The only constant is change. It’s the most basic fact of human existence. Nothing lasts, nothing stays the same.

We feel it with each breath. From birth to the unknown moment of our passing, we ride a river of change. And yet, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, we exhaust ourselves in an endless search for solidity. We hunger for something that lasts, some idea or principle that rises above time and change. We hunger for certainty. That is a big problem.

It might even be THE problem.

Religions are often built around this heartache for certainty. In the face of sickness, loss and grief, a thousand dogmas with a thousand names have risen. Many profess that if only the faithful hold fast to the “rules,” the “precepts” or the “doctrine” then certainty can be obtained.

Fate and future can be fixed through promises of freedom from immediate suffering, divine favor or everlasting salvation. Scriptures are transformed into unwavering blueprints for an unchanging order. These documents must live beyond question lest the certainty they provide crumble. When human spiritual endeavor devolves into these white-knuckle forms of clinging they become monuments to the fear of change and uncertainty.

It would be symmetrical if I could point to science as the pure antidote to the rigid rejection of uncertainty. Science, in the purest forms of its expression as a practice, holds to no doctrine other than that the world might be known. In the ceaseless pursuit of its own questioning path, science asks us to allow for ceaseless change in our ideas, beliefs and opinions. It’s this aspect of science that I value more than any other.

But science does not exist alone as practice. It’s also a constellation of ideas that exist within culture and those ideas can gain value, in and of themselves, without connection to actual practice. In this way science becomes something more and less. For some people the idea of Science offers a trumped up certainty that yields its own false defense against the rootlessness that roots of our existence.

My co-blogger Marcelo Gleiser put it beautifully two weeks ago when he wrote, “what is pompous is to think that we can know all the answers. Or that it’s the job of science to find them.” When science as an idea is used to push away the tremulous reality of our lived existential uncertainty then it, too, is degraded. It becomes just another imaginary fixed point in a life without fixed points.

Of course it doesn’t have to be this way. The world’s history of spiritual endeavor contains many beautiful descriptions of authentic encounters with uncertainty. Ironically these often serve as gateways to the most compassionate experience of what can be called sacred in human life.

Buddhism’s First Noble Truth, which focuses specifically on the reality of change and suffering, serves as one example. In the Christian tradition works like the “Cloud of Unknowing,” a 14th century paean to the importance of experience over doctrine or dogma, serves as another. Dig around in most of the world’s great religious traditions and you find people finding their sense of grace by embracing uncertainty rather than trying to bury it in codified dogmas.

For science, embracing uncertainty means more than claiming “we don’t know now, but we will know in the future”. It means embracing the fuzzy boundaries of the very process of asking questions. It means embracing the frontiers of what explanations, for all their power, can do. It means understanding that a life of deepest inquiry requires all kinds of vehicles: from poetry to particle accelerators; from quiet reveries to abstract analysis.

Though I am an atheist, some of the wisest people I have met are those whose spiritual lives (some explicitly religious, some not) have forced them to continually confront uncertainty. This daily act has made them patient and forgiving, generous and inclusive. Likewise, the atheists I have met who most embody the ideals of free inquiry seem to best understand the limitations of every perspective, including their own. They encounter the ever shifting ground of their lives with humor, good will and compassion.

In the end, embracing uncertainty is to embrace a quality I have written about many times before: mystery. These lives we live, surrounded by beauty and horror, profound knowledge and pitiful ignorance, are a mystery to us all. To push that truth away with false certainty, falsely derived from either religion or reason, is to miss our most perfect truth.

We are, after all, just “such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”

This article originally appeared, here.

One of the most perplexing concepts in Buddhist philosophy is the doctrine of anatta, or ‘not-self’. Many have interpreted anatta to be a metaphysical assertion that there is no self, but I argue that this is mistaken. Rather, in line with Thanissaro Bhikkhu, I understand anatta as a practical strategy that has heuristic value in guiding one towards liberation. Furthermore, I propose that the acceptance of a subjective self can be consistent with and justified in Buddhism. This will be the focus of this essay.

Before I commence, I would like to issue a health warning. The ideas presented in this essay are in no way intended to be assertions of orthodoxy. I concede that they diverge from conventional attitudes, and so are likely to be considered controversial. My defence for this is that the Buddha discouraged reverence of dogma, and instead encouraged the gaining of insight through experience, enquiry, and reasoning, as evidenced by the following passage from the Kalama Sutta:Now, Kalamas, don’t go by reports, by legends, by traditions, by scripture, by logical conjecture, by inference, by analogies, by agreement through pondering views, by probability, or by the thought, ‘This contemplative is our teacher.’ When you know for yourselves that, ‘These qualities are skillful [sic]; these qualities are blameless; these qualities are praised by the wise; these qualities, when adopted and carried out, lead to welfare and to happiness’ — then you should enter and remain in them. (AN 3.65, trans. Thanissaro, 1994)As different people vary in their experiences, interests, and temperament, this empirical approach would lead to each person’s perspective of Buddhism being idiosyncratic. My own perspective is no exception. I therefore do not intend my perspective to be considered the authoritative view, but hope it can be forgiven as a personal interpretation, albeit one arrived at through the reflective approach encouraged by the Buddha.

To begin with, it is apparent, on exploration of the Pali Canon, that the Buddha never denies the existence of the self. To the contrary, he very clearly rejects annihilationism. In the Alagaddupama Sutta, he states:

Speaking in this way, teaching in this way, I have been erroneously, vainly, falsely, unfactually misrepresented by some brahmans and contemplatives [who say], ‘Gotama the contemplative is one who misleads. He declares the annihilation, destruction, extermination of the existing being.’ But as I am not that, as I do not say that, so I have been erroneously, vainly, falsely, unfactually misrepresented by those venerable brahmans and contemplatives [who say], ‘Gotama the contemplative is one who misleads. He declares the annihilation, destruction, extermination of the existing being.’ (MN 22, trans. Thanissaro, 2004)

Another passage can be found in the Yamaka Sutta, where some of the Buddha’s disciples advise Yamaka against annihilationism:Don’t say that, friend Yamaka. Don’t misrepresent the Blessed One. It’s not good to misrepresent the Blessed One, for the Blessed One would not say, ‘A monk with no more effluents, on the break-up of the body, is annihilated, perishes, and does not exist after death.’ (SN 22.85, trans. Thanissaro, 1997)A blanket denial of the self therefore has no basis in scripture, and directly contradicts the Buddha’s discouragement of annihilationist thought.

Interestingly, when confronted with direct questions about the metaphysics of the self, the Buddha often chose to maintain silence. A famous example is found in the Ananda Sutta:Having taken a seat to one side, Vacchagotta the wanderer said to the Master, ‘Now then, Venerable Gotama, is there a self?’ When this was said, the Master was silent. (SN 44.10, trans. Thanissaro, 2004)Edmond Holmes, in The Creed of Buddha (1908), interprets the Buddha’s maintenance of a dignified silence in response to Vacchagotta’s question as evidence of his acknowledgement of the existence of the self:

The words that are ascribed to him – words which may well have been his – suggest that some such thoughts as these were passing through his mind: “The Ego is real beyond all reality, but I cannot hope to make Vacchagotta understand this.” (p. 114)

Holmes suggests that if the Buddha did not believe in the self, he would have answered Vacchagotta’s question in the negative without hesitation, since “metaphysical atomism, like every other development of materialism, is very easy to explain” (p. 142). However, rather than directly answering Vacchagotta’s question in the affirmative, the Buddha remained silent. Holmes proposes that this is because the transcendental nature of the self would have been beyond the comprehension of Vacchagotta’s naïve mind at that stage in his spiritual development, and so Vacchagotta would have misunderstood the affirmative answer to his question. This in turn would have had a negative effect on his struggle for liberation.

Although Holmes’ theory is attractive, I argue that it makes quite an extravagant inference based on the Buddha’s silence. Quite simply, the Buddha may have remained silent because he did not find such metaphysical questions as conducive to Vacchagotta’s quest for liberation. This is evidenced by the fact that when asked by the Venerable Ananda about his silence regarding Vacchagotta’s question, the Buddha replied that Vacchagotta’s spiritual immaturity would have lead him to misinterpret any answer in a way that would bring him further attachment. This by itself is an adequate explanation for the Buddha’s silence, and there is no need to make any further inferences about the Buddha’s metaphysical views.

In addition to his rejection of annihilationism, some scholars have identified instances in the scriptures in which the Buddha appears to affirm the existence of a self. An example is Tony Page’s examination of theMahayana Mahaparinirvana Sutra, aptly entitled “Affirmation of Eternal Self in the Mahayana Mahaparinirvana Sutra” (2010). Consider the two following passages identified by Page:

The Self (atman) is reality (tattva), the Self is permanent (nitva), the Self is virtue (guna), the Self is eternal (sasvata), the Self is stable (dhruva), the Self is peace (siva).(Trans. Hodge, 2006)The True Self is the tathagata-dhatu [Buddha Principle, Buddha Element, Buddha Factor]. You should know that all beings do have it, but it is not apparent, since those beings are enveloped by immeasurable klesas [defects of mind, morality, and character] … (Trans. Hodge, 2005)

These passages appear to show the Buddha affirming the existence of the self in the metaphysical sense. Reminiscent of the Upanishads, he asserts that each and every being has a self which is real, eternal, and unconditioned.

