Waves of Devotion

I was a bit awestruck by the facility. Above my chair, the dentist’s workstation had a computer screen where he could carefully monitor my root canal, using a small camera that he occasionally positioned beside my mouth. He was repairing the mistake made during my last visit to my dentist in New Jersey, and the facility today was such an upgrade. Instead of requiring multiple visits to the dentist, he would complete the entire procedure — including making and fitting the highest-grade zirconia ceramic cap — in less than two hours in one visit.

My dentist explained everything so carefully and with such authority that I trusted him. But why was I so awestruck?

I was in Vṛndāvana just a minute from MVT, at Lord Krishna’s Multispecialty Dental Clinic. Who expected that?

It was certainly a far cry from the first dentist I had seen in Vraja fifty years ago: a simple man in a lungi, sitting on the floor alongside a shop in Loi Bazaar, with a rusted quart can for rinsing one’s mouth next to a set of pliers for pulling teeth. Above him hung a rudimentary little placard with an exaggerated painted smile announcing his services.

Anyway, dental work is never fun. Yet there was still a certain joy in lying on my back, mouth wide open to the Vraja sky, realizing that I was in the lap of God — and all for the cost of only 24,000 rupees ($250) for the highest quality work!

For this week’s Greetings, I will also share a re-edited version of the original Absolute Tooth post, in which I reflect on the main realizations I had after visiting a dentist ten years ago, following too many years of neglect.

The Absolute Tooth[1]

I’ve been lying in a dentist’s chair here in Cali, Colombia, for almost two hours. Oscar is drilling away. If he hits a nerve, he says, I may need a root canal. It’s not where I want to be, but I tolerate it. Yes tolerate — what’s the use of studying transcendental knowledge if you don’t apply it to your life. So many thoughts go through my mind:

Krishna’s pinch of mercy

This last week in Shyam Ashram seemed like one of those rare, maybe never happens, occurrences in life — where most of one’s troubles are cleared and the world finally falls in line with one’s desires. My mind celebrates, “I can enjoy!”

Not so fast.

Bam! A toothache and an unexpected trip to the dentist. The prognosis wasn’t good, “Seven cavities to fill!”

I wasn’t happy to hear that, but deep down I felt some solace. Krishna won’t let His devotee grow complacent and fall into the illusion that he or she is the controller. Such enjoyment is too superficial, immerses one in the bodily concept of life and inevitably winds up in more misery.

Surrender

When I arrived, Oscar carefully explained the procedure and asked if it was okay. I told him, “I am a soul surrendered unto you!” This, I thought, is Krishna consciousness. In every sphere of life, and especially in spiritual life, some people are authorities in a particular field. The best way to benefit from their knowledge, provided they are legitimate, is to humbly surrender to their direction.

Dependence

Oscar had been one of my students in the bhakti course at Shyam Ashram. Now I sat in his chair, helpless and dependent on him. He was sincerely trying to help me and wasn’t even charging anything. I felt his care and shelter and my affection for him grew. Our relationship with God is like this. If we are completely dependent on Him and humbly take His shelter, with the faith that whatever He does is best, then bhakti naturally arises in the heart.

And whatever Krishna does is best

If I hadn’t gotten this treatment now, I would probably have needed serious dental work later in Vṛndāvana, maybe even a root canal. Considering the facilities there at the time, it could have been a nightmare. Thinking this way, even though getting seven cavities filled with no anesthesia, I felt grateful and it helped me tolerate the inconvenience. The world is like this. We suffer, but if we tolerate there is inevitably a fruit of realization at the end that makes our future better. Understanding this helps a devotee stays patient and tolerant even in hard times.

Divine austerity

When we indulge the pleasures of the body without regulation, we become ever more absorbed in the body so that we can experience sensual joy more fully. But the more we are immersed in the bodily concept of life, the more acutely we also feel the body’s pains. In contrast, when we practice the austerity of a simple life, we instinctively withdraw from absorption in the body to lessen the discomfort. And because we have learned to tolerate the discomforts that austerity brings, we naturally become less affected by bodily pain as well.

As Oscar worked away, I realized that my years of simple living, with their natural austerity, had allowed me to stand just a little apart from the pain and tolerate it. Without some tapasya, the divine austerity that arises naturally from faithfully fulfilling one’s responsibilities (dharma) and rendering service (sevā) despite the inconvenience, one remains deeply immersed in the bodily concept of life. Consequently, the dualities of this world that we must inevitably face, especially old age and disease, are felt all the more acutely.

The illusion of expectation

Expecting the drill, with its pain and its shrill whine, was worse than the drilling itself. The world is generally like that. Pain and pleasure are more intense in anticipation than when we experience them. This is especially true of sensual and egotistical pleasures.

Conclusion

And that’s the Absolute Tooth!

[1] This is a substantially edited version of an article I posted on September 19, 2016.

Quandary IV: If the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam is the foundation of all Vaiṣṇava literature, why does it describe Krishna’s pastimes with the gopīs in so little detail? The five chapters on the rāsa-līlā, the rāsa-pañcādhyāyī, have only 172 verses, yet later writings expand them into thousands. If the Bhāgavatam is our main pramāṇa (means of evidence) in krishna-bhakti, why doesn’t it elaborate on these pastimes itself, and where does all that later detail come from?

