cookie from the kitchen when he is brought up short by the juxtaposition of two proverbs framed on the wall: “God helps those who help themselves,” and “Thou shalt not steal.”

Religion in general is full of these contradictions and paradoxes.

* * *

In my youth, I was raised in a sincerely Christian home, so the Ten Commandments were drummed into me in Sunday school. “Thou shalt not kill” received considerable emphasis. I was fine with that, as I had no plans to kill anyone—even to the point of initially registering as a conscientious objector when I reached military draft age.

But as I took an interest in history, I discovered that while the Sixth Commandment seemed fairly straightforward, over time  it had acquired a great many loopholes, including that it was OK to kill heretics, witches, heathen, other Christians who disagreed with you (such as Catholics versus Protestants in the Thirty Years’ War).

So it has been with Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, and nearly every other expression of faith in the global village. Spiritual precepts or scriptural interpretations often find themselves in conflict, enabling those searching for scapegoats to do their dirty work while posturing as defenders of the faith.

If God is indeed personal, one might be led to think that He is dozing off at the wheel while the car is hurtling over the cliff. Yet another portion of Ibn ‘Arabi’s teachings eases us back from such a conclusion.

This is his doctrine that each of us has a unique interface with our Lord (Rabb). This says that Allah has a great number of attributes and that they all come into play as life continually unfolds. These attributes are called the Divine Names, symbolized by the Ninety-nine Names of Allah (though there is nothing ironclad about that number). For each of us, our Rabb displays or manifests as a unique and appropriate combination of Allah’s names. Through familiarizing ourselves with these names, through meditating upon them or chanting them (dhkir), we can begin to sense those which are especially acting upon us or through us.

Similarly, through our relations with others in daily life, we can begin to see their manifestation of the divine names interacting with ours. This can hopefully expand our awareness of Allah as our Rabb relating with theirs. As ‘Abd al-Razzaq Lahiji, a noted student of Ibn ‘Arabi, put it bluntly: “In reality, there is no knowledge of God by another than God; for another than God is not.”

The traditional goal of such shifts in awareness and identity is for the Sufi to be absorbed or “annihilated” in God (fana), a state that is often accompanied by a feeling of great release from one’s ego, and over time being able to reside in a state of subsistence (baqa), where one can function in the daily world in this dual awareness. This is often referred to as “dying before you die.”

Not all of the divine names and attributes are comforting, although some Sufis tend to focus on just the beautiful ones. As a Sufi friend put it recently, “Allah isn’t only a teddy bear.” Allah is both the Expander (Al-Basit) and the Abaser (Al-Khafid); both the Honorer (Al-Mu’izz) and the Dishonorer (Al-Muzill). For every “beautiful” name, it is said, there is a contrasting “majestic” name, —one that exhibits Allah’s power and judgment. The more names we learn and are able to see as operative in our lives or in those of others, the wider our acceptance of What Is.

This is not to say that the blowing up of innocent people is something to be accepted or excused. I still find it horrifying and deeply disturbing. But I no longer wish to grant cruel and ignorant sociopaths the power to drive me away from a spiritual path that has nurtured me for a good portion of my adult life or from an intuition of a God both within and without who is closer to me than my jugular vein.

* * *

Everyone is born with different talents and capacities, and the circumstances and challenges of our lives may enable us to flourish or might cause us to strike out in bitterness and anger. A hadith qudsi (a direct message from Allah through Muhammad) says, “My earth and My heavens cannot encompass Me, but the heart of My believing servant encompasses Me.” That may be true, but of course it is no guarantee that the heart will realize what is hidden within itself.

In describing my renewed connection with Islam and Sufism, I do not intend to imply that the path I am on is the correct or appropriate one for everyone. It does resonate for me, however.     Interestingly, Ibn ‘Arabi, in explicating his philosophy of the Unity of Being, pointed out that every country or culture has its own god and religion, and that if the Absolute is truly the ground of all Being, then all these gods and religions are manifestations of the same Source. As the great mystic described his experience of this reality, he confessed the following: “My heart has become receptive of all forms: it is a pasture for gazelles, and a monastery for Christian monks, and a temple for idols and the pilgrim’s Kaaba and the tables of the Torah and the book of the Qurʾan.”

May we all strive for such a realization.

Jay Kinney was the founder and publisher of Gnosis: A Journal of the Western Inner Traditions. His lifelong studies in mysticism and esotericism were nourished by his contacts with the TSA dating back over fifty years ago.

Printed in the  Spring 2023 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Craig, Carol,  "My Journey to Redefine My Concept of God" Quest 111:2, pg 25-27

By Carol Craig

Man’s conception of divinity rises with his growth.
—Clara Codd

After I became an adult and left behind my staunch Southern Baptist roots, I was unsure who or what God is. Inside myself, I have somehow always known that there must be a higher power, and I have always felt a connection with Jesus. But in what form God exists, I had no clue.

Theosophy says that each of us is on our own individual path, and more and more knowledge is revealed to us as we become increasingly capable of understanding. What we believe is our own personal truth at that given time.

Growing up, I was a devout little Baptist girl. I was told that God is love; God is merciful; God cares about all his children and wants all of us to be happy and healthy. But I was also told stories about God’s anger and judgments and heard that upon my death, he would decide whether or not to let me into heaven or condemn me to hell. I never liked that aspect of God, but never told anyone.

Once I began to think for myself, I left behind my belief that God was sitting on a throne in the sky somewhere, judging me. I didn’t want to worship a vengeful God. I can also remember wondering as an adolescent, if God is loving and merciful, why would he be responsible for the torment that his Son had to experience? And of course the age-old question of why bad things happen to good people consumed my thoughts for years.

