- Jesus
There seem to be some basic themes running through the various religious traditions of the world; some spiritual principles which are universal and unanimous. Of course there also disparities between traditions but I suspect these are more superficial and can be overlooked as we seek to find a common spirituality which is actually central to human nature. If we look at such separate fields as anthropology, psychedelic research and Jungian Psychology, for example, we encounter common themes pointing to a common spiritual potential striving to awaken within human consciousness. Given the current research, we can even pull in the field of “contemplative neuroscience.”
Rather than attempt an exhaustive analysis, (please read Houston Smith for that) I want to explore some themes that I find common within the sayings of Lao Tzu, an ancient Chinese master, Jesus, weighing in from the Middle East and Patanjali, the author of the Yoga Sutras, an ancient Indian text on meditation. Each was an outstanding master within their separate cultural milieus. Lao Tzu is a seminal figure in the Chinese spiritual tradition of Taoism. Jesus, of course, emerged from the Judaic tradition and had an entirely new religion develop out of his teachings. Patanjali is credited with codifying the more ancient tradition of Meditative Yoga in a form which has survived and influenced the following centuries.
I grew up in the Catholic religion and was indoctrinated in that particular interpretation of Jesus’ teachings. From my childhood I heard the parables of Jesus without really understanding them. In fact, I don’t lay claim to a complete understanding of his teachings yet, by any means. One that particularly stuck with me was the story of the Prodigal Son. What did that parable mean? From the standpoint of my religious background it seems to indicate that it was a good idea to give up one’s evil ways, conform to religious rules and that one would be duly rewarded in the afterlife. But what about that assertion that “The Kingdom” is within us?
I don’t remember exactly when I discovered the Tao Te Ching (or Dao De Jing.) However, the wise words of Lao Tzu have resonated with me for many years. As I went on to study Yoga I found his poetic sayings to be even more meaningful. One theme that runs throughout the Tao Te Ching is the emphasis on “return.” He states in chapter 10:
Each separate being in the universe
returns to the common source.
Returning to the source is serenity.
The source is known as “Tao.” The text itself tells us that Tao cannot be defined. It is both the source and the hidden order of all things. Like in the Yoga tradition, this source is entered into by stilling thought and opening the heart. This source is what Jesus refers to as the “Kingdom of Heaven,” and what Patanjali refers to as Ishwara. It is the universal source of being; the non-dual Consciousness residing within.
I first became familiar with Patanjali’s teachings from my guru, Paramhamsa Satyananda Saraswati. I have continued to study them over the years, reading and comparing various translations and commentaries, but, more importantly practicing the methods as taught by him. I don’t think there is much point in studying comparative religion without entering into practice, whether prayer, contemplation or meditation; better still, all three. Scholars have argued for decades over what the Kingdom of Heaven, Tao or Samadhi might mean. The traditions require us to enter the spiritual path to find the meanings. Ultimately the spiritual “path” doesn’t lead anywhere else but to where you truly are (or where the true “you” is).
The Yoga tradition describes two apparent movements of consciousness. One is the outward movement known as pravritti. This is the movement whereby consciousness follows the mind and senses to engage in the world. It is actually a creative process, however, consciousness forgets itself in its own creation. We become individualized fragments of our original wholeness, or so we believe. The other movement of consciousness is called nivritti. This is where consciousness remembers itself. Actually consciousness never moves because it is not located anywhere. Pravritti means activity of mind and nivritti means cessation and return. Pravritti is the means by which we create and enter into our experience of the world, nivritti is the means by which we disengage and return to our source. As Patanjali states at the beginning of the Yoga Sutras: “Yoga (i.e. union) means bringing the patterns of consciousness (chitta vritti) into stillness. Then consciousness rests in its own essential nature.”
Patanjali rather succinctly understates the significance of resting in one’s essential nature. Often we think of Yoga in terms of stress reduction. The ultimate achievement of Yoga however takes one beyond any and all stress. It is the realization of oneself as a being of consciousness untouched by birth, death and suffering. It is a release into pure ecstasy, peace that passes understanding. If we compare this with Lao Tzu’s words we can see a definite similarity. He states:
If you don’ realize the source,
You stumble in confusion and sorrow.
Here he is describing pravritti and then goes on to describe nivritti:
When you realize where you come from,
you naturally become tolerant,
disinterested, amused,
kindhearted as a grandmother,
dignified as a king.
Immersed in the wonder of the Tao,
you can deal with whatever life brings you,
and when death comes, you are ready.
(Stephen Mitchell, “The Enlightened Heart”)
So perhaps the story of the Return of the Prodigal Son by Jesus has a similar meaning to the Yogic concept of nivritti and the Taoist sense of returning to the source. Let’s follow the parable. It begins with a certain man who has two sons. One decides to collect his inheritance and try his fortune in the world. He departs to a far country where he squanders it through “riotous living” and ends destitute and hungry. This represents the process of pravritti, it seems. The son represents the ego-self who takes his creative potential from the source and becomes lost and seemingly separate from it. The far country represents the world of the senses wherein our true nature is forgotten.
He ends up feeding pigs after having joined the citizenship of the spiritually blind. Remember Jesus was a Jew telling his stories to other Jews. That culture traditionally does not think highly of pigs. So there is a strong sense of debasement and humiliation involved. As Lao Tzu put it he was “stumbling in confusion and sorrow.” Often it is the recognition of our suffering that leads us to begin seeking a spiritual path. The prodigal son begins to remember his home, his source and seeks to return. As he is returning there is a strong sense of remorse and also unworthiness. He thinks of offering himself as a servant to his father. However, the Old Man holds no grudge and presents him with a lavish welcome home.
Here the sense of self-loathing and undeserving stands out. It seems to be an aspect of our Judeo-Christian inheritance that is missing in the East. It is what the Buddhist psychologist Tara Brach refers to as “the trance of unworthiness.” If we fall into this particular psychological pattern (vritti) it becomes an obstacle to our return. Note that Jesus indicates that there is no reciprocal sense of judgment coming from the source. All of the vrittis represent our creative power. We create and cling to our narratives of worthlessness and despair. It is pretty clear here that Jesus did not mean for us to wallow in our sense of being guilty sinners.
Then there is the other son, the “good one.” He represents another tendency of the ego. Instead of finding himself unworthy, he is judgmental and resentful. He lacks love, compassion and humility. Instead of welcoming his brother home, he gets pissed off about all the attention he’s getting. Humility is different than feelings of unworthiness. Instead it is an absence of judgment of our self or others. The father tells him “come on in. The door is always open.” Being self-righteous does not lead us back to our source. Instead as Jesus taught, we need to become innocent like little children.
Patanjali refers to Ishwