Bhagavad Gita conversation begins next Monday!

The invite:

Just a quick moment to remind you that I will be hosting an exploration of the Bhagavad Gita on the first Monday of the month, beginning next Monday March 3, running for some 19 months. All the details are available here.

Also beginning next week, but every single Monday rather than once a month, I’ll be doing Gayatri Japa. The two offerings are distinct. The Gita involves philosophy and discussion with both me and peers. I hope to create a container in which we can explore our own discipline of hope, svadhyaya, or whatever spirituality or devotional you’ve got in these incredibly stressful times. Chanting japa doesn’t involve conversation or ‘teaching’: I’m just going to get online and do the prayer, no conversation. Thus I’ll be guiding a practice for anybody who is struggling right now to guide themselves.

Come to either, come to both, or whatever.

I don’t really teach anything these days unless I’m directly told to do so by my own mentors. From a western hustle culture perspective, it’s a decidedly odd arrangement. It might seem abject to some, as though I’ve given away my autonomy. From my perspective, it feels as though I’ve reclaimed autonomy.

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Here’s some collected writing on the Gita, for dorky folks like me:

Amit Majmudar

“The Gita is a scripture without an outgroup—that is, even though it takes place on a literal battlefield, there is no rant against the opposing side; nor are there rants against unbelievers or heathen or infidels or whatnot. So anyone can approach the Gita without feeling their particular religious background or faith affiliation is under attack.

Its message of the underlying unity of all living things—the unity of the self and Brahman—and its exhortation to take part in the struggle of life, however painful, is pertinent to everyone, whether you apply it to environmentalism or social justice or to personal struggles in your everyday life.

And oh yeah—it’s one of the finest poems ever written, complete with a vision of the universal form of the divine.”

Henry David Thoreau

“In the morning I bathe my intellect in the stupendous and cosmogonal philosophy of the Bhagvat Geeta, since whose composition years of the gods have elapsed, and in comparison with which our modern world and its literature seem puny and trivial; and I doubt if that philosophy is not to be referred to a previous state of existence, so remote is its sublimity from our conceptions. I lay down the book and go to my well for water, and lo! there I meet the servant of the Bramin, priest of Brahma and Vishnu and Indra, who still sits in his temple on the Ganges reading the Vedas, or dwells at the root of a tree with his crust and water jug. I meet his servant come to draw water for his master, and our buckets as it were grate together in the same well. The pure Walden water is mingled with the sacred water of the Ganges.”

“‘Free in this world as the birds in the air, disengaged from every kind of chains, those who practice the yoga gather in Brahma the certain fruits of their works.’

”Depend upon it that, rude and careless as I am, I would fain practice the yoga faithfully.

“’The yogi, absorbed in contemplation, contributes in his degree to creation; he breathes a divine perfume, he hears wonderful things. Divine forms traverse him without tearing him, and united to the nature which is proper to him, he goes, he acts as animating original matter.’

”To some extent, and at rare intervals, even I am a yogi.” ”

— Henry David Thoreau, in a letter to his friend

Thomas Merton

The Significance of the Bhagavad-Gita
THOMAS MERTON (1968)

“If, in the West, God can no longer be experienced as other than “dead,” it is because of an inner split and self-alienation which have characterized the Western mind in its single-minded dedication to only half of life: that which is exterior, objective, and quantitative. The “death of God” and the consequent death of genuine moral sense, respect for life, for humanity, for value, has expressed the death of an inner subjective quality of life: a quality which in the traditional religions was experienced in terms of God-consciousness. ”

— Thomas Merton

The word Gita means “Song.” Just as in the Bible the Song of Solomon has traditionally been known as “The Song of Songs” because it was interpreted to symbolize the ultimate union of Israel with God (in terms of human married love), so The Bhagavad Gita is, for Hinduism, the great and unsurpassed Song that finds the secret of human life in the unquestioning surrender to and awareness of Krishna.