Despite these questions, in my early twenties, when I married and had my first child, I remember how important it was to me to raise my children in the Southern Baptist church. Even so, I began to wonder why someone else’s blood had to atone for my sins. Am I not responsible for my own actions? Besides, don’t I sometimes commit the same sin over again, even if it is supposed to be washed away by the blood of Jesus? Why would I continue to commit a sin that my beloved Jesus died for? All those teachings of my youth stopped making sense to me.

Out of loyalty to my upbringing, I remained in the Southern Baptist church, even teaching Sunday School when my children were young. It wasn’t until my midthirties, when I found myself unhappy in my personal life, that I left the Southern Baptists. Wasn’t God supposed to love me and always want what is best for me? He certainly had not made or kept me happy and in a peaceful state of mind. Where was he? I was having a crisis of faith.

Thus began my own personal search to find peace and happiness. That led me to the Disciples of Christ church, which turned out to be a good transition church for me, because the Disciples of Christ talked about the familiar Bible stories, but they seemed to me to be much more liberal thinkers about life in general: they didn’t tell me I would burn in hell for one thing or another, and I immediately felt comfortable about that. I became very good friends with the minister, and we used to have long, in-depth conversations. I discovered that for the first time in my life, I had the courage to admit that I was questioning my faith and even to disagree with him occasionally. He didn’t seem to like it when I did that, but I give him credit for listening and allowing me to express myself. In any event, I found the courage to admit my doubts and share them with other people.

At first, after leaving my fundamental roots, I was afraid that I was becoming an atheist. I never wanted to disbelieve in God, because I knew in my heart that I had an experience with something unexplainable when I was twelve years old. It was a voice inside, speaking to me about my love for Jesus, which had become so strong when I was a child. I believe I was experiencing what scholars of mysticism have called an awakening of my soul.

I’m a practical person and need to understand and relate to what I profess to believe. Coming to a satisfactory understanding of the meaning of God took me well over twenty years. Perhaps you are luckier than me and have resolved this long ago. Perhaps it’s not even important to you. While I assume that most Theosophists have already figured this out for themselves, it has been a quest of mine for most of my adult life.

My search soon led to the “sleeping prophet” Edgar Cayce. I could relate to Cayce’s story, particularly his struggle with the faith of his youth as new possibilities began to be revealed to him. I was assured then that I was on a quest and there was no turning back. I began reading self-help books. One book would lead me to another book or to a specific group, until one day a friend in Atlanta invited me to a meeting of the Theosophical Society.

“What is that?” I asked.

“You’ll just have to come to a meeting and find out for yourself,” I was told. I did, and that expression, “It was like coming home” finally made sense to me.

Soon after starting to attend regular TS meetings in Atlanta, I heard of the Masters for the first time. While researching the overwhelming amount of information on the Masters, I kept being reminded of the question I had held for years: just who, or what, is God?

The Southern Baptists had told me that God is love, and they also spoke about brotherly love—to love my neighbor as myself and to do unto others as I would do unto myself. But now Theosophy was talking about Brotherhood and Unity with All That Is.

After finding the TS in Atlanta, I learned that Theosophy encourages open-minded inquiry in order to understand the wisdom of the ages, respect the unity of all life, and help people explore individual spiritual self-transformation. I liked that! Furthermore, I was told that studying Theosophy helps us to realize that we live in a purposeful universe, that human existence has deep meaning, and that we are responsible for our own thoughts and actions. This made sense to me!

I began an extensive reading of Theosophical material on the subjects of God, Deity, Divinity, Brotherhood, and Unity. In An Outline of Theosophy, C.W. Leadbeater spoke of God as

the great Guiding Force or Deity of our own solar system, whom philosophers have called the Logos. Of him is true all that we have ever heard predicated of God—all that is good, that is—not the blasphemous conceptions sometimes put forward, ascribing to Him human vices. But all that has ever been said of the love, the wisdom, the power, the patience and compassion, the omniscience, the omnipresence, the omnipotence—all of this, and much more, is true of the Logos of our system. Verily “in Him we live and move and have our being,” not as a poetical expression, but (strange as it may seem) as a definite scientific fact; and so, when we speak of the Deity our first thought is naturally of the Logos.

We do not vaguely hope that He may be; we do not even believe as a matter of faith that He is; we simply know it as we know that the sun shines, for to the trained and developed clairvoyant investigator this Mighty Existence is a definite certainty. Not that any merely human development can enable us directly to see Him, but that unmistakable evidence of His action and His purpose surrounds us on every side as we study the life of the unseen world, which is in reality, only the higher part of this . . . That He is within us as well as without us, or, in other words, the man himself is in essence divine, is another great truth which, though those who are blind to all but the outer and lower world may still argue about it, is an absolute certainty to the student of the higher side of life . . . the inherent divinity is a fact, and that in it resides the assurance of the ultimate return of every human being to the divine level. (Leadbeater, 22‒24)

Leadbeater goes on to tell us that our stress, struggles, and sorrows are part of an ordered progress, that the law of evolution is presenting us with these experiences as a way of developing within ourselves the qualities we most need. This too makes sense to me. This sounds merciful and loving.

Next I turned to The Mahatma Letters to A.P. Sinnett. In letter 88, Koot Hoomi says there is no such thing as a personal or impersonal God in our planetary system and that the “idea of God” is an acquired notion (Chin, 270). How true: my early concept of God was certainly acquired!

So we have established what God is not. Even though I understand this concept and profess to believe it, I still am not sure who or what this “inherent divinity” is.

In her book Ancient Wisdom: Modern Insight, Shirley Nicholson states:

The Universal Mind is the first manifested principle. According to The Secret Doctrine, the separation of the poles takes place in a pre-cosmic state which is halfway between the nonbeing of the Absolute and the beginning of the manifested universe. Divine Mind is “the first production of spirit and matter,” and is “projected into the phenomenal world as the first aspect of the changeless Absolute.” It provides the interface between spirit and matter which is necessary for their integration in the world of form . . .

