Waves of Devotion

How Bhakti Works Part 2 [1]

Analogies are a great way to communicate an idea. I just made up one. Just as a piece of paper burns only when the rays focused upon it through a magnifying glass are concentrated without break for a prolonged time, similarly the practices of bhakti, such as japa meditation, only bear the full fruit of realization when concentration is prolonged over a period without interruption.

Śrī Caitanya exemplified this principle by spending the last years of His life with protracted and uninterrupted focus on the holy name. He showed, however, that such focus on the holy name, like absorption on any object, is best achieved not just by will power alone, but when there is an emotional connection with that object. In the case of Śrī Caitanya, His absorption in the holy name was nourished by the most consummate emotion—a relationship in love—specifically the highest love, which manifests in relationship to God. To develop that relationship with the holy name He basically did two things: Visit the temple and worship Lord Jagannatha, the form of the person whose name He was chanting, and sit in His bhajan kuṭīra in Puri listening to the stories and songs of the person whose name He was chanting based on the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam from His most confidential associates, Śrī Rāmānanda Rāya and Śrī Svarūpa Dāmodara.

In fact, it was so important for Śrī Caitanya’s full absorption in nama bhajan to properly hear the appropriate poetic songs and stories to deepen His relationship with the holy name, that many well-wishing scholars worked diligently writing compositions to inspire Him.

Śrīla Prabhupāda also stressed that although of all the nine items of devotional service chanting is the best, it must be accompanied by hearing about Śrī Krishna, especially from the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam, to ensure that one’s chanting has some feeling and efficacy.

“When we speak of hearing and chanting, it means that not only should one chant and hear the holy name of the Lord as Rama, Krishna (or systematically the sixteen names Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna, Krishna, Hare Hare/ Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare) but one should also read and hear the Bhagavad-gītā and Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam in the association of devotees.” (Bhag. 2.2.30, Purport)

In summary, to the extent our focus is concentrated on God, especially in the form of the holy name, is the extent to which we begin to feel the energy of devotion between us and God, which is called prema.[2] Concentration is most pronounced, however, when there is sambandha, a relationship between us and God, which awakens or is inspired by hearing the philosophy and stories of Krishna. And that is how bhakti works!

“When one reaches the lotus feet of Lord Krishna at Goloka Vrindavan, the watering process of hearing and reading, as also chanting of the holy name in the pure devotional stage, fructifies, and the fruits grown there in the form of love of God are tangibly tasted by the devotee, even though he is here in the material world.” (Bhag. 2.2.30, Purport)

[1] Part 1 can be found here – https://wavesofdevotion.com/2020/03/30/how-bhakti-works/

[2] I am using the term “prema” here not for the highest stage of devotion, but in general to indicate devotion, the natural energy of affection between two people in a relationship.

The audience for my Monday Morning Greetings is a mix of people from various spiritual backgrounds. Many readers may therefore not be aware of the debated doctrinal issues that sometimes arise within the Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava bhakti tradition. Today I want to touch on one of the issues that has been brewing recently. My objective in doing so is not to resolve the issue but to use it to highlight a related point: that great ācāryas sometimes seem to contradict one another, so how should we behave when a current ācārya writes or speaks something that appears to be at odds with something stated by a previous ācārya? Let’s begin our analysis by briefly outlining the dispute at hand.

One side states that bhakti is inherent in the soul and that this principle is a foundational tenet of our lineage, especially through the last three or four generations of our ācāryas. The other side states that Śrī Caitanya’s original followers whom He specifically empowered to systemize the tradition’s philosophical conclusions, led by Śrī Jīva Gosvāmī, espouse something different—that bhakti is not inherent but rather is a spiritual energy that must be bestowed on a spiritual aspirant by one who has attained it.

Again, it’s obviously beyond the scope of a weekly post to argue either side. What I want to speak about, however, is how essential it is to discuss and analyze these types of disputes by emphasizing how the tradition deals with its ācāryas through a principle I’ve come to know as “the culture of faith”.

I first heard the term “culture of faith” in a conversation I had after attending a conference I had organized for young Vaiṣṇavas studying for their doctoral degrees in disciplines somewhat relevant to the study of bhakti. I was concerned about one of the presentations at the conference, which offered a critical analysis of Śrīla Prabhupāda’s Bhagavad-gītā As It Is, including references from an academic text sarcastically entitled Bhagavad-gītā As It Was. After further discussion among the participants, most of whom had studied the Gītā with Śrīla Prabhupāda’s commentary thoroughly at ISKCON’s VIHE,[1] the concluding consensus toward Śrīla Prabhupāda’s version was very favorable. Still, I was uncomfortable with the topic itself, so I asked Śrīla Prabhupāda’s learned Sanskrit editor, Pradyumna das, what he thought of such a critical presentation by and among followers of Śrīla Prabhupāda.

Pradyumna, too, questioned the tenor of the presentation, then shared several examples within the Vaiṣṇava culture of what he called “the culture of faith”—that is, how nurturing of faith in a bona fide guru and Śrī Krishna is prioritized throughout Vaiṣṇava discussions and dealings.

One of his examples particularly struck me. Great contemporary scholars in the Madhva tradition sometimes find what appears to be an error in a commentary written hundreds of years ago by one of their revered ācāryas. Even though they are unable to reconcile that ācārya’s point with their own understanding, they never presume, what to speak of write, that the previous ācārya was wrong.[2] Rather, they use the phrase “ṛṣi uvāca,” “the great sage said,” and then simply quote him directly. Only then do they write their own version, even though it may seem to contradict what the previous ācārya said.

But why not directly assert that they cannot understand what the ācārya has written rather than quote him without that qualification? Isn’t avoiding the issue simply a lack of candor?

Not if you understand Vaiṣṇava theology and, in cultivating knowledge, the importance placed on the role of faith. Faith is the deep impression in the mind of humble trust in authority; faith allows one to contemplate and comprehend truths beyond one’s present purview and understanding. Without such trust, our own capacity, conditioning, and prejudices are the limiting lens through which our concept of reality is formed. Faith, therefore, is essential in any learning, but it’s especially important when trying to understand the Divine, which operates through laws not limited to our two-dimensional, spatiotemporal reality.

Therefore, a culture concerned with uplifting its community spiritually necessarily protects its members’ faith, both by training and then holding accountable those who take positions of authority, and by how one deals with those qualified to be authorities.

This “culture of faith” principle is espoused in Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam. In the Eleventh Canto, chapter 17, entitled “Lord Krishna’s Description of the Varṇāśrama System,” Śrī Krishna outlines the brahmacārī’s duty to twice daily worship those in positions of reverence. He then lends His own absolute authority to those who represent Him by declaring, “One should know the ācārya as Myself and never disrespect him in any way. One should not envy him, thinking him an ordinary man.” (Bhag. 11.17.27) Krishna’s statement here indicates His own concern with culturing faith. He even warns us about the human tendency to envy, which results in attempts to denigrate or critically examine even those worthy of the greatest respect.[3]

Of course, one may object that this type of promotion of faith leaves one vulnerable to rationalization, loss of integrity, and consequent exploitation. I have already discussed these dangers extensively in a previous post called “The Perils of Faith.”[4] Obviously, one must be encouraged to be very thoughtful before reposing his or her faith in someone. But despite the perils of faith, cultured persons do not lose sight of the primary importance of nurturing reasonable faith. If faith is lost, all is lost.

Now that I’ve outlined the thesis, I would like to apply this principle of faith to the specific philosophical issue at hand. Again, the teaching being questioned is the statements of Śrīla Bhaktivinoda Ṭhākura and his lineage, which sees bhakti as inherent in the soul. This tenet is said to conflict with that of Śrī Jiva, the foundational Gauḍīya siddhāntic ācārya, whose teaching is thought to be that bhakti is not inherent in the soul but inherited.

Here are my thoughts on the culture of faith as applied to this matter:

1. We need to be aware that by taking sides in a doctrinal conflict and declaring an ācārya wrong or mistaken, even if you feel the mistake is an isolated one, you risk establishing your authority over the ācārya. This leaves you open to relativizing and questioning anything that ācārya says and thereby limiting your knowledge and understanding to your own conditioned frame of reference.[5] One cognizant of the culture of faith is therefore extremely careful when dealing with apparent doctrinal differences among ācārya
2. When we’re unable to understand how an ācārya’s statement is true given what other points of view we’ve heard, as faithful persons our duty is to reserve judgment and instead rigorously attempt to reconcile the conflicting views by doing sufficient research. After all, we’re not tattva-darśine, realized seers of truth, and the truth doesn’t always conform to our prejudiced convictions and understanding of reality. Often, in time and as our realization matures, we may find ourselves able to understand truths that previously we could neither accept nor appreciate.
3. In our attempt at reconciliation, we should be careful that the solution we come to doesn’t inadvertently diminish the authority of the current ācārya. For example, dismissing Bhaktivinoda Ṭhākura’s view as a “preaching strategy” might inadvertently present Bhaktivinoda Ṭhākura and those who follow him as disingenuous or lacking candor.
4. Śrī Jīva Gosvāmī is no doubt the ultimate philosophical authority in our tradition. Yet our present ācāryas also have extraordinary authority within Śrī Caitanya’s lineage, for they themselves have carried Śrī Caitanya’s legacy to every town and village in the world. Is it therefore not unreasonable to accept them as authorities in how they present their understanding of the teachings of the Six Goswamis, especially since they too are scholars who have studied Śrī Jiva’s work in its original language?[6]
5. Matters of faith are very sensitive. We therefore need to be careful how we discuss these foundational, siddhāntic issues publicly. This is the age of the internet, and internet audiences come from all sorts of backgrounds and levels of faith, who have particular loyalties to perhaps ācāryas different from our own, many of whom have also strongly expressed opposing opinions on the same subject. The most likely outcome of pushing such issues into public forums is further division and conflict in the Gauḍīya family, even among those of deep faith and spiritual attainment.
6. Even though I may not share others’ conclusions, I accept that sincere people, after deep study, can develop strong convictions supported by well-reasoned argument—in this case, that Bhaktivinoda Ṭhākura’s statements on this matter cannot easily be reconciled with the conclusions of Śrī Jīva Gosvāmī.[7] And as Śrī Jiva is recognized as the siddhāntic ācārya of our lineage, his conclusions should stand supreme. I have no problem with this idea. But a truly learned and cultured person will avoid the careless mistake of placing any deficiency in understanding on great souls like Śrīla Bhaktivinoda and his lineage; rather they accept their own inability to reconcile opposing points of view. After all, subtle subjects like the one at hand deal with ontological issues relating to the soul and its origin beyond time. The topic itself requires faith. So such is the culture of faith.

This paper was initially written for my Monday Morning Greetings. I naively thought I could make a point, then whittle it down to my standard page and a half. What was I thinking?! I now realize that many more papers need to be written to do this subject justice.[8]

If there’s one thing I strongly wanted to communicate, however, it’s that in discussions about topics espoused by our ācāryas that are beyond our comprehension of scripture or even defy our social or moral convictions—and these will naturally arise,[9] we need to be soberly and strongly grounded in a culture of faith.

[1] Acronym for the Vrindavan Institute for Higher Studies, the first and perhaps most prominent institution in ISKCON for śāstric studies.

[2] Due to its relevance, I’m including an excerpt from Bhaktivinoda Ṭhākura’s commentary on the Brahma-saṁhitā (text 37): “Whatever is spoken by pure Vaiṣṇavas is true and utterly free from any bias or party spirit, but there is a mystery surrounding their apparent verbal disagreements. Those whose intelligence is materialistic and lacks the spirit of devotion cannot fathom the deep secrets of the loving controversies between pure Vaiṣṇavas, and thus they wrongly conceive of such great personalities as philosophical adversaries.

“Only the worldly beliefs of those who are imbued with mundane intelligence are missing in Goloka. Different visions of the variegated pastimes in Goloka are realized according to one’s level of qualification. Thus it is difficult for one to establish a fixed conclusion to determine which aspects of those varieties of visions are illusory and which are pure. Therefore, there is no need to argue and counterargue this matter because it will not elevate one’s qualification. The truth of Goloka is filled with inconceivable bhāva, and any attempt to investigate this inconceivable reality by the mind would prove as unproductive as threshing empty husks. Hence, one should disregard the method of empirical knowledge, and strive for realization through the practice of unalloyed devotion.”

[3] The Sanskrit word asūyā in Bhag. 11.17.27 can be read as “envy” or “ill will,” but it also means “to depreciate” or “to detract”—in other words, to attempt to diminish the worth or value of the guru by thinking him an ordinary man who makes errors. In the Catholic tradition, detraction is the unjust damaging of another’s good name by revealing some fault in that person.

[4] I encourage you to also read my earlier article, “The Perils of Faith”: https://wavesofdevotion.com/2022/03/28/the-perils-of-faith/

[5] I realize that in this issue it’s not that one is trying to establish authority over the ācārya, but rather to establish the authority of Śrī Jīva Gosvāmī over the philosophical view of all others, as it should be. What must be cautioned, however, is that the later ācārya has studied the writings of Jīva Gosvāmī and nonetheless presented something in a particular way, and not in an isolated instance but consistently and repeatedly throughout his writings. What one risks doing, then, in correcting this ācārya is privileging one’s own reading and understanding of Śrī Jiva over that of this ācārya’s.

