Nature wears many forms. Among them, two are paramount—the gross and the subtle, or matter and consciousness; that is, the outer form and the inner form. All things possess something of both the gross and the subtle, or some measure of the material and the conscious.
The sense of the gross or material falls to nearly everyone's lot in varying degrees, yet the sense of subtlety or consciousness is granted to but a few. Various philosophical scholars have determined that matter is nothing other than concentrated form of conscious power, or merely waves of condensed, crystallized energy. Whatever the philosophical foundation of matter and consciousness may be, the fact that the subtle is eternally and clearly perceptible within the gross has scarcely been denied by anyone.
The human body and soul are living proof of such things. Within the gross body dwells the subtle soul. One is felt; the other remains generally unfelt. One receives esteem; the other is typically disregarded. The world is captivated by the body's beauty; only a handful are moved by the soul's. Men and women are as entranced by the beauty of gross form as they are indifferent to the subtle. Humankind goes about building its life and home upon nature's hollow externals. Few occupy themselves with what lies within, what is interior, what is substantial.
Humanity is generally absorbed in the gross, and so society—the collective of humankind—fashions its laws and ordinances around the gross. Religion and morality, likewise, are typically founded upon the crude foundation of humanity's material knowledge. Few wish to understand, embrace, and follow the subtle essence; fewer still are capable of doing so. Those who can are extraordinary beings.
What comprises the gross foundation of religion? Doctrine, worship, adoration, ritual, practice. Examples abound in every community—this is called social religion. What comprises its subtle foundation? Faith, love, devotion, service, character, life itself. Luminous examples are found in the lives of saints and great souls. What comprises the gross foundation of ethics? Discipline and punishment—that is, commandments like "do this," "do not do that"; "this is to be embraced," "that is to be abandoned." Examples are found in legal codes and worldly moral knowledge. What comprises the subtle foundation of ethics? Permission (proximity to knowledge), inspiration (the bestowal of strength and energy), commandment. The examples of these are somewhat difficult to illustrate.
To speak falsehood is wrong—this is a common moral principle. It is taught by great souls, sanctioned by scripture—this is the gross foundation of ethics. The subtle foundation is the inner permission that grasps the essence of this principle—that is, to believe it because society says so is one thing, and to believe it by the inspiration, command, or permission of the Divine is another. It may also be said that to memorize it is one thing, and to live by it is quite another.
The gross foundation of society rests on laws, statutes, customs, and regulations; its subtle foundation rests on kinship, affection, mutual aid, the welfare of all, and unity. Examples of this are found in homes everywhere. Now surely you cannot fail to see that humanity is perpetually engaged with the gross. The world's vast majority are partisans of religious doctrine, the discipline of ethics, and social convention. Only a handful seek out the inner substance, the true essence.
We have shown these three things as separate, yet they are not three but, in truth, one. The bond between them is so indivisible that it is difficult to sever one from another—one becoming three, three becoming one. Three manifestations of one great God, or these three together constitute divinity or the divine attributes. We shall proceed through this understanding—three in one, one in three—as we turn to what follows.
There is a tale from the old stories.
In a certain place there lived a renunciate monk, world-weary and detached, and near him dwelt a courtesan. The monk was devout, wearing saffron robes and the ritual mark upon his brow, his entire body smeared with ash, and he observed every ceremonial practice of religion. Religion was perpetually on his lips, and condemnation of worldly attachments flowed constantly from his mouth. He despised all who neglected religious observance, holding them in contempt always.
The courtesan who lived nearby was the object of his scorn. He reviled her ceaselessly, comparing her life to that of beasts. Indifferent to caste distinctions, he remained intoxicated by the poison of division itself. His inner and outer life were consumed by the distinction between the sinful and the righteous. He would say at any moment that proximity to the wicked, eating and dwelling with them, caused the loss of all dharma. Pride swelled within him constantly, puffing him up with self-regard.