H.P.B. refers to Universal Mind as “the one impersonal Great Architect of the Universe.” However, she stresses that this “architect” is not outside the Cosmos, imposing order on it; it is not a creator apart from creation like a sculptor shaping clay. Rather the Divine Mind is intrinsic in nature, an innate part of natural processes, giving coherence and intelligent inner direction to natural forms. (Nicholson, 108‒09)

In his book Theosophy Simplified, Irving S. Cooper comments:

Each solar system [is] the physical body of a vast Intelligence, each star cluster the form of a still mightier Consciousness, the whole being but cells and organs in the body of God, the Universal Consciousness. Then we know that we must cast aside forever all our childish little ideas of God as a magnified human being and strive to think of Him as the Universal Life, the Limitless Consciousness, the Eternal Love, the very source and heart of all that is. “Everything that is, is God.” (Cooper, 82)

In Clara Codd’s Theosophy as the Masters See It, she quotes G.K. Chesterton as saying, “‘God is the great paradox.’ He cannot really be a person such as you and I, or there would be a universe outside of and apart from him. Yet at the same time he is the essence of personality, as he is the essence of everything else” (Codd, 49).

In The Ancient Wisdom, Annie Besant tells us:

The mental plane is that which reflects the Universal Mind in Nature, the plane which in our little system corresponds with that of the Great Mind in the Kosmos . . . Mahat, the Third LOGOS, or Divine Creative Intelligence, the Brahma of the Hindus, the Manjusri of the Northern Buddhist, the Holy Spirit of the Christians. In its higher regions exist all the archetypal ideas which are now in course of concrete evolution, and in its lower the working out of these into successive forms, to be duly reproduced in the astral and physical worlds. Its materials are capable of combining under the impulse of thought vibrations and can give rise to any combination which thought can construct. As iron can be made into a sword for slaying or a spade for digging, so can mind-stuff be shaped into thought-forms that help or that injure; the vibrating life of the Thinker shapes the materials around him, and according to his volitions so is his work. In that region, thought and action, will and deed, are one and the same thing—spirit-matter here becomes the obedient servant of the life, adapting itself to every creative motion. (Besant, 140‒41)

In her essay “The Unity of Deity,” H.P. Blavatsky writes:

Esotericism, pure and simple, speaks of no personal God; therefore are we considered as Atheists. But, in reality, Occult Philosophy, as a whole, is based absolutely on the ubiquitous presence of God, the Absolute Deity; and if It itself is not speculated upon, as being too sacred and yet incomprehensible as a Unit to the finite intellect, yet the entire philosophy is based upon Its divine Powers as being the source of all that breathes and lives and has its existence. In ever ancient religion the One was demonstrated by the many . . .

 for in this collection of divine personalities, or rather of symbols personified, dwells the One God, the God One, that God, which, in India, is said to have no Second. (Blavatsky, Collected Writings, 569)

 Blavatsky’s Key to Theosophy consists of a dialogue between an “Enquirer” and a “Theosophist.” At one point, the Enquirer asks the Theosophist if she believes in God and if so, whether it is the God of the Christians, the Father of Jesus, and the Creator. The Theosophist replies, “In such a God we do not believe. We reject the idea of a personal, or an extra-cosmic and anthropomorphic God, who is but the gigantic shadow of man, and not of man at his best, either. The God of theology, we say—and prove it—is a bundle of contradictions and a logical impossibility. Therefore, we will have nothing to do with him.”

When the Enquirer asks for reasons, the Theosophist states that if the God of Christians is called infinite and absolute, “then how can he have a form, and be a creator of anything? Form implies limitation, and a beginning as well as an end; and, in order to create, a being must think and plan. How can the ABSOLUTE be supposed to think . . . This is a philosophical, and a logical absurdity.”

The Theosophist denies that Theosophy entails atheism “unless the epithet of ‘Atheist’ is to be applied to those who disbelieve in an anthropomorphic God. We believe in a Universal Divine Principle, the root of ALL, from which all proceeds, and within which all shall be absorbed at the end of the great cycle of Being” (Blavatsky, Key to Theosophy, 61‒63).

When the Enquirer asks the Theosophist if she believes in prayer or prays, the Theosophist replies: “We do not. We act, instead of talking.”

The Enquirer asks if there is any other kind of prayer. The response is “Most decidedly; we call it will-prayer, and it is rather an internal command than a petition . . . directed to ‘Our Father in Heaven’—in its esoteric meaning . . . ‘Father’ is in man himself.”

The Enquirer wants to know if Theosophy makes of man a God. The reply: “In our sense, the inner man is the only God we can have cognizance of . . . We call our ‘Father in Heaven’ that deific essence of which we are cognizant within us, in our heart and spiritual consciousness.”

Prayer, according to the Theosophist, is not a petition but a mystery, “an occult process by which finite and conditioned thoughts and desires, unable to be assimilated by the absolute spirit which is unconditioned, are translated into spiritual wills and the will; such process being called ‘spiritual transmutation.’ The intensity of our ardent aspirations changes prayer into the ‘philosopher’s stone’, or that which changes lead into pure gold . . . Our ‘will-prayer’ becomes the active or creative force, producing effects according to our desire . . . Will-Power becomes a living power” (Blavatsky, Key, 67‒68).

To this the Enquirer asks: “Do you mean to say that prayer is an occult process bringing about physical results?” The Theosophist replies: “I do.”

Clara Codd tells us: “We cannot see the divine life except as it manifests in all around us” (Codd, 51). When I meditate and through my intuition, I hear that still, small voice I first heard at the age of twelve. I now see God in nature when I’m doing yardwork, or in my daily life—even when I’m cleaning the kitchen. I now see God in the smile or touch of someone I love, or even from a stranger. I recognize God in the kind actions of others. And I see God in the faces of my grandchildren.