Those inclined to the Theravada school may question the authenticity of the Mahayana Mahaparinirvana Sutra and feel compelled to overlook it. However, as observed by Joaquin Perez-Remon in his controversial book Self and Non-Self in Early Buddhism (1980), the Pali Canon also contains passages in which the Buddha appears to speak about the self in a positive sense. Perez-Remon identifies the following passage from the Mahaparinibbana Sutta:

Therefore Ananda, stay as those who have the self as island, as those who have the self as refuge, as those who have no other refuge. (DN 16, trans. Perez-Remon, 1980)

According to Perez-Remon, this famous passage “appears to assert, implicitly at least, the reality of atta” (p. 20). He also identifies a similar passage in the Dhammapada:

Your own self is your master; who else could be? With yourself well controlled, you gain a master very hard to find. (Dhp. XII. 160, trans. Perez-Remon, 1980)

Again, in this passage, the Buddha appears to uphold the self as something of the greatest importance.It has been argued that when the Buddha speaks about the self in passages such as those presented above, he is merely doing so in a conventional sense in order to facilitate communication, rather than in a metaphysical sense. However, it is when one considers the implications of such a conventional interpretation on the spiritual meaning of the above passages that one is able to appreciate the force of Perez-Remon’s argument. Perez-Remon argues that if the self had been intended in a conventional sense, then the above passages would be suggesting that one should consider one’s impermanent and insubstantial configuration of khandhas as an island and refuge, a line of thought which seems unlikely to have been advocated by the Buddha.

Peter Harvey (1995) argues that despite its scholarship, a problem with Perez-Remon’s thesis is that it attributes to the self qualities such as faith, “which must be seen as part of the personality-factor of ‘constructing activities’” (p. 19). Although Harvey does not accept the idea of a substantial self, he rejects annihilationism, and speaks about a subjective existence in nibbana¹ which he terms ‘nibbanic discernment’. Along similar lines, Miri Albihari, in “Against No-Atman Theories of Anatta” (2002), argues that absolute annihilationism with respect to the self is incompatible with the doctrine of nibbana. To claim that there is nothing beyond the conditioned khandhas is to assume the unsavoury view that there is nothing left to experience, and that nibbana is complete annihilation. However, throughout the Pali Canon, the Buddha frequently describes the state of nibbana in positive terms, as shown by the following examples:

… the subtle, the very-hard-to-see,
the ageless, permanence, the undecaying,
the surface-less, non-objectification,
peace, the deathless,
the exquisite, bliss, solace,
the exhaustion of craving,
the wonderful, the marvelous,
the secure, security,
nibbana… (SN 43, trans. Thanissaro, 1999)There is, monks, an unborn — unbecome — unmade — unfabricated. If there were not that unborn — unbecome — unmade — unfabricated, there would not be the case that emancipation from the born — become — made — fabricated would be discerned. But precisely because there is an unborn — unbecome — unmade — unfabricated, emancipation from the born — become — made — fabricated is discerned. (Ud 8.3, trans. Thanissaro, 1994)

Although the above terms from the Asankhata Samyutta can be regarded in a metaphorical sense, they at the very least indicate that there is something it is like to experience nibbana, and that this experience is positive. This refutes the interpretation of nibbana as a state of nothingness, thus implying the existence of subjective experience beyond the khandhas.

The view that there is a subjective existence beyond the conditioned khandas that persists after their dissolution is shared by George Grimm, who writes in The Doctrine of the Buddha (1958):

For, though none of the elements constituting our personality nor a soul standing behind it can form our real essence, Still We Are, a fundamental fact which remains even in face of this result. (p. 132)

He then goes on to write:

On the contrary we leave the world, in leaving behind the only thing still belonging to it, our corpse, – everything else we long before threw at its feet – and thus we proceed “to the glory of our Self”, a word not used by the Buddha, but this, not because of its being false, but because, according to what in our previous pages we have been saying, it might give rise only too easily to misinterpretations, in consequence of its relation to personality. (p. 160)

Not only does Grimm assert the reality of subjective existence beyond the khandhas, but he associates it with the realisation of nibbana and our ultimate reality, echoing his earlier observation, “I am: that is the most certain axiom there is” (p. 112).What Grimm is emphasising is the fundamentality of subjective being to existence itself. From a metaphysical perspective, I propose that the denial of such subjective being is fallacious. My existence as a subjective being is a basic fact that is impossible for me to deny. As illustrated by Descartes’ famous maxim, “Je pense donc je suis”, one can doubt the reality of the external world on the grounds that it may be no more than an illusion, but one cannot possibly doubt one’s own existence as an experiencing being, because the fact that one doubts implies that one exists. Any claim that being is illusory is therefore meaningless rhetoric, for there still needs to be something to experience an illusion. Similarly, as noted by Christmas Humphreys (1962), in the struggle for liberation, “it is the Self which is striving to understand itself” (p. 85).

Of course, the Buddha taught that a living being is constituted of a combination of conditioned khandhas. In the Vajira Sutta, the nun Vajira states:

Just as when, with an assemblage of parts, there’s the word, chariot, even so when aggregates are present, there’s the convention of living being. (SN 5.10, trans. Thanissaro, 1998)

The khandhas are a group of physical and mental aggregates which are in a perpetual state of flux and none of which can be identified with a self. Similarly, Hume observed that whenever he tried to direct his attention inwards, he was able to observe only a bundle of perceptions but not the experiencer of these perceptions. However, I argue that Hume’s difficulty was due to an attempt to objectivate something which is fundamentally subjective. Of course, he could not experience his self, because it is his self that is experiencing. What is experiencing is not an object that can be observed, but the subject. It is the existence or blank screen in which the bundle of perceptions manifests, and without which they could not manifest. Kant was fully aware of Hume’s error, and in his Critique of Pure Reason (1781) observed that “there must be a condition which precedes all experience, and which makes experience itself possible” (A 107).

My perspective therefore is that I am, or my self is, my consciousness. I am not referring to the vinnana khandha, for which ‘discernment’ is a more suitable translation, but to the subjective existence or blank screen in which all of my experiences are realised. The fact that I exist is the necessary condition for everything that I experience to be realised. The matter of my body is always being lost and replaced, and my mental state is always changing. However, there must be an existence for these physical and mental phenomena to manifest, and for the state of nibbana to be realised after the dissolution of the khandhas.
Others, including Peter Harvey and Thanissaro Bhikkhu, have also advocated the existence of unconditioned consciousness in nibbana. They identify instances in the Pali Canon in which the Buddha asserts the existence of such consciousness, such as in the following passage from theBrahmanimantanika Sutta:

Consciousness without surface, endless, radiant all around… (MN 49, trans. Thanissaro, 2007)

As argued by Thanissaro Bhikkhu, this consciousness does not refer to the conditioned vinnana khandha, but to unconditioned existence beyond space and time. In this sense, it is eternal, as it is not conditioned by time. This supposes a dualism between conditioned phenomena and this unconditioned consiousness. Peter Harvey (1990) elegantly describes the process liberation as this consciousness becoming “’unsupported’ (apatitthita) and free of constructing activities, so that it is released, steadfast, content, undisturbed, and attains Nibbana” (p. 63).

Although Harvey accepts that it is consciousness that attains nibbana, does not refer to it as self. I can appreciate his hesitation, for the term ‘self’ can appear to denote a substantial object which one owns, and so the application of the term to anything is likely to encourage further attachment. Others, such as Thanissaro Bhikkhu, argue that the terms ‘self’ and ‘not-self’ do not apply to the unconditioned after the dissolution of the conditioned khandhas. Again, I can sympathise with this view, for if what is not self is no longer there, there would be no need to categorise anything by applying concepts such as ‘self’ and ‘not-self’.  However, I argue that this is partly an issue with semantics. By identifying consciousness with self, I am not attempting to objectivate it or attribute to it any concepts associated with conditioned phenomena, but acknowledging it as the subjective basis of existence. Indeed, there is no object which I can equate with ‘I’, for ‘I’ is only a subject.

