The Heart of Freedom, part 3: What We Give Back

If we want to be healthy and blessed with long life we must become like Jupiter—generous, joyful, and wise. Generosity is about overcoming our habituated self-centeredness, our sense of limitation, of fear of the future, of not having or being enough. […] In this we imitate the Masters we wish to be like, and in doing so, fulfill the function of Assumption of the Godform, not as an image, but as a real, living, breathing act.

~ Mark Stavish, Child of the Sun: Psychic & Physical Rejuvenation in Alchemy and Qabalah

Just as there are some who enter the spiritual Path wondering, “What’s in it for me?,” there are always those who wonder, too, “How do I use this to save the world?” I’m not going to sugarcoat this point, because it deserves being made forcefully and forthrightly: You don’t. It is not your job to save the world (and from what?), but it is your job to be available to the people of the world and to be of benefit to them.

Śri Ramana Maharshi was fond of using parables from everyday life to illustrate the subtler points of sādhana, of those practices which clear the obstacles between ourselves and wakefulness. One that he employed on many recorded occasions concerned our responsibilities to the world as they relate to our spiritual practice: Two men board a train at the same station and are headed to the same station in another town. One of these men holds his bags for the entire trip, worrying over them and straining to ensure that they reach his destination with him. The other man sets his bags down in the appropriate holding compartment and leisurely watches the landscape go by as the train speeds along.

It is sometimes easy to misunderstand Ramana’s teachings, seeing as how most of us in the modern West lack the context of a Hindu upbringing with its attendant (at least passing) knowledge of the need for preparatory religious practices and philosophical study to understand and properly apply many of the sādhanas discussed so casually in his terse discourses. That being so, it may seem as if the parable is telling us to forego our responsibilities, relaxing and pretending that they aren’t there at all. In fact, he has given us a sophisticated diagnosis of our problem and prescribed a treatment for it all in one tight package.

We have a tendency to want, on some level, to carry our baggage endlessly. We almost revel in our emotional problems, showing them forth as what makes us unique and special, demanding that they be accommodated and sheltered rather than plucking them out by the root. In any case, we fret over them, and fretting just makes them bigger and heavier—if not actually, then at least in our perception. If, however, we set them down and allow the process of our spiritual practice to move us along, everything that we need to reach the end with us will come along for the ride. In short, it is all too easy to put our effort into the wrong thing out of fear and anxiety, but that only increases the fear and anxiety.

Tooth-gritting heroics rarely do much long-term good. Muscle-flexing can create a bit of breathing space, but as soon as your arms tire out, you’ll find yourself quickly surrounded. Gnosis is not about what you learn as much as what you unlearn, what you clear away so that Reality can shine forth. Very often, then, it means knowing when you can help and when you cannot, when effort will be useful and when it will be wasteful. In the Yogi-sampradāyas of Patānjali, of the Siddhas, and the Nāthas, we recognize five kleshas, five afflictions which, like knots, bind us up. All five of them are obstacles here.

Ego, attraction, and repulsion are the middle three afflictions. Ego, in this context, is not merely the sense of “I am”, but the ongoing process of mistakenly identifying yourself with all manner of things which are not really you at all. Whenever someone asks what you do, and you immediately respond with, “I am a lawyer,” or “I am a construction worker,” or any similar formula, you are displaying ego in this sense. The same is true, though, if you say “I am a Catholic,” or “I am a Hindu,” or “I am a Republican,” or, well, you get the idea. These identities can be useful if we consciously wear them as the costumes they are, but we usually wear them in such a way that we forget who is wearing the costume and think that only the costume itself is the real person. This leads inexorably to attraction and repulsion, by which we say that one thing is good and another bad, one thing clean and another dirty, according to the expectations of the costume-identity rather than the individual wearing the costume. Now is not the time to get into the depths of nondualism, wherein nothing is inherently unclean (aghora), but it is enough to say that we might instead focus on the usefulness of a thing and forget about questions of inherent goodness. Might a thing be applied skillfully by us in order to enable our own awakening and the awakening of others? If so, we may call it provisionally useful and move on. If not—whether by the nature of the thing or by our own lack of skill—we may safely leave it aside for someone else to handle.

We might say that the final two kleshas, the first and the last in the usual order, are both root and fruit of the three above. Ignorance is the primal klesha, the one which gives rise to the other four, but ignorance is also reinforced by them. The final klesha is “clinging to life”, which may also be stated as “fear of death”. Clinging to life is the fruit of the preceding four, but it is also firm and strong enough to support them, thus bolstering their power. Ignorance contains the other four kleshas in seed form, as potential diseases, while clinging to life contains them as a plant must contain the genetic information which guides its growth and the nutrients which fuel it. (The observant may see a direct connection to the five elements in this discussion. Useful experiments may be performed along these lines, and I am writing a book about exactly this line of work.)

Now, here’s the kicker: The stronger the influence of any klesha upon me, the worse I will be at being of help to anybody else in any absolute, lasting sense. This is precisely why we cannot seem to shake our most fundamental problems in human society. We are always acting from within the kleshas. Look, for example, at how technology is increasingly concerned with “curing” death. You have Google and other firms dealing with artificial intelligence who have explicitly set for themselves the goal of digitizing “human consciousness” so that, after a person’s death, their personality can still be around in the form of a computer program. Within medicine, researchers are feverishly predicting the inevitability of bodily longevity by way of all manner of pills, injectables, and genome treatments. Rather than dealing with quality of life, the concern has shifted to quantity, as if a long life were inherently better or more meaningful than a short one packed with artistry. “Curing death” is of less inherent value than effective cancer treatments; when a person is dead, the quantity of their life is no longer a concern, while the quality of their life has enduring impact (whether or not one accepts survival of consciousness), but cancer reduces both quality and quantity of life. This is a very fundamental shift in focus deserving of our attention, but it also serves as an example of how the kleshas flavor our every pursuit.

Spiritual practice is no different in this way from any other human engagement. It is so common for egotism or greed (attraction) to drive our spirituality that whole books have been written about this topic alone—for instance, Chӧgyam Trungpa Rinpoche’s book Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism. In Western alchemy, the term “puffer” has been applied to those who were more concerned with the gold which came out of the transmutation than with the transmutation itself. And then there are the megachurches, the Vatican’s thrones of gold, and the Prosperity Gospel salespeople… The list could continue endlessly, wrapping itself around the world just as it weaves its way throughout human culture in every geographical point through which it passes. The point is this:

Not everyone is destined to create a global organization which impacts the lives of thousands or millions through charity. Most of us will do far better in improving ourselves, awakening ourselves, so that we will do more good in our immediate community. Even if we could start those global organizations, they usually become corrupt very quickly once legally incorporated and flowing with funding. Movements become denatured or defunct once their founder retires or dies. You can’t save anyone else if you can’t save yourself. This is neither cold pragmatism nor bitter cynicism. When goodness flows, it flows through an individual, not through a legal abstraction or a mob. Whether or not the movement of goodness seems “fair” to you, it flows like water, and like water it needs to be pressurized through the plumbing of a single human being if it is to have enough force to accomplish anything. One of the main functions of spiritual practice is to first clean out one’s own plumbing and learn to properly maintaining it so that when the pressure does flow, we don’t suffer a blowout. The takeaway from all of this is to work on yourself, do what you can do within your own community—however you define that, though the more local the better—and don’t fret over what you can’t control. If the world is to get any healthier, that is how it will happen.

The Heart of Freedom, part 2: Spiritual Practice & Its Benefits

Being a magician is a stage in the process of developing spiritually. It is not the height of development; in fact, it is only a step in the first part of the range of real human development.

~ Draja Mickaharic, from Practice of Magic: An Introductory Guide to the Art

Discussing the “benefits” of spiritual practice is a difficult thing. For one thing, those benefits are often very slow in arising, and usually take a lot of time to stabilize once they have arisen. Backsliding is notoriously easy in esoteric practice just as in changing one’s diet or exercise routine. For another thing, though, we are perhaps too obsessed with benefits in the first place. Everybody comes in the door wanting to know, “Truth sounds nice, and all, but what’s in it for me?”

As Mark Stavish of the Institute for Hermetic Studies recently remarked in an online comment concerning what he tells his students upon entering the classroom, “You have no rights, only obligations. I am here to speak to you about your obligations for this class. If you want to talk about rights, then tell it to the mountain.” The same that Mr. Stavish says of his classroom may be said of life in general, and goes double for the life of the soul. With the popular imagination captured every few years by something like The Secret , the Prosperity Gospel, or whatever the current iteration of New Thought goes by, it is easy for us to forget that no millennia-old tradition of spiritual training out there has ever taught that God is a vending machine into which we can feed the printed paper of “good thoughts” and receive back the many material conditions we believe will make us at last content with our lot. Those who have assiduously applied the practices of magic and genuine prayer know that it is entirely possible to gain materially by the mental progress which comes from spiritual labor, but the sacrifices made to achieve these things rarely permit that they will even-out to as much money and stuff as could be had by just working with intelligence and vigor in a career field. In other words, don’t turn to magic to make you rich, though it certainly may help the well-off to get more or the poor to survive and may help both to feel more stable and confident with whatever their level of income may be.

But, some may ask, doesn’t spirituality bring peace and happiness of its own sort, even apart from stuff and things? Yes, of that there can be no doubt. Remember, though, from my last post that the three great accomplishments—the Mahā-Siddhis, if you will—of peace, freedom, and happiness are like all other “occult powers”: tools. Peace, freedom, and happiness are not themselves liberation, but they are the most powerful tools we humans can apply en route to liberation. Peace and the equanimity which it brings are our armor and shield, freedom the sword we use to cut asunder whatever is useless, distracting, or harmful, and happiness supplies us the verve with which we wade into the battle. We can unpack even further.

Peace is not merely calm. Calm is easy; it happens when one is able to gain a bit of mental distance from a situation, which often happens quite by accident. The brain will even create calm in the face of trauma; we call this “shock”, thus showing that calm alone is not always either good or pleasant. Peace must be deeper than calm. Peace comes not just when the water of the pond is still, but when the garbage has been dredged from the bottom and removed and the pollutants carefully sifted from the water itself. Then, when the water goes still, we have not just calm but peace. The ecosystem restored, everything returned to its nature, there can be genuine equanimity: everything is seen for what it is and may be treated accordingly. Trash is seen as trash and tossed aside, not out of malice but because it simply does not belong. Peace can thus be seen as the faculty of mauna—inner silence, being a mind both clean and still.

