Quest Magazine

VOLUME 95, NUMBER 6

CONTENTS

The Power of the Water Bearer
By Betty Bland

Is This The End of the World or The Beginning of the New Age?
By Alice O. Howell

People Who Hear Voices
By James Caffrey, Elizabeth Reshower, Glenda Hawley, and Judy Lyn Sweetland

Clairvoyant Observation of Minerals
By Tony Bondar

The Sellon Legacy
By Michael Sellon

Preparing for Dreams
By Marie Otte

Dreaming by the Numbers
By Charles de Beer

By Jay Williams

Originally printed in the NOVEMBER-DECEMBER 2005 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Williams, Jay. "The Magi." Quest  93.6 (NOVEMBER-DECEMBER 2005):206-211.

One of most familiar symbols of Christmas in America today is the cre¨che—we see it in front of churches, on village greens, and on people's mantels and end tables. Though the size and style of the figures may vary, the characters represented are usually the same. There is, Mary, of course, always dressed beautifully in blue and white, and Joseph, somewhat less ostentatiously clad. Both of them kneel before a feeding trough that contains the infant Jesus. (It has never been explained to me why the mother of a newborn should be formally robed and kneeling rather than resting supine after the painful ordeal of birthing.) There are shepherds often accompanied by sheep, an angel or two, and, finally three "wise men" wearing kingly crowns and usually leading camels. This is the way our culture pictures that night when Jesus was born in Bethlehem.

In fact, however, that scene is the conflation of two different stories that do not really fit together at all. The Gospel of Luke offers one account, describing how Mary and Joseph, who lived in Nazareth, traveled to Bethlehem of Judea to be enrolled for tax purposes when Quirinius was governor of Syria. Quirinius, by the way, apparently did not assume that position until 6 CE., ten years after the death of Herod the Great. To make Luke and Matthew concur, literalist readers assume that Quirinius also served an earlier term, though there is no evidence to support this hypothesis.

According to Luke, Mary and Joseph, who were betrothed but not married, were not residents of Bethlehem and could not find a suitable place to stay. They had to use a stable for a delivery room, and it is there that the baby Jesus was born. Angels, singing in the heavens, announced the birth of Jesus, prompting shepherds to come and pay their respects to the new infant.

Matthew, however, tells the story differently, and, frankly, his telling does not cohere with Luke's story. He sets the coming of the Magi during the reign of Herod the Great, who died in about 4 BCE. When the Magi arrive they find Mary and Jesus in a house, not a stable. Jesus, if we can believe the Greek vocabulary used, is no longer an infant but a toddler. There is no mention of shepherds or angels being there. Apparently, the author of Matthew believes that Mary and Joseph were residents of Bethlehem until Herod attempted to kill the new Messianic "pretender." As a result of his so-called slaughter of the innocents, they fled to Egypt and then, after the death of Herod, moved to Nazareth to escape possible persecution at the hands of Herod's son.

The greatest puzzlement in Matthew, however, is the identity of those "Magi" who came to pay their respects to Jesus. We should begin by saying what they clearly were not. Although the cre¨che scene pictures them with crowns, they were not kings. The favorite Christmas hymn "We Three Kings of Orient Are" greatly embellishes the original Gospel story. The idea that they were kings comes in part from the prophecy in Isaiah 60:2—3:

But the Lord will arise upon you, and his glory will be seen by you. And nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your rising. 

Psalms 72:10—11 also emphasizes kings paying tribute to the anointed one of Israel:

May the kings of Tarshish and of the isles render him tribute,

May the kings of Sheba and Seba bring gifts!

May all kings fall down before him!

In verse 15 it is added:

Long may he live,

May gold of Sheba be given to him!

Because there were no Gospel accounts of kings visiting Jesus, and both the prophet and the psalm intimated that there should have been kings, the Magi became kings in the Christian imagination. This shift in identity may also have been prompted by the embarrassment that the presence of magi may have caused. By the third century they were called kings, and by the sixth century they were given early versions of the now-familiar names: Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. Subsequent imagination identified them as representatives of the three sons of Noah—Shem, Ham, and Japheth—and as having distinctly different racial characteristics.

We should also add there is no mention in the Bible that the visitors were three in number. The number three is derived from the fact that they offered Jesus three gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Since Magi (Greek: magoi) is plural, there must have been at least two of them, but there could have been ten or twenty—we do not know. In the Eastern Christian tradition they usually are believed to number twelve.

Who then were the Magi? The origin of the word magus is from the Medes, a people inhabiting what is now northwestern Iran. Their ancient language may have been the ancestor of modern Kurdish. Among their tribes was a priestly tribe, the Magi, comparable, one may suppose, to the Israelite tribe of Levi that also was responsible for priestly duties. When the Medes and Persians united to form the basis for the Persian Empire, the Magi became the priestly caste for the religion of Zarathustra, or what is known in the West as Zoroastrianism. Exactly what they taught and did is not wholly clear, but it would appear that they may have been somewhat more conservative than Zarathustra himself and may have retained within that religion certain ancient Median traditions. Like all priestly groups, they were doubtless interested in the heavens, for holy days and festivals are dated according to the heavenly calendar. Priests, almost by definition, had to be astrologers who paid attention to both the consistencies and the unusual phenomena of the heavens.

It is possible that when the author of Matthew described the coming of the Magi from the east, he simply had this group of so-called fire-priests in mind. That would be the most literal interpretation of the text, but it would also be a shocking one. Persia had been, and remained for centuries, the great enemy of the Roman Empire. To picture Persian priests paying their respects to a newborn Messiah would have appeared to many both heretical and treasonous. It is not surprising that Herod, who had played footsie with Roman authority for years, would have been "greatly troubled and all of Jerusalem with him" (Matt. 2:3).

Was the writer trying to depict Jesus as a teacher connected to and carrying on the traditions of Zarathustra? Was he making a political statement by relating the new Messiah to the great political and military force to the east? Most Roman readers would know that in Persia, as elsewhere, church and state were by no means separate and that the priestly caste worked hand in glove with political authorities. If the Magi were to be understood as Persian priests, there would have been all kinds of religious and political consequences.

There were for Western readers, however, some other interpretive options. From quite early times, Greek culture had known about the Magi of Persia. Herodotus, in fact, describes them in some detail. There is also evidence that some of the early Greek philosophers, like Democritus, actually studied with a magus. Thus magus as a word entered into the classical Greek vocabulary. Although writers continued to use it in a positive sense to refer to Persian priests, it also came to refer rather negatively to people who might be referred to as magicians. By "magicians," however, I do not mean those clever entertainers who today mystify their audiences with sleight-of-hand. A magus, in the ancient sense, was someone who, through ritual and incantation and secret gnosis, could gain control over angels and daemons to hurt or heal, create or destroy. A true magus was thought to have tremendous power and was therefore both sought after and feared. The fact that many papyri containing the secrets of the ancient magicians have been discovered indicates that this was not a rarity in the Greco-Roman world.

There is a tendency by some scholars today to downplay the importance or even the reality of such wonder-workers. Their argument is that magus was a term of opprobrium applied to all sorts of people who in fact had no genuine interest in "magic" at all. It eventually included such a wide variety of characteristics that the word came to mean little more than "bad person." Certainly there is no doubt that many people were accused of magic quite irresponsibly and that the word magus became so generalized that it scarcely meant anything very definite at all. Frequently there was so little distinction made between religion and magic that sometimes magus was applied to a representative of an unpopular religion. Thus Jews would accuse Jesus and his followers of being magicians, while Christians would apply that label to all sorts of "pagans."

Nevertheless, those who downplay the reality of the magus must account for the various magical papyri from the ancient world as well as the many accounts of magicians found in a great plethora of documents. The fact that many were unjustly accused of magic does not prove that no magicians existed. Moreover, one does not have to look very hard around our world today to discover that the magus still exists in many cultures as the shaman, for example, or the Taoist priest, or an African tribal houngan. I myself once met in Haiti a voudon houngan who claimed to be able to kill people at a considerable distance through the use of his magical powers. One may doubt the efficacy of such power, but hardly the existence of people who believe in it.

In the New Testament book of Acts we encounter two such magicians working in competition with Christianity. The first is Simon, traditionally called Simon Magus, who appears in chapter 8, claiming to be great and amazing everyone with his magic. Apparently he had a large following until Philip came to Samaria preaching the gospel. Simon was so amazed by the signs and miracles done in the name of Christ that he himself believed and was baptized. When he witnessed the Holy Spirit being poured out with power, however, he offered to pay Philip to learn how to do that. As a result he was branded by the church the first heretic. He committed the offense that came to be known as simony, by trying to pay for and sell spiritual blessings. Clearly here the magus is put in a bad light. However, it is difficult to explain why Philip, with his signs and miracles, was not considered a magus too.

The second story is in Acts 13. Paul and Barnabas sail to Cyprus, where they proclaim the Gospel to the Jews on the island. They are actually invited to speak to the proconsul, but, as they do so, a Jewish magus named Elymas Bar-Jesus seeks to persuade the proconsul not to believe them. Paul, in response, utters words that would often be echoed by the church in the future:

You son of the devil, you enemy of all righteousness, full of all deceit and villainy, will you not stop making crooked the straight paths of the Lord? And now, behold, the hand of the Lord is upon you, and you shall be blind and unable to see the sun for a time. (13:10—11)

Bar-Jesus, of course, is immediately struck blind. From an objective point of view, it is difficult to see why Paul is no less a magus than Bar-Jesus, for he taps into pine power to do miraculous things. Nor does his miraculous power only help people. Here he blinds his demonized opponent. Apparently, the major difference is that the magician is said to conjure with daemons, while the apostles rely upon the power of God. It was on that basis that the church consistently attacked the magus as evil.

A word should be said about these daemons from whom magicians were supposed to draw their power. The word daemon originally meant simply "god," particularly a god known as a power within. Hence Socrates speaks positively of the daemon that prompts him to pursue the truth. For Israel, of course, there was officially only one God, Yahweh, and so the gods of other people tended to be regarded as evil forces that stood opposed to the true God. That is, all the gods but Yahweh were demonized. Curiously, daemons gradually became demonized throughout the Roman Empire by non-Jews and Jews alike, so that by the time the New Testament was written nearly everyone believed that there were not only angels that communicated the will of the heavenly gods or God to people but also demons, the agents of the devil. These demons were considered real and could do a great deal of harm. Magicians, therefore, were not considered frauds but rather workers of iniquity.

This attitude persisted for centuries in Christianity. In the fifteenth century, as the Malleus Maleficarum so clearly shows, Christians would still attack and even burn witches, female forms of the magus, because it was believed they consorted with the devil.

So we return then to our initial question: Who were the Magi who visit the baby Jesus? Why would Matthew include a story about the Magi when both in "paganism" and in the early Christian Church the magus had such a bad name? The Roman Empire officially banned magi by law. Most regarded the magus with fear and trepidation. Surely Matthew did not mean that consorters with the devil and workers of iniquity came to offer Jesus gifts. Even the mention of Magi in this context seems a matter of considerable embarrassment. Is there any other alternative?

Matthew, in fact, chooses his words quite carefully. He does not mention anything about Persia or its priesthood; he speaks only of Magi "from the East." In fact, two of the gifts they bring, frankincense and myrrh, come from Arabia rather than Persia. Nor does Matthew say anything about demonic powers, enchantment, or secret gnosis. These Magi are simply astrologers who have seen a star "in the east" that has indicated to them the birth of a Messiah and with him a new age.

At that time and for many centuries thereafter, there was no distinction made between astrology and astronomy. Astrologers were simply keen observers of the heavens who charted out in rather exact detail the movements of the stars and the other heavenly bodies. No people on earth were more exacting in their observations than the astrologers of the Tigris and Euphrates Valley. Long before the Greeks had developed their celestial knowledge, the Babylonians had unlocked many heavenly secrets. Hipparcus discovered in 129 BCE what Babylonians had known for centuries: the precession of the equinoxes.

Astrologers, however, were more than mere observers, for they took to heart the motto of much later hermetic literature: "As above, so below." That is to say, for them the heavens could be interpreted as revealing what was happening on earth. This was not so much a matter of causation as of synchronicity. Earth mirrored heaven, so if something occurred in heaven, its mirror image was bound to appear on earth. Although Christians tended to demythologize astrology somewhat and certainly did not regard each of the planets as a separate god, the Church did not totally deny the influence of the planets upon human life or the belief that the heavens can reveal pine secrets. This attitude is made quite evident in the Malleus Malificarum.

What was it, then, that the Magi saw that would send them on such a journey? A star rising in the east. Many hypotheses have been put forward as to what this "star" was: a nova, a comet, a configuration of planets in one zodiacal sign. My own suggestion is simpler: What the Magi observed was the precession of the equinoxes. That is, they saw that monumental shifting of the heavens that occurs about every two thousand years. The new "star" was Pisces rising at the vernal equinox in the place of Aries, a phenomenon that sent all of astrology into a tizzy. It meant that all the old connections between heaven and earth were transformed. Aries had become the second, rather than the first sign of the zodiac; Aquarius had become the last sign of winter.

The story of the Magi is Matthew's dramatization of a fact: The world had entered a whole new astronomical age. Just as the age of Aries had begun more or less with the birth of the Patriarchs and encompassed the whole history of the people of Israel, now human life was about to set off in a new direction. To prepare us for the new age, Matthew opens charting out the age of Aries by offering the genealogy of Jesus beginning with Abraham. This genealogy, and thus the age, is organized in three stages of fourteen generations each, corresponding, one may suspect, to the cardinal, fixed, and mutable periods of an astrological age. Since fourteen is the "number" of David (for each Hebrew consonant is also a number) the genealogy really reads: "David, David, David."

Whether magi actually came from the east is not really important to Matthew. What was important was that his Gospel was astronomically rooted. The baby Jesus had come to usher in on Earth a new age, and that age had its counterpart in the heavens. Hence it is called in Matthew "the kingdom (or reign) of the heavens." (It should be noted that ouranon or heavens, here is in the plural, a fact that most translators simply fudge.) The age of Aries, the Law, is over; the age of the Christ has begun. Followers of Jesus were taught to accept this radical new departure by praying, "Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as in the heavens" (Matt. 6:10). Hence Matthew emphasizes the symbol of the new Age, Pisces, the fish, and sees all disciples as "fishers of men" (Matt. 4:17). The Christian Church soon adopted the fish as one of its central symbols.

At the very end of the Gospel the risen Jesus meets his disciples on a mountaintop in the Galilee, where he commissions them to make disciples of all nations by baptizing them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit and teaching them all that he has commanded. Then he ends the Gospel, saying: "And, lo, I am with you always, to the close of the age" (aeon (Matt. 28:20).

After more than two thousand years, the age of Pisces is almost over and the age of Aquarius is due to arrive. Should not the new Magi be looking to set forth again in search of the master of the age of Aquarius that is dawning? That is the question that every contemporary reader of the Gospels should ask most seriously.

References

Dickie, Matthew W., Magic and Magicians in the Greco-Roman World. New York: Routledge, 2001.

Graf, Fritz. Magic in the Ancient World. Translated by Franklin Philip. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997.

Janowitz, Naomi. Magic in the Roman Empire: Pagans, Jews, and Christians. New York: Routledge, 2001. 

Kramer, Heinrich and James Sprenger. The Malleus Maleficarum Translated and introduced by the Reverend Montague Summers. New York: Dover Publications, 1971. 

Luck, Georg. Arcana Mundi>. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985. 

Jay G. Williams is Walcott-Bartlett Professor of Religious Studies at Hamilton College in Clinton, NY. Among his many publications are two Quest Books: Yeshua Buddha and Judaism. He is a member of the American Academy of Religion and the Theosophical Society.

By Renate zum Tobel

Originally printed in the NOVEMBER-DECEMBER 2005 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: zum Tobel, Renate. "A Mystical View of the Life of Dr. Albert Schweitzer." Quest  93.6 (NOVEMBER-DECEMBER 2005):212-217.

"Example is not the main thing in influencing others; it is the only thing."
—Dr. Albert Schweitzer

Once in while a teacher appears who, simply by being true to himself, is able to inspire millions of people. At the age of seventy-two, Dr. Albert Schweitzer, the great philosopher, scholar, theologian, accomplished musician, prolific writer, and dedicated physician, set foot on American soil for the first time. He had the attention of the world and, according to the July 11, 1947, cover of Time magazine, was revered as "The Man of Century." When asked about his philosophy of reverence for life, he simply answered: "I've made my life my argument."

His decision to enter medical school at the age of thirty, after already having earned doctorates in theology, philosophy, and music, mystified his family and friends.

To understand his desire to help and heal the people living in a remote region of French equatorial Africa, it is necessary to look back.

The Early Years

Albert was born on January 14, 1875, in the village of Kayersberg, France, into a family of pastors, teachers, and musicians. This small village is nestled at the foothills of the Vosges Mountains in Upper Alsace.

His father was appointed pastor in the neighboring village of Gunsbach, where the family settled when Albert was six months old. The village only had one church. The community agreed that this church was to be used by Protestants and Catholics alike. His devoted parents were no doubt a great example and influence on him, but he already had a mind of his own at the age of five.

Already before I started school it seemed quite incomprehensible to me that my evening prayers were supposed to be limited to human beings. Therefore, when my mother had prayed with me and kissed me goodnight, I secretly added another prayer, which I had made up myself for all living beings. It went like this: "Dear God, protect and bless all beings that breathe, keep all evil from them, and let them sleep in peace." (Memoirs 37)

Initially, Albert was not considered a good student. He was a dreamer, allowing his attention to be drawn to the birds singing in the tree outside the classroom window. It was not until a teacher took him under his wing and taught him how to study and concentrate that he began to excel in school.