A similar view is expressed by the Burmese scholar Shwe Zan Aung in “A Dialogue on Nibbana” (1918). Aung depicts a Socratic dialogue in which the protagonist Agga, a Buddhist monk, presents his perspective that nibbana is one’s fruitional consciousness, and defends the existence of individuals innibbana. He does so by qualifying that individuality refers to each consciousness being a different subjective reality, and not to the characteristics of any substantial soul or ego. Consciousnesses differ from each other not because of any tangible properties, but merely with respect to their subjective personalisation:

Agga. This grammatical distinction is due to your view of the mind as subject and of Nibbana as object. But the latter cannot be an object without a subject. The fact is that the subject and the object are merged in an intuition. This follows from Buddhaghosa’s dictum that Nibbana is the fruitional consciousness itself. Nibbana is not thought but lived. Else Nibbana would be merely lip-bliss.Sumana. Am I to understand you to say that individuals exist in Nibbana?Agga. It all depends upon what you mean by ‘individual’. If you mean a soul in the sense in which it is generally understood in the West, I would reply No, because the ego idea is but a concept. But if you use the word as a mere label for realities, I would say Yes. Sariputta was a distinct individual from Moggallana on this side of the veil. Why should not their continuations be individually distinct on the other side?Each lives his own Nibbana. (Paccattam veditabbo vinnuhi). But it does not follow that they draw a line of demarcation between meum and tuum on the other side any more than they do on this side.

To further support this idea, there are instances in the Pali Canon in which the Buddha makes positive statements about individual beings after they had attained nibbana:

That is Mara, the Evil One. He is searching for the consciousness of Vakkali the clansman: “Where is the consciousness of Vakkali the clansman established?” But, monks, it is through unestablished consciousness that Vakkali the clansman has become totally unbound. (SN 22.87, trans. Thanissaro, 2005)

The Buddha also makes a similar utterance about the clansman Godhika in the Godhika Sutta. These passages suggest the acknowledgement of the existence of individuals in nibbana, very much in the manner suggested by Shwe Zan Aung’s protagonist Agga.

What I have presented in this essay so far suggests that the interpretation of the doctrine of anatta as a metaphysical denial of the self is incorrect. Rather, I propose that a more correct interpretation of the doctrine is the view advocated by Thanissaro Bhikkhu. He writes in his essay “No-self or Not-self?” (1996):

In this sense, the anatta teaching is not a doctrine of no-self, but a not-self strategy for shedding suffering by letting go of its cause, leading to the highest, undying happiness.

The doctrine of anatta, therefore, is not a metaphysical assertion, but a practical strategy that guides one to let go of attachment to conditioned phenomena and thus to achieve liberation.

This is view is supported by the way the term anatta is used in the Pali Canon. Consider the following passage from the Girimananda Sutta:

And what is the perception of not-self? There is the case where a monk — having gone to the wilderness, to the shade of a tree, or to an empty building — reflects thus: ‘The eye is not-self, forms are not-self; the ear is not-self, sounds are not-self; the nose is not-self, aromas are not-self; the tongue is not-self, flavors are not-self; the body is not-self, tactile sensations are not-self; the intellect is not-self, ideas are not-self.’ Thus he remains focused on not-selfness with regard to the six inner & outer sense media. This is called the perception of not-self. (AN 10.60, trans. Thanissaro)

Here, the term anatta is not used to deny the reality of the self, but to describe conditioned phenomena as not being the self. Therefore, the correct translation of anatta is not ‘no self’, but ‘not self’.

Indeed, it makes sense for the doctrine of anatta to be a practical strategy and not a metaphysical assertion. After all, it was not in the Buddha’s interests to teach metaphysics, but to help people to overcome suffering:

Both formerly and now, it is only stress that I describe, and the cessation of stress. (SN 22.86, trans. Thanissaro, 2004)

As a practical strategy, the doctrine of anatta teaches one to avoid falsely identifying oneself with conditioned phenomena, and thus to free oneself from attachment. It also helps one to overcome greed, for if even this body and this mind do not genuinely belong to me, how could I possibly justify being strongly attached to material possessions? Finally, I argue that it promotes respect and compassion for others, for the recognition of the insubstantiality of the material differences between people encourages one to respect others as being equal and to treat others as one would wish to be treated. When viewed in this light, one is able to appreciate what a wonderful teaching the doctrine of anatta is.

References

Thanissaro B (2002). “When You Know for Yourselves…” in The Karma of Questions. Metta Forest Monastery. 2002.

This essay originally appeared, here.

1. Pali for nirvana

Q. I was told that after Srila Prabhupada became ill he established in his temples the chanting of the Narasingha pranati (prayer to Lord Narasingha) because it is a very powerful mantra for the protection of the spiritual master. On the other hand certain devotees have told me that one should not chant this mantra because in their words, “It sends Radha and Krishna far away.” What then is the implication of Srila Prabhupada establishing such worship in his temples?

A. During my membership in Iskcon, Narasingha prayers were chanted after every arati ceremony, which in major temples were held six times daily. According to the book Prabhupada Lilamrta, our Srila Prabhupada established the chanting of the Narasingha pranati in May 1967, after he had what appeared to be a heart attack. Therein it is written:

“Devotees entered the front room of the apartment, and Prabhupada told them to chant Hare Krsna. Then he told them to pray to Krsna in his form of Narasinghadeva. [Satsvarupa said:] Swamiji said we should pray to Lord Narasingha and the prayer should be ‘My master has not finished his work.’ [Jadurani said:] He taught us the prayers to Lord Narasinghadeva. He said the words one by one, and I wrote them down. I called up the temples in San Francisco and Montreal and told them the prayer. Swamiji said, ‘You should pray to Krsna that, my spiritual master has not yet completed his work, so please let him finish.’”

The mantra Srila Prabhupada instituted in his society at that time is the Narasingha pranati that Mahaprabhu himself uttered in Puri Dhama along with a verse from Sri Jayadeva’s Dasa Avatara Stotram, which is found at the beginning of his book Gita Govinda, a very high rasa sastra. Apparently, Jayadeva was not worried about disturbing the divine couple when he prefaced his book with this stotram, a poem that under scrutiny speaks of “krsnas tu bhagavan svayam” while glorifying ten of Krishna’s avataras.

Neither was Sri Caitanya Mahaprabhu disturbed by the worship of Sri Narasinghadeva. In Caitanya-caritamrta it is written, “After seeing the Deity of Lord Narasingha in the temple, Sri Caitanya Mahaprabhu offered his respectful obeisances by falling flat. Then, in ecstatic love, he performed various dances, chanted, and offered prayers.” All glories to Narasinghadeva, who is the Lord of Prahlada Maharaja and, like a honeybee, is always engaged in beholding the lotus-like face of the goddess of fortune.”

In the Vrindavana lila, the inhabitants worship Narasingha, as well as Narayana and his other avataras, for the protection of Krishna. Sri Narahari is also prominent in Gaura lila, which is our approach to raga bhakti. There he is worshiped for the protection of Sri Krishna nama-sankirtana. As was done in Gaura lila, Srila Prabhupada worshiped him for the protection of his movement. With regard to the raga-marga, Thakura Bhaktivinoda offers the following prayers to Sri Narasinghadeva in his Navadvipa-bhava Taranga:

e dusta hrdaye kama adi ripu chaya
kutinati pratisthasa sathya sada raya
hrdaya-sodhana ara krsnera vasana
nrsimha-carane mora ei to’ kamana

Within my sinful heart the six enemies headed by lust perpetually reside, as well as duplicity, the desire for fame, plus sheer cunning. Residing at the lotus feet of Lord Narasingha, I pray that he will mercifully purify my heart and give me the desire to serve Lord Krishna.

kandiya nrsimha-pade magibo kakhana
nirapade navadvipe jugala-bhajana
bhaya bhaya paya yan’ra darsane se hari
prasanna hoibo kabe more daya kari

Weeping, I will beg at the lotus feet of Lord Narasingha for the benediction of worshipping Radha and Krishna in Navadvipa, perfectly safe and free from all difficulties. When will this Lord Hari, whose terrible form strikes fear into fear itself, ever become pleased and show me his mercy?

yadyapi bhisana murti dusta-jiva-prati
prahladadi krsna-bhakta-jane bhadra ati
kabe va prasanna ho’ye sa krpa-vacane
nirbhaya karibe ei mudha akincane

Even though Lord Narasingha is terrifying toward the sinful souls, he offers great auspiciousness unto the devotees of Lord Krishna headed by Prahlada Maharaja. When will he be pleased to speak words of compassion unto me, a worthless fool, and thereby make me fearless?

svacchande baiso he vatsa sri-gauranga-dhame
jugala-bhajana hau rati hau name
mama bhakta-krpa-bale vighna jabe dura
suddha citte bhajo radha-krsna-rasa-pura

He will say, “Dear child! Sit down freely and live happily here in Sri Gauranga dhama. May you nicely worship the divine couple, and may you develop loving attachment for their holy names. By the mercy of my devotees, all obstacles are cast far away. With a purified heart, just perform the worship of Radha and Krishna, for such worship overflows with sweet nectar.”

ei boli’ kabe mora mastaka-upara
sviya sri-carana harse dharibe isvara
amani jugala-preme sattvika vikare
dharaya lutibo ami sri-nrsimha-dvare

Saying this, will that Lord delightedly place his own divine lotus feet upon my head? I will experience sublime love for the divine couple, Radha-Krsna, and undergo the ecstatic transformations called sattvika. Falling on the ground, I will roll about at the door of Sri Narasingha’s temple.