And that untouchable woman, condemned by all, defiled in the eyes of the world—that courtesan was perpetually sorrowful about her condition. Into her life, even by accident, no joy ever entered. Compelled by circumstance to perform such vile deeds, her heart was wrung continuously by remorse. She was forced to adorn herself, to maintain her appearance, yet this too caused her terrible anguish. Outwardly she bore the trappings of her trade; within burned repentance, shame, and an unwavering devotion to dharma, a profound love for the Lord. Yet no one in the world knew this. As is the way of the world, all reviled her—and the monk despised her greatly too.
When, in the course of time, both came to their appointed death, the monk's body was adorned with flowers and sandalwood, and many gathered to pay him their final respects. But the courtesan—she had none. Those who had profit from her in life showed no concern for her in death. Though they knew her, they could only acknowledge her behind closed doors; to speak of any connection with her before the world was impossible. The hearts of the compassionate close their doors at such moments—so the gravediggers dragged her corpse through the open streets and abandoned it to the jackals and dogs. What became of their souls after death? The monk's soul journeyed toward hell; the courtesan's soul journeyed toward heaven.
The monk, witnessing such injustice from the Creator, was overwhelmed with rage, indignation, and sorrow. At that very moment, the divine sage Narada appeared in that place. Burning with anger, the monk turned to Narada and cried out, "Lord, what is this judgment from the Lord of Vaikuntha? I have accumulated such righteousness, yet I am bound for hell; and this courtesan, who lived her whole life in sin, ascends to heaven? What manner of divine sport is this?"
The divine sage Narada pondered for a moment, then replied: "Who can fathom the Creator's play! His judgment has been just. You performed many religious rites—this is true. You kept your body pure through the rigorous discipline of renunciation—this too is true. And indeed, you have reaped the fruit of that purity in your own hands. The people of the world worshipped you, countless disciples revered you as one possessed of divine wisdom, and after your death, they anointed your sanctified body with flowers and sandalwood. Yet in performing your religious observances, pride always dwelt in your heart—the pride of being greatly virtuous. For this reason, you went about condemning all the people of the world. Without humility, the soul has no true claim to dharma! You performed external practices and received external rewards. Now, spend some time in hell for the cultivation of the inner self. When you come to understand that you are nothing, when you can forget your pride and dignity, when you can let go of your hunger for renown—then you shall ascend to heaven. As for that courtesan whose body was defiled—that body rotted with disease, and the outcasts dragged it through the streets and discarded it. Jackals, vultures, and dogs gave it whatever final dignity it received. Yet that woman's soul was always repentant. Like many others, she sinned but harbored no pride in her heart. She had no vanity; she never knew a single day of contentment in her own existence. She never condemned anyone—never thought herself great. Always did she depend upon Hari, and in silence she would say: 'Hari, when shall I be free of this wretchedness?' Hari, seeing her sincere devotion and remorse, blessed her. Therefore, in this life, her soul journeys to heaven. Pride is the root of all ruin for the creature. It destroys even the sinner, just as it destroys the righteous. You have done your work, she has done hers. Why did you take pride in your ordained duty? What you did to reach heaven after death was done for your own welfare—so why make such a fuss about it? What was due to you, you received upon earth. That poor wretch, though she went about her humble work without pride or vanity, received nothing in her earthly life but the scorn and hatred of mankind. No one deemed her body worthy of proper rites; instead, it went into the belly of hungry beasts. And yet, as recompense for her deeds, God has made her soul a dweller in heaven." The ascetic was astonished at what the divine sage Narada had said.
Now I shall tell you another tale. In a certain place there lived a householder. His wife was devoted to her husband, virtuous, skilled in managing the household in all its aspects, and possessed of merit—yet she was somewhat lost in her sense of self. She spent her days in worship and prayer. Her husband, on the other hand, never spoke of religious matters, never performed any rites or observances, never engaged in any outward religious ceremony. Rather, he was humble, living like a poor beggar. He never even uttered the name of God or his chosen deity. This caused his wife great sorrow; she would think, My husband does not even once speak the name of God in error… What a tragedy!