Freedom is not the same as license, at least not in the sense of following the whims of hedonistic impulses. It is not, therefore, immorality but a specific sort of amorality. Morality has a role to play: it allows for the survival of social units at every scale and the more or less smooth operation of the individual within those social units (household, family, clan, town, county, region, state, province, nation, etc.). According even to Śrī Dattatreya in the Avadhūta Gīta, the Yogi may follow social and religious convention for the sake of both avoiding unnecessary conflict and encouraging the people in pursuing their own purification through those practices. Rules of morality therefore do have a place in genuine spirituality, and that place needs to be acknowledged and respected—but the Yogi is himself not necessarily obligated to follow those rules beyond a certain point. Freedom therefore implies responsibility, but also the capacity of budhi—a discriminating intellect capable of sifting through the contents of experience and picking out the gems from the grit without the burden of prejudice. Freedom is the ability to strike away what is harmful or useless within one’s own life. It is emphatically not doing whatever one wants without any thought to the consequences to oneself and others, but knowledge of what is good beyond the need for rules based in the organic trans-dualistic (dvaitādvaita) experience of Reality.

Finally, happiness is the dynamo which powers forward progress. It allows us to turn inward without fear of what we may find, as well as to turn outward without fear of being made separate. Happiness arises from the certain knowledge that Reality is one perfect living organism (parapinda, in the twilight language of Yogi-Guru Gorkhnāth) and that no part of that organism is ever separated from It. There is no mortal sin, no damnation, no irreversible error in the spiritual body of God—and there is no conceivable “outside of God” to be banished to for any infraction. Happiness is not yet the perfect realization of Śiva, but the perfume of that flower which arises as we make our approach.

While Grace and Power flows through every channel of the Path of Return, impelling us forward from the depths of each soul, responsibility is still the name of the game. As Śri Dhruvanāth, my own honored teacher now beyond the limits of his body, once told me: “The Śakti will meet you halfway, but the impetus to transform comes from you.” While there is much to be gained on the Path, there is also much work to be done, so I think it more useful to approach from that angle. To paraphrase President John F. Kennedy, the question is not what my spiritual practice will do for me but what I will do for my spiritual practice. The rewards will rise as surely as the Sun, but running after them apart from the great Journey itself is a fool’s errand down many a mental blind alley and psychic cul-de-sac.

Bourgeois Yoga: To Become One with the Status Quo

“Goblins do less harm to us than generals;
Pixies plague us less than do the politicians;
Fairyland is much more happy than our society;
Musing can be more profitable than reading;
The oracle more truthful than the news media;
Nature has the facts, mankind the theories;
Nature keeps the world clean, and man pollutes.

~ “The Prophetikos” of Shri Gurudev Mahendranath

I have received some feedback from my article Radical Between Extremes, or Midnight Cemetery Puja which indicates that I was perhaps unclear as to my target. That is liable to happen when the twilight imagery of Yoga and Tantra become involved with a more concrete point of social concern. This miscommunication does at least give me the opportunity to make a certain criticism more barbed; though I wish it to be swallowed, I do not want it to go down so easily that we forget we had to swallow anything at all.

Since the 19th century in the West, magic and mysticism have at least popularly become the purview of what some schools of socio-politcal thought call the bourgeoisie. That is to say not only that it has become a thoroughly middle class phenomenon, but that—as with all things commodified for the entertainment of the middle class—it has become safe. In traditional cultures, the shaman and the sorcerer are not people that one approaches lightly, and even the shaman and sorcerer themselves do not approach their vocation the same way we might take a job working in Accounts Receivable. It is a true vocation, a calling, but it is just as appropriate to call it an evocation—a calling out of many social norms, of a central place within a protective community, of not just the expectations but also the protections of a regular member of society. The Yogi, the magician, the shaman, the witch, are weird and maybe a little crazy, certainly either intimidating or discomfiting. Even today, the Vodou houngan, mambo, and bokor or, in a less organized setting, the hoodoo root doctor are not people to be trifled with. A Vodoun may know a bokor pretty well, even be close friends, but when the bokor is acting in his office, he is in that way and for that time set apart somewhat so that he may do his job. And his job is a fearful one. Likewise the Yogi: though he  may not outwardly renounce society, he will at least force some space between himself and his community, making an inner renunciation which carries more weight anyway.

I hope I should not even have to make an especially direct remark about the phenomenon of the modern “yoga school” or “tantra workshop”, at this point, but if I need to be more clear: I have met precious few urban or suburban yogis, magicians, and shamans who had done more to earn the title than take a correspondence course, join an order, or engage in a class or workshop. Little to no personal sacrifice is made and, as a result, none of the feral nature of the witch or the acid of the Tantrika has awakened within them. Such a wild one is not therefore a thoroughgoing iconoclast, as if smashing imagery for its own sake were ever more than petulant, but is rather wise to the inner nature of the images.

I do not mean this as a discouragement, for as much as it may seem like an insult. It’s just that a disease cannot be treated until it has been diagnosed, and sometimes the diagnosis can feel as harsh as the symptoms themselves. It may seem unfair that many are called but few are chosen until you realize that the calling is not up to you, but being worthy of the choice is.