[6] An example of this type of faith is exhibited in the statement of Śrīla Bhakti Prajñāna Keśava Mahārāja, the sannyāsa guru of Śrīla Prabhupāda [ A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami]: “I don’t know or recognize the path of the previous gosvāmīs. I simply accept Jagadguru Śrīla Prabhupāda’s [Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī Ṭhākura’s] line of thought as unerring truth, and I will try to know and understand the previous gosvāmīs through Śrīla Prabhupāda’s vision. I will first accept the excellence of his explanations and commentaries.”

[7] “By accepting the Six Gosvāmīs as his instructing spiritual masters, the author specifically makes it clear that one should not be recognized as a Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava if he is not obedient to them.” (Cc., Adi-lila 1.37)

[8] Another issue that needs further discussion is what to do if we find that a more contemporary ācārya seems to contradict himself within the corpus of his own recorded teachings. In such cases, his actual intention may be clarified by referring to the foundational ācāryas. For example, Śrīla Prabhupāda’s statements take both sides on the “fall of the jiva” issue. In this case, not only the foundational ācāryas but Śrīla Prabhupāda’s immediate predecessors share a common view. In a case like this, I have no objection if on that basis one concludes that the living entity did not fall from Vaikuntha if one simply acknowledges one’s own inability to reconcile or understand Śrīla Prabhupāda’s other statements on the matter.

The issue I mentioned in this article also discusses origins, and this appears to be the area where most contentious issues arise. This is because by discussing these issues we enter the realm of the Lord’s inconceivable potency—a place where we’re forced to describe beginningless phenomena with temporal language. How do you use words to denote something that has neither cause nor a beginning?

However, the inherent/inherited controversy discussed here can’t be easily solved in the way I suggested concerning Śrīla Prabhupāda’s statements on the fall of the jiva. This is because Śrīla Bhaktivinoda’s contention is clearly a foundational principle found throughout his writings and strongly supported by those who follow him. Perhaps he makes isolated statements that can be interpreted in a way that contradicts his foundational tenet about the nature of the soul, but they really can’t hold weight against his declarative, consistent, and plentiful concerning inherency.

One hermeneutic principle used to clarify what a teacher means to say in the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam is to analyze the common understanding of the teacher’s students. It’s clear that those who came after Śrīla Bhaktivinoda, including contemporary respected senior Vaiṣṇavas who have carefully studied Śrīla A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami’s books, have understood his teaching as espousing bhakti as inherent in the soul.

[9] If we accept that our vision and understanding is imperfect and limited, we cannot expect to find everything we read and hear from an ācārya’s corpus of teachings—including his translations and commentaries on scripture as well as his recorded testimonies in a variety of other circumstances—to fit neatly or exactly into our conditioned worldview.

Please excuse me again for a reprint. I was working on a post about a difficult doctrinal issue and it has been taking be an inordinate amount of time to finish. I’ll be back next week with a fresh post.

An Original Argument for the Existence of God

June 13, 2016

I am fascinated by apologetics, the discipline of defending the existence of God through reason. I have listened to and read the best apologetics, from William Lane Craig to Alvin Plantinga, and I have studied their arguments carefully. I even devised a public seminar called “Can God Be Blue? A Study of Krishna” based on apologetics, including arguments for God being a person and for that person being Krishna.

I coined what I thought was an original argument for the existence of God. I call the argument “The Argument by Coincidence.”

Basically, I argued that if a person carefully studies his own life, he will find a synchronicity between certain events, or “meaningful coincidences,” as Carl Jung termed them, whose probability of occurrence is so small that it is far more likely that the cause of those events rests beyond any random occurrence under the laws of nature. What makes the events even more improbable is the link between those external events and our inner life, as if the events were personally directed toward helping us grow. An example from Jung’s practice illustrates this phenomenon:

A classic illustration of synchronicity presented by Jung involved one of his patients, a woman with a highly developed rational mind—a fact that made her psychoanalytic treatment difficult. One day she was telling Jung about a dream she had had in which she received a golden scarab, a beetle with significance in Egyptian mythology. Just at that moment, Jung reported, he heard a noise “like a gentle tapping” on his window. When he opened the window, a scarablike beetle flew in. Jung caught the beetle and presented it to his patient, saying, “Here’s your scarab.” The stunning impact of this synchronicity overwhelmed the defenses of her rational mind and led to a breakthrough in her treatment.[1]