Response:

Our tradition has thousands of volumes describing Rādhā and Krishna’s forms, qualities, and pastimes, and all of them trace back to the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam. Yet in the Bhāgavatam itself, Śrīmatī Rādhārāṇī is not even named.

So who supplied all the detail, and on what authority? And that raises a second question: how much of the later elaboration simply reflects the culture of the times in which it was written?

These are fair questions. But to answer them properly, we first have to understand what the Bhāgavatam is.

The Bhāgavatam is Krishna

God is absolute, and therefore He is nondifferent from His name and from the descriptions of Him. The Bhāgavatam is not just a book about Krishna. The message is Krishna!

Understanding that the Bhāgavatam is a person changes how we approach it, for a person can never be known by analysis alone. A person is known only when they choose to open their heart to us, and that happens because of our service and affection, not our intellectual analysis. It is the same with the Bhāgavatam. It reveals itself to those who approach it with humility and a mood of service.

This doesn’t mean we should put our intelligence aside. It means we use it in Krishna’s service, knowing that the deepest meanings of the text are revealed, not simply extracted.

This explains how the great body of literature on Rādhā and Krishna came about, a literature that far exceeds what is written in the text. Our ācāryas were scholars, but they were more than that. They were great devotees who prayed to and meditated on every word of the Bhāgavatam, and so, by the mercy of the Bhāgavatam, whole worlds of meaning opened to them from its concise verses. What they wrote in their commentaries and other works was both an explanation of the text and an expression of what the text had revealed to them.

That is why our line has such a remarkably consistent understanding of Krishna and His pastimes. Our great Vaiṣṇava scholars were not speculating. The text was revealing its true nature to each of them independently.

The limitation is in us

The real question, therefore, is not whether the Bhāgavatam adequately describes Krishna. It does, for He is fully manifest in it. If we find any inadequacy in the description, it rests not in the Bhāgavatam but in us.

Our vision is clouded by an intelligence shaped by mundane conceptions, attachments, and assumptions. I think this is why the Bhāgavatam can be so concise — even rudimentary — in certain places. Even if it described everything in elaborate detail, we would not necessarily hear the truth it conveys, because of our own impurities. Its terse outward descriptions instead push the sincere reader beyond the limits of their own understanding and toward devotion. In this sense, what may appear to be a lack of detail is itself part of how the Bhāgavatam reveals the truth.

What about historical influence?

Our ācāryas teach that the Bhāgavatam, and their portrayal of Krishna’s pastimes in their commentaries, describe the spiritual world exactly as it is. At the same time, whenever realization is shared, it must be expressed through language and images that the audience can understand. The expression may vary; the reality does not.

Paintings of Krishna are a good example. One artist paints His complexion one shade of blue, another a different shade, each according to their own artistic vocabulary. But no one paints Him red or yellow. He remains the color of a fresh monsoon cloud. And if we accept that with faith, Krishna’s transcendental blue color will eventually be revealed to us.

I think we can understand the literature about Krishna’s form and pastimes in the same way. Different authors emphasize different aspects and express their realizations in the idiom of their time. But what they are describing, according to our understanding, is Krishna as He actually is.

So, why no detail?

The Bhāgavatam does not lack detail. Its depths just aren’t available to the casual reader. The fuller revelation of Krishna, and especially of His most intimate life, comes to us through the realized devotees who have opened the Bhāgavatam, and through those who humbly follow them.

Its verses lack nothing. They are seeds of the full reality, and they can blossom on the page at once for one who approaches them humbly and with full devotion.

As Krishna Himself says:

“To those who are constantly devoted to serving Me with love, I give the understanding by which they can come to Me.” (Bhagavad-gītā 10.10)

And sometimes a single verse is enough to give us a glimpse of what such a seed contains:

“Wearing a peacock-feather ornament upon His head, yellow karṇikāra flowers on His ears, a yellow garment as brilliant as gold, and the vaijayantī garland, Lord Krishna exhibited His transcendental form as the greatest of dancers as He entered the forest of Vṛndāvana, beautifying it with the marks of His footprints. He filled the holes of His flute with the nectar of His lips, and the cowherd boys sang His glories.” (Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam 10.21.5)

Are the cultural forms that Śrīla Prabhupāda brought from India essential to the cultivation of krishna-bhakti? Or can we separate bhakti from the culture in which it has traditionally been expressed and simply translate its essential principles into whatever cultural forms are most familiar to us?

Before answering that question, we need to clarify what we mean by “Indian culture.”

Some use the term to refer simply to the behaviors and customs that developed in India over the course of history. From this perspective, Indian culture is essentially historical: it is the way a particular people, in a particular place, have organized and expressed their lives.

But there is another way to understand it. Śrīla Prabhupāda taught that genuine spiritual knowledge is not an evolutionary product of a particular society. It is veda — eternal knowledge that becomes manifest in the world at creation. In this sense, what we call “Indian culture” — at least some of the things Śrīla Prabhupāda emphasized — can be understood as an expression of eternal spiritual principles.

I think this distinction is crucial.

When Śrīla Prabhupāda spoke of “Indian culture,” he was not simply referring to the culture in which he happened to be raised. He was also presenting something deeper: cultural principles rooted in an eternal spiritual reality.

The real question, therefore, is not simply whether we should preserve “Indian culture” or replace it with “Western culture.” The more important question is:

Which aspects of the culture Śrīla Prabhupāda brought to the West express eternal principles of bhakti, and which are historical forms that can legitimately be adjusted — or even set aside?