Because the other village boys were poor, young Albert resented being dressed differently and refused to wear an overcoat and shoes that were different from his school friends'. He hated being considered "gentry" by the rest of the village boys and tried hard not to be better than they. He could not accept privileges for himself that were denied to others. His wish to fit in, however, was not stronger than his other values:

I had an experience during my seventh or eighth year which made a deep impression on me. Heinrich Bräsch and I had made ourselves rubber band slingshots with which we could shoot small pebbles. One spring Sunday during Lent he said to me, "Come on, let's go and shoot birds." I hated this idea, but I did not contradict him for fear he might laugh at me. We approached a leafless tree in which birds, apparently unafraid of us, were singing sweetly in the morning air. Crouching like an Indian hunter, my friend put a pebble in his slingshot and took aim. Obeying his look of command, I did the same with terrible pangs of conscience and vowing to myself to miss. At that very moments church bells began to ring out into the sunshine, mingling their chimes with the song of the birds. For me it was a voice from Heaven. I put the slingshot aside, shoed the birds away so that they were safe from my friend and ran home. Ever since then, when the bells of Passiontide ring out into the sunshine and the naked trees, I remember, deeply moved and grateful, how on that day they rang into my heart the commandment "Thou shalt not kill."

From that day on I dared to free myself from the fear of men, and when my innermost conviction was at stake, I have considered the opinions of others less important than before. I began to overcome my fear of being laughed at by my classmates. The way in which the commandment not to kill and torture worked on me is the great experience of my childhood and youth. Next to it all others pale. (Memoirs 37—38)

In remembering his youth, Schweitzer often referred to needing to be alone in order to hear his "small inner voice," being glad the other boys did not join him on his long walk to school. He loved this special time of being alone with his thoughts and nature.

I tried to put my enthusiasm for the beauty of nature as I experienced it on my walks to school into poems; but I never got beyond the first two or three rhymes. Several times I also tried to sketch the mountain with its old castle on the other side of the road. However, I also failed at that. From then on I resigned myself to enjoying beauty by looking at it without attempting to translate it into art. I never again tried to draw anything or render it in verse. Only in improvising music have I been creative. (Memoirs 30)

Albert learned to play the piano at five. However, it was the organ that fascinated and inspired him. He gave his first public performance at the age of nine, when he substituted for the regular organist at his father's church. Music, especially the compositions of Bach, became one of his passions, exposing him to the vibrations and frequency of an instrument said to be the closest thing to the human voice. His early life became structured around the disciplines of music and reading:

After lunch I had to practice the piano until it was time to go back to school again. Once the school assignments had been completed in the evening, I had to go back to the piano. "You don't know how useful music will be to you later in life," my aunt would say when she had to chase me to the piano. She could surely not foresee that music would eventually help me to earn the means for founding a hospital in the jungle.

Only Sunday afternoons were set aside for recreation. We went for walks, and afterwards I was allowed to satisfy my passion for reading until 10 o'clock in the evening. This passion was boundless. It is still with me today. I am unable to put down a book that I have started to read. I would rather spend all night on it, but at least I have to skim through it. If I like it, I promptly read it two or three times in a row. (Memoirs 42)

Another characteristic, already prominent at an early age, was his desire and ability to think for himself.

When I was eight years old, my father gave me, at my request, a New Testament, which I read eagerly. One of the stories that occupied my mind most was that of the Wise Men from the East. What did Jesus' parents do with the gold and precious things they received from these men? I wondered how they could later have been poor again. It was completely incomprehensible to me that the Wise Men from the East never bothered about the Christ Child later on at all. I was also offended that there is no report about the shepherds of Bethlehem having become disciples of Jesus. (Memoirs 22)

Focusing on Schweitzer's childhood is necessary in order to understand the years that shaped his character and his destiny. His inner life, his inner yearnings, and the growing feelings of passion, compassion, devotion, and reverence were well established in his youth. A quest for truth gave him the drive and energy needed to dedicate his life to humanity. These early years gave his life direction and purpose.

In my youth I listened to conversations of grown-up people which wafted to me a breath of melancholy, depressing my heart. My elders looked back at the idealism and enthusiasm of their youth as something precious that they should have held on to. At the same time, however, they considered it sort of a law of nature that one cannot do that. This talk aroused in me a fear that I, too, would look back on myself with such nostalgia. I decided never to submit to this tragic reasonableness. What I promised myself in almost boyish defiance I have tried to carry out. (Memoirs 90)

To understand the man and his path on a deeper level, one must look at the lives and works of the people he studied and became deeply influenced by: Jesus, Goethe, Bach, and Kant. Each of these men had a deeply mystical side to his nature. They all renounced ambition, yet lived ambitiously; they overcame low desires yet had a deep passion and reverence for life; they experienced unity yet remained individualists; they practiced reverence and devotion; and they lived lives of renunciation, using their creativity for the benefit of humanity. Like Schweitzer, they lived neither in the past nor the future, but in the eternal creative now.

