May 2006 Archives

The following entry is little more than a fantasy, but I use it to help place some of the experiences I’ve had in my life. I don’t begin to claim it holds any truth; it simply helps me wonder.

Have you ever been somewhere and suddenly had a sense of the way events might go? And then been frustrated, not because they turned out that way, but because you knew it would happen? It’s almost as if time gives you a little taste, and then that flavor fulfills itself. Or maybe it’s just subtle clues the subconscious tunes in to.

Or have you been talking with someone, and briefly certain images flit through your mind, sometimes with word associations. They feel unbidden. Was it a spark of creativity, or an impression of some kind? So you speak it out loud, and the other person thinks you read their mind. You don’t know if you just picked up on the idea, or had the idea yourself and somehow projected it.

Or the phenomenon of thinking about a person and then hearing them call on the phone shortly after. I’ve heard this so many times from my friends it seems commonplace now. One friend even said she knew whenever I came to visit – it was usually out of the blue – because she always dreamt about it the night before.

Or when I finish matching a film where incredible things are possible, I notice my reflexes and coordination become much smoother. I’m able to take my car keys out of my pocket and insert them into the lock, almost without looking in one fluid motion. How different from those days when nothing seems to go right. Is this me being more confident, or is “life” cooperating somehow because my outlook has been subtly changed?

These events only touch the surface of the strange things I’ve experienced. They cause me to think about the nature of human consciousness, and whether we may be part of something larger, which spans our existence across barriers even of space and time.

I think every part of the universe serves as a model for the whole. That is, each thing symbolizes an aspect of the underlying pattern. An example of this is the way larger systems are composed of smaller ones. We have cells in our bodies, which are made of molecules, they of atoms, then of quarks, etc. Or going higher, we have social networks, then planets, solar systems, galaxies, galactic clusters, etc.

But these are only spatial delineations. What if there are bridges between consciousnesses as well? No one part of our body may be said to have awareness – no more so than a single neuron represents the whole mind – yet the author of this entry is certainly aware. My whole being produces a coherent aspect, which I refer to as my self.

Such synergy could represent a deeper pattern. What if, just as my cells comprise a body and mind who is self-aware, many minds likewise participate in a higher order which has an awareness of its own kind? And these together, and so on, until there is a master consciousness whose waking dream is the pith of existence? This is something I would call the “Ur-soul”, which we are all a part of even while we remain distinct – in the same way my liver’s cells are a part of my existence, yet exist separately in themselves.

But that is just an example in space. Consider time: as an infant I was very different from the person I am now. My childhood – the presence of my thinking during childhood – is impossible to recall now. I cannot see and feel things the way I did then, when the whole world almost fit in my neighborhood. So too with the teenage years, which were filled with a turmoil I simply don’t experience now. Who were those people? They were all separate, in a way; but they also contributed to this present whole.

If I can be divided in both space and time, where is the “me”? Where do I begin and end? If I refer to myself, am I a part of something, or a culmination of parts? What if I am all of these at once?

I think the development of individual awareness is a part of who are. However, believing in a concrete individuality is too much. It’s like that liver cell believing it exists independently from its host. Yet this is the way our selves function: we disbelieve we are merely abstractions of a shifting order – a kind of wave-function riding on unfathomed waters. We envision ourselves wholly isolated; and this, I think, denies us a true consciousness of what we are.

In Zen I once encountered the idea of mutual realities. Take a rain umbrella, for example. Rain umbrellas only exist because of rainfall, even though such umbrellas still exist when there is no rain. As an object, it can be said to have a separate existence from its purpose; but in truth, it does not. If there were never any rain, there would be no such umbrellas. They exist as a part of “rain” – in the form of our desire to be protected from it. In a sense, they are the rain, in just one of its many aspects.

Because where does the rain begin and end? Is it only a single drop? That would not be rain. Is it many drops? How many? Must they fall from the sky? If so, then the cloud is also a part of what “rain” is. Since we have added another object to the idea of “rain”, where does it end?

In fact, there is an entire complex, too diverse to describe, which comprises the experience we abstract as “rain”: the smell, the umbrellas, the wet dogs, soggy shoes, the approaching thunder, the nights when we sit watching fat drops pelt the window. Rain does not begin or end anywhere; it is none of these individual objects: it exists as the entire sum. And yet even there it does not end. There are still many experiences for us to know, each of which will be individual, and will add to our sense of “rain”.