Now I acknowledge that it is the voice of my Higher Self, the voice of that part of me that is part of the unity of All that is, the voice of the Divinity within me—and I listen. My quest has led me to my current personal truth that God is just a name or label for the Universal Consciousness, Universal Mind, Universal Energy that connects all of humanity with All That Is. Collective consciousness is made up of all of us: our thoughts and desires. We are a Brotherhood of One with All that Is.

Namaste: The Divine within me recognizes and honors the Divine within you.

Sources

Emphasis in all quotations is from the original.

Besant, Annie. The Ancient Wisdom. 2d ed. Adyar: Theosophical Publishing House, 2015.

Blavatsky, H.P. Collected Writings, vol. 12. Edited by Boris de Zirkoff. Wheaton: Theosophical Publishing House, 1980.

———. The Key to Theosophy. Pasadena, Calif.: Theosophical University Press, 2002 [1889].

Chin, Vicente Hao Jr., ed. The Mahatma Letters to A.P. Sinnett in Chronological Sequence. Quezon City, Philippines: Theosophical Publishing House, 1998.

Codd, Clara M. Theosophy as the Masters See It. Rev. ed. Adyar: Theosophical Publishing House, 2000.

Cooper, Irving S. Theosophy Simplified. Wheaton: Quest, 2000 [1915].

Ellwood, Robert. Theosophy: A Modern Expression of the Wisdom of the Ages. Wheaton: Quest, 1986.

Leadbeater, C.W. An Outline of Theosophy. Adyar: Theosophical Publishing House, 1902.

Mills, Joy. The One True Adventure: Theosophy and the Quest for Meaning. Wheaton: Quest, 2008.

———. Reflections on an Ageless Wisdom. Wheaton: Quest, 2010.

Nicholson, Shirley. Ancient Wisdom, Modern Insight. Wheaton: Quest, 1985.

Carol Craig found Theosophy while living in Atlanta in 1995. She became a charter member of the Phoenix, Arizona, study center in 2000 and sponsored the revival of the Wichita study center in 2018, where she serves as secretary.

Printed in the  Spring 2023 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Sugg, Judith,  "The Useful God" Quest 111:2, pg 25-27

By Judith Sugg

Is it sacrilege to say that one’s personal god is a practical device? Religious and spiritual traditions prefer a more numinous vocabulary for God, and words like practical and sensible are rarely used. Yet human perceptions, cognition, and emotions can embrace a personal god with grace while balking at mystical notions of the Absolute.

Perhaps differing conceptions of God are not at odds with each other; perhaps they are both needed. There is value in a concept of God that links the transcendent to the psychological, ties spirit to everyday thought and action, and strengthens spiritual resolve. Such a relationship may spark the peak experiences that help buoy spiritual intentions. Even if we eschew the word God for Brahman or the Absolute, the linkage of the spiritual and psychological is one way to remove obstacles on our spiritual journey.

 The Potential of Human Perception

Our psychological skill in perceiving and interpreting events is undervalued. Humans can be fully cognizant of their perceptions and emotions, their own distinctive standpoint. When a person is aware of their sensations and mental state, it is easier to be clear and congruent. We know ourselves from our own vantage point.

We can also empathize, imagining how it might be with another person. Our language speaks of  “entering another’s space” or “stepping into another’s shoes.” We begin to feel what the other feels and how the other interprets the situation. This perceptional shift can blur rigid boundaries between self and other. It gives us insight into the other and contributes to a sense of compassion. 

These two skills—awareness of self and understanding of others—are part of emotional intelligence. Humans have yet another ability: we can shift to a more neutral, detached, and strategic mindset by stepping out of our mental and emotional shoes and observing as if from a distance. We do this in meditation when we monitor our thoughts dispassionately. We also do this when we reflect deeply or analyze a puzzling situation, and it almost always requires an attitude of curiosity. In this detached space, our body, thoughts, and emotions are less intriguing and closer to neutral.

Compassion combines the ability to observe and to simultaneously be aware of the other. Holding both the awareness of self and understanding of the other together frees us from both self-absorption and cold detachment.

However, these perceptual faculties are feeble instruments for understanding that which is beyond the physical, like the idea of the Absolute. H.P. Blavatsky defined Brahman as impersonal, incapable of being known by our human capabilities, without beginning or end, all-pervading, animating everything. The Upanishads tell us that Brahman cannot be understood by the senses, by thought, by knowledge, or by learning, because Brahman is inconceivable, in all, of all. The Upanishads famously conclude that atman is “not this, it is not that. It is unseizable, for it cannot be seized; indestructible, for it cannot be destroyed; unattached, for it does not attach itself; is unbound” (Hume, 147). Words are, by their very nature, bound. How can they describe that which is not bound?

The Useful God

The word God has meant many things to me. I have tried religious and cultural notions of God, such as a savior, a punisher, an enigma, an old man, everything, or everything except the bad. God was outside of humans. God was inside. I was God. I was the opposite of God.

As I studied yoga, the possibility of a practical God emerged. The eightfold path of yoga, as taught in the Yoga Sutras, appealed to my rational mind. While the intensity of practice prescribed was far beyond my capabilities, the text felt alive, relevant, and authentic.

The eightfold path encompasses ethics, body, breath, and meditation and prescribes a steady, intense path towards spiritual freedom. The physical postures are a limited part of the whole practice—valid for most students, but not the heart of the system. Because the text is the culmination of the experiences of many yogis, the common pitfalls in practice and their symptoms are well documented.

Practice starts with ethical vows designed to align the individual’s thoughts and actions with the goal of yoga. Self-study, meaning insightful examination of the personality and spiritual practices, results in union with the chosen deity, or Ishvara (a term whose meaning I will explain below). Devotion to Ishvara, one of five internal disciplines, requires perfecting attention to the omniscient seer within. Concentration is perfected, leading to deeper, more significant spiritual insights.

The Bhagavad Gita, the other foundational text of yoga, merges myriad conflicting attitudes and practices to help clarify spiritual goals. It validates the gut-wrenching decisions humans face daily and inspires the reader to continue through the conflict. Krishna is the guide, and even when humans (exemplified by Krishna’s interlocutor, the hero Arjuna) are ignorant of Krishna’s presence, he is still there to guide us. 

While the Gita speaks to all, the Yoga Sutras targets its audience more narrowly. It assumes an audience of passionate practitioners drawn intensely to a path of spiritual liberation. The text wastes little time on the conditions of the world. It’s the bullet train to the goal, although it is expensive in terms of commitment and rigorous training.

The philosophy of yoga is closely aligned with that of the Samkhya. In the Theosophical tradition, we hear the word Samkhya, but we rarely study the seminal texts directly. Samkhya defines a path of enlightenment which involves a practice of discriminating between the real from the not real. Like yoga philosophy, it has evolved and incorporated new ideas over time.

Classical Samkhya is dualistic in explaining the unfolding of the universe, including the functioning of a human. It is considered the oldest Indian philosophical school: the earliest complete Samkhya text was written about 2,000 years ago, close to the time of the Yoga Sutras. This classical text, the Samkhya Karika, posits the existence of two fundamental principles: pure consciousness or Self (purusha) and materiality (prakriti), terms widely used in Theosophical material.

 In the presence of both principles, nature explodes into the multitude of forms we experience. In the Samkhya, the world extravagantly expresses the three foundational characteristics (gunas) of materiality. This evolution is enumerated in great detail in the Samkhya Karika. The two principles are real; they exist. Their proximity permits this evolution, this unfolding of the material world. However, nothing is created, and there is no mention of God, leading some to conclude that the text is atheistic.

 Samkhya explains the unfolding universe; yoga, taken from the individual’s point of view, is the reversal of evolution towards freedom. In the practice of yoga, the individual identifies the confusion that causes such suffering. Our mental gyrations, egotism, and ignorance of our true nature caused this confusion (avidya). Revealing this confusion requires a practice that melts the material aspects of life, revealing the purity beneath. Yogis refine their consciousness by removing the gross, then the subtle, threads of the world, personality, and personal ego. Yoga is the process of stilling the mind, say the Yoga Sutras. What is left can shine alone as pure consciousness when the mind is still. 

The Yoga Sutras adopt much from Samkhya, but one significant exception is the inclusion of devotion to Ishvara. The meaning of this word is subtly different depending on where or how it is used. Writers have translated it as the Divine Lord, Lord of the Universe, God of your choosing, and personal god. The word Ishvara appears in the later Upanishads, along with Brahman, the absolute Reality. Brahman is the Absolute; Ishvara is Brahman manifested in the world, in individuals, but still eternal and unlimited.

The Yoga Sutras describe Ishvara as untouched by karma and thus always liberated, of infinite intelligence, the guru of the sages, and timeless. OM is the vibration or frequency, the mystical sound of Ishvara. When a person is absorbed in the vibration and realizes its meaning, obstacles to liberation are removed. What are these obstacles? They are our well-known human failings in attention, intention, and groundedness in spiritual practice. Some commentators view the addition of Ishvara as a nod to theism. Is Ishvara the same as God? Does Ishvara have a personality?

Over centuries, philosophers have argued these points as if winning with words meant discovering the truth. It is easy to forget that words are merely symbols and creations of the mind. They create distinctions and categories in a way that is critical to our operations in everyday life but not to Reality itself. “When we go into the domain of metaphysics and try to represent Reality with symbols of our phenomenal conceptions, we have to commit almost a violence to it” (Dasgupta, 30). This violence is a product of our willingness to substitute thoughts and words for Reality and then base our identity, beliefs, and actions on this shaky foundation.

Why include Ishvara in a practice manual such as the Yoga Sutras? This inquiry raises the question of purpose: what is the concept of Ishvara useful for? In the sibling schools of Samkhya and yoga, and Indian philosophy in general, the aim is almost always enlightenment, freedom, removal of ignorance of who we are, freedom from ego, or liberation. Yoga formulates the problem of ignorance of our true nature, offering a working path to freedom.

 A personal god bridges this divide between problem and process. Ishvara is a purusha (or Self) like us, but it is not touched by time or stained by karma. As an individual purusha—not Brahman—Ishvara is pure. Imagine, if you will, a being with no history, no entanglements, no memory or future. 

 For those with strong beliefs about God in any form, yoga’s inclusion of Ishvara may give relief or dismay. The inclusion is important, but it is not the text’s focus. Ishvara, or devotion to Ishvara, is mentioned in about a dozen verses out of 196 verses in the Yoga Sutras. Ishvara is not the central theme in yoga, nor is it excluded. Ishvara is there for a purpose.

To use the language of the Yoga Sutras, our attention is honed to the point at which we see, with steadiness, the object of our attention. We are seen, and the “we” is merged into seeing. We use the support of Ishvara as a child might use training wheels to keep attention and intention strong. Step by step, we are challenged to focus and release the boundaries that construct our personality. We lose the division of the inside and outside of the body. We let go of words and concepts, and in the stillness, we relinquish the mission that sends us to find a practice or path. We simply are.

 Attention is closely linked to love. Contemplation of Ishvara is simply and purely love. Love is not theoretical. In practice, it goes through the cycle of meditation and samadhi: first, a focus on love, overt and subtle, then a continual stream of love. The yogi becomes both the loved and the beloved, then simply the existence of love.

Our language generally demands an object—a person, a place, a child, an activity, or a concept. Beyond this subject-object formula, we might say there is a state of love. Our attention to Ishvara is love, first clunky, egotistical, and needy, then subtler, and finally with boundaries obscured. Spiritual liberation in this tradition is sometimes said to be the process of becoming like Ishvara. This idea is clearly linked to descriptions of love in the Gita, because both honor the value of this practice.

Psychological Value of a Personal God

What is the psychological value of a personal god? I am reminded of a quip from a therapist friend who specialized in marriage counseling. She said a couple might say, “We are one” in the first few months of marital bliss. After problems begin, however, each partner thinks, “Yes, we are one, but it is me who is the one!” 

Despite good intentions, we have trouble sustaining a sense of wholeness. Peak experiences in which we feel one with nature or the universe give us a vision of unity, but the picture quickly drifts away. Similarly, the ability to be totally in the sensation of the body—a skill honed in mindfulness training—can shut down the internal dialogue. For those moments without mental chatter, the release and freedom are astounding. Then, all too quickly, memories, plans, and emotions restart the ego’s chatter. 

We started this discussion by identifying the psychological skill of shifting perspective from self to others, then to observation. We acknowledge our feelings and state; we empathize and attend to others, and we are objective as the observer, viewing life perhaps a little like a consultant. A personal god provides us an entry to using these skills to begin to know Reality both overtly and subtly. We may view God or Ishvara as having form, as the subject of our attention, and begin to feel the possibility of similarity. We recognize the gap between the purity of Ishvara and our karmic state of confusion. As we sit with this, we can begin to sense or taste the vastness of the love of this Other. Eventually, we begin to experience it as ourselves, inside of us and out, without boundaries.

To experience love without an object for any length of time is immensely difficult. Petty or distracted thoughts quickly seep in and carry the mind away. To experience consciousness without an object is equally demanding. We may have moments of purity or clarity, but they rarely stay long. However, by creating the habit of devotion, we can make distractions, defensiveness, and ego-involvement subside. That is an exquisite example of removing obstacles to freedom.

Dasgupta, Surendranath. Yoga as Philosophy and Religion. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1995.

Hume, Robert E., ed. and trans. The Thirteen Principal Upanishads. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. 2002.

Judith Sugg, PhD, is a counselor, psychology instructor, and yoga teacher. Her graduate work was in the psychology of yoga and the Samkhya, and she wrote the Study Guide for the Yoga Sutras for the Theosophical Society.

Printed in the  Spring 2023 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Long, Jeffery D.,  "God: Personal, Impersonal, and Beyond: Vedantic Perspectives" Quest 111:2, pg 21-24

By Jeffery D. Long

Is God a person? Or is God an impersonal reality to which we human beings ascribe personhood in order to relate to it?

The first of these options would make the divine reality like ourselves in an important respect, whereas the second would suggest that divine personhood is a projection, which may or may not reflect the real nature of God. This would render the various stories of personal divinities found in the world’s religions mythic or symbolic rather than literal depictions of the divine nature. Finally, another option is that God is an ultimate mystery, beyond the ability of concepts such as personal and impersonal to describe.

The ancient Vedanta tradition of India has a good deal of light to shed on this issue. Over the centuries, a variety of answers to the question of divine personhood have been proposed by the various masters in this tradition. Its scholars have debated the issue, and sages have weighed in with their direct insights into the nature of the divine reality. Each of the options mentioned above has been advocated at various times by Vedantins. And as we shall see, each carries with it some measure of insight into the nature of the divine reality and can serve as a basis for spiritual practices which can draw their adherents ever nearer to God-realization.

Is the Supreme Being a Person?

First, we should establish what precisely we mean when we use the term God. If we do this, we may find that we have already defined this term in a way that predetermines the answer to our question.

 The word God is ultimately derived from the Indo-European root gheu-e, from a root meaning to invoke. In the ancient Zoroastrian tradition of Iran, the Persian form, khuda, refers to Ahura Mazda, the supremely good and wise lord and creator of the world. This is a concept of the divine reality as a person, though one of vastly greater power and knowledge than can be claimed by a mere human being. We can find similar concepts within the Abrahamic traditions—the one God of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—as well as in theistic Hindu traditions, such as the Vaishnava, Shaiva, and Shakta paths.

Although it can sometimes create confusion, the term God is conventionally utilized to refer generically to all these concepts of a Supreme Being. If we believe that such a being actually does exist, this is quite appropriate; for these concepts can then be seen as referring not to different “gods,” but as different ways of understanding and approaching the Supreme Being who really exists and who does have some definite nature, whatever it may be.

The being to which all of these concepts point is ostensibly a person, said to have a will as well as a desire to engage in the activities of creation, preservation, and, at times, destruction. But a current of thought in many traditions questions this concept of divine personhood. For does personhood not imply limitation?

The Jain tradition of India, for example, rejects the concept of God as a creator precisely because creation implies a desire to create, and desire implies a lack or a want which one needs to fulfill. A creator, therefore, according to the Jains, cannot be a perfect being, worthy of worship (Jaini, 89). In the Jain tradition, God does not refer to a singular supreme being, but is a collective term that refers to all of the souls who have realized their inherent perfection: the Jinas, or enlightened beings (Cort, 91‒93).

For those traditions that do affirm a singular Supreme Being, this being is understood to be infinite, and thus free from limitation. Yet the personal beings that we encounter in our lives—others as well as ourselves—are finite and limited in many ways. Some traditions ask if it is therefore really appropriate to attribute personhood, at least in a literal way, to a reality which is infinite, free from limitation, and ultimately beyond the ability of any of our limited, finite concepts to grasp.

In the Roman Catholic tradition, the theologian Thomas Aquinas (1225‒74) does not deny divine personhood, but does argue that all ascribing of attributes to God occurs by way of analogy. Thus, when we say that God is a person, we are actually saying that God is like a person in some significant way but without bearing all of the limitations which normally go with the idea of personhood. 

The Vedantic Perspectives

The Vedanta traditions of Hinduism have extensively reflected upon and debated the question of divine personhood. They have staked out a variety of important positions that can shed light on this issue.