In answering this question, we should avoid two extremes. One is to assume that every cultural form is essential and must therefore be reproduced exactly as it was practiced in India. The other is to regard all cultural forms as merely superficial, with no meaningful connection to spiritual life.

I believe Śrīla Prabhupāda’s teachings point toward a position between these extremes.

Bhakti Is Personal

We worship Krishna, who is a person. And because Krishna is a person, He has His own nature, tastes, and preferences. Those preferences include how He dresses, how He is worshiped, and the kinds of music through which His devotees express their love for Him.

The devotional culture Śrīla Prabhupāda brought, therefore, is not simply an arbitrary collection of historical customs. These forms have a spiritual history and have been adopted because they are suited to expressing and cultivating devotion to Krishna. There are enduring principles within devotional culture.

At the same time, theological discernment requires us to distinguish among three things: cultural forms that embody principles essential to the tradition and therefore should be preserved even when the tradition is transplanted outside India; principles that can be expressed equally well, or perhaps even more effectively, through another cultural form; and practices that are primarily historical or geographical customs rather than expressions of eternal principles. Making these distinctions is essential if we are to determine which forms Śrīla Prabhupāda brought with him are intrinsic to the tradition and which may legitimately be adapted or left aside in a particular cultural context.

To examine this question more concretely, let us consider two of the most visible cultural forms Śrīla Prabhupāda brought to the West: music and dress.

The Music of Bhakti

First, I want to be clear: I am not suggesting that other musical expressions cannot beautifully convey devotion. Rather, I am arguing that certain traditional forms have qualities that are integral to the musical legacy Śrīla Prabhupāda brought and should not be casually discarded.

To better understand this principle, I will again relate a discussion I had with Dr. Eben Graves, program director at the Yale Insitute of Sacred Music. Dr. Graves earned his PhD in ethnomusicology studying the history and contemporary forms of Bengali kirtan. He is also a percussionist and teaches mṛdaṅga, or śrī khol.

I asked him specifically about the role of the mṛdaṅga within the Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava musical tradition. His response helped clarify the distinction between the spiritual principle and the cultural form through which that principle is expressed — and, importantly, when a traditional form should be preserved as far as possible, even when Krishna consciousness is transplanted into another culture. I think his research is particularly relevant to this discussion.

Traditional South Asian and Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava music is centered on the voice. The purpose of the accompanying instruments is to support the essential devotional practice expressed through nama-kirtan and līlā-kirtan.

The original instruments associated with Krishna’s pastimes — such as the vīṇā, bamboo flute, and mṛdaṅga (śrī khol) — are particularly suited to this purpose. Although these are premodern instruments, they possess musical qualities that support the expression of Radha-Krishna devotion in ways that are not easily duplicated by instruments introduced to India later.

In padavali kirtan and other traditional Bengali forms, for example, the mṛdaṅga, together with kartālas, supports the singing of devotional lyrics, which remains at the heart of the performance.

Other percussion instruments can keep time, but they do not necessarily have the particular timbre of the clay mṛdaṅga, nor can they necessarily produce the same intricate rhythmic patterns that facilitate the emotional expression of krishna-bhakti. These techniques have been revealed, refined, and developed by generations of practitioners of bhakti over hundreds of years.

Dr. Graves therefore considers the mṛdaṅga essential to traditional forms of Gauḍīya kirtan, while instruments adopted later — such as the harmonium, despite its widespread acceptance and appreciation — remain optional.

What I took from this discussion is significant.

The principle is not simply, “Use Indian instruments.” The principle is to support the expression of devotion in a way that is faithful to the tradition.

Traditional instruments have particular qualities that serve this purpose. Modern instruments can also be used when they are appropriate and genuinely enhance the expression of krishna-bhakti. The harmonium, for example, has clearly found a legitimate place in Gauḍīya devotional music, even though it was first invented and named in eighteenth-century France and was not adopted into the form commonly used in kirtan until the early twentieth century in India. Its acceptance, especially by Śrīla Prabhupāda, demonstrates that a devotional instrument need not originate in India to become part of the tradition. At the same time, we should recognize that some traditional instruments used in the expression of vraja-bhakti possess distinctive qualities that cannot be fully duplicated by modern substitutes.

So, adapting local instruments to express devotion is certainly possible. But such adaptation should be thoughtful.

We should first understand what the traditional form is accomplishing before deciding that another form can accomplish the same thing. Otherwise, in the name of cultural adaptation, we may discard something whose spiritual function we have never taken the time to understand.

The Spiritual Meaning of Dress

Do the same principles apply to devotional dress? In other words, are dhotis and saris spiritually significant, or are they simply historical clothing from the time and place in which Krishna consciousness developed?

Although I don’t believe dress is as essential to the tradition of bhakti as the tradition of music, I believe it is more than an arbitrary cultural artifact.

The word dhoti, the traditional dress Śrīla Prabhupāda introduced to his male disciples, literally means “to cleanse” or “wash,” suggesting a simple, sattvic garment that can easily be washed after each wearing.[1]

There may be variations in how this type of garment has been worn throughout Indian history, as well as in traditional cultures outside India. Nevertheless, clothing resembling the dhoti is mentioned in descriptions of both krishna-līlā and gaura-līlā and depicted in paintings under the direction of self-realized Vaiṣṇavas for generations. In that sense, it is not merely an Indian fashion. It is associated with the devotional world we are trying to enter.

Its simplicity and sattvic nature are favorable to devotional life, and its association with Krishna and Caitanya’s pastimes gives it another important function: it reminds us of who we are trying to become.

The same principle that applies to the music Śrīla Prabhupāda brought also applies to devotional clothing: these forms have a practical utility in spiritual life that does not necessarily disappear when bhakti is transplanted into another culture.

But does this mean that devotees must always or mostly wear traditional Indian clothing?

Absolutely not.

A person can practice bhakti while wearing the clothing customary to his or her own culture. There are also circumstances in which traditional Indian dress may interfere with preaching. If people become preoccupied with the unfamiliar external appearance of devotees, they may have difficulty hearing the eternal message being presented.

We also do not go to work in traditional devotional dress, and we may reasonably adjust our clothing according to the weather, occupation, and social circumstances in which we live.

But acknowledging the legitimacy of adaptation should not lead us to dismiss devotional dress as irrelevant.

What we wear affects how we identify ourselves.

Wearing devotional dress can invoke an identification with krishna-bhakti. It can remind us of our spiritual aspiration and signal to others the tradition to which we belong. The clothing is also naturally modest and easy to clean, qualities that can be favorable to the cultivation of bhakti.

My personal experience in the West is that almost all devotees have made some form of practical cultural adaptation in dress, especially as they no longer live in an ashram.  Even preachers in the West may prefer, in many or most circumstances, that devotees do not wear traditional garb, as this can project a sense of wearing vestments and communicate that we are a movement of ministers rather than laypeople. At the same time, there is certainly nothing that is divisive for spiritual leaders to wear traditional garb, since religions in the West often have spiritual leaders who wear vestments, especially monks.

I can also respect those whose vision of preaching involves approaching the public in traditional dress for the purpose of identification, especially when the men are neatly dressed in clean, pressed devotional garb of a uniform color and are properly guided in how to conduct themselves in public. I personally don’t think this should be the primary image we project to the public.

Regarding preaching in devotional garb, a friend just showed me an Instagram post by a devotee influencer representing an ISKCON sustainable eco-village in Tennessee. He is dressed in our devotional garb and produces excellent, high-quality posts, many of which receive close to half a million views and hundreds of favorable comments. In that situation, it would be hard to claim that the way he dressed prevented or made communication difficult.

Ultimately, I don’t think the question is whether bhakti must remain culturally Indian or become culturally Western. The real question is whether we can distinguish the eternal principles of bhakti from the particular cultural forms through which those principles have traditionally been expressed. We shouldn’t preserve traditional forms simply because they are traditional, but neither should we discard them simply because they are unfamiliar to us. We should try to understand what these forms contribute to our devotional life and then, with thoughtful consideration, determine to what extent a tradition should be maintained as it has been received and to what extent it can legitimately be adapted according to where it is transplanted. In this way, we can honor what Śrīla Prabhupāda brought us while allowing krishna-bhakti to take genuine root wherever it is practiced.

[1] I found in Bhanu Swami’s translation of the Bhakti-rasāmṛta-sindhu at least two verses (BRS 2.1.351 and BRS 3.4.31) in which Krishna’s dress is described as dhati and translated as “dhoti.” David Haberman, a noted scholar who translated the Bhakti-rasāmṛta-sindhu, also translates it in this way. Finally, I consulted Nityananda das, one of the editors of a forthcoming Bhaktivedanta Book Trust translation of the Bhakti-rasāmṛta-sindhu. He wrote: “The word dhati literally means loincloth, but in context of those verses it can only refer to something like a dhoti. There is a great chance that the word dhoti came from dhati, as Bengalis pronounce the short ‘a’ as ‘oh.’”

Even if one objects that Krishna’s wearing of a wrapped cloth simply reflects the historical period in which the story is set, there is remarkable consistency in Krishna’s appearance through the ages as represented by devotee artists and approved by what the tradition accepts as realized souls. At the very least, those within the tradition can say with confidence that the eternal Krishna is traditionally understood to wear a dhoti.

Pradyumna was Śrīla Prabhupāda’s Sanskrit editor and was affectionately known by him as “Paṇḍitajī.” Twenty-five years ago, he needed a ride to upstate New York to meet a friend, so I was happy to oblige.

We were driving peacefully on the scenic Taconic State Parkway when, out of nowhere, he turned to me and said, “You better start saving your grains!” What?!  He then quoted a verse from the Caitanya-caritāmṛta:

eka janāra doṣe saba deśa ujāḍaya — “For the offense to one person, the entire place is laid waste.” Antya-līlā 3.164

I recognized that verse from the story of Rāmacandra Khān. He insulted Lord Nityānanda. Soon after, his whole village was destroyed by Muslim soldiers. Kṛṣṇa Dāsa then offered the cause of the pillage of the village, and with it, this caustic warning to those who offend an advanced Vaiṣṇava.

I looked at Pradyumna, still puzzled. He explained further.