Here at Audarya we worship a Narasingha sila with these prayers of Thakura Bhaktivinoda and we sing Jayadeva’s stotram on the appearance days of the various avataras mentioned therein. In his prayer, Bhaktivinoda Thakura shows us how to pray to attain eligibility for raganuga-bhakti. Having attained such eligibility—or better stated, jata-ruci raganuga-bhakti—the worship of Narahari Bhagavan will certainly diminish in the life of the raganuga-sadhaka as he or she focuses exclusively on his or her ista-devata. However, in perfection the worship of Sri Narasinghadeva may again surface in an effort to achieve something for one’s dearmost, Sri Krishna. In this case one would be praying to God to accomplish something for Krishna while unaware, due to the influence of yogamaya, that Krishna is svayam bhagavan. I also personally worship Narasinghadeva with a prayer to understand the meaning of Srimad-Bhagavatam, as he revealed its meaning to Sridhara Swami, whose commentary Mahaprabhu so praised. I first offered this prayer in Jaipura, where Sri Jiva Goswami’s Radha-Damodara are served along with a Deity of Narasinghadeva.

All considered, I do think it is important for devotees to cultivate a conceptual orientation to the worship of Narasinghadeva that is appropriate for serving Krishna in the mood of Vraja bhakti. Unfortunately, a good number of so-called devotees of Narasinghadeva are attracted to thoughts of personally “fighting with demons” and thus they worship him for wrong reasons. For Gaudiya Vaishnavas, the right reason to worship him is as Bhaktivinoda prays, “to beg at the lotus feet of Lord Narasingha for the benediction of worshipping Radha and Krishna in Navadvipa, perfectly safe and free from all difficulties.” The best example of worship of Narasinghadeva is Prahlada, who was so gentle. Those who actually understand this sad-aisvarya form of Bhagavan become gentle as well.

As for the idea that the worship of Narasingha chases Radha-Krsna far away, let me give you an example of the opposite occurring. It is well documented that on the occasion of Narasingha Caturdasi Gopala Bhatta Goswami was deeply and prayerfully contemplating the intensity of Prahlada’s bhakti and how it caused Sri Narasinghadeva to appear from a stone pillar. He contemplated this great wonder while wishing he had his own Deity of Krishna to offer seva-puja to and hoping that Mahaprabhu would soon fulfill his promise to visit him in Vrindavana. When he awoke, the deity of Radha-Ramana, who is considered to be nondifferent from Mahaprabhu, appeared from one of his saligrama stones. So in other words, when Gopala Bhatta Goswami contemplated Prahlad and Narasinghadeva, the result was not the disappearance of Radha and Krishna but rather their appearance.

Worth noting here is that Srimad-Bhagavatam makes it very clear that Prahlada’s ista-devata was Krishna. In a Sanga entitled “Eagerness for Vraja Bhakti,” I cited references for this in reply to a question about his devotion. The point is that Narasinghadeva is a special manifestation of Krishna—Krishna appearing in a form suitable to the circumstances, the protection of Prahlada. Of course, Prahlada is a vaidhi-bhakta, so he worshiped Krishna in vaidhi-bhakti, not raganuga-bhakti.

It is also interesting to note that Srila Prabhupada told us to pray in one way in the beginning of his preaching and a different way as he neared the end of his preaching lila. In the beginning he asked us to petition Bhagavan Narasingha to protect his preaching—the message of Gaura, the order of Sri Radha’s handmaiden, Nayanamani (Sri Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati Thakura). In the end he told us when we asked if we could pray for him to pray to Krishna thus: “My dear Lord Krishna, if you so desire, please save Srila Prabhupada.” Similarly, we find the worship of Narasingha Bhagavan in Sri Caitanya Mahaprabhu’s adi and madhya lilas, but it is for the most part absent in his antya-lila. His antya-lila is filled with the exclusive worship of Govinda in the bhava of Radha.

The following is another installment of our classroom series: Sri Upadesamrta, with Illuminations by Srila B. R. Sridhara Deva Goswami, published by Gosai Publishers, 2009. View past installments, here.

Text Four

dadati pratigrhnati
guhyam akhyati prcchati
bhunkte bhojayate caiva
sad-vidham priti-laksanam

Offering gifts and accepting gifts, revealing one’s mind in confidence and inquiring confidentially, accepting prasada and offering prasada – these are the six symptoms of love shared by devotees.

Illumination by B. R. Sridhara Deva Goswami

These are the six kinds of association with a sadhu. Higher association is only possible with a serving attitude, otherwise there is no sanga. Lower association means exploitation and enjoyment, but higher association can only be achieved through service. By proper association the quality of your service will increase. Sadhu-sanga and sadhu-seva is of the utmost importance. The Gaudiya Matha stresses the importance of sadhu-seva—serving the sadhu. Whatever you do by the command of the higher devotee will, through him, surely connect you with a higher conception of the Absolute. Whatever you do, do it with that connection from above and carry out his order.

Offering Gifts and Accepting Gifts

Dadati pratigrhnati—we shall come to present new things to the sadhus and try to live by the old remnants left by them. Giving something for the service of a sadhu and taking his prasadam—whatever he gives, we accept that. We can increase our attraction and love for a person in such a way by giving him raw items and by accepting his prasadam. To give items to be utilized by him, and whatever is necessary for ourselves. I won’t try to take anything new, but only that which has been rejected by the Vaishnava or guru, whether it is a garland, clothes, different decorations, or whatever. We shall try to live by the remnants of the Vaishnavas. We shall present new things to the sadhus, and we shall try to live by their remnants—tena tyaktena bhunjitha. Give and take. Give and take eternally, internally and externally, whatever my position. In taking we get a higher thing from him. Raw materials we supply, and we get remnants from him. In this way I can improve my position. If we accept the energy of worldly men then generally our minds will become polluted and impure. And if the mind is impure, then the remembrance of Krishna will not be very clear.

visayira anna khaile malina haya mana
malina mana haile nahe krsnera smarana

If one eats the food of a materialist, one’s mind becomes polluted. When the mind becomes polluted one cannot remember Krishna.¹

When I accept the elaborate energy of a materialist, then the poison of his mind comes with his energy, with his money and all these things. The energy comes carrying the mentality of the owner. To accept that means to digest that. But one who is able to digest it can utilize it. Visasya visam-ausadham: poison is medicine to poison. Poison can also be utilized as medicine. The divine agent can utilize poison as nectar, otherwise it will kill the person who is taking the energy of the materialist.

Only madhukari-bhiksa, collecting from a particular person, will take away his sin or virtue. Anything that comes with his energy is transmitted. We are feeding on him, exploiting him and that exploitation must have a reaction. Madhukara—just as bees collect every particle of honey from here and there. They do not care so much, they do not look to get any return for that—a small particle perhaps, it does not matter. If we collect our food in that way then there is no possibility of some reaction coming. Madhukari-bhiksa has been recommended for the tyagis. But we Gaudiya Matha people collect their energy as much as we can utilize. Our aim is a little different—we want to help them and we do not collect it for our personal purpose. It is for the general service of the Lord and his devotees. In an organic way we help them. We will use the energy from impure sources and, by hook or by crook, utilize that in the fire sacrifice that is lit in a grand way for the satisfaction of Krishna and his activity. What is that activity? The chanting of his name on a big scale. Sankirtana-yajna, a great sacrificial organic attempt has been accepted and we are to collect things for that. And because I am also rendering some service, as remuneration I may take something. For the purpose of service I am to maintain my health and I shall take only what is necessary. This is yukta-vairagya. We are not taking anything for our personal utilization so we do not feel any contamination. One will suffer if he collects another’s energy for his own selfish purpose, but if he can utilize the energy of someone for the service of Krishna in the congregational chanting of his name to purify the whole world, then there is no apprehension of being contaminated by that energy.

Whatever we receive we should think it is from our guru. I am eating the remnants of my Gurudeva. I am doing some service and as a servant I am entitled to take some remains. Tena tyaktena bhuñjitha ma grdhah kasya svid dhanam—we have no greed for others property, but it is all being utilized for their benefit in the sankirtana-yajna. And as a servant I have some duty to discharge, therefore I am to keep my body fit and for that purpose I am taking the avasesa (remnants).

tvayopabhukta-srag-gandha
vaso-’lankara-carcitah
ucchista-bhojino dasas
tava mayam jayema hi

By decorating ourselves with the garlands, scents, clothes and ornaments that you have already enjoyed, and by eating the remnants of your food, we, your servants, will certainly conquer your illusory potency.²

Uddhava says that there are ways of getting out of this mayika entanglement. “Only by honoring your remains can we conquer maya. I am grateful to you and none else in this world. I am your servant and must live on the remains after you have taken. Thereby, by this single attempt, we can conquer the whole world. There is no glamour for anything in this world for us.” That is the nature of the attempt of this organized preaching of the Gaudiya Matha. You can even accept a kingdom, but not for yourself but for God. And from whomever they take, he is benefited. With this angle of vision we will be individually responsible for our transaction with the outside parties.

When something is dedicated for the service of Krishna it is a conscious unit. Will a man allow his wife to serve another gentleman? Will she allow? Everything is meant for Krishna consciousness, and not for any other consciousness. Only for him. Everything here is exclusively meant for Krishna and no other god. We are not materialists. Everything is conscious and fresh. And no other spirit is allowed except to fully dedicate oneself to the Lord. Every flower born here is only to satisfy Krishna. Radharani will curse us if we try to utilize it for the service of others. They are all meant for this. They will curse us. Here in the temple also – trespassers may pluck flowers, for medicinal purposes they will take some things, but it pains my heart. They are all meant for the service of Krishna. For medical purposes some people may take a root or something. I ask them, “Go to Mahaprabhu, take his permission, then take it.” If it is necessary and it cannot be avoided then I tell them, “Go, you get his permission first.”

Once I heard at the Yogapitha, the appearance place of Mahaprabhu, there was one kadamba tree. At that time Prabhupada was coming out to go to Calcutta and one devotee said, “A new flower has come on the kadamba tree, it has not been given to Prabhupada.” He took a flower and ran towards the car of Prabhupada.
Prabhupada asked, “What is this?”
“A new flower from the Yogapitha temple tree.”
“A new flower?”
“We have come to show you, Prabhupada, and we shall give to Mahaprabhu.”
“Then go and show it to Mahaprabhu. Take his permission and then bring to me. I am going away now. If I was staying, you could put it in my hand and I could show him. But I am going away, now go and show him and then bring it to me. You have got to take his permission.”

That is prasada. Anugraha—dedicated. To show to him is to dedicate. Then we can take the prasada. He is our shelter. This is the key to our life—tena tyaktena. After offering to him, then you use it.

yajna-sistasinah santo
mucyante sarva-kilbisaih
bhunjate te tv agham papa
ye pacanty atma-karanat

Saintly persons are liberated from all types of sins by accepting the remnants of foodstuffs offered in sacrifice. However, those who cook for themselves eat only sin.³

Whenever you dedicate anything to your own self, you create sin. You create disharmony in the environment. But if you offer it to the center, Yajna—to Visnu, and then you use, harmony is maintained. Everything is created to serve Krishna—everything. You must dedicate anything and everything to him and then you can take the prasada remaining. Isavasyam idam sarvam: everywhere, everything is in the possession of the Supreme Entity, everything belongs to him. There should be no disturbance to the law and order. The law and order of the whole should be kept intact. You live here as a loyal subject. You all live as loyal subjects, not illegal—physically or even mentally. Thought, word and deed—you must be a loyal subject in this kingdom of the Lord. That is what is required from us. Then there is peace and harmony and no reaction. Otherwise there will be reaction and you will have to suffer for that.

Revealing One’s Mind and Inquiring Confidentially

Guhyam akhyati—I should reveal my innermost feelings to the sadhu, “From my innermost heart I feel these many particular things within myself. Are these feelings good or bad? And if bad, what is the remedy?” We shall place our inner heart before him so that he may examine us and proceed accordingly. Whatever the innermost feeling is, that should be divulged to a sadhu. I must reveal everything of my entire heart to him and also hear what is conceived within his heart. The private things within my heart must be disclosed, and I must acquire the private things within his heart. I shall inquire about the inner wealth within his heart. Prcchati means inquiry. We will ask his advice and put questions which are necessary for me at this stage. “What is the secret of your holy life? Please tell me and I shall try to follow that example in order to get out of my present circumstances. In your case how did you gain relief?” We shall try to collect the secrets for success in life from a sadhu.

tad viddhi pranipatena
pariprasnena sevaya
upadeksyanti te jnanam
jnaninas tattva-darsinah

Such knowledge should be achieved through submission, inquiry and service to those who are wise and have seen the Supreme Truth.⁴

Pariprasna. Honest, sincere inquiry is always allowed, but not with the tendency towards tarka, argument. Not with argument—all our efforts should be concentrated to understand in a positive line without leaving a state of doubt or suspicion. With all attention you shall try to understand, because it is coming from a higher source where I am not known.

Pariprasna will be the outcome of surrender. “I am hopeless, I can’t ascertain the truth, it is a dire necessity for me but I can’t help myself.” With this hankering and with no hope of any remedy, I shall most humbly try and start to inquire modestly. I shall try to know, “What is this? What is that? What is the meaning?” The mood should not be that, “I shall finish knowing about this matter.” That sort of attitude will not allow us to enter into the real domain. Nor should we inquire simly out of curiosity or a desire for philosophical mastership or anything of that kind. Its only necessity is for the satisfaction of the Lord. Reality is by itself and for itself. It must be for himself. For His interest this prasna (inquiry) is necessary. Inquiry should be made only to satisfy Krishna and the devotees of Krishna—for his cause, not for my cause if it is independent of his satisfaction.

Another most important thing is that it is also necessary for service. Service is the only important thing. “What is necessary? What will be necessary to render proper service?” – that sort of pariprasna is required. A dire necessity for service, for discharging my duty. I want to serve the cause, not to lord it over. If the spirit within is to lord it over, everything will be spoiled. It is not a plane of us being masters. It is not something that we can use according to our whim. We are putting ourselves into the fire—what I am, that will vanish and from within my higher, divine self will come out. What I am presently is a nasty thing, but what is within me, that is divine and noble. With this hope we shall go.

1. Cc. Antya 6.278
2. Bhag. 11.6.46
3. Gita 3.13
4. Gita 4.34

Reviewed by: Richard Coles

Both friends and foes of the Church of England might think that the title of this book, Religion for Atheists, is one we’ve already claimed. We set a low hurdle, it is said, which many sceptics clear with ease, and once over they seem to find the tentativeness of our enthusiasms, the Gwen John palette of our prayer, if not exactly congenial, then not unpleasant.Alain de Botton might belong to this group, were it not for this, in the first chapter: “Let us state that of course no religions are true in any God-given sense.” That he should reach his conclusion so confidently and so early on would, you’d think, spare him the effort of engaging seriously with religion and spare us the effort of reading the rest of the book. He does persevere, however, and so should we, for our efforts are rewarded. His prose is lovely: clear, gently persuasive, light of touch – he would have made a marvellous preacher – and the text is illustrated with helpful photographs suggesting, to paraphrase Emily Dickinson, that the truth is best told slant.

It is a great relief, also, to come across a book with the word “atheists” in the title that responds to the claims of religion and its adherents with something more than an attack of the vapours. Others, more hostile in intent, leave their readers with the impression that affiliation to a church is equivalent to, say, participating actively in the Spanish Inquisition. De Botton, in welcome contrast, concedes that religion might not only be benign but also offer things of value for all. In my little town, for example, if you are old and alone, church and chapel between them provide daily amusements, solidarity with one’s peers, contact with the young, practical support and help and a fathomless wealth of biscuits. Seven centuries ago, in this unremarkable part of the English Midlands, the town folk built a church so beautiful that it gave shape to their hopes of a life transcending this worldly weal and woe – a function that it continues to perform today.

De Botton suggests that these modest examples are derived from religious faith and commitment, powerful stuff, which on a wider scale have enabled liberal education to flourish, societies to cohere, and individuals to engage with one another in peculiarly rich and successful ways. He rather interestingly contrasts going out to eat in a restaurant with the Eucharist. The former gathers people in a convivial setting to eat together only for them to pretend that they are in fact alone, sitting there in isolating pools of light whispering to one another over their sea bass. The latter, originally a shared meal, turns strangers into brothers and sisters through the practice of what theologians call koinonia – communion through participation. This is not to say that De Botton is unmindful of the yawning chasm between what religious people hope to do and what they actually achieve, but he does think that there is credit in having a go.

For these, and other reasons, De Botton urges his readers not to ignore or scorn religion but to steal from it. We may no longer feel the need to profess extraordinary beliefs and circumcise our boy children but we could all use a revived sense of community, an enlivening of our sympathies, and a strengthening of our powers to enjoy or endure existence. He recommends, for example, the erection of temples to secular virtues, structures – like mosques or Stonehenge or St Mary the Virgin, Finedon – in which our values and aspirations are “solidified and celebrated”. That makes sense, and some illustrations are provided; but to me – and here is where we part company – they look like pavilions from a minor Baltic expo. Could a Temple of Reflection or Campanile of Perspective or Henge of Higgs Bosons ever do for us what Lincoln Cathedral or the Al-Azhar mosque did for our ancestors? I do not think so, because they do not have the same designs on us, body and soul. In these secular temples our deepest longings and fears may indeed be “mirrored and contextualised” but they are not redeemed.

I think I share a secular person’s sense of awe and wonder at a starlit sky or a subatomic particle behaving ambiguously; I too find deep consolation in the sublime indifference of nature – the one thing that makes me feel nostalgic for atheism – but Christianity does not offer consolation, it offers salvation. That is why people built cathedrals, and in other dispensations enormous mosques and complexes of temples: they sought, and seek, salvation, and for this God‑givenness seems to me essential.