 The first thing we should note in exploring Vedantic responses to this question is that, until the modern period, these traditions did not use the term God when talking about divine realities. This is not a trivial point. As we shall see, there are specific Sanskrit terms used in the Vedantic traditions that refer to different conceptions of divinity. Some of these terms imply personhood, and some do not (or rather, whether they do or not is precisely what adherents of these traditions debate). In the modern period, all of these terms have, at some point or another, been translated as God. This can create some confusion when we are trying to understand what Vedanta has to say about these matters. But if we are attentive to these differences, it can lead to insight into the nature of the higher realities that followers of all traditions are seeking to realize.

As we shall see, many Vedantic traditions affirm divine personhood; some affirm that the nature of the divine Reality is beyond concepts like personal and impersonal; and one very prominent tradition affirms that the divine Reality is, if not purely impersonal, well beyond the limitations that are inherent in the idea of personhood.

As the word Vedanta suggests, the roots of Vedanta can be traced to the Vedas: the sacred texts that form the historical fountainhead of the Hindu tradition as a whole. According to current scholarship, the Vedas are among the oldest extant sacred texts and the oldest to be used in a still living religious tradition. Their age is debated, but a widely held consensus places their compilation around 1500 BCE. Note the word compilation in contrast with composition. If these texts were put together as a collection around 1500 BCE, they must have been composed some time beforehand. They were handed down orally for many generations before being put into writing, and in traditional Vedic schools, or gurukulams, the tradition of committing these texts to memory continues unbroken even today.

According to Vedic thought, it is not actually correct to speak in terms of the Vedas being composed at all. These texts are understood to be shruti: that is, “heard,” or directly revealed to the ancient sages, or rishis, to whom they are attributed. They are therefore said to be apaurusheya, or “not manmade.”

In the traditional Vedic curriculum, the final portion of the Vedas to be studied is a set of texts known as the Upanishads, which can be translated as “secret doctrine.” Many of these texts contain dialogues between students and teachers on the nature of ultimate reality, or brahman, and the Self, or atman. (Self is capitalized here because it refers not so much to the ego or selfhood as conventionally understood, but to the Supreme Being—the shared universal “Self” of all beings.)

The Upanishads form part of the prasthana-traya, or “triple foundation” of Vedanta. The second part is the Brahma Sutras, a set of aphoristic texts that summarize the teachings of the Upanishads in a fairly technical fashion. The Brahma Sutras are extremely difficult to comprehend without the aid of a living teacher or a commentarial tradition of masters who have grasped its meaning. Third is the Bhagavad Gita, which also summarizes the teachings of the Upanishads, but in a popular fashion that is comparatively easy for the average person to understand. The Bhagavad Gita, or the “Song of the Lord,” often called simply “the Gita,” or “the Song,” is itself part of the massive and beloved epic poem the Mahabharata. The Gita consists of a dialogue between Sri Krishna (who is himself an avatar, or divine incarnation, or, according to some interpreters, the Supreme Being himself) and the hero Arjuna. Like many of the Upanishads, it is a dialogue. Because of its authoritative content, it is regarded by many as itself an Upanishad, called the Gitopanishad, or Gita Upanishad.

As a philosophy, Vedanta can be seen as an attempt to interpret these three texts, taken in tandem to be an authoritative guide to the spiritual life. As a spiritual practice, Vedanta is an attempt to live the teachings which these texts reveal. This involves approaching a living teacher within an established Vedantic lineage, or sampradaya. Many such lineages exist, and the various schools of thought within Vedanta have emerged from within them. All accept the validity of the Vedic texts, but each has its own interpretation and understanding of what the Vedas teach.

Regarding divine personhood, one can find many views on this topic in the Upanishads, the Brahma Sutras, and the Bhagavad Gita. For centuries—during what might be called the presectarian era of Vedanta—the teachings delivered by these texts were simply accepted as a totality. In time, however, various Vedantic thinkers began to differentiate between the portions of these texts that could be taken to be literally true (and thus as carrying the real import of these texts), and those that could be seen as illustrating the deeper truths by means of images and analogies. This was clearly an attempt to derive an internally consistent interpretation of reality from these texts: a viewpoint which could serve as an aid to contemplative practice.

The first such Vedantic system to develop was the Advaita, or nondualist Vedanta, taught by Shankara, who lived around the eighth or ninth century of the Common Era. According to this understanding, brahman, or ultimate reality, is finally all that can be truly said to be real. Brahman is often translated today as God, but, according to Advaita Vedanta, this is not God as a personal being. The true nature of brahman is nirguna: that is, God has no qualities, which can be seen as limitations. This means that personhood cannot literally be ascribed to God. To be sure, according to Advaita Vedanta, we can experience God as the personal Supreme Being described in many religious traditions. This Supreme Being is known in Advaita Vedanta, as in most Hindu traditions, as Ishvara, “the Lord,” or Bhagavan, “the Blessed One,” or “the Enjoyer” of the cosmos. In the Hindu traditions that are based on devotion to a specific deity, that deity is seen as identical to Ishvara. Thus, for Vaishnavas, Vishnu is Ishvara. For Shaivas, Shiva is Ishvara. For Shaktas, the Divine Mother, Shakti, is Ishvara (or rather, Ishvari).

From the perspective of Advaita Vedanta, it is possible to select any such divine manifestation as one’s ishtadevata, or “chosen deity,” and, on the basis of devotion, or bhakti, directed at that deity, one can purify one’s consciousness and progress toward jñana, which is direct knowledge or realization of the Supreme Reality, the “God beyond God,” which is nirguna brahman.

Many subsequent thinkers in the Vedanta tradition, however, objected to this way of seeing God. For many Hindus, as for many Christians, loving union with the personal Supreme Being is not merely a purificatory step in the direction of the “real” goal of knowledge of an impersonal (or better, transpersonal) Supreme Reality: it is the entire point of the spiritual life. After Shankara, therefore, Vedantic thinkers emerged who affirmed the personal nature of God (Ishvara, Bhagavan) as a literally concrete reality, irreducible to another principle seen as higher or beyond the limitations of personhood. Ramanuja, whose life overlapped the eleventh and twelfth centuries of the Common Era, developed Vishishtadvaita Vedanta, a term that means “nondualism with difference” (often translated as “qualified nondualism”). According to Ramanuja, brahman is, indeed, the Supreme Reality. But rather than being an undifferentiated consciousness beyond all difference, brahman is an organic reality that consists of both God and the cosmos, united in a manner analogous to the union of the soul and the body. The cosmos is the body of Ishvara.