Arundhatī, his wife, had heard that Bhakti Vaibhava Puri Mahārāja had been invited by the temple president of the Towaco temple to speak on Rādhāṣṭamī, which had been celebrated about two weeks before our conversation. Of all the godbrothers of Śrīla Prabhupāda, Pradyumna shared, Puri Mahārāja may have been the most supportive of Śrīla Prabhupāda’s preaching mission. Having had so much association with Śrīla Prabhupāda, Arundhatī was really missing the association of such a senior Vaiṣṇava. She had also visited Mahārāja’s ashram with Śrīla Prabhupāda and remembered his generous hospitality.[1]

When she arrived for the lecture, however, even though Mahārāja had been invited to give the lecture, some other sannyāsī was already sitting on the lecture seat. Evidently, when some leaders above the temple president found out they conspired to stop Mahārāja from speaking. She was so disappointed. After telling me this, Pradyumna again turned to me and repeated his cryptic warning.

“You better start collecting grains!”

I now understood his enigmatic message. It was his way of indicating that by the great offense to this venerable Vaiṣṇava, the metropolitan area would be destroyed and that you had better collect something to eat. I was living in New York City at the time.

I’m not sure how much he believed that literally, but he was Paṇḍitajī and the śāstra was clear. He was, however, emphasizing the seriousness of the offense against a senior Vaiṣṇava. He repeated his pramāṇa for his concern about what had transpired:

eka janāra doṣe saba deśa ujāḍaya — “For the offense to one person, the entire place is laid waste.”

Evidently, the authorities above the temple president were fearful of very senior and advanced Vaiṣṇavas speaking at their temple, so they arranged for another sannyāsī from their organization to be seated there. It’s a horrible thing to do to any invited speaker, but especially a serious offense to a very senior Vaiṣṇava.

My drive Upstate with Pradyumna was September 8, 2001. Three days later, the Twin Towers fell!

Because something comes after something doesn’t mean that it caused it. All Pradyumna was doing, however, was quoting śāstra. At the least, we can say that a person who was śāstra-vit (a knower of śāstra) was emphasizing from our sacred texts the seriousness of Vaiṣṇava aparādha.

I also had come to hear Śrīla Bhakti Vaibhava Puri speak that day and I was disappointed that he was treated this way. It just didn’t seem right. But Puri Mahārāja was a pure Vaiṣṇava and didn’t seem overly disturbed, although that doesn’t excuse the offense. He simply asked his followers — and I don’t know why — to take him to the World Trade Center.

I watched the video afterwards.[2] He did kīrtana all the way to the top and on the observation deck. Knowing what was about to happen, it was amazing to watch. On the ascent, the elevator stopped on various floors, and many of the people who were soon to perish heard the holy name.

I was also in New York on the Lower East Side when the towers fell. I could see them fall and stood on Second Avenue watching the horrible sight of throngs of people, devastated and covered in ash, marching down Second Avenue looking for shelter. I remember that at the time I couldn’t get Pradyumna’s eerie, prophetic warning out of my head:

eka janāra doṣe saba deśa ujāḍaya — “For the offense to one person, the entire place is laid waste.”

[1] This my recollection to the best of my ability of a conversion that took place exactly 25 years ago.

[2] I watched the video many years ago. I tried but couldn’t locate it again. I did find an historical documentation of the event: “One of the most memorable events of the 2001 World Tour occurred on Saturday, August 25, 2001. On that day, Srīla Puri Maharaj and over a dozen devotees visited the top floor of World Trade Center Tower 2 and conducted a short nagar-sankirtana event…” (https://wikibin.org/articles/bhakti-vaibhava-puri-goswami.html)

A friend recently shared with me an excerpt from a book he was reading on one of his favorite subjects: the realizations of the Greek Stoics. It really struck a chord.

“Listen, as the saying goes, it’s crisis time: make a last desperate effort to gain freedom and tranquility — to be a Stoic. Lift up your head, like a person finally released from slavery. Dare to face God and say, ‘From now on, use me as you like. I am of one mind with you, I am your peer.’ Whatever you decide, I will not shrink from it. You may put me where you like, in any role regardless: officer or citizen, rich man or pauper, here or overseas. They are all just so many opportunities to justify your ways to man, by showing just how little circumstances amount to.” (Epictetus, Discourses and Selected Writings, translated by Robert Dobbin, p. 116)

Could I throw my hands in the air, “dare to face God,” and say, as the best of the Stoics do, “From now on, use me as you like”?

It is one thing to say this when life serves our wishes. It is another to say it when circumstance ask something of us that we would rather not do. Could I really say, “Whatever you decide, I will do,” if what God asked of me was difficult or inconvenient?

I think this gets to the heart of why the simple process of bhakti, which has no rigid prerequisites, can be even more challenging than the path of jñāna with all its harsh austerities.

Bhakti is simple, all we have to do is sincerely serve the will of God and leave the results up to Him. Anyone, in any condition or station in life, can advance on the path of devotion.

Bhakti is difficult — even a simple act of service can suddenly seem like the most arduous task when it doesn’t conform to our desires. For those of us who are self-centered, relinquishing control and acquiescing to do something we would not have chosen for ourselves is hell.

This “Stoic” acquiescence to a higher truth is also called surrender. And surrender is the foundation of devotion.

I have written before how, in the wrong cultural context, surrender is misunderstood. It is not following a madman. It is submission to a worthy object of devotion out of affection, where the satisfaction of our beloved becomes our greatest joy because it fills our heart with devotion.