Here is a similar example from my own life:

I met the devotees in 1970 while visiting California during the summer break after my second year in college. While we were in Los Angeles, my friend received an invitation card from the devotees chanting on Hollywood Boulevard for a Sunday Feast at their new temple on Watseka Avenue. Four of us went and very much enjoyed the feast and chanting. In fact, we enjoyed it so much that we decided to chant nonstop on our drive the next day up Highway 1 to visit San Francisco. In San Francisco we specifically wanted to eat at one famous Chinese restaurant. When we finished, to our surprise, we saw the devotees chanting on the street right outside the restaurant. I immediately joined in, as I was already familiar with the chanting from our visit to the temple the Sunday before. When the chanting ended, we proceeded to find a place to stay by calling the various references and leads we had collected in our travels to the West Coast. The only person who was even the least bit accommodating was a young man who offered that we could sleep in our car in the parking lot of Kezar Stadium on the southeastern side of Golden Gate Park, smack in the middle of the city, and use the bathroom in his apartment across the street. When we drove into the empty parking lot, which we discovered was used only on Sundays for football games, we noticed that the back of the stores on Frederick Street faced us about twenty yards away. And when we looked up, we saw through a back window billowing smoke and robes. It was the Hare Krishnas working in their kitchen! I turned to my friend and said, “Holy cow, everyone in this city is into this!” We called out, “Hare Krishna!” Two devotees (Gaura Hari and Babhruvahan) leaned out the window at the beckoning four travelers and exclaimed, “Ah! Krishna has brought us four! Have some prasādam!” We were offered a tray of peanuts, raisins, and chickpeas, which we wolfed down with gusto. We stayed in that lot for the last two weeks of our summer break, visiting the temple daily and meeting many wonderful devotees such as Jayananda, Madhudvisa, and Locana dasa, to name just a few. The rest was history. We all became devotees.

Of course, not everyone in San Francisco was into this. That was the lone Hare Krishna temple in a city. I am not sure that what happened is exactly synchronicity, but the probability of this series of mutual coincidences—how I went to temple, met the devotees outside the restaurant, and was granted a place to stay outside the only Hare Krishna temple in a city of millions and then dedicated myself to that same path—was small enough to at least stretch the concept of godless randomness. If this was the only coincidence of my life, I could pawn it off as chance, but when I look at my life and see how the world has repeatedly moved to teach me needed lessons geared directly at the most subtle impurities in my heart, the sheer probability of such synchronicity is implausible.

It could be argued that I am just seeing in my apparent destiny things that don’t exist, that synchronicity is just in my mind. But besides the fact that synchronicity happens too often in the lives of too many people to be disregarded as chance, the fact that there is a moral force or destiny in every person’s life beyond randomness—which is called “the law of karma” and can be proven by the science of astrology—makes providence undeniable. It is beyond the scope of this article to discuss it all in detail, but I am puzzled as to why no one has applied the scientific method to the study of astrology to prove that there is a destiny set at birth. It seems that it can easily be done.

In summary, the argument of coincidence states that the preponderance of the occurrence of mutual coincidences in people’s lives and the fact of destiny are so far beyond the explanation of chance that the only plausible explanation for them is God.

[1] Nancy Seifer, “Synchronicity and the Soul.” http://whenthesoulawakens.org/synchronicity-and-the-soul_288.html

Dhanurdhara Swami has been hosting a retreat this past week in Shyam Ashram in Cali, Colombia and hasn’t been able to finish this week’s Monday Morning Greeting so we are reprinting one from 2016.

How a Bhaktivedanta Purport Saved Me from a Mental Hospital

October 24, 2016

I am fortunate to have had very wonderful parents. In fact, my ninety-six-year-old mother is still alive, and when I am in the US I try to stay with her for a couple of days every month. Why am I saying this? Because I am about to tell the story of when my parents had me kidnapped to save me from being a Hare Krishna, which they were convinced at the time was a cult, and I would not want anyone to think bad of them in the least. They were very decent people. They kidnapped me over forty years ago, when we young, passionate, dedicated devotees couldn’t always communicate properly the profound truths that we were experiencing, especially to our parents, and when most people, such as my parents, had very little frame of reference to understand an exotic new religious movement in America. Out of love for me, they tried to save me from something they thought was harmful, and unfortunately, not being properly informed, they resorted to deprogramming. Looking back, I blame myself equally for that miscommunication.

I am just going to highlight the part of the story where the recollection and sharing of a Bhaktivedanta purport saved me from being committed to Kings County Mental Hospital.