So too with the concept of “self”. Our attention rests in the optic nerve, but we are as much who we feel ourselves to be as we are the experiences that give us those feelings. To feel the wind on one’s face is to be, for that moment, a union of the two: for what kind of experience could we have if there were no stimulus of experience? If there were no wind, no memory of wind, no nothing of any kind, what “self” would there be but mere potential?

In deconstructing my self this way, I mean to suggest that our boundaries are not as clear as we feel them to be. We are conditioned to separate our thoughts in terms of time and space, but these are only delineations. What is the truth of our reality, and the realities we are a part of? Do I sense people’s thoughts sometimes because of a particular sensitivity – or because we are individual parts of one whole, like the cells that make up a larger organism? Are there even higher orders of consciousness, the awareness of which requires us to transcend the confines of selfhood?

When I relax my thoughts, there seems to be a larger flow I join up with, something only loosely affiliated with my present understanding. It is not that I see with other eyes; it’s more like I begin to hear a song echoing from many places – a song which makes its own kind of sense. Things begin to taste “right” or “wrong”, in ways I cannot explain; as if there were a greater harmony, a grander scale of happiness, than what my single body can feel alone.

And if goes on like this, without limit, until the best I can do is abstract the whole under a single name – a global entity with its own purpose, not possessing singular boundaries – whose reality is expressed by and throughout the whole, each part having its own purpose and yet summing to produce the whole. What is this? Do I exist to be a part of its self-knowing? To contemplate and feel the Ur-soul?

Several times now in the past few year, I’ve encountered a particular argument: Whether it is nobler to forgo faith in any higher agency, so the mind may remain free and clear; or to surrender judgment if one believes they’ve discovered a higher Power. To maintain freedom and aloofness seems to strengthen the individual; while giving up everything – even the mind – in the name of love seems positively transcendent.

In one case, recently, a person asked whether Baha’is should accept the authority of their Prophet, Bahá’u’lláh, utterly and without question. To do so implies accepting even those things we have not yet understood – things that have not seen the light of reason. This is especially true since so many of Bahá’u’lláh’s texts remain untranslated into English so far, and who knows what they might contain?

But if I understood him correctly, his argument was not against Bahá’u’lláh and religion, but rather utter resignation to any authority. This impairs human development because it closes the mind, truncates judgment, and relativizes the meaning of “truth” to that authority.

The example was given of resigning in the present to dictates whose future character cannot be known. Using Bahá’u’lláh as an example of this was a good one, since His believers presuppose perfection on the part of that authority, thus condoning any and every prescribed future action no matter its appearance or consequences – because that guidance is “perfect”. This removes judgment and understanding from the human realm and places them wholly on the altar of a chosen God.

The danger I believe he picked up on is that our relationship to “God” is always framed within the confines of human understanding. For example, Bahá’u’lláh’s pronouncements were rendered in human language, and must be applied by human minds. No matter the perfection of His original intent, its expression and realization must occur within the fallible realm of a human translation of that intent into behavior.

Because the Bah’ community believes their Source to be perfect, they may implicitly ascribe a transmission of that quality of perfection down to the ultimate acts themselves. This phenomenon has been used throughout history to condone the worst violence against humanity, since the perfection of the Source was believed to reflect itself in the perfection of the believer’s interpretations, and then to the perfection of the believer’s actions. Thus we have the idea of a believer “doing God’s will”, even if that will gets translated into putting thousands of innocent people to death.

I think that to believe, once one has “found” Bahá’u’lláh, that they may submit their will entirely and be forever guided on the straight path, is just not possible given our human condition. What I mean is, even if one has found Bahá’u’lláh, they have not found Bahá’u’lláh; even if one has discovered a perfect testament to God’s nature, they have not read it; and even if Bahá’u’lláh’s laws are perfect for the ordering of society, we have not begun to follow them, and never will.

By this I do not mean that Bahá’u’lláh is fallible or His laws are incomplete, but rather that our understanding is fallible and our application of those laws is incomplete. The perfection of a Manifestation’s authority simply cannot survive crossing the boundary between the divine realm and a human one. We will corrupt whatever we are given the moment we hear it. Even using the word “God” is a corruption, since an infinite being cannot be bound by our terminology or understanding. We just don’t know what we’re talking about; we don’t know Who Bahá’u’lláh is; and we don’t know what a single one of His words really means.