When I spoke in that last post about movements, parties, voting, and politics, my intended audience was—as usual, on this blog—practitioners or at least students of the esoteric. Join your movements and march, join your parties and vote, there’s no harm in it if your cause is just and your intentions compassionate. But I speak as a mystic and magician to mystics and magicians—as well as poets and artists who, God knows, do some of the same work we do in their own way—when I say that any such support must arise organically from the wilderness of your own soul and not exclusively from the runaway locomotive of cultural pressure. We cannot be socially or even psychically safe and expect to make real progress in the exploration of Pati, pasa, and pasu (the Divine, the world, and the self). The Tantrika throws in his lot with the ghouls and goblins who haunt the woods and cemeteries, the witch tosses hers in with the horned (and horny) spirits who ride the dark undercurrents of Nature, and the artist drops his in with the poor, the diseased, and the disenfranchised—in all cases with the things that go bump in the night, the bogeymen in the closets and monsters under the bed of the comfortable, the wealthy, the righteous, the secure. And this must go so far beyond voting, attending a workshop, or marching at a rally. If the artist does not continue to create, her mission is stalled for both herself and the world; if the mystic should cease to seek kaivalya and the magician halt in reflecting holy gnosis, regardless of the dangers and insecurities which this must breed, it may as well be that the Sun and Moon both fail to rise, for the sweet nectar of immortality comes only to those who will touch tongue to the bitter poison of Saturn’s kingdom.

Re-Initiation Into Hermetics — Part 2: Patience, Introspection, & Disease

I don’t know about the rest of the world, but Americans can be extremely, even pathologically, results-oriented. This pragmatism can make us pretty good at a lot of things, but it becomes one of our biggest obstacles in any form of psychological or spiritual practice. Discipline is in many ways the opposite of our anxious pragmatism, because discipline demands that we take things stepwise, focusing only on what needs to be done now rather than on what will rocket us past the goalposts.

Let’s be clear: There is no goal to spiritual practice. That’s not to say there is no purpose, but there is no end, no final tally that lets us say, “Ok, I did it; there’s nothing new to accomplish.” In Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna tells Arjuna to relinquish all notions of “doership” and with it any desire for the fruits of his actions. That is the spirit in which to take things. Not only does it breed detachment, but detachment permits the development of real discernment by which we can discriminate between the Real and the unreal; we can pick apart real from apparent results with dispassion, relinquishing both pride and shame in order to examine what is really happening with as little filtration as possible.

All of this requires that we make haste, slowly. We must give ourselves over to practice as fully as we can, but be patient knowing that the process takes time and that in “giving my all”, “all” will refer to drastically different quantities and qualities of effort at different phases. Franz Bardon tells us to be “pitiless” with ourselves, but he also urges patience. In being pitiless, we don’t let ourselves off the hook when effort is required of us, but by patience we remain flexibly poised during those times when our efforts are exhausted, when we need to be more passive or reflective, or when action simply isn’t prudent.

This emphasis on patience is all in the interest of avoiding disease, or at least treating it properly once it has arisen. Mark Stavish has it that a good 90% of what passes for “spiritual practice” among magicians and other esoteric practitioners is actually a particular sort of psychotherapy—and so completely within the realm of the personal psyche rather than the deep soul or transpersonal spirit. Some might recognize this as “merely” psychological, and many of them will try to skip it in favor of intensive meditation or the fiery practice of mantra and other austerities, but they are woefully mistaken. There is good reason for this “esoteric analysis”.

Our systems come mostly unprepared for the degree of power we will try to make them contain and rechannel. In fact, we are fairly well insulated from many of them by design: most of these forces are not directly related to biological survival and can be quite inimical to our psycho-physiology prior to appropriate preparatory measures. We are each in a sense equipped with a personal lightning rod to avoid a system blowout—if you’ve ever wondered what, exactly, your holy guardian angel is doing before you go looking for him or her, here’s part of the answer.

But, being who we are, we eventually want to push our boundaries to learn, grow, and experience more. To do so in a way which will not cause dangerous power surges, we must make our systems ready. There are many approaches to take in this process, and they are all time-intensive and must be engaged for the rest of our earthly days.

In Yoga—which includes Tantra for our present purposes—this preparatory process begins with character. Patanjali, in his famous Yoga Sutras, gives ten yamas and niyamas: five ethical “don’ts” and five moral “dos”. These are less like commandments and more like general categories by which we may discipline our thoughts, words, and deeds—thus slowly dissolving habits and allowing certain native forces to flow more freely. Not only does this have social consequences, it also clears energy blockages and, as internal forces flow gradually more freely, lets our systems become gently more accustomed to those forces.

Let’s not skirt this question: the forces and powers dealt with, here, are quite real and more ready and capable of doing serious, even permanent, damage than many tend at first to believe. There is especially a modern American tendency to think all such powers to be either metaphors for purely human processes, or else completely benign. Both are mistakes. If we are lucky, such mistakes hold us back from making any progress at all, but if we push too far too fast, these forces can and will break us, mentally and physically. Madness, delusion, monstrosity, illness, injury, and death are all recorded possibilities, and not just in the annals of ancient history; many is the presumptuous would-be magician or mystic who winds up in the hospital, the prison, or the morgue. It is thus that Frithjof Schuon and others have observed that the simple religiously faithful are in many ways enviable.