After being kidnapped from the temple in Dallas, Texas, by the famous deprogrammer Ted Patrick, I was eventually able to feign that he was successful in his attempt to deprogram me. I was thus sent home, but under the watch of his assistant, a thug named Goose.[1] When my father and Goose took me shopping to get new Western clothes at Kings Plaza, the largest shopping mall in Brooklyn at the time, I made a run for it when Goose went into a bank to change money. As I was running out of the mall with my father chasing me, the police nearby apprehended me, thinking I was a thief. When they asked my age and understood that I was twenty-four years old, they initially wanted to let me go free, but on my father’s insistence that I was crazy, they agreed to take me to a mental hospital to determine if I should be committed.

I was booked at the nearest police station, handcuffed, and taken to the mental hospital to be interviewed by a psychiatrist who would make the final decision on my mental status. My parents were interviewed first to register their complaint. I was left in the waiting hall outside his office. I paced back and forth among the other people there, chanting on my fingers (my beads had been taken). Many of them were also in the process of being committed. I remember one lady talking to the wall as if it were her boyfriend who had jilted her, and another man strapped to a wheelchair in a straitjacket screaming and kicking as violently and angrily as anyone I have ever seen.

The interview with my parents was soon finished and the psychiatrist called me in. I sat down directly opposite him, and he examined me carefully. He looked me in the eyes and asked in earnestness, “Are you hallucinating?”

“Why do you ask that?” I replied.

“I saw you pacing back and forth in the hallway, talking to yourself.”

I must have looked crazy, I thought. When I had returned home, I’d had no Western clothes, and my parents had confiscated my devotional attire. That’s why they had taken me shopping. All they had been able to find around the house were extremely baggy jeans (before they were in fashion), an old high-school sports-team jacket, and a strange fez that my father had been gifted by a Pakistani insurance salesman. To make my appearance even stranger, I had been pacing back and forth, shaking my head rapidly back and forth in ecstasy as I chanted the Hare Krishna mahā-mantra aloud, keeping track by counting on my fingers. I must have looked, well, crazy!

But somehow, in response to the psychiatrist, I had the gumption to look him right in the eye and with the Hare Krishna missionary zeal, enthusiasm, and confidence of those early days of the movement—“fired up” as we would say—repeat exactly what I had read the day before I was kidnapped in a purport from the Third Canto of the Bhāgavatam.

“Although I am not hallucinating,” I told him, “it can’t be said that I am seeing the same as you. Just like one who is not a theist sees a rose as separate from God and made only for his own enjoyment. A devotee, however, sees that flower as the energy of God and meant to be used in his service. And therefore, although I am not hallucinating, it cannot be said that I am seeing the same thing as you!” As I spoke those last words, I slowed down for emphasis and pointed my finger directly at the psychiatrist.

His jaw dropped, and he paused before gathering his words. “That’s very intelligent,” he finally said. “I think your parents are crazy!”

I could imagine the fervor with which my parents presented their case and the contrast between my lucid and clear explanation, practically word-for-word from Srila Prabhupada’s book.

The doctor released me. And that’s how Srila Prabhupada’s books saved me from being committed to a mental hospital.

Rathi Krishna recently found the exact purport that I had studied and repeated to the psychiatrist that one fateful morning forty-one years ago. I think the readership of Monday Morning Greetings will value its clarity and force. Even that psychiatrist, who probably wasn’t even a theist, appreciated its profundity at a time when the Krishna consciousness movement was not yet recognized as an established religion.

“A conditioned soul sees a very beautiful rose, and he thinks that the nice aromatic flower should be used for his own sense gratification. This is one kind of vision. A liberated soul, however, sees the same flower as a reflection of the Supreme Lord. He thinks, ‘This beautiful flower is made possible by the superior energy of the Supreme Lord; therefore it belongs to the Supreme Lord and should be utilized in His service.’ ” (Bhāgavatam 3.27.13, purport)

Epilogue: A few years after the kidnapping, my parents visited me in India and became very appreciative of what I was doing, as did the rest of my family.

[1] “Goose is big, about six-foot-five, and strong as iron. He wears his hair long, with a sweatband around it. His arms are tattooed, and when he goes out on a mission he wears heavy boots, a leather vest, and a black leather gloves like a strangler. I think all that is part of psyching himself up. At heart he’s really a gentle young man, but when he gets riled, he has known to become aggressive. That night he got carried away.”—from Ted Patrick’s book, Let Our Children Go!