Ramanuja and Shankara thus agree that brahman is the all-encompassing reality beyond both God and the cosmos. For Shankara, however, this means that brahman alone is real and that God and the cosmos are a mere appearance, eventually to be transcended. For Ramanuja, it means that God and the cosmos are both real, and that they together constitute brahman.

Madhva, who lived from the thirteenth to the fourteenth century of the Common Era, saw even Ramanuja’s approach as insufficient in affirming a genuine difference between God and the cosmos. He taught Dvaita, or dualistic Vedanta.

Subsequent thinkers in the Vedanta tradition sought to affirm both sides of the Vedantic equation regarding divine personhood and divine transcendence of all limiting qualities. Nimbarka, whose precise dates are disputed, affirmed Dvaitadvaita Vedanta, or “dualism and nondualism.” Chaitanya, who lived in the fifteenth century, taught Achintya Bhedabheda, or “inconceivable difference and nondifference”: the idea that God’s personal and transpersonal nature are both real and are united in a way that cannot be grasped by the human mind without the aid of divine grace.

More recently, the Hindu sage Sri Ramakrishna Paramahansa (1836‒86) taught that both the personal and the impersonal or transpersonal facets of brahman are real. The Supreme Being and the Supreme Reality are both valid and effective ways of conceptualizing that ultimate mystery toward which, according to Ramakrishna, all the world’s religions ultimately point. This sage is famous for his practice of many paths and his experience in all of them of a state of deep realization, or samadhi. This convinced him that each was a way to access an infinite Reality with infinite aspects, and to which, or to whom, correspondingly infinite paths can lead. He once proclaimed:

“I have practiced all religions—Hinduism, Islam, Christianity—and I have also followed the paths of the different Hindu sects. I have found that it is the same God toward whom all are directing their steps, though along different paths.  He who is called Krishna is also called Shiva, and bears the name of the Primal Energy, Jesus, and Allah as well—the same Rama with a thousand names” (Nikhilananda, 35).

In his book Infinite Paths to Infinite Reality: Sri Ramakrishna and Cross-Cultural Philosophy of Religion, Swami Medhananda, a scholar and monk of the Ramakrishna Order, has coined the term Vijñana Vedanta to refer to Ramakrishna’s distinctive view of God. Vijñana is state of awareness which goes even beyond the jñana, or knowledge of nirguna brahman, that is the goal of Advaita Vedanta:

That which is realized as Brahman through the eliminating process of “Not this, not this” is then found to have become the universe and all its living beings. The vijñani sees that the Reality which is nirguna is also saguna . . .Those who realize Brahman in samadhi . . . find that it is Brahman that has become the universe and its living beings . . . This is known as vijñāna. (Nikhilananda, 103‒04).

According to Sri Ramakrishna’s understanding, the nonpersonal or transpersonal nirguna brahman of Advaita Vedanta is the same reality as the realm made up of the personal God and the world as taught by Ramanuja’s Vishishtadvaita. This view holds that there is a coalescence of the relative and the absolute, the temporal and the eternal, the personal and the impersonal. They are one, but they are viewed differently by adherents of different worldviews.

What is significant about this is that one view is not reduced to another, as is done in most traditional Vedanta schools. It is not that one must ultimately see beyond the personal Supreme Being in order to realize the transpersonal Supreme Reality, as in Advaita Vedanta. Nor must one focus solely upon the personal Supreme Being, whose impersonal nature yields an experience that is of lesser value than the actual loving union with the Supreme Being, as in the many Vedanta schools which emphasize bhakti over jñana, devotion over knowledge. In the view of Ramakrishna, each path is valid and effective for those who walk it.

This is, in many ways, a return to the presectarian Vedanta of the prasthana traya, in which one finds both personal and impersonal approaches to ultimate reality endorsed (Maharaj, 15‒16). It is not that one of these is correct and the other a mere preparatory step toward it. God’s reality includes both of these aspects, and both are available for realization.

Currently there is some debate within the Vedanta tradition of Ramakrishna over whether to see Vijñana Vedanta as something distinct from Advaita Vedanta or as a further unpacking of its deep implications (since Advaita Vedanta has long seen itself as part of the stream of nondualist thought). In either case, it is a view that allows for the mystery of the Infinite to unfold in myriad ways, as found in the world’s many religions and philosophies. Both personalist and impersonalist views of the nature of ultimate reality can coexist and flourish within it. It would seem to be precisely the kind of open-minded and open-hearted approach to diverse worldviews that we need in our current era of polarization and conflict across humanity’s many systems of belief.

Sources

Aquinas, Thomas. Summa Theologiae. Translated by Fathers of the English Dominican Province. New York: Benziger, 1948.          

Cort, John E. Jains in the World: Religious Values and Ideology in India. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001.

Jaini, Padmanabh S. The Jaina Path of Purification. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979.

Maharaj, Ayon (Swami Medhananda). Infinite Paths to Infinite Reality: Sri Ramakrishna and Cross-Cultural Philosophy of Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018.

Nikhilananda, Swami, trans. The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna. New York: Ramakrishna-Vivekananda Center, 1942.

Jeffery D. Long is professor of religion, philosophy, and Asian studies at Elizabethtown College in Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania, where he has been teaching since receiving his doctoral degree from the University of Chicago Divinity School in the year 2000. He is the author of a variety of books and articles, including Hinduism in America: A Convergence of Worlds and Jainism: An Introduction. He has spoken in a variety of national and international venues, including three talks given at the United Nations.