The husband knew nothing of his wife's sorrow. He lived his days in comfort and ease. Then one night, in a dream, the husband spoke the name of God. His wife, hearing the name of God from her husband's lips that very night, was filled with great joy. She offered endless thanks to the Creator and prepared special worship and prayers for the following day.
The husband knew nothing of all this. When he returned home and saw the elaborate preparations for worship, he was astonished. He was even more bewildered to find his wife lavishing special affection and hospitality upon him. Unable to fathom the reason for all this, he finally asked her what had caused such joy. His wife replied with delight, "For so long, I have been dying in my heart not to hear the name of your chosen deity from your lips. Seeing that you perform no religious observances, I used to think you were a nonbeliever. How I have wept, what suffering I have endured—only God knows. Last night, by my extraordinary good fortune, the name of God issued from your mouth, and my joy has been so great that I cannot even describe it. These preparations are an expression of my gratitude."
These words pierced his heart like a sharp arrow. He thought: The name of my chosen deity has come from my lips! I could not keep the treasures of my heart within! This anguish struck him terribly. His body and mind grew utterly weak, and suddenly he lost consciousness and fell to the ground. In that fall came his death. The wife, witnessing this vivid example of her husband's profound and inward religiousness, was struck with wonder. Cursing her own life and overcome with remorse, she followed her husband. All the people of the village, seeing this living testament, were left speechless.
These two examples establish that even when a person's outward conduct is bound up with religious sentiment, the inner being may not be purified. Second, it is possible for a person to possess a religious life within, even though they perform no outward religious observances. In true understanding, religion is not meant to be displayed externally—the more quietly it dwells within, the greater the good, and the less does pride reveal itself in it. Personal religious practice is not a matter for propagation. The truly religious person remains silent about their faith; it is not their words but their deeds that speak of everything.
When religion manifests outwardly through a person's unblemished character, this is natural—there is no objection to it. But any other form of outward manifestation is pernicious, breeding only arrogance. Even devotees, yogis, and ascetics are hindered by pride on the path of practice—it locks the gates of heaven. Sinners need not be mentioned. And those who commit sin in their hearts while feigning piety outwardly, sitting bloated with vanity—their place is among the sinners themselves.
It is true that when the sacred light of religion enters the heart, its reflection appears upon the face. The truly religious do not hesitate to sacrifice their lives for sinners and the penitent. When a sinful person becomes capable of building their life upon the ideals of religion, then in humility their form bends low, and first among all, their gaze falls upon other sinners. Compassion toward sinners, the effort to save them—these are the marks of the truly religious. Here the truly religious become clearly visible to human eyes. There is no fault in this. The great souls of the world have been seen thus: Jesus, Muhammad, Buddha, Nanak, Mahavira, Chaitanya—they are bound in this love. Had they not been bound thus, humanity would never have known what spiritual practice they performed or might have performed. They are as humble as grass, as patient in suffering as trees.
The truly religious person makes no distinction between high and low, rich and poor, sinner and saint. Such souls weep for humanity—their every waking thought turns upon a single question: how shall mankind flourish? But those enslaved to doctrine and ritual, intoxicated by mere form and outward ceremony—in them pride festers even in knowledge and devotion. They imagine themselves unmatched upon this earth. The spirit of division corrodes them within and without, bringing ruin; and though they may disown caste, they manufacture ever-new strategies of caste-like separation in its stead.