This article originally appeared on The Observer.

Some terms come with a built-in halo. We use words like inclusive, liberation, empowerment, and diversity to characterize that which we aim to praise. For example, when a murderer gets off on a technicality, we say that he has been released rather than liberated. A club that welcomes membership from all who should be invited is inclusive, whereas one which denies membership to some who are entitled to it is exclusionary. Importantly, a club that has a highly restricted membership but does not deny membership to anyone who is entitled to it is not exclusionary, but exclusive. A club is exclusionary when it unjustifiably denies membership to some; it is exclusive when its membership is justifiably limited. In short, many terms do double-duty as both descriptive and evaluative. Or, to put the matter more precisely, some terms serve to describe how things stand from an evaluative perspective.

This is not news. However, it is worth noting that a lot can be gained from blurring the distinction between the descriptive and evaluative senses of such terms. For example, when one succeeds at describing an institution as exclusionary, one often thereby succeeds at placing an argumentative burden on those who support it. Now supporters of the institution in question must not only make their case in favor of the institution; they must also make an additional argument that it is not, in fact, exclusionary. Sometimes what looks like argumentative success is really just success at complicating the agenda of one’s opponents.

The point works in the other direction, too. When one successfully casts a policy as one which furthers diversity and empowers individuals, one has already made good progress towards justifying it. Very few oppose diversity and empowerment, and so a policy which is understood to embrace these values is to some extent ipso facto justified; those who support the policy in question simply need to announce that it serves diversity and empowerment. This is vindication by association.

The trouble with halo terms is that their power derives from their vagueness. As we have noted, everyone opposes exclusionary institutions and supports inclusive ones because everyone agrees that institutions should include all who should be included. And there’s the rub. There is far less agreement over the details concerning who is entitled to inclusion and why; in fact, on any issue of substance, there is great disagreement over these matters. Halo terms serve to distract away from the controversial details and towards the wholly endorsable but nearly vacuous verbal formulae: Include everyone who should be included! Permit the permissible! Do what’s right! These are not judgments so much as slogans parading as judgments.

In Philosophy, pluralism is a halo term, and it is put to use in a wide variety of contexts across a range of disciplinary sub-fields, including political philosophy, ethics, logic, metaphysics, and epistemology. But the term is used also in discussions about the nature of Philosophy itself. Sometimes, entire schools of thought are characterized as pluralistic, and others are dismissed for being “narrow” or otherwise non-pluralistic. In the arena of professional Philosophy, there is consequently a lot of jockeying for control over the term and its application. Much of this is somewhat embarrassing and rightly contested.

Naturally, trouble emerges when one tries to get a clear sense of what philosophical pluralism is. In a newly published book, Pluralism and Liberal Politics, one of us (Talisse) has tried to work through these complex issues. The term is often used to designate a commitment to a range of admirable traits, including open-mindedness and toleration. Sometimes it is also meant to convey an appreciation of diversity, or even the view that differences are good and should be encouraged. Self-identifying with the view seems, further, to correlate with other commitments, like taking underrepresented groups seriously, maintaining dialogue, and avoiding dogmatism about both the nature of Philosophy and the variety of value. Yet, in the end, all such conceptions of pluralism are vacuous. Here’s why. No conception of toleration or open-mindedness recommends those virtues across the board. Every conception of toleration identifies limits to what deserves toleration; and every conception of open-mindedness draws a distinction between possibilities that are worth being open to and those which are not. No advocate of toleration recommends that we tolerate real-world bands of armed fascists bent on world domination; no proponent of open-mindedness would suggest that we give closed-minded dogmatic bigotry a try. Every conception of toleration and open-mindedness identifies limits to what must be tolerated and seriously considered. But that is to say that on any conception of toleration and open-mindedness, there will be some views which are intolerable and unworthy of serious consideration.

Here again is the rub. Even the most dogmatic among us takes himself to be tolerant and open-minded; on his view, he tolerates everything that deserves toleration and openly considers all positions worthy of consideration. As it turns out, the dogmatist simply has far more circumscribed conceptions of what deserves toleration and serious consideration. So the disagreement between the dogmatist and others is not properly characterized a disagreement concerning the value of open-mindedness or toleration. The disagreement rather concerns the substantive matter of what the proper scope of toleration and open-mindedness is.

One may be tempted to cast the dogmatist as someone who employs an unduly narrow conception of what must be tolerated. And this may be correct so far as it goes. But, in the end, it does not go very far. Once again, every conception of the scope of toleration identifies limits to the tolerable. And for every conception of toleration, there is some other conception that charges the first with undue narrowness. To return to our original point, although our use of terms like toleration sometimes suggests that there is a simple, clean and purely descriptive way of separating out the tolerant from the intolerant, there is in the end no way of eschewing the substantive evaluative issues.

Accordingly, if pluralism is the philosophical position that recognizes differences within a given domain of philosophical inquiry and advocates toleration and open-mindedness across those differences, it is nearly vacuous. No one in Philosophy advocates intolerance and closed-mindedness; rather, philosophers differ over substantive questions concerning what kinds of differences can be plausibly seen as philosophical differences, as opposed to differences between Philosophy and something else, such as natural science or literary theory. Those who vie for the label in order to apply it to their own favored position or agenda within Philosophy are involved in political sloganeering, not meta-philosophical argument.

Yet there seems to be a paradox at the heart of the idea of pluralism as a political movement within Philosophy. Political movements must be set against an opponent. But philosophers who embrace the pluralist label present themselves as the champions of legitimate philosophical opposition, and welcoming of the full variety of philosophical difference. They are bound, then, to see their opposition as deriving from outside of Philosophy properly construed. For if they recognized the opposition between pluralists and non-pluralists as a dispute within Philosophy, they would have to embrace the legitimacy of both sides, and would have no basis for a political movement within the discipline. As it turns out, like everyone else, the self-described pluralists advocate for toleration of the tolerable, and inclusion of that which is entitled to inclusion. And it turns out that for the self-described pluralists, the category of the tolerable and to-be-included extends only as far those who see Philosophy in roughly the same way they see it.

This article originally appeared on 3 Quarks Daily.

Everything begins with a seed. The ancient scriptures describe this seed, or bija, as sonic in origin. They paint mystical pictures of a primordial sound from which the entire cosmos sprung. They see planets, stars and galaxies magically strung together by sonic frequencies. Even quantum physics has now discovered this unified and underlying field of dynamic vibrations upon which all life floats. Our physical universe thus has an intrinsic musical quality to it. At an atomic level, everything is dancing and making it’s own “music,” vibrating at different sonic frequencies. There are sounds that either further our entrapment in the transitory world, or sounds that liberate us from it. In yoga we attune ourselves to the liberating, or divine frequencies in the universe. And through our yoga practice we can play our part in the symphony of sacred sounds.

Of all the most ancient surviving rituals of humankind, none remains as widely practiced in modern times as that of engaging one’s voice in creating sounds that celebrate divinity. Across the various faiths and traditions that decorate our world, whether one is aware of life’s sonic origin or not, the human heart has always been moved to express itself through sound. After all, we first assert our very existence through the sounds we make as newborns. The validation that we exist then occurs when our first cries elicit appropriate and loving responses from our original nurturers. We thus learn that we have a powerful sonic effect on life, and conversely, that we are also dramatically affected by the sounds all around us. Auditory experiences leave imprints on our consciousness unlike any other stimuli perceived by our senses. The potential for sounds to affect us on a deep emotional level makes music our universal language. And according to ancient traditions, music is everywhere.

We hear musical language in the songs of birds, in the trickling of brooks, the beating of drums, crickets at night, stormy seas and the laughter and cries in everything. The ancient primal traditions believed that the universe surrounding us “sings” to us. The meaning of such songs requires no explanation, as the vibratory energy birthing each sound is self-evident. In Sanskrit this is called samskrita, or “perfectly formed communication,” as it denotes an intimate relationship between the structure of reality and the sound being produced. The Mimamsa school of philosophy declares that all sounds already exist eternally, and they only require a shift in airs, or breath (universal or individual) for their manifestation. This shifting of airs (prana) is activated by fire (agni), or light; also symbolic of knowledge. The language of Sanskrit is thus believed to have arisen from an intimate knowledge with that which was being expressed through sound, and is to be understood as a most powerful medium of revelation. The ancient Vedic hymns, believed to be direct manifestations of sacred sounds, were first “heard” (sruti) by the poetic sages who then synthesized them by putting them into written form. This “hearing” occurs first in one’s own consciousness. Then conscious revelation assumes a sonic counterpart. This consistency between sounds (sabda) and their manifested meaning (artha), or the reality they signify, establishes clarity of communication. The universe has always spoken to us in a clear language. But what is it saying to us?

The universe speaks to us constantly about the divine nature of everything! The Chandogya Upanishad describes all music, all songs, all speech and all sounds, as being held together by pranava omkara, just as leaves are held together on a branch. Yogis identify the sacred syllable “Om” as the original sacred sound from which all others come. It was never created, nor will it ever be destroyed. All sounds already exist eternally within Om, and it is mere vibratory shifts in our consciousness that lead to their reproduction. This conscious shift begins with speaking and singing from our hearts, as  “the nature of the ether within the space of the heart” (antar-hrdayakasa-sabdham) is verily the same as the syllable Om¹. Practitioners of yoga aim at creating only sounds that emanate directly from their hearts, or the space within us that is qualitatively non-different from that of Om. More often than not, it is a lonely, hungry, or aching heart that initiates one’s journey into sacred sound.

The Vedic literature offers an illustrative narrative of the manner in which the first created being in our universe first experienced sacred sound. It is directly linked with a heartfelt desire to align oneself with one’s own divine purpose. Feeling unfulfilled and sitting alone upon the lotus flower of his blossoming consciousness, we find Brahma, the Puranic deity of worldly creation. Inviting his raison de vivre to manifest, the first thing Brahma does is listen in quiet meditation. Attuning himself to the music of the universe, or Vak, she appears before him as Saraswati, the goddess of music and learning, and offers him a valuable tool to help him center himself within his heart. The valuable tool is mantra, and it serves to release (tra) his mind (manas) into a state of receptivity to sacred sound. Once Brahma’s listening deepens, he feels his heart become impregnated with Sabdha-Brahman: the Upanishadic term for divine, or absolute sound². The enchanting sound was that of Krishna’s flute, non-different from Om in spiritual potency, which then blossomed into the Gayatri mantra, and then further, into the “four essential verses” or catuh-sloki of the Bhagavata Purana, and subsequently, the entire Vedas! Thus the search for life’s meaning and divine revelation becomes tightly bound with the experience of sacred sound. Mantra prepares us for this experience.

Mantras are recipes of creation. Like speech and music, their sound vibrations are infused with specific creative energies. The ancient healing science of Ayurveda recognizes three types of mantras, corresponding to the three distinct qualities permeating the physical universe. Vedic texts describe this constituent energy in sounds as the “blueprints” for the physical form a sound will assume, or the effect it will have on the environment. Particular sonic “codes” inform matter as to what it should look like on the outside. Visual representations of mantras, involving specific colors and geometrical structures that imbibe the mantra’s energy, are called yantras. From the yantras, other forms are generated. Every material object we encounter, even every subtle emotion, has a sonic counterpart. Amazingly, mystic yogis are said to be able to physically manifest an object from the mere recitation of a mantra containing its sonic seeds. We have the same capacity to mystically manifest our own divine consciousness through engaging mantras with the appropriate sonic origins. This divine consciousness rests within us, at the very core of our beings.

The most powerful experience of a divine mantra occurs when we release our mind into its sonic manifestation through a circuitous recitation of sacred mantras: “That [verbal representation of the supreme divine object] is to be repeated constantly and its meaning is felt within one’s heart” ((taj-japas tad-arthabhavanam, Yoga Sutras 1.28, Dr. Graham Schweig’s translation)). Here the sage Patanjali encourages the heartfelt, continuous repetition of a divine mantra, which then invites its spiritual essence to manifest in our lives.

Mantras are made of mysterious, timeless constituents that have the power to pull the reins on our fleeting thoughts and lure us into deeply joyful experiences of being. Mantras are keys that unlock our soul’s natural, inner dialogue with divinity. Mantras are therefore essential to a thriving yoga practice. Whether recited aloud with musical accompaniment in the company of others who are doing the same (kirtana), or recited in prayerful, solitary meditation (japa), the intonation of sacred sound in the form of mantra stands alone in it’s unique potency to swiftly elevate consciousness. The only prerequisite for effectively chanting a mantra is to entirely suspend one’s identification with the mind. For a yogi, the greatest sacrifice, or yajna, is to surrender one’s mind to the mantra. This offering of one’s mind unto the oral recitation of ritual language, or mantra, is the longest surviving means humanity has engaged to connect with its own divine origins. From antiquity to the present, kirtana and japa meditation thrive within a species that refuses to limit itself to the confines of matter.

Entirely beyond the dizzying cycles of material existence, in the divine realm where every word is a song and every step is a dance in celebration of divinity, ancient Sanskrit poetry reveals an awe inspiring kirtana that consisted of sixteen thousand main participants! The Bhagavata Purana’s tenth book, known as the rasa-lila of Krishna, glows with beautiful descriptions of female masters of yoga, called gopis. In response to a love call sent out by divinity (when Krishna plays his flute), the perfect yoginis are spontaneously inspired to link arms with one another, and with divinity, creating a perfect circle of song, music and dance. This circle is known as the rasa-mandala, and great teachers reveal that it as the very seed of all the kirtanas that have decorated the ethereal airs ever since!

When we offer our hearts to the practice of kirtana, sounding sacred verse or sacred mantras, we invite an intimate connection with divinity, just as the gopis achieved with Krishna when they linked arms in the rasa-mandala. This linking is at the heart of yoga, embedded, in fact, into its very definition: from the Sanskrit root word “yuj”, meaning “to join” “to yoke”, to “connect.” But beyond the obvious intimacy between the soul and divinity, the rasa-mandala points to a powerful connection between the individual members of the collective community of yogis and yoginis who mutually strive to become intimate with the divine. This spiritual community is called sangha, and is meant to enliven our dance with the divine. In Graham Schweig’s book, The Dance of Divine Love, he extends the definition of sangha as symbolized by the rasa-mandala, to embrace all different religious traditions. The gopis synchronized song and dance in the rasa-lila (a manifestation of their synchronized sentiments in celebrating divinity), thus becomes a model of behavior for human beings to join together in the timeless dance of yoga: “in which God and the souls lose themselves in the rhythms, melodies and movements of divine love!” This “dance of divine love,” then, is the arena through which kirtana ultimately emerges.

To lose oneself in love with the divine through sacred sound! What could be more enticing? Thus, a flourishing yoga practice will make one especially sensitive to the sounds one creates, and the sounds to which one voluntarily exposes oneself, as both listening and uttering create the complete circle within the experience of sacred sound. The Vedic scriptures are known as sruti, or knowledge that is received through auditory means. Sruti is also known as apaurusha, or that which did not have human origin. The “speaker” of sacred sound is divinity, as confirmed in the Bhagavata Purana (3.26.33). Yogis sound this immortal realm when they allow themselves to be engaged as an instrument in the hands of the divine through which sacred sounds are played. This very experience engulfs the hearts of sincere kirtana participants. In kirtana, the sound mandala is created within the traditional call and response pattern: The mantra is chanted first by the person leading the kirtana, (while the audience listens) and then responded in kind by the audience (while the leader listens). Sacred sound thus travels upon a cyclic, dialectical path.

This sacred dialogue between an audience and a kirtan leader serves as a model for what enlightened communication looks like—both parties highly attuned to each other, mirroring expression, and intent on keeping divinity as the axis around which the sounds being created revolve. Similarly, in individual japa chanting, a circuitous, mandala-like rhythm is generated through the aid of a mala—a garland of beads, which, while fingered, assists by engaging the tactile sense in keeping one absorbed in the hearing and sounding of the mantra.

One’s relationship with sacred sound is a most enlightening one. Our perceptions of reality shine brighter when we make a conscious effort to join the symphony of sacred sounds sustaining all of life. This act of joining is yoga. Creating life-nurturing sounds align our very life-breath (prana) with the light of pure consciousness. The sounds we utter then aspire to become like the love-filled songs of the gopis, as we discover the power of sound to transport us into the most delightful of destinations—divine locations we already contain within us, if we only let the music take us there.

This article originally appeared in Integral Yoga Magazine, Winter Issue 2008. It can be read online at Secretyoga.com.

At the age of sixteen Catherine Ghosh embraced the path of bhakti-yoga and shortly thereafter took up asrama life, where she dedicated herself to the study of ancient Sanskrit texts as well as a deeper yogic practice. In 1990, Catherine entered into deep study and practice of bhakti-yoga under Damodara Goswami Maharaja, of Jagannatha Puri, Orissa. In 2006 Catherine and Graham Schweig, founded The Secret Yoga™, an Institute developed to support souls in their individual journeys into sacred spaces and timeless teachings.

1. Maitri Upanishad
2. Bhagavata Purana 1.1.1

By Dr. O. B. L. Kapoor (Adi Kesava dasa)

The advent of Sri Caitanya is not simply a historical event in the phenomenal world. It is the culmination of a transcendental dialectic. The dialectic is inherent in the very nature of parabrahma or the Supreme Being. The Taittiriya Upanishad describes parabrahma as rasa: raso vai sah (Taittiriya, Ananda Valli, 7). Rasa is concentrated ananda or bliss; ananda in its concentrated form assumes a figure. The figure is the figure of Sri Krishna. Ananda-brahman is the formless expansive glow of parabrahma, just as moonlight is the formless expansive glow of the moon. In Ananda-brahman rasa is dormant—still and motionless. It is not rasa in the real sense. In rasa-brahman or rasa as Sri Krishna, it is dynamic, restless, effulgent, ever-flowing, and ever-growing. It is astonishingly new and relishable—passing every moment beyond itself to new levels of rasa-consciousness.