One of Patanjali’s niyamas is self-study. Franz Bardon takes this as the jumping off point for his own preparatory scheme.

Focusing also on good character, Bardon comes from the other way round: as you develop the capacity for quiet inner observation (introspection, literally “seeing inward”), you may apply this new perspective by analyzing your own patterns of thought and behavior. The “productive” ones become your “white astral mirror”, while the nonproductive or counter-productive habits become your “black astral mirror”. Of course, ultimately all such karmic seeds need to be excised, but it is more im portant at first to cultivate the helpful and minimize the unhelpful.

This exercise alone is quite a boon and can be very time consuming. I was taught that 50 to 100 items per list (trying to keep the two lists approximately the same length) is a good start fro the Step 1 work. But Bardon goes further.

The lists are analyzed again according both to the power or severity of each trait in our lives, and the element to which each corresponds. To some, this seems arbitrary, but when we begin to work directly upon these traits in Step 2, this effort of elemental analysis will provide and excellent snapshot of the relative flows of elemental forces within our subtle bodies. Though not as detailed a map as, say, the meridians of Chinese medicine or the nadis of Ayurveda, the astral mirrors will still show us at a glance what many of our subtle energy knots look like quite well enough to begin untangling them.

Even the Step 1 physical exercises clear the foundations of our energy systems. Not only do these attention exercises make us more aware of our pranic intake through food, water, and air, they also give us the opportunity to set those pranas to work in dissolving internal obstacles to their free flowing. These may be thought of in terms of the transubstantiation of sacraments; though nowhere near as powerful as a proper Mass performed by a person with valid lineage and empowerments, they do work according to a similar principle that to change the meaning of a physical substance is to change the impact of that substance within the organism. This is a very real type of subtle alchemy combining prayer with the facts of biology.

I have told many magicians that the first 5 Steps of Initiation Into Hermetics can efficiently replace most or all of the more cumbersome training of the Western mystery tradition. But Step 1 alone can be the mystical practice of a lifetime, replacing much of the useless nonsense passed off by numerous expensive retreats and the dangerous “break down to build up in our image” self-help seminars which have plagued the sincere seeker in ever-increasing numbers since the days of est.

Once again, I hope that these reflections are helpful. May you be blessed in the work.

References & Other Readings
Problems on the Path of Return: Pathology in Kabbalistic and Alchemical Practices by Mark Stavish

The Path of Alchemy: Energetic Healing and the World of Natural Magic by Mark Stavish (2006, Llewellyn Worldwide)

On Becoming an Alchemist: A Guide for the Modern Magician by Catherine MacCoun (2008, Trumpeter Books)

A Death on Diamond Mountain: A True Story of Obsession, Madness, and the Path to Enlightenment by Scott Carney (2015, Gotham Books)

Optimism & Hope: A Few Thoughts

My article on the myth of progress in spirituality which ran yesterday on People of Shambhala was, happily, met with mostly positive reception. A friendly acquaintance of mine did take me to task, however, on one point which he sees as a critical oversight: hope.

To summarize, the article itself is intended to briefly debunk the notion of a “new golden age” and its attendant assumptions of a global awakening or collective enlightenment. My friend took this to be a pessimistic position, and asked where hope comes into the picture. I will take my departure here, for this is an important topic.

The Buddha taught that hope is just a pleasant delusion. As with many of the Buddha’s teachings, its simplicity needs to be unpacked. Merriam-Webster defines hope thus: “to want something to happen or be true and think that it could happen or be true”. There are two clauses here, if either one of which is reduced we have lost hope. We must not only want a thing to be, we must also believe that it could be. Hope is a marriage of desire and belief. Those of us with much experience in mysticism or magic of any genuine sort must take both elements quite seriously and be on our guard about them.

Desire is powerful. There is nothing inherently wrong with desire, of course. Without it, we would not even have the basic impulse toward life, let alone spiritual life. If we had no desire at all, we could at best be automatons which continue to exist merely as a matter of course. But we live because we desire. We feel impelled to thus and so, whether it be food and drink to keep our bodies in working order, or the deepest states of experiential knowledge, desire is that impulse. Some may prefer to call it “will”, and that word certainly applies, but only once we have achieved a degree of conscious awareness and control over our desires. In whatever form, desire is there.

This very power to press us on toward liberation is what makes desire dangerous. In certain phases of development, often referred to as “involutionary”, our desires are entirely outside of our conscious control. They compel rather than impel. But once we have achieved a degree of self-awareness, which some identify as the point of taking human birth, we are on the upward swing of our parabola which is the “evolutionary” side of life. If we fail, however, to make the transition from involution to evolution, usually by a lack of the self-awareness from which self-control grows, our desires remain sub- or semi-conscious and will subvert our budding will at every turn.

The second variable in our definition of hope is belief. Belief, at base, is thinking and feeling that a thing is so. It is less basic than perception, but more basic than knowledge. Belief, we could say, is the mental lense through which perceptions must pass the reach the conscious mind. Like desire, belief is an essential tool for living life. We cannot go without expectations or presumptions of any sort. The trick is, again, to have the self-awareness to develop more accurate and robust belief systems which permit the freer flow of perceived or experienced data and, so, the more reliable formation of knowledge. (For simplicity, we can define knowledge as “justified belief”, or a belief (a) which one holds, (b) which one is justified by evidence or experience in holding, and (c) which corresponds more or less with reality.) From this brief exploration alone, it is plain to see how belief can be necessary, but also how it can go awry. When you thus put belief and desire together, the combination can be likened to an explosive strapped to one’s chest—and may well result in strapping explosives to one’s chest in a tragically more literal sense.