Schweitzer learned Hebrew, Greek, and Latin to explore the true meaning of the life of Jesus. He was haunted by the inconsistencies in the New Testament and by the way modern theologians ignored and neatly compartmentalized the eschatological teachings of Jesus. His discoveries were original and confounded scholars of his time. His three books The Mystery of the Kingdom of God, The Quest for the Historical Jesus, and The Mysticism of Paul the Apostle did not conform to commonly held views of Christianity. He did not bow to the opinions of others. He was more concerned with truth than with the approval of his fellow scholars.

The abiding and eternal in Jesus is absolutely independent of historical knowledge and can only be understood by contact with His spirit which is still at work in the world. In proportion as we have the Spirit of Jesus we have the true knowledge of Jesus. (The Quest 401)

They [Jesus' words] are appropriate, therefore, to any world, for in every world they raise man who dares to meet their challenge, and does not turn and twist them into meaninglessness, above his world and his time, making him inwardly free, so fitted to be, in his own world and in his own time, a simple channel of the power of Jesus. (The Quest 402)

But the truth is, it is not Jesus as historically known, but Jesus as spiritually arisen within men, who is significant for our time and can help it. Not the Historical Jesus, but the spirit which goes forth from Him and in the spirits of men strives for new influence and rule, is that which overcomes the world. (The Quest 401)

History shows that before turning thirty, Schweitzer understood the power latent in humanity and lived his life according to his own integrity and principles.

He comes to us as One unknown, without a name, as of old, by the lake-side, He came to those men who knew Him not. He speaks to us the same word: "Follow thou me!" and sets us to the tasks, which he has to fulfill for our time. He commands. And to those who obey Him, whether they be wise or simple, he will reveal Himself in the toils, the conflicts, the sufferings which they shall pass through in his fellowship, and, as an ineffable mystery, they shall learn in their own experience Who He is. (The Quest 403)

He pursued the arts and intellectual study. And then at the age of thirty, he chose the path of service, reading about the desperate need for doctors in the jungle.

In embarking on his journey to Africa, it was his sincere intention to renounce all other pursuits, including the arts. He willingly made many sacrifices, leaving his teaching, writing, and music behind, only to discover that he could still find the time to do it all.

As a man he had moved with ease among cultured European society, yet he decided to devote himself and his talents to the neglected people of Africa. He made Africa his home. His main concern became the tragically ill and those suffering from leprosy.

In hindsight he did not sacrifice himself. All he did was realize himself. He mastered himself completely. He became an example of what a whole human can accomplish. He not only followed the road less traveled; he became the high road. Schweitzer lived his truth and felt it in his very being. When asked about religion he replied, "My religion is the Religion of Love."

When asked why he wanted to become a doctor he wrote:

I wanted to be a doctor that I might be able to work without having to talk. For years I had been giving of myself in words, and it was with joy that I had followed the calling of theological teacher and preacher. But this new form of activity would consist not in preaching the religion of love, but in practicing it. (Out of My Life 92)

Dr. Schweitzer is an example of what it means to be in alignment with spirit. His strong will was directed toward a definite purpose. His tamed emotions became the passionate dedication to be of service to the suffering, neglected people of Africa, using his brilliant mind to sort the essential from the unessential, the important from the unimportant. With his priorities in perfect order, he lived his life with enthusiasm, spontaneity, and humor. His physical body was blessed with boundless energy. Most will remember him only as a doctor who felt it was his duty to right the wrongs committed by the white man in Africa. Yet he was so much more than a physician. He raised the necessary funds himself by lecturing and giving organ concerts to sold-out audiences around Europe. He nurtured his inner life. His freethinking spirit could not be contained, but was allowed to germinate, creating many inspirational books in which he admonished humanity to awaken from complacency and to become free thinkers. His spirit appealed to the average person, not only healing the body but also healing the soul. He was a physician of the soul.

No task was beneath him. He became the people's builder, farmer, architect, administrator, psychologist, and pharmacist. He was their musician, philosopher, protector, carpenter, pastor, confidant, mentor, and friend. He was able to inspire those whose life he touched. It stands to reason that spirit found him to be a perfect channel, allowing us a glimpse of what it means to be a complete human being.

Dr. Schweitzer was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1952 for his tireless efforts to appeal to world leaders to stop the proliferation of nuclear weapons. Schweitzer's message was that nuclear fallout does not respect borders and defies the philosophy of reverence of life, including all life on this planet. Busy with his work in Africa, and not one to be impressed with titles or awards, it took him two years to accept this prize in person. The prize money was used to rebuild the leper village he had created in Lamberene.