While The Vedas provide Hinduism with its basic ideas of cult and sacrifice and The Upanishads develop its metaphysic of contemplation, The Bhagavad Gita can be seen as the great treatise on the “Active Life.” But it is really something more, for it tends to fuse worship, action and contemplation in a fulfillment of daily duty which transcends all three by virtue of a higher consciousness: a consciousness of acting passively, of being an obedient instrument of a transcendent will. The Vedas, The Upanishads, and The Gita can be seen as the main literary supports for the great religious civilization of India, the oldest surviving culture in the world. The fact that The Gita remains utterly vital today can be judged by the way such great reformers as Mohandas Gandhi and Vinoba Bhave both spontaneously based their lives and actions on it, and indeed commented on it in detail for their disciples.

The present translation and commentary is another manifestation of the permanent living importance of The Gita. Swami Bhaktivedanta brings to the West a salutary reminder that our highly activistic and one-sided culture is faced with a crisis that may end in self-destruction because it lacks the inner depth of an authentic metaphysical consciousness. Without such depth, our moral and political protestations are just so much verbiage. If, in the West, God can no longer be experienced as other than “dead,” it is because of an inner split and self-alienation which have characterized the Western mind in its single-minded dedication to only half of life: that which is exterior, objective, and quantitative. The “death of God” and the consequent death of genuine moral sense, respect for life, for humanity, for value, has expressed the death of an inner subjective quality of life: a quality which in the traditional religions was experienced in terms of God-consciousness. Not concentration on an idea or concept of God, still less on an image of God, but a sense of presence, of an ultimate ground of reality and meaning, from which life and love could spontaneously flower.

Realization of the Supreme “Player” whose “Play” (Lila) is manifested in the million-formed, inexhaustible richness of beings and events, is what gives us the key to the meaning of life. Once we live in awareness of the cosmic dance and move in time with the Dancer, our life attains its true dimension. It is at once more serious and less serious than the life of one who does not sense this inner cosmic dynamism. To live without this illuminated consciousness is to live as a beast of burden, carrying one’s life with tragic seriousness as a huge, incomprehensible weight (see Camus’ interpretation of the Myth of Sisyphus). The weight of the burden is the seriousness with which one takes one’s own individual and separate self. To live with the true consciousness of life centered in Another is to lose one’s self-important seriousness and thus to live life as “play” in union with a Cosmic Player. It is He alone that one takes seriously. But to take Him seriously is to find joy and spontaneity in everything, for everything is gift and grace. In other words, to live selfishly is to bear life as an intolerable burden. To live selflessly is to live in joy, realizing by experience that life itself is love and gift. To be a lover and a giver is to be a channel through which the Supreme Giver manifests His love in the world.

But The Gita presents a problem to some who read it in the present context of violence and war which mark the crisis of the West. The Gita appears to accept and to justify war. Arjuna is exhorted to submit his will to Krishna by going to war against his enemies, who are also his own kin, because war is his duty as a Prince and warrior. Here we are uneasily reminded of the fact that in Hinduism as well as in Judaism, Islam, and Christianity, there is a concept of a “Holy War” which is “willed by God” and we are furthermore reminded of the fact that, historically, this concept has been secularized and inflated beyond measure. It has now “escalated” to the point where slaughter, violence, revolution, the annihilation of enemies, the extermination of entire populations and even genocide have become a way of life. There is hardly a nation on earth today that is not to some extent committed to a philosophy or to a mystique of violence. One way or other, whether on the left or on the right, whether in defense of a bloated establishment or of an improvised guerrilla government in the jungle, whether in terms of a police state or in terms of a ghetto revolution, the human race is polarizing itself into camps armed with everything from Molotov cocktails to the most sophisticated technological instruments of death. At such a time, the doctrine that “war is the will of God” can be disastrous if it is not handled with extreme care. For everyone seems in practice to be thinking along some such lines, with the exception of a few sensitive and well-meaning souls (mostly the kind of people who will read this book).

The Gita is not a justification of war, nor does it propound a war-making mystique. War is accepted in the context of a particular kind of ancient culture in which it could be and was subject to all kinds of limitations. (It is instructive to compare the severe religious limitations on war in the Christian Middle Ages with the subsequent development of war by nation states in modern times-backed of course by the religious establishment. ) Arjuna has an instinctive repugnance for war, and that is the chief reason why war is chosen as the example of the most repellent kind of duty. The Gita is saying that even in what appears to be most “unspiritual” one can act with pure intentions and thus be guided by Krishna consciousness. This consciousness itself will impose the most strict limitations on one’s use of violence because that use will not be directed by one’s own selfish interests, still less by cruelty, sadism, and mere blood lust.