What this requires of the believer is that he never cease in his pursuit after the truth. Every day, it’s possible to “find” a Bahá’u’lláh whose reality one was unaware of the day before. In a sense, a believer cannot “belong” to a faith and remain honest to his nature. The Faith he belongs to on any given day is subject to his own immaturity on that day, and will not be the same as tomorrow’s Faith – if he continue ardently in his search.

And yet, there is hope in this. What religion requires of us is that we grow and develop our understanding, not that we close our minds and relax in the perfection of our leader. His perfection is not accessible to us; this is the meaning of having imperfections. “The imperfect eye sees imperfections”, said `Abdu’l-Bah. So too, when we read the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh, or listen to the decisions of the House of Justice, we are seeing a divine light filtered by the flaws of our own eye. What we really see is a product of our own selves, and we may never wholly trust in such mirages.

What this requires of the believer is faithfulness. Faith is not properly a noun, as in a place where the heart may dwell. It is an adjective, describing the terms of our relationship to God. Compare this to the old saying, “keeping faith”, meaning that one remains true to the spirit of an agreement. Our faith in God means that we trust in the perfection of His Messenger, and continue to seek the meaning of that perfection throughout the rest of our lives. It’s in believing that we’ve “found” what we’re looking that we become doomed.

So, if one no longer calls themselves a “Baha’i”, I would say bravo. I have never been a “Baha’i”. That word identifies a concept whose meaning is not only highly personal from day to day, but whose stasis is foreign to my nature. What I am is a seeker after truth, and I inhale from the fragrance of Bahá’u’lláh’s words the fragrance of truth. This is why I pursue them, and continue to pursue, hoping to become transformed by an ever developing understanding and application of His teachings.

And if He commands things beyond my understanding, what then? Do I judge them according to what I understand so far, or do I surrender my judgment and follow anyway? And yet, what would I be judging them with, and what would I be surrendering to? Both options exist within my own understanding. Both will be wrong. So what is a believer to do?

I guess what I’m saying is that we are always “wrong”, but this does not mean we cannot be faithful. Religion is about love, not absolute truth. Be true to your heart, be honest, be good as far as you know how – and keep at it. I have never aimed at forming the world into a certain image. I think this is ridiculous. What I do aim at is increasing the joy in my heart, and being conducive to happiness and the well-being of society as I understand it. Of course, Bahá’u’lláh’s Writings and Institutions are my guide in this search and I follow them as closely as I’m able. Yet I will always be wrong in the sense of knowing truth; I will never be a true follower of my love. Yet I will always have that love, and the truth of my Beloved One.

So yes, I believe in something I can neither know nor understanding. All I have to go on is the joy of my pursuit, in much the same way we locate a fire by following its heat. And yet, whoever said I was looking for something that could fit within the confines of my mind? Even my own heart does not fit in such a confined space! What I am seeking is a mystery whose nature engulfs me; and whenever I’m immersed in its waters, I feel my purpose – to know Him, and to worship Him.

A few days ago I wrote that the essence of morality lies in valuing life, since we tend to do right by what we care about most – which is another way of saying that real morality starts with love. But while this describes the what, it does not address the how. Where does our sense of value come from? How can we value ourselves more – as the basis of integrity – when self-loathing is so much the norm?

What makes it even more difficult is a principle I’ve noticed in my own nature, and which I believe to be universal: that love cannot be governed by will. We simply do not choose our interests.

This principle would seem to suggest that morality is not a matter of choice – but that isn’t quite what I mean. A better way to put it is that one cannot develop his morality directly. Any attempt to do so involves duplicity, as we start patterning our actions differently from our interests. We do one thing, but in our hearts we want to do another. Yet the morality I dream of begins in the heart, not in the mind; it does not require an inner conflict – since I believe love cannot be fostered by any kind of violence.

This means that true morality – which proceeds from one’s inward being – must be developed indirectly. There is another variable we can tweak, and which is subject to our will. And if our heart is driven by what we love most, this variable must be: to look deeper into the nature of things, until we discover a more universal love.

First of all, it strikes me as very odd that we cannot choose what we love. Love is such an amazing source of energy and motivation – it allows us at times to completely transcend our limitations. A person in love is devoted to his object; he draws on reservoirs of energy that the will has no access to. Love, in effect, ignites our being and makes our potential come alive.

It’s almost as if human beings are a kind of appliance: once we find the right socket to plug into, everything changes. We enter a new realm of being. I think we were designed to operate on this level, and that the meager energies we possess without it are only there to help us to get there.