Therefore, in this context, without surrender — selflessness — we can never enter the door of bhakti or, for that matter, experience any sincere loving relationship. Our hearts can never be truly satisfied.

Therefore, as we go deeper into any path of devotion, we will inevitably encounter a barrier if we want to get deeper. At some point, an inner voice will challenge us:

“If you want the highest love, you have to fully surrender!”

The Stoics had it right.

Are we ready to meet The Krishna Challenge and boldly declare:

“From now on, use me as you like!”

“You are so optimistic that you could be falling out of the Empire State Building and, at the 50th floor, say, ‘So far, so good.’”

Suhotra Swami once told me this. He was a very dedicated and learned disciple of Śrīla Prabhupāda and a friend of mine. He was also a bit eccentric, with a great sense of humor. It may seem strange, but he once showed me a book of 101 insults and pointed out this one specifically for me.

I loved it.

Unfortunately, he passed away. But his joke has stayed with me because it captured something I recognized in myself: I am an optimist.

But I have come to see that optimism can have two very different sides.

One is psychological. It is simply a tendency to look at the bright side, to avoid dwelling on what is painful, and to believe that things will somehow work out. Like anything born of the modes of nature, this tendency has its strengths, but it also has its pitfalls.

The other kind of optimism is spiritual. It is not based on the conviction that life will become easier or that circumstances will improve. It is born of spiritual knowledge and realization. It is the optimism of faith — the conviction that God is present in everything and that His hand is working to bring us closer to Him.

I like how Śrīla Bhakti Rakṣaka Śrīdhara put it: “If you’re not an optimist, you’re an atheist.”

Shouldn’t we see God’s hand in everything, working to bring us closer to Him?

Richard Rohr, in his book Discovering the Enneagram, describes St. Francis as the patron saint of the redeemed optimists, which is personality type seven in the Enneagram.[1] Growing up, he was known for his carousing, parties, and beautiful clothes. After his conversion, he realized that joy doesn’t require the continuous promise of something more, but that the same nature of positivity can arise from presence, gratitude, relationship with God, and surrender.

An optimist can also use his tendency to look at the bright side of things by seeing the good in others, allowing him to encourage and empower them. And when that optimism is redeemed, his joie de vivre on the spiritual side can become an inspiration to others.

But I have also experienced that anything born of the modes of nature, such as one’s psychology, has its pitfalls. Optimism can have many, but I’ll focus on one because it relates most directly to spiritual life — and because having a bit of this nature is something I’ve realized I must confront in myself.

The underlying psychological drive to avoid pain, which often characterizes the optimist, can lead to a form of escapism: a tendency to avoid confronting the things within oneself and in the world that one needs to face to grow and serve.

Everything is not OK.

Of course, a leader, a teacher, must make corrections in others to help them. In fact, the first thing Krishna says to Arjuna after he becomes his student is to find his fault.

“While speaking learned words, you are a fool because you are mourning for what is not worthy of grief. Those who are wise lament neither for the living nor the dead.” Gītā 2.11

But more detrimental than not correcting others when needed is not seeing the fault in oneself.

I remember once while chanting, some mistakes I had made came up in my mind. Somehow, that day I had the clarity to see my mind desperately looking to escape my accountability by rationalization.

Fortunately, I had read something the previous day that checked my escape: the story of the wives of the brāhmaṇas.

When the yajñic brāhmaṇas realized how spiritually evolved their wives were by observing their wives’ faith in Krishna, and how foolish in contrast they were for neglecting Him, they lamented and repented.

I noted that the Sanskrit word for remorse in the word-for-word translation was tapa, which also means heat or austerity. I realized then that remorse (tapa) burns (tapa) the false ego.

Thinking like this, rather than avoiding the pain of a diminished false ego, I let acknowledgment of my fault and a sense of remorse burn the false ego.

It was so clear. Superficial joy is not always the best option.

Chanting this morning, I also noticed that if we allow chanting to cleanse the heart, we will have to see our true nature. And it is not pretty.

It’s hard to be optimistic when it is revealed how far we are from the goal.

The truth about our failings is painful. But that pain is also our first impetus for taking shelter of God and seeking His mercy.

So what, then, is there to be optimistic about?

It’s not that life will get better, nor that things will go the way we want, nor even that our circumstances will improve.

The deeper optimism is that whatever happens, God’s mercy is there. And if we are sincere, even the painful things can bring us closer to Him.

It struck an important message in the heart of this recovering optimist:

“Hope is not believing that life will go as we wish; it is believing that God’s mercy will never fail.” Author Unknown

[1] Richard Rohr didn’t specifically use the word optimist to describe Enneagram personality type seven. He described it as “the need to be happy”. But he did deem St. Francis the patron saint of personality type seven which is very much the description of an optimist.

I recently watched a podcast in which a devotee talked about ayahuasca as a legitimate means of elevating consciousness. He supported his claim by quoting the Yoga-sūtras 4.1.

My purpose here is not to invalidate a person’s experience. Honestly, I don’t know enough about shamanistic practices to comment on that.[1]

I do know, however, the Yoga-sūtras. A close analysis of the text does not support the claim that drugs (herbal or chemical) are a legitimate means of yogic attainment. Here is the verse:

“Accomplishments (siddhis) arise from birth, auṣadhi (healing herb), mantra, austerity, and samādhi.”

The important thing here is to pay close attention to what Patañjali actually says.