Like a piece of music, a person's life is more than the sum of its many parts. It is a composition with many themes, with one transcendent melody of meaning. The life of Dr. Schweitzer is an example of what it means to harmonize intellectual head learning with heart wisdom and work in harmony with spirit and nature. He used his varied talents as instruments of peace and healing, using goodness and creativity in creating a symphony of wholeness.

How do we recognize the "wise ones"? They know that being an example is more important than any profession of faith and that service is a natural law of the universe. They know it is their duty to first honor the spirit within, followed by recognizing this spirit in everyone and everything. "Reverence for Life" became Schweitzer's living truth. He lived in close communion with nature and reality, finding a deeper beauty amid life's ravages—the beauty of spirit—and he responded in a simple, most humble, and most devotional way. Schweitzer had found a higher reality; he knew that we are all brothers and sisters in spirit, and his life proves that he understood the meaning of the words "He who loses his life shall find it."

A fellowship was created in his name. The brotherhood of those who bear the mark of pain is dedicated to humanitarian efforts toward the education and healing of humanity. In this respect Dr. Schweitzer is still with us and left us to ponder the meaning of his words:

The truth of philosophy is not proved until it has led us to experience the relationship between our being and that of the universe, an experience that makes us genuine human beings, guided by an active ethic. (Out of My Life 212)

References
Schweitzer, Albert. Memoirs of Childhood and Youth. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1997
———. Out of My Life and Thought. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998.
———. The Quest of the Historical Jesus. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1998.

Renate zum Tobel has been a student of metaphysics since 1985 and a member of the Theosophical Society since 2001. Renate is the author of two books of poetry and three books for children. In her latest book, Physician of the Soul: Exploring the Mystical Meaning of the Life of Albert Schweitzer, she writes letters to her teacher, exploring and describing the transformational influence the life and work Dr. Albert Schweitzer has had on her life.

By Surendra Narayan

Originally printed in the NOVEMBER-DECEMBER 2005 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Narayan, Surendra. "C. Jinarajadasa." Quest  93.6 (NOVEMBER-DECEMBER 2005):228-229.

C. Jinarajadasa (C. J.) was the fourth international president of the Theosophical Society from 1945 to 1953. He was born and raised in Sri Lanka until he came into contact with his brother from a past life (said by some to be Bishop C. W. Leadbeater), who took him away from Sri Lanka to guide and help him to grow spiritually and become a dedicated worker for the Theosophical Society. As many know, the TS was founded by Colonel H. S. Olcott and H. P. Blavatsky, but the inner founders were two Masters of the Wisdom, with one of whom, as C. Jinarajadasa mentions, he had bonds of love and gratitude that extended from past lives and whom he regarded as an incarnation of love and power.

Since my parents were members of the Theosophical Society, I invariably accompanied them as a child and later in my college years to the annual conventions of the Theosophical Society at Adyar and Varanasi. There I used to observe and respectfully admire C. J. as a charming leader of the Society. He once came to north India on a lecture tour and wanted a young theosophist who knew Hindi (the language of that area) to accompany him. My eldest brother volunteered and, to his great delight, was chosen by C. J. for that glorious job. Thereafter, when C. J. visited our hometown, he readily accepted my father's invitation to come to our home for lunch. I felt thrilled to be so near him, for he was to me an embodiment of grace and goodwill. He seemed to radiate uplifting currents of bliss and benediction.

C. J. was a messenger of love and beauty and carried that message all his life through his writings and lecture tours around the world. He was a rich linguist and, through his fluency in Spanish and Portuguese, greatly expanded theosophical work in South and Central America. It is deeply touching to see a beautiful Theosophical Retreat Center in the countryside of Brazil named after C. J. (or Raja, as he was affectionately called).

In an attractive little booklet that he wrote for children in 1908 titled Christ and Buddha, C. Jinarajadasa mentions that "Thirty five years ago, Little Flower, two Great ones, the Right Hand and the Left Hand of Lord Maitreya, founded this, our Society. Then did the Lord Buddha give that glorious promise, that so long as three should remain in the Society loyal to its work, His Blessings would rest upon it." He then touchingly adds, "If it should ever come to three only to remain loyal, may you and I be two of them, Little Flower."