Krishna is rasa itself. He is both rasa and rasika. As rasa he is the highest thing to be relished and as rasika he is the greatest enjoyer of rasa. Rasa is dynamic because it is the essence of love. Love is never satisfied with itself. The more the love, the more the longing for it. The dynamism of rasa makes Krishna desire to revel ever and ever more in beatific pastimes of love. But this is not possible if Krishna remains the Supreme Being who is one without a second, or the lone rasika who enjoys his own rasa. Therefore the unity of rasa and rasika in him bursts and blooms into the duality of Krishna and Radha. Krishna is personalized rasa and Radha is personalized bhava, or pure and selfless love (prema) at its highest. Loving communion between the two generates higher and higher dimensions of rasa.

The development of unity into duality, however, is not a process in time. It is a logical development, a development that is indicative of a necessary and integral relationship between rasa and love. There is no rasa without love. Krishna as rasa is always qualified by love. Love is the essence of the bliss potency of Krishna. This potency resides in Krishna in an abstract form and is responsible for the bliss that flows from his self. It resides outside Krishna in a definitive form in the shape of Radha. Krishna enjoys the bliss caused by her love a thousand times more than the bliss natural to his self.

Radha is the ideal devotee or the ideal subject of love. Krishna is the ideal and the sweetest object of love. The sweetness of Krishna cannot be realized except through the eyes of love. Since Radha’s love is the highest, Krishna in the sweetest form is realized by Radha. But both the love of Radha and the sweetness of Krishna are ever-growing. The intensity of the love of Radha sublimates the sweetness of Krishna, and the sweetness of Krishna sublimates the love of Radha. There is, as it were, a race between the two. The race continues until both love and sweetness reach the highest stage. At this stage the highest type of bliss is experienced. The bliss is so sweet and intense that it obliterates the subject-object relationship. The subject loses all consciousness of himself as well as the consciousness of the sweetness that causes the experience. Only the bliss consciousness remains. That bliss experiences itself.

Rupa Goswami says that in this state, love melts the minds of Radha and Krishna to such an extent that they virtually become one, and perception of difference is not possible (Ujjvala-nilamani, Sthayi 78). This state of the love relationship between Radha and Krishna is called prema-vilasa-vivarta. It is from the standpoint of this ecstatic state of Radha and Krishna that the ultimate reality, parabrahma, is called rasa, or an act of enjoyment.

This union of love between Radha and Krishna, however, does not imply a monistic union, as does the advaitic conception of formless Brahman or the Neo-Platonic concept of God as an experience, in which the loss of individuality of the devotee or the sadhaka is complete and irrevocable. It is, as Jiva Goswami explains, like the union between fire and a piece of iron. A piece of iron, when put for a long time in fire, becomes red-hot like the fire. Every part of it is animated by fire and acquires the characteristics of fire. Still, iron remains iron and fire remains fire. Similarly, both Krishna and Radha retain their identity. They are so absorbed in each other’s love and lost in each other’s thoughts that there is hardly any room in their hearts for the thought of anything else. Sri Caitanya is the substantial or personalized form of this union.

The dialectic that leads to the emergence of Sri Caitanya is obvious. In Hegelian terminology, the rasa-brahma or Krishna as the unity of rasa and rasika is the thesis. The unity veers around to its opposite, the duality of Krishna and Radha as a necessary and inseparable part of itself. Thus unity is negated by duality. But duality or difference is repugnant to the essential unity of the two. Therefore, both unity and difference are necessarily transcended and reconciled in a higher synthesis, which is neither unity nor difference, but unity in difference.

Krishnadas Kaviraja Goswami describes the incarnation of Sri Krishna as Sri Caitanya as the result of his desire to relish this highest dimension of rasa in union with Radha, which he did particularly during his 18 years of ecstatic life in monastic seclusion at Puri. While this, according to Kaviraja Goswami, is the esoteric reason for the advent of Sri Caitanya, the exoteric reason is the propagation of bhakti, or loving devotion to Krishna, by example more than by precept, so that the souls lost in the labyrinth of cults and isms may easily find their way to the realization of the supreme goal of life. It is therefore that he appears in the form of an ideal devotee. But since he combines in his personality Krishna, the highest object of worship, and Radha, the highest devotee, both the aspects of his personality find expression. Though the devotee in him predominates, he cannot help appearing before his devotees at times as Krishna or other incarnations, according to the devotee’s mode of worship. This makes his personality complex and difficult to understand. Even Advaita Acharya, the wisest of the devotees of Sri Caitanya, could not help doubting Sri Caitanya’s divinity when he prostrated himself at the feet of the Vaishnavas and begged for their blessings (though in so doing, he was merely setting the example for the true devotee, who is humble and considers himself as the lowest of the low).

Krishna desires to relish the highest rasa because he is the supreme rasika. He desires to propagate bhakti of the highest type because he is the most merciful. Krishnadas says that the two qualities go together. Krishna is supremely merciful because he is the supreme rasika. In the state of union with Radha his rasikhood reaches the highest limit. Therefore in this state he is also the most merciful. When the bowl of rasa is overfilled, it overflows. The overfilling is Krishna’s fullest enjoyment of rasa. The overflowing is his fullest manifestation of mercy, which consists of his gift of the highest type of bhakti (called raganuga-bhakti) to the finite souls so that they may be enabled to share his bliss (Vidagdha-madhava 1.2).

Raganuga-bhakti means the natural, spontaneous, and continuous flow of pure devotion, free from scriptural forms and sanctions regarding what ought to be done and what ought not to be done. It means a life fulfilled in love. It also means the preparation for a transcendental body that enables the devotee to establish some kind of personal relationship with Krishna and enjoy the divine bliss by participating in the divine sports of Krishna and his companions in the transcendental realm. This kind of bhakti was never preached before by any incarnation or spiritual master before Sri Caitanya.

Also never before was bhakti described as both the means and the end. Sri Caitanya’s characterization of love as the supreme goal is the most important landmark in the history of philosophy and religion. According to Sri Caitanya, the center of reality is love, not Godhead. Love is the center not only for the devotee, but also for God. Love governs both. Though Godhead is the embodiment of love itself, he has an ever-growing desire for love. Love is a gravitational force that works at two ends: it draws the devotee to Godhead and Godhead to the devotee. God needs the devotee as much as the devotee needs God.

This arouses a new hope for the fallen souls of this world seeking deliverance from bondage and for the world at large. The peace and happiness of the world is assured if only we can reorient our view of life and turn towards Godhead as love, as he who is ever responsive to us, and as the one who, though perfect in all respects, realizes himself ever and ever more in our realization of him.

Dr. O. B. L. Kapoor has authored more than 20 scholarly books on Indian philosophy including The Philosophy and Religion of Sri Chaitanya. An initiated disciple of Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati Thakura, Gobrother and friend of A.C Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, he left this world in the year 2001 in Vrindavan, India

By Swami Tripurari

While pursuing the highest love during his earthly lila, rasaraja Krishna was dumbfounded to experience the measure of Radha’s love, for it exceeded anything that he had ever experienced. Because he always considered himself the king of love, this experience threw Krishna into an existential crisis, forcing him to ask the difficult question, “Am I really the king of love, when it is apparent that Radha’s love exceeds anything that I have experienced?” When the primary reason for his descent—to taste the highest love—was thus frustrated, this in turn affected his ability to accomplish his secondary purpose—to teach the world about love.

To resolve this twofold crisis, Krishna, keeping with his nature, at­tempted to steal the emotions of Radha. A clever thief knows where to hide. Where did Syama go? That beautiful, dark-complected thief hid himself in the age of darkness, Kali-yuga, disguising himself as a sadhu. However, that which he stole was more brilliant than mil­lions of suns. Thus when his devotees—the dearest of Radha—looked for him, he was not hard to find.

Realizing the likelihood of his capture at the hands of his devo­tees, Krishna gave away the stolen goods in an effort to deflect atten­tion, advising each person who received the goods to pass them on to another. This, however, only made matters worse, for seeing the dis­tribution of prema, his devotees became suspicious. They knew that a love as brilliant as Radha’s could only be experienced in relation to Krishna himself and that he must therefore be in their midst. Fur­thermore, although Krishna had tried to distribute the goods, because of the nature of prema it only swelled within him that much more, turning his complexion golden. Attracted by his golden hue and see­ing the measure of his prema, they dubbed him Gaura Krishna and proceeded to broadcast the truth to the whole world. In the end, this golden Krishna, in the captivity of Radha’s two best friends, wrote his confession in eight stanzas, begging for mercy. Only after receiving that mercy was he able to realize the consequences of what he had done and fully taste Radha’s love.