Once we encounter this torrent of love, it is in our interest to channel and heighten the experience, much like focusing light into a beam. Only if a person is unaware that this can be achieved does he ignore it. Otherwise, why content one’s self with less, when more can be had? If we know the first level of something is good, and the second level is better, who will not reach for it if he knows it’s close?

That is the role of morality, I believe: a set of guidelines to enhance our connection to love. Take the morality of an engineer. He uses math and measurement to decide whether a certain design is “good” or not. He defines goodness by the fitness of the end product; but only if cares about that product will he strive to use the guidelines to their utmost; only if cares can they act to enhance his connection through the perfection of the final result. And when it’s done, and done well, he will experience the joy of using it for its intended purpose. In this way, the refinement of his actions bonds him with his goal.

Since morality is aimed at the beloved, we need to see our goal clearly in order to make proper use of what is moral. The variable we can control is our vision. What is it that we want? Have we looked everywhere to find it?

For example, a person may look for someone to deeply love, but will alone cannot manifest that person, not even among those he knows, since will-power does not determine love – and without love there is no basis for that kind of relationship. He may act (pretend morality) toward someone he knows, as if doing so will create what he seeks, but this is a lie. In order for genuine actions of love to appear (real morality), the beloved must be found. Since love cannot be changed, what he must do is to seek out more people – to increase his vision by discovering more possibilities. Doing this is well within his power, and only by operating at that level can he ever hope to act honestly as one in love.

I think spiritual morality is no different. We possess a set of guidelines for living whose purpose can only be reasonably defined in terms of the Beloved. Without that essential piece, they are just actions serving as an end in themselves. Find the Beloved, however, and they become extremely pragmatic, being most effective ways for us to gain closer proximity.

So the “how”, from all of this, is in effect education: to sharpen our vision; see more clearly, more deeply, more broadly. There exist certain things, revealed in nature – whether it be objects, people, ideas, feelings – that are able to engender a spontaneous, radical response in the human spirit. Morality comes into play both at the beginning to help us find it, and afterwards to draw us nearer.

Furthermore, I believe – from reading certain mystical texts – that the whole of life is much more than we take it to be. In this sense, education means unwrapping the veils that obscure its true nature, until we find that the Beloved is all. Which is also the only way that human beings can ever act morally towards all with honesty.

There is a phenomenon of consciousness which I’ve observed to be the cause of much heartache in the field of religious pursuit. It is something which causes the believer to strictly divide in his mind between the earthly reality that appears here, and the supposed heavenly realities which await him at the end of his trials. This fissure in his view of the world causes him to maintain a harsh distinction between where he is – his current state – and where God is believed to dwell. Always He seems infinitely far off, never close, never “as near as our life’s vein”.

This attitude is not simply a mental position, but a fissure at the heart of our spiritual awareness. No wonder so many faiths equate reunion with their Lord to the ending of the world: more than a few of them view this fault as an essential failing of reality itself, a mistake destined to be corrected. We were meant to live as a unity, but something wicked crept into man so that for now, we dwell apart in this mortal penance.

But what is this belief, and where did it come from?

This “split” envisions a barrier between ourselves and our Goal so real, our belief in this life as partitioned off is complete. Of those who pray, who hasn’t said a prayer and wondered if it reached its destination, as if the syllables themselves had faced a terrible hike of some kind?

We’ve been conditioned by our experiences in space and time to imagine most concepts in terms of scale, measure, duration, etc. Even if we think of “eternity”, we picture it as an unending duration. Things exist in compartments with clear divisions, such as the “universe” (though we’ve never seen its end), and “Heaven” as a place we go to after we die.

and never fully approving of who we’ve become, since where we are is never where He is. The failure to satisfy an Entity Whose motives and thoughts we simply cannot imagine causes a persistent sense of separation – a rift in our consciousness of God, which I have come to call “the split”.

Depsite its ill effects, the Split seems to be a necessary stage in the development of consciousness. As children, we begin to realize that we are not our parents, and that our wishes are not the same as the wishes of existence. Here the “we/they” gap begins, but from there it is vastly widened: not only are we different from the others we meet, but we begin to perceive a difference between who we are, and who we had the potential to be. As soon as we’re scolded for doing something wrong, for example, there is presented to us an image of ourselves having not done the thing in question – and alternate path, so to speak. This makes sense of the question, “Why did I do that?”, as if some greater I had had the choice between two paths and the questioner is only the result of one of them.