Hindu society has sunk beneath the weight of doctrine and ritual, shallow external knowledge; and the learned themselves are beginning to lean that way. In event after event, I witness how from the soil of what seemed a withered caste-tree, fresh shoots sprout forth anew. Observing this spectacle, certain wise voices suggest that as true inner religiosity fades, a thoughtless faction now turns to nurture the outward vestments of caste-division once more. When they encounter those of different belief, I see with each passing day a growing unwillingness to mingle, to truly meet. Hindu society's caste-system rests upon birth and colour; that very caste-system, leaping across barriers of character, wealth, and station, now penetrates educated circles. Many of the learned perceive this truth, yet none show zeal to uproot the poisoned tree. They think: what need to invite such trouble? Better to accept it and pursue other matters.
Herein lies the proof: this society has become a slave to certain doctrines and ceremonies. The inward flame of religious feeling grows ever dimmer. In the reformation of marriage custom and the eradication of caste-division lies the true dominion of faith. But as these two systems have struck bedrock, many a vessel of dharma has foundered in society's sea. The outward trappings of religion breed division among human beings, and this divide advances steadily toward conflict—yet the guardians of faith, witnessing all this, have surrendered themselves to the current, thinking: "What use in all this deliberation? If we can conduct our trade beneath religion's garb, is that not enough?" Wherever caprice and indulgence lead this society, thither the society flows.
A Christian lady once remarked to a Hindu friend of hers: "We believers in Christian faith pursue sinners, seeking to set them upon the righteous path; you pursue the virtuous, hoping to become virtuous yourselves!" And indeed, one sees the truth of her words reflected in reality. Contempt for the sinner, contempt for the believer of different faiths, contempt for those of other communities—these grow rank in present society. Now scarcely anyone labours to guide sinners toward righteousness; all are consumed with proving their own path supreme—and humanity is served only insofar as that suffering soul belongs to one's own faction. To harbour disgust toward sin itself is wholesome; but toward the sinner—no. And yet a living, virulent contempt for the sinner now manifests openly in society.
There is no doubt that all of this stems from pride. Pride flourishes whenever the soul is bereft of genuine spiritual discipline—I have shown this by example. Many in society perform worship through elaborate outward arrangements; they wear ochre robes, adopt religious names, bear the tilak mark, yet simultaneously they do not hesitate for a moment before engaging in falsehood, deception, treachery, adultery, backbiting in the shadows, pursuing others relentlessly, theft, and quarreling. Today, there is no form of earning money that men shrink from committing. Even great leaders do not escape its grip, let alone ordinary folk! In society today, there is hardly any deed done that is not done in the name of religion. Whatever anyone desires—they do it, and yet these very people are society's leaders.
What unfolds in society is precisely the outcome of outward-directed spiritual practice. What outward practice holds as doctrine becomes faith in inward practice; what outward practice knows as sentiment becomes devotion in inward practice; what outward practice calls ritual becomes longing in inward practice; what outward practice names worship becomes communion in inward practice; what outward practice terms intoxication becomes samadhi in inward practice; what outward practice mistakes for imagination becomes direct knowledge in inward practice; what outward practice displays as verbose grandeur becomes service in inward practice. Thus we see how one path is easy, and the other incomparably difficult!
To hear a mantra from the guru's lips and recite it, to hold oneself in a posture of reverence—this is easy, exceedingly easy. To perform sacrifices and rituals to entertain the people and to dress oneself in the garments of piety is easier still. But for faith to arise and take root through the grace of the divine, kindled by direct intuitive knowledge—this is desperately hard. To have energy poured into oneself by another and to dance about like a madman in wild ecstasy—this is simple work. But to achieve that wondrous absorption of the heart arising from direct vision of the Mother, to attain such absorption—this is supremely difficult. To keep matted hair, to smear ash across the body, to wear ochre garments and religious ornaments, to present oneself as pious before all—this is quite simple. But to cultivate within oneself a heart overflowing with love, to attain a pure and selfless character—this is extraordinarily difficult. Who cannot dance with abandon? But how many can dissolve themselves wholly into the Infinite, losing all consciousness of self? Everyone can speak and write in the name of religion, but how few can purify body and mind through service to humanity? Through outward show one may gain renown as a righteous soul in the world, but this accomplishes nothing for true religion. The examples I have cited make clear that inward emptiness masked by external observance paves the road to perdition. Outward practice breeds pride—the ego-sense expands and becomes all-consuming. Inward practice awakens humility and the knowledge of self-annihilation. "I am nothing; He alone is all"—without this realization, one cannot enter the deeper realms of the kingdom of dharma. Through external works people remain entangled in the external world, never able to turn inward toward their own depths.
Those fish that drift upon the surface of the water cannot dive into the depths. But those that dwell in the deep waters rarely wish to drift above—they are immersed in profound peace and coolness; the turbulence of the waves above means nothing to them. So too with those who drift through the world, tossed about by the waves of fame and desire: they dance at the praise of others, they collapse at their censure—or else their every act springs from what others bid them do. But those who are immersed in the deepest bosom of the Creator, in the essence of the world itself, cannot be shaken by the shallow waves of outward fame and desire. They dwell in eternal peace, in eternal purity, beyond the storms and tempests of the world. As all the lowlands appear equal when viewed from a high mountain peak, so too in their souls does all greatness and smallness become one.
In that deep realm dwells equanimity—equality, oneness, unity, merger. Separate perceptions, the consciousness of multiplicity and difference, division—these belong to worldly knowledge. Beyond the world lies this truth: in the existence of the One, all existence is held; all rests in that One. There is infinity there, certainly, but no diversity. The sense of difference, of multiplicity—that is the concern of the world. Community as we know it is possible only within the dharma of the world. But beyond the world—in the maternal dharma—lies equality, oneness, eternal union. Many rivers flow upon the earth, but when they meet the ocean, all become one. Which river is great, which is small? Which is the Yamuna, which is the Brahmaputra? Who can distinguish them now, when all have merged into sameness? The sense of line, of boundary, of smallness—all perceptions of difference belong to the world; while the concern of dharma is infinity and the absence of all distinction.
You adorn your mortal frame of clay with flowers and sandalwood and imagine yourself greatly wealthy, greatly righteous, greatly learned! Alas, alas, alas! You do not know what becomes of this body of yours at the cremation ground—how the flame will write your end in its sooty black upon charcoal's body! Your body's end is the ash of that pyre, the same ash into which the wretched poor, the sinners and the penitent, are reduced—that meager, disregarded ash of the cremation ground! What pride do you harbor, brother? You see only difference, you count only multiplicity. Yet even at the cremation ground, the knowledge of sameness does not awaken in you! What more can I say?
Look: after death, where does the penitent harlot go—stripped of her pride—and where does the ascetic saint? Enter inward. Search into what you truly are. Make the effort to be honest within yourself. None become pilgrims and thus dharmic without immersing themselves in the root of the soul. Unless one can extinguish the fire of desire in the soul's root, none can light the fire of ritual and sacrifice to reach heaven by external acts. Only by plunging into the root of the soul does a person come to know themselves, and in knowing themselves, come to know the Supreme Soul. The Supreme Soul dwells in the root of the soul. You may wander to a hundred pilgrimage sites, roam through countless forests and mountains, keep the company of a thousand saints, follow a guru's teachings without discernment, perform countless external rituals and observances, read countless scriptures—yet never once dive into the root of your own soul! Shame! You did not even know yourself! You did not understand who you are!—what then becomes your end?
If you drink in sin like nectar day and night, intoxicated and swollen with pride, if you deem others' minor failings grave and nurse groundless hatred toward them, if slander alone adorns your tongue—then you have never truly known yourself. Had you but grasped how deeply you yourself have sinned, you would never feel the urge to despise another, to slander or gossip about them. What right has one who is themselves dying to hate another? You have no such right! Know yourself—lose yourself in that knowing, immerse yourself wholly in it. Only then can you transcend slander, hatred, and the afflictions of sorrow. But if you remain tethered to the outer world, you shall never comprehend what the inner law truly is.