The discoveries of Freud and others in modern times have, of course, alerted us to the fact that there are certain imperatives of culture and of conscience which appear pure on the surface and are in fact bestial in their roots. The greatest inhumanities have been perpetrated in the name of “humanity,” “civilization,” “progress,” “freedom,” “my country,” and of course “God.” This reminds us that in the cultivation of an inner spiritual consciousness there is a perpetual danger of self-deception, narcissism, self-righteous evasion of truth. In other words the standard temptation of religious and spiritually minded people is to cultivate an inner sense of rightness or of peace, and make this subjective feeling the final test of everything. As long as this feeling of rightness remains with them, they will do anything under the sun. But this inner feeling (as Auschwitz and the Eichmann case have shown) can coexist with the ultimate in human corruption.

The hazard of the spiritual quest is of course that its genuineness cannot be left to our own isolated subjective judgment alone. The fact that I am turned on doesn’t prove anything whatever. (Nor does the fact that I am turned off.) We do not simply create our own lives on our own terms. Any attempt to do so is ultimately an affirmation of our individual self as ultimate and supreme. This is a self-idolatry which is diametrically opposed to “Krishna consciousness” or to any other authentic form of religious or metaphysical consciousness.

The Gita sees that the basic problem of man is his endemic refusal to live by a will other than his own. For in striving to live entirely by his own individual will, instead of becoming free, man is enslaved by forces even more exterior and more delusory than his own transient fancies. He projects himself out of the present into the future. He tries to make for himself a future that accords with his own fantasy, and thereby escape from a present reality which he does not fully accept. And yet, when he moves into the future he wanted to create for himself, it becomes a present that is once again repugnant to him. And yet this is precisely what he has “made” for himself-it is his own karma. In accepting the present in all its reality as something to be dealt with precisely as it is, man comes to grips at once with his karma and with a providential will which, ultimately, is more his own than what he currently experiences, on a superficial level, as “his own will.” It is in surrendering a false and illusory liberty on the superficial level that man unites himself with the inner ground of reality and freedom in himself which is the will of God, of Krishna, of Providence, of Tao. These concepts do not all exactly coincide, but they have much in common. It is by remaining open to an infinite number of unexpected possibilities which transcend his own imagination and capacity to plan that man really fulfills his own need for freedom. The Gita, like the Gospels, teaches us to live in awareness of an inner truth that exceeds the grasp of our thought and cannot be subject to our own control. In following mere appetite for power, we are slaves of our own appetite. In obedience to that inner truth we are at last free.

Faith?

The word śraddhā is all over the yogic literature. It is the first step on the yogic path according to Patañjali. In the Bhagavad Gita, śraddhā is foundational to one’s search for truth and meaning: one’s śraddhā is the basis of their actions and the consequent unfolding direction in life. In the Veda, śraddhā is what lights the inner fires of metabolism, wisdom, and being.

It’s unfortunate - or at the very least misleading - that this concept is translated to “faith” or “belief” in English. Because of our spiritual wounds, the thing comes across as confusing, offensive, dogmatic, religious, bypassing, ignorant, avoidant, oppressive, judgmental, archaic, submissive, unscientific, stupid, brutal, and provocative. We bristle, even though the lived experience of empowerment and curiosity are the most true things we can say of our personal yoga experience.

Let’s throw out ‘faith’. It would be better to understand śraddhā as conviction or dedication. The word in and of itself breaks down to a unity of truth (śhrat) and hold (dhā to hold, to support, specifically support the mind and functions of mind, an attentional stability). Thus śraddhā means “holder of truth” or '“adherence to truth” or “in the pursuit of truth”. Which is lovely.

““Śraddhā is essential for progress,
whether in Yoga or any other endeavour.
It is a feeling that cannot be expressed or intellectually discussed.
It, however, is a feeling that is not always uncovered in every person.
When absent or weak,
it is evident through the lack of stability and focus in a person.
Where present and strong,
it is evident through the commitment, perseverance
and enthusiasm the person exhibits.
For such a person, life is meaningful.”

”

— TKV Desikachar

In the oldest texts, words are constructed in verb forms. In later commentaries, the same words are constructed from nouns, prefixes and suffixes. Thus in the oldest and original sense, śraddhā is an action: it is a grasping of or holding to, a moving toward truth. In that understanding, śraddhā is no different than science, logic, good relationship, the effort to do the right thing.