On a prosaic level, there is nothing at all wrong with hope. I have both the desire for, and belief in the strong possibility of, a visit with my family on Christmas day. My desire may be frustrated if the plan is short-circuited by unavoidable difficulties, or my beliefs may be disappointed if I believe Christmas to be on a Friday rather than a Thursday, but there’s certainly little enough harm in harboring that particular hope. Even if we outsized one or the other of these two elements, the whole structure might remain more or less harmless on its own. Perhaps I believe that extraterrestrials are waiting, cloaked of course, just outside of our atmosphere in order to save us from ourselves once things on Earth become too bad; I’m almost certainly wrong, of course, and not justified in this belief in any case, but it’s really not so big a problem if I am only lukewarm on the prospect (say, because I think we could still well save ourselves, so things may never need to get bad enough for my alien friends to intervene). Or, to reverse the equation, maybe I’m quite passionate about my love for the idea of extraterrestrials, but I’m not at all convinced that they exist or that we would ever come into contact with them if they did. This desire-without-belief could be as simple as Star Trek enthusiasm. Again, relatively harmless.

But if the scale of both the desire and the belief increase significantly, we have another story entirely. The Heaven’s Gate cult, famous for their mass suicide in 1997, is a good example of what might happen with an overabundance of hope in extraterrestrials, where human desire and belief came together with a punishing strength.

This all ties in very directly with notion of a “global consciousness shift”, “mass awakening”, or what have you. A desire that this should occur is fine; it just means that I’ve got human sympathy and would be quite happy to see everything suddenly improve across the globe. A belief that this is impending, however, is not justified. So it is a nice thought, and that is all. If I allow my belief in such a possibility to get beyond its own limitations, the whole structure becomes an obstacle for me. I may begin to focus more upon “the shift” than upon the dirty grind of increasing my self-awareness, improving my self-discipline, and generally using them to become a better, more illuminated individual.

If I feel any firm hope in anything at all, then, it is in the basic capacity of the individual: that one may learn and grow and become better, whether or not the whole mass of other individuals follow suit or not. My belief is justified, as I have experienced it happening in myself and seen it in some of those around me. And my desire is strong, because the whole world needs each one of us to take responsibility for it, for one another, and for ourselves.

Dharma Obscured: A Brief Critical Response to “The Dharma Manifesto”

A Note of Introduction: The following essay was written in the winter of 2013, immediately after my reading of the book in question. I had originally intended it to run on another website, but it was not published there so as not to produce conflict. After that experience, among others, I have largely kept my opinion of the book and its impact to myself, feeling rather alone in my impressions. It was only after a friend and respected teacher of Dharma approached me for my thoughts on the topic that I showed him this article and he encouraged me to make it public. It is with his blessing and support that I do so now, and only in the hope of adding to a civil public discourse.

Politics is a difficult area for me. This is not because I have no political ideas, but because it is especially hard to draw out real, working solutions to complex problems from the myriad of possible approaches to any given situation. In large part, this is due to the fact that people tend to become very attached to their political labels, with more emphasis placed upon ideological purity than upon real, substantive strategies. So, I have been doing a lot of reading, lately, in order to try to broaden the scope of my own thoughts in this area. Śri Dharma Pravartaka Āchārya, in his recent book The Dharma Manifesto: A New Vision for a Global Transformation (2013, Arktos Media), is of particular interest for me. As a Western-born Saiva, I view Dharma as a model for finding solutions to even the most perplexing of difficulties. My initial impression of Āchārya-ji was largely positive; here is a man of spiritual trajectory, rational acumen, and moral passion putting in genuine effort to shape the socio-political world in accordance with Dharma. Whether or not I agree with each detail, his sincerity and dynamism cannot be denied or ignored. I excitedly ordered a copy of the book as soon as I saw reference to it. As it turned out, even flipping through the book raised in me many doubts on particulars. Though the volume is slim, it took me more than a month to complete, as I kept running across points which required much deeper thought on my part than a casual reading would allow.

It is an interesting fact that anyone would even attempt to pen a “manifesto” of Dharma. “Manifesto” is formally defined as a public decree of intentions by an institution, with the implication that the institution in question is an organization or activist bloc with fairly singular ideology, objectives, and methodology. And, certainly, such a united front is presented in The Dharma Manifesto, complete with bullet-pointed policy planks and a fully-fledged strategy for gaining real political power.

The amount of research which went into the project is honestly staggering, and the intellectual effort is beyond admirable. Āchārya-ji refers to, and draws from, sources as diverse as the Buddha, Alain de Benoist, Julius Evola, David Frawley, Lao Tze, Plato, Oswald Spengler, Bhaktivedānta Swāmi Prābhupāda, and G.K. Chesterton. And, just as importantly, at no point does he try to fit any of these thinkers into his own box, rather taking ideas and inspiration from them where he can.