C. J. loved all life in all forms. He was always eager to help where help was needed. In this same little booklet C. J. mentions noticing a cat on a cold winter morning in London, starving and evidently left to fend for herself by some family that had moved away. At that time he was living in a room shared with another person, but seeing her miserable situation, he took her in and "she became the third member of our little manage." How much care and love he poured on her can be perceived in his account

Sometimes we would stay in our own grounds and there play. She would rush up to me and stop some ten feet off, with flashing eyes and swishing tail, and I would rush to catch her and just before I got to her she would give me a slip and dodge to one side. She would scramble up a tree and when I went under it she would jump on my shoulders and run off again in great glee . . .When I was out late, which happened to be often, whatever time I came in, I would find her waiting sphinx like, on a corner of the table, facing the door; then she would stand up against me, purring so loud.

After living with him for ten years, the cat died as a result of an operation for a tumor, and C. J. adds: "When she died, I felt that I had performed a task given to me, well and truly . . . I felt and feel that if in all other ways this life should be written down a failure by the Lords of Karma, in one thing I have succeeded—I have loyally and lovingly served one little soul."

C. J.'s love for all life was reflected in other ways too—teaching, guiding, and inspiring other people, particularly the young, to grow into better human beings—beings who are not selfish and self centered but who try to understand their own deeper spiritual nature and live by it. One can discover this connection in his booklet I Promise. Written for young disciples, it asks them to make four promises every day: to show bright looks, to speak brave words, to think joyous thoughts, and to do knightly deeds. "You must be like a window through which the light of the sun shines," is how he refers to bright looks. And "brave words are kind, and they are beautiful, and they are true." Joyous thoughts have, according to C. J., three qualities: purity, peace, and power. Referring back to the days of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table of sixth-century England, he describes knightly deeds as "deeds of protection, deeds which help people to abolish in themselves and in others laziness, cowardice, cruelty and ugliness." The booklet ends with the following inspiring "Song of the Sword and Shield":

I am the Sword, I defend the weak. In my Master's hand I shall not break, I am the Shield. To each in the strife Who behind me fights, I breathe new life. I am the Heart. I give asylum and understanding to all who come. I am the Soul. Mine the Sword and Shield. For men my brothers ever to wield.

In his approach to life, which C. J. said should be an expression of the pine spark within, love and beauty went together. Immensity of heart and perception of the pine principle that permeates all life reflect both love and beauty. And that beauty, he pointed out, was impressed upon even the physical forms of nature. In his book First Principles of Theosophy, one finds a chapter entitled "Nature's Message of Beauty" in which he mentions that "as the Logos builds, He builds in beauty, and all nature is His handiwork" and then adds "while the essential attribute of nature is beauty, yet that beauty has a framework of geometry. The old maxim of the Stoics 'God geometrizes' is full of truth as science delves into nature's mysteries."

Another source of inspiration is his book entitled The New Humanity of Intuition. Tracing evolution at the nonphysical level, C. J. begins with passion or emotion, proceeds to the mind which is still dualistic—you and me, or me and mine—and then to the next stage of consciousness, which begins to reflect itself in some as intuition. Intuition, he says, perceives unity and not divisiveness and proclaims the joy of loving and serving all without any distinction. The best definition of intuition, according to him, is the Christ principle. A human being with intuition "sees a unity of all that lives, a totality which is throbbing with life . . . always revealing new tenderness and new beauty." C. J. states that it is well known that women are more intuitive than men and lightheartedly refers to the age old wisdom in a Spanish proverb: "woman's advice is senseless as a rule; dare to reject it and be a great fool."

Yet C. J. gives a glimpse of a future in which all human beings would be more intuitive, in a later booklet entitled The War and After:

The demarcations which separate mankind into man and woman; into white or brown or yellow or black; into upper classes or lower classes; into Christians or Hindus or Buddhists, into Hebrews or Arabs . . . all these lines of pision are as the ridges which children build on the sands of the sea shore in their play; when the tide comes in, they vanish.

During one of C. J.'s lecture tours in America in 1953, he was taken ill. He passed over after a brief spell and was cremated near the campus of the Theosophical Society in America at Wheaton. The hallowed spot where his ashes are scattered can be found on the grounds of Wheaton.

In addition to being a linguist, an international lecturer, and a beacon for the TS and many young people, C. J. was also a poet. So I would like to end with one of his beautiful poems, which truly delineates his outlook on life:

Word that is true and voice that is kind, 

Thought that is just from a selfless mind; 

Help that is swift and hurt that is spared, 

Grief that is hid and joy that is shared. 

These be the flowers that I cull this day, 

Smiling at eve in thy hands to lay.

 

Surendra Narayan was the international vice-president of the Theosophical Society from 1980 to 1995. A popular theosophical lecturer throughout the world, Mr. Narayan is also author of various writings, including Life is for Living published by the Theosophical Publishing House, Adyar in 2001.