Wellbeing depends upon a sense that what we do matters. Sanity demands it. It’s vital that we believe in ourselves, crucial to feel we can make a difference. śraddhā affirms this wellness, sanity, and life force. Depending on the moment, the importance of our actions and thoughts either feels like being called out or like an invitation. In all moments, it is validating. Even being called out is, at root, validation.

In the fourth chapter of the Gita, Krishna says shraddhavan labhate jnanam: the one who adheres to truth arrives at knowing.

Desikachar said that śraddhā is the resolution or resolve, despite obstacles and uncertainty, to move in the right direction. I’ve heard other teachers say “urgent curiosity”, “unwavering discipline”, “vigilance”, “attentiveness”, “hope”, “source of motivation”, “longing”, “open mind”, “prudence”, “conviction”, “trust”, “heart’s desire”, “optimism”, and “hopefulness”.

“Faith” doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with truth, which is why it’s a crappy translation for śraddhā.

"The truth will set you free,” we’re told. The quip is a borrowing of a central tenet to intellectual freedom and the power of learning: Cognoscetis Veritatem et Veritas Liberabit Vos. There are versions of this statement in Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and ancient philosophies. In social terms, “the truth will set you free” examines history and social conditions with clean honesty, as the related quip “truth to power” illustrates. In personal and intimate relationship, it addresses the harm of secrecy, denial, and dishonesty with the power of vulnerability, care, trust and respect.

The most lovely aspect of śraddhā is its opening. It’s spaciousness. While ‘freedom’ has meant different things in different cultural contexts, ‘truth’ always speaks to the possibility of growth, healing, understanding and change. śraddhā includes limitations and doubt as a part of the movement. We might be wrong or make mistakes along the way, but with śraddhā failure becomes less a personal failing and more a clarification. We may not have answers or enough information. We may not feel competent.

We don’t know, but we can want to know. śraddhā is the feeling tone of ‘you have everything you need’ and ‘more will be revealed’. It is the premise of enlightenment, wisdom, and liberation.

The health and hopefulness of such a starting point is clarifying and uplifting. In wisdom traditions, śraddhā takes on the flavor of trust and confidence. These often direct or connect us to trying, seeking out guidance and expertise, counter ill-will and short term fixes in our mind heart. śraddhā is the basis of right understanding, right relationship, and perfect resolve. It fosters both respect and self-understanding. It takes a hammer to selfishness, all the fleeting and fickleness of mood and circumstance and excuses. śraddhā, to my experience, dignifies everything.

“Write one true sentence,” said Hemingway. “Write the truest sentence that you know. Once you write one true sentence, you can write another, then the next, and so on.” This tends to both cut through my writer’s block and my life generally confusions. It’s how I practice āsana, too. It’s also, if I’m keen and balanced enough, the way I navigate tricky things like relationships, disappointment, and moral quandary. śraddhā is the heart of good teaching: “start where you are,” a great teacher says, knowing full well that such a start leads to places the student can’t yet fathom and wouldn’t believe.

Truth matters. It also shows up all over the place. The weather, the news, my family, my body. I know that when I stay close to it, when I keep coming back and touching it like a rosary or a prayer mat, śraddhā takes on the quality of a pulse. It keeps me from the thinness and ungraspability of things. It’s thick and warm and hearty, as in of heart. It flows and circulates, undercurrents and swells. It is essential aliveness. When I’m anchored in śraddhā, my fears get small or at the very least unimportant. Urgency deflates. Whims - which I tend to have like a rash - pass without my having to worry about them. I don’t hate myself when I rest in śraddhā. I don’t have to fight with everybody all the time. I’m not so scared. I’m not so lonely. Life is hard, still, but I both know this and it’s okay. In inversion - which is basically what the yoga path is - the hardness of life actually becomes good.

śraddhā is gumption. Audacity. It’s even anger and fear. It’s what happens when a student shows up, or wrinkles their forehead, or asks a question. It’s the smile a good teacher gets, every single time.

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I’ll be teaching the śraddhā sūktam Tuesday mornings in March and April. It’s (appropriately) a beginner level mantra. Come. Sing.