His basic premise, however, deserves examination in light of his presentation. As I have previously observed, disparate sources aside, Āchārya-ji tries to display a unitary Dharma where, in fact, no such thing exists. It may be true that Dharma is ultimately one (or beyond division), but here on Earth it is necessarily seen from a myriad of directions. It is simply not possible — and not useful, in any case — to reduce, say, Samkhya to Vedānta, or Buddhism to Śaiva Siddhānta. To compare them can be very instructive, but to smear-out their distinctions in service to a rhetorical strategy serves only the ideologue.

Hindu Dharma and its close relations — Taoism, Shinto, Buddhism, Jainism, etc. — are neither equitable nor monolithic. Even within Hindu Dharma itself, there are the six āstikā darshanas and numerous schools of admixture, approaches to practice, sects, and lineages. All of these “are” Hinduism, and Hinduism contains them all without prejudice. It is true that certain schools and sects are more statistically representative than others, but that does not imply an institutional orthodoxy in a model similar to the Roman Catholic Church. While there exist many Hindu organizations, and while it may be desirable to have greater Hindu solidarity, it is contrary to the radical pluralism inherent to Dharma to insist upon ideological uniformity beyond a few points of commonality.

This “radical pluralism” is pluralistic in that it demands comfort with ambiguity and mutual respect amidst often irreconcilable differences; and it is “radical” in that it must resist any violence done against freedom of intellect, regardless of the source of the assault. Yet, there is a uniting or organizing function to Dharma in the form of what Rajiv Malhotra calls “integrative unity.” (See Being Different: An Indian Challenge to Western Universalism, 2011, HarperCollins.)

Integrative unity is the “unity of plurality”, or the conceit that everything which exists — including ideas — has its essence as a part or reflection of an underlying or inherent totality. The “part” may never be fully separated from the “whole”, but is so only as a contingency. This stands in contradistinction to “synthetic unity”, which begins from the “parts” and tries to form from them an artificial unit, often in spite of irreconcilable differences which inevitably lead to dissolution. In this case, the differences are either acknowledged only to subdue them, or else ignored entirely, whereas integrative unity begins with full awareness of differences and distinctions, but sees them as expressions of a profound indivisibility.

The vision expressed in The Dharma Manifesto is such a synthetic unity. Though I am loathe to say that a particular interpretation is not properly Dharmic — the aforementioned radical pluralism demands immense caution in making such declarations — on this particular point, I think it is warranted at least as a challenge. Simply, Dharma cannot be expressed by bullet points. This brings up an interesting question: either Śri Dharma Pravartaka Āchārya does not know this, or else he knows it and is intentionally ironing-out the nuances for rhetorical purposes. Quite honestly, the first possibility may be dismissed out of hand. Āchārya-ji is too obviously intelligent and well-studied for me to take such an idea seriously. The other possibility has the unfortunate implication of sinister motive, but I adamantly do not mean it in that way. I believe that Āchārya-ji is very sincere. However, that sincerity does not guard against the fact that oversimplification is often a natural part of constructing a political ideology.

It is true that Sanātana Dharma necessarily addresses the structure and functioning of a healthy society. Dharma is all-encompassing by nature, and so has lessons for every avenue of thought and activity. There are Dharmic law books with specific guidance for leaders and rulers, such as the famous Manusmŗti, but even these acknowledge that they cannot possibly apply equally to all places and times. In other words, Dharmic political thought is certainly possible, but Dharmic absolutism is a contradiction in terms.

Not that absolutism and relativism did not have their representatives in past ages, but the partisanship which now attends them is an outgrowth of modernism. As the dissolution that is relativism became the going cultural assumption throughout the industrialized world, the formerly dominant ideologies began to express themselves increasingly in terms of ideological purity. This sort of absolutism came to be seen as the only alternative to total relativism, so that even those who may have preferred a different solution had to frame their ideas in terms of either relativism or absolutism. To this day, “Progressivism” is generally an expression of relativism, while “Conservatism” is absolutist in nature.

Āchārya-ji, like most political thinkers influenced by Traditionalist thought, tries not so much to “steer a middle course” between these poles, but turns to possibilities well outside of them. That said, he applies an absolutist “hard line” approach which instantly petrifies the ideas and strategies into uncompromising dogma.

A good example is his discussion of atheism (pp 73 – 74). The typically Dharmic approach to atheism is to dispute its fundamental premise as an intellectual aberration, but to admit its necessity as a possible position for the sake of freedom of intellect and conscience. Āchārya-ji, however, paints atheists with the brush of false consciousness, implying that atheists are sub-human by default:

Inclusion in human classification is predicated upon the ability of the individual human entity to both understand, and to subsequently choose to conduct his life in accordance with, the natural ordering principles of morality and nobility.

[…]

Since atheism intellectually disputes the existence of Natural Law, atheism is itself, subsequently, an attempt to negate the morality, ethics and legal norms and behavior that are predicated upon Natural Law.” (pg 73)

So we have a two-part process of dehumanizing those with whom we disagree. We first say that one is only human who adopts a certain ideology, and then demonstrate in what way our opponents are not doing so. Of course, we leave a paragraph in between so that this dehumanization is not totally obvious and may be softened, but it is certainly still there.