He is not saying that auṣadhi elevates or purifies consciousness. All that he is saying is that siddhis (extraordinary accomplishments or powers) can arise from various sources such as birth, auṣadhi, mantra, austerity and samādhi.

What are these astonishing powers? They are certainly extraordinary, involving various ways of altering consciousness, but they remain material. This becomes clearer in the ancient commentator Vyāsa’s commentary on this verse. In his discussion of preparations that produce special abilities, Vyāsa includes asuras—beings who can acquire such powers through substances.

Vyāsa clearly is making the important distinction between mystic power (siddhis) and spiritual advancement. If an extraordinary capacity can be obtained through a substance, and even an asura can possess it, then the possession of that capacity cannot by itself be evidence of spiritual realization.

This is consistent with something Patañjali says earlier in the Yoga-sūtras.

“These powers may be accomplishments for the outward-moving mind, yet they become obstacles to the stillness of samādhi.” Y.S. 3.37

In other words, siddhi, meaning perfection or power, can entice the mind outward into the realm of prakṛti for wonder and pleasure, rather than encouraging it to withdraw from prakṛti, or material nature. In this way, siddhis can become obstacles to the attainment of samādhi.

But why, then, does Patañjali introduce the fourth pāda of the Yoga-sūtras, the Kaivalya Pāda, by discussing the causes of siddhis in its first sūtra, when kaivalya literally refers to the final stage of liberation, in which the soul becomes free from the fetters of matter, especially when the first sūtra of a chapter usually indicates its theme?

To answer this, you must return to the previous chapter, the Vibhūti Pāda, which concerns extraordinary powers. There, Patañjali seeks both to inform and encourage the yogi: advanced yoga can produce siddhis that transform consciousness in extraordinary ways, but these powers should not be mistaken for the ultimate purpose of yoga, which is to withdraw the mind from external distractions and turn it inward toward liberation.[2]

Patañjali therefore begins the fourth and final chapter, on kaivalya (liberation), by returning to the subject of siddhis discussed in the previous chapter, precisely to distinguish extraordinary accomplishments from liberation. In doing so, he clears away a potential confusion: altering consciousness is not necessarily the same as liberating consciousness. Having clarified this distinction, he then turns to the subject of the final pāda and the ultimate goal of yoga: the nature of kaivalya itself.[3]

As my writing is grounded in the bhakti perspective of my own tradition, let me conclude by approaching this subject from a devotional viewpoint. Although heightened awareness and the perception of God in nature can certainly support the path of devotion, the devotee never seeks siddhis for their own sake, nor is the goal merely to attain some extraordinary state of awareness. The devotee’s single focus is a transformation of the heart—to become more humble, more compassionate, more eager to serve, and, ultimately, to awaken one’s loving relationship with God. Thus, in a manner consistent with Patañjali’s treatment of the subject, the devotee does not regard the experience of auṣadhi as an ultimate attainment.

[1] Also, there are aspects of shamanistic meditation that seem consistent with certain elements of the Gauḍīya tradition, particularly the cultivation of an awareness of God’s presence within nature. This is something I am sure many of us feel the need to cultivate more deeply. As Śrī Nārada says:

“One can reach perfection by honoring even a blade of grass—provided one sees within it the presence of the Supreme Lord…” Bṛhad-bhāgavatāmṛta 2.4.210

[2] Although Patañjali warns that any outward awareness, however wondrous, can become an obstacle to yoga, the text does not treat every awareness produced by siddhis as categorically dangerous. Indeed, 1.35 explicitly develops a meditation technique from recognizing the utility of certain siddhi-born forms of awareness as the very object (ālambana) of continued meditation.

[3] Although the profound alteration of ordinary consciousness produced by auṣadhi can be risky, it may also have an indirect spiritual effect by revealing to the user that ordinary perception does not exhaust the possibilities of experience, thereby opening the consciousness to the search for a more spiritual approach to life. For example, many older devotees have credited their experiences with LSD as impelling them to seek a mystical approach to life and ultimately leading them toward the path of bhakti.

Kaniṣṭha, Madhyam, and Uttama Eating[1]

The first and lowest stage of consciousness, which represents the karmic or selfish mind, is called anna-moya. It’s the consciousness of an animal who sees things mostly in terms of eating. Therefore, for one who is serious about elevating one’s consciousness, controlling one’s eating is a priority.

It is no wonder that one of the six main obstacles on the path of bhakti-yoga is called atyāhāra — ati – extreme, āhāra – eating. Interestingly, although atyāhāra literally means “overeating,” the term is used primarily in a generic way to indicate the excessive increase of material demands. It shows how much improper eating is a feature of lower consciousness and why dealing with eating properly is so essential in spiritual life.

I have divided eating into three levels according to its effect on consciousness. The terms kaniṣṭha (neophyte), madhyam (middling), and uttama (topmost) are generic terms used to indicate the level of one’s qualification for practicing devotion. I am using these terms here to indicate the relative levels in the ways people approach eating.

Kaniṣṭha (Restaurant Eating)

I am using the term restaurant eating to refer to eating food that was cooked to accrue profit and not cooked for one personally and lovingly. The experience of eating such food is simply sensual. As the activity of the eater is not sacrificial, but selfish, there is karmic reaction for such eating, even if one is a vegan.