And this turns us back to the problem of oversimplification, inherent as it is to absolutism of any sort. Āchārya-ji says as part of the same argument that “[the] existence of moral principles is a disjunctive proposition: morality either is or is not. There is no grey area. The unequivocal capacity of morality is rooted in its transcendent provenance.” (pp 73 – 74) All Dharmic thought is willing to agree with the latter proposition, but the former is a decidedly Abrahamic assertion. It is true that Dharma sees all true ethics and morality as arising from transcendence or absolute inwardness. But there is the key, and there is the contradiction. Frithjof Schuon makes the point thus:

The Hindus and Far Easterners do not have the notion of ‘sin’ in the Semitic sense; they distinguish actions not according to their intrinsic value but according to their opportuneness in view of cosmic or spiritual reactions, and also of social utility; they do not distinguish between ‘moral’ and ‘immoral’, but between advantageous and harmful, pleasant and unpleasant, normal and abnormal, to the point of sacrificing the former — but apart from any ethical classification — to spiritual interests. They may push renunciation, abnegation, and mortification to the limits of what is humanly possible, but without being ‘moralists’ for all that.” (Spiritual Perspectives and Human Facts, 1954, Faber and Faber, pg 58, as quoted in Evola, Ride the Tiger, 2003, Inner Traditions International, pp 74 – 75)

Of course, there are what we would recognize as moral and ethical considerations in Dharma, or else we would not have the yogic yamas and niyamas or documents like the Tirukural of Saint Valluvar, but even here the discussion is always centered in action and reaction, with consideration of others as persons who can be known as such, rather than the intrinsic value of a given thought or action. Dharmic ethics are founded in absolute principles, but are applied according to present need rather than abstractions. What is often referred to as “Hindu idealism” is thus more of a “metaphysically-oriented realism”.

Throughout The Dharma Manifesto, Śri Dharma Pravartaka Āchārya translates Dharma as “Natural Law”, not just linguistically but also conceptually. While this is one sense of the term, it serves as neither a full definition nor an accurate translation. “Dharma”, as a word, is strictly untranslatable; every translation of it, then, is no better than an approximation — a point which many writers and translators on Dharma not just admit, but actively point out for the sake of clarity and accuracy. Often, the same author will employ a variety of words or phrases by way of a translation in different contexts for maximal precision. But, at least in the present book, Āchārya-ji never deviates from the phrase “Natural Law”. I bring this up as another example of boiled-out complexity.

We may also bring into question Āchārya-ji’s assertion that practically all non- or pre-Abrahamic religions are inherently Dharmic in the same way. This, along with the artificially constrained definition of Dharma cited above, begins to take on the tenor of a rhetorical strategy more than an actual ideological plank. Without speculating any further into motive, we are still left with a drastic simplification. Can we really relate every single one of the many and varied Native American religions and say that they are the same as Taoism? And is the purely political state polytheism of imperial Rome in the same category as state-independent Hinduism? It is certainly true that an incredible variety of religious and philosophical practices and orientations already exist within Sanātana Dharma, but even then their distinctions and differences are every bit as important as their similarities. It is not enough simply to declare them allies in a common cause; they must recognize themselves as part of an integral unity which exists prior to them and persists after them.

Finally, for all the accusations made against the Abrahamic faiths’ regressiveness and inhumanity throughout the book, there are many examples of similar inhumanity in Āchārya-ji’s positions. The aforementioned dehumanization of atheists is a good example, but there is also a policy of downright cruelty toward homosexuals. To quote:

Both gay and straight citizens are encouraged to observe sexual fidelity and sexual continence as much as is within their power and within the confines of the law. [!] For straight citizens, this means that sexuality should only be expressed within the vows of marriage. For gay citizens, this means that sexual expression should only occur within the context of a monogamous and committed relationship, and from inside the closet. Sexuality is a purely private matter, and must not be intrusively displayed to the public for personal gain or as a social statement. (pp 124 – 125, emphasis added)

It should go without saying that Āchārya-ji is opposed to gay marriage.

More to the point, he seems to be missing centuries of history, especially recent decades. While acknowledging earlier (pg 124) that Dharma does not consider homosexuality to be chosen behavior — and thus, by implication, not immoral — he goes on to treat it as a disease and a source of shame. If homosexuality is natural and not sinful, of what social value is it to force homosexuals into secrecy? The only purpose such a policy serves is to socially isolate and psychologically alienate every single homosexual in the society. And the not-so-subtle accusation that the entire gay rights movement has been for personal gain is nothing short of crass cynicism, or at least the projection of crass cynicism upon a misunderstood minority. The attached notion that public admittance of one’s sexuality for social change is somehow not different from using it for personal profit crosses into the absurd. While I agree that sex is a private matter, many things best kept private must sometimes be discussed in public fora, not to become rich and famous but to ensure that oppression does not persist in silence. Āchārya-ji’s sort of “middle ground” approach to LGBT issues accomplishes nothing worth accomplishing, being an essentially Old Testament attitude with the overt threat of violence softened to a purely psychological threat.

All told, Śri Dharma Pravartaka Āchārya’s The Dharma Manifesto is impressive in the scope of the author’s ambition, and his evident sincerity. I cannot help, however, but be skeptical of any attempt at forming a political movement of whole cloth. In this particular case, my skepticism is only intensified by the use of Dharma to justify any number of policy planks and strategies which vacillate between the perfectly sensible, the terribly cynical, and the puzzingly absurd. Quite frankly, Sanātana Dharma has much more to offer even within the purely socio-political sphere.