“ […] Others [those who don’t offer food first for sacrifice], who prepare food for personal enjoyment, verily eat sin.” (Bhagavad-gītā 3.13)

Madhyam (Home Cooking)

I am using the term home cooking to refer to food that was cooked with love for one’s family, such as food cooked by a loving mother for her children. Taking such food is therefore not just a sensual experience, but also an emotional one, as the taste of the food is an expression of the cook’s love for the person being served. I have written about this before in terms of how much of today’s mental disease, such as depression and anxiety, is caused by a lack of affection in one’s formative years, a nurturing that was mostly communicated through the food cooked by one’s mother.[2]

It is, therefore, a sad time now in modern society. There is no culture at home of family meals. One thus mostly fends for oneself through restaurants, take-out, frozen meals, and snacking. Contrast that with high-end Bengali culture. If even two people are taking a meal together, one person will lovingly serve it.

Still, if the food is not offered in sacrifice there is a karmic reaction.

Uttama (Prasādam)

Prasādam literally means “grace.” It is the spiritual tradition in Indian eating. One’s food is lovingly cooked and offered to God and only taken in a mood of honoring Krishna’s mercy. It is thus also karma-free, because the cooking, serving, and eating is done with devotion. Nārada, the most famous Vaiṣṇava saint, describes his experience of taking prasādam from the plate of his teacher:

“Once only, by their permission, I took the remnants of their food, and by so doing all my sins were at once eradicated.” (Bhāgavatam 1.5.25)

Properly honoring prasādam is thus uttama eating, a sensual, emotional, and spiritual experience. And one can’t underestimate how important it is for one dedicated to the elevation of consciousness to be vigilant in this regard. As the famous saying goes, and how much more it is applicable to those on the path of devotion:

“Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are.”[3]

[1] This is substantial re-written post from January 18, 2002.

[2] https://wavesofdevotion.com/2021/06/21/the-mother-the-mind-and-food-3/

[3] In 1826, French gastronome Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin wrote “Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai ce que tu es.”(Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are.) in his book Physiologie du Goût (The Physiology of Taste).

Misconception I: You Cannot Act for Mercy

Mercy is undeserved kindness. Therefore, some conclude that we cannot do anything to receive mercy, because the moment we act for it, it is no longer undeserved. We have done something to obtain it.

But is that conclusion correct?

If bhakti is the path of grace, and we can do nothing to attract mercy, then why practice Krishna consciousness at all?

A simple analogy helps resolve this apparent contradiction.

Imagine you are caught in a violent storm, and your life is in danger. You are in an isolated area and see a lone farmhouse. Desperate for shelter, you run to the door and knock. The owner opens the door and invites you inside.

Did your knocking negate the owner’s mercy?

Of course not.

It was never your house. You had no claim to enter. You were admitted solely because the owner chose to be merciful. Your knocking did not earn you shelter. It simply expressed your need and gave the owner the opportunity to extend his kindness.

Now take the analogy one step further.

Suppose the owner is initially suspicious. Seeing a stranger at his door, he fears you may be a thief and refuses to let you in. You continue pleading, and he hears the sincerity and desperation in your voice. Moved by your earnest appeal, the owner opens the door.

Did your pleading earn you the right to enter?

No.

You still had no claim upon the house. Your word did not create his kindness or force him to help you. But your sincere appeal attracted his mercy.

The same principle applies to bhakti.

By sincerely practicing devotional service, and especially by earnestly begging for the mercy of the holy name, we are not trying to earn our relationship with Krishna. Rather, we are acknowledging that we cannot attain Krishna by our own strength. We are admitting our dependence and appealing for the mercy that only He can give.

Therefore, it is a misconception to say that we cannot act for mercy. We can never earn Krishna’s mercy through our actions, but through our sincere efforts we can place ourselves in the position to receive and attract that mercy.

Misconception II: It Is Possible to Not Get God’s Mercy No Matter What We Do

If God were obligated to show us mercy because of something we did, it would no longer be mercy, but something deserved. It would then seem reasonable to conclude that it is possible never to receive God’s mercy, no matter what we do. But in coming to that conclusion, we overlook a very simple point.

If mercy is intrinsic to God’s nature, and God is infinite, then His mercy must also be infinite. If His mercy could ever be exhausted or withheld from even one soul, it would no longer be infinite.

In other words, mercy is not something external that God occasionally dispenses. It is an intrinsic aspect of His very nature. Since nothing exists outside of Him, there is no one beyond the reach of His mercy. His mercy is therefore unlimited, ever-present, and available to everyone — not because He is obligated by some external force, but because it is His very nature to be merciful.

It is therefore not possible for any soul to be bereft of God’s mercy.

One way to understand this is by considering the law of karma. Everyone is subject to karma, yet karma is ultimately meant to purify the soul and bring it back to God. Even the reactions to our actions are expressions of His mercy.

But God does even more. He repeatedly descends as avatāras, reveals scripture, sends His devotees, and manifests His holy name. It is therefore difficult to argue that any soul is ever without His mercy. The real issue is not whether mercy is available, but whether the soul recognizes it and accepts it.

Therefore, if we feel we are not receiving God’s mercy, the problem is not that mercy is absent. Rather, either out of ignorance or even humility, we are failing to recognize the mercy that is already present.

A famous poet sums it up nicely:

The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath… It is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. …
It is an attribute to God himself.

(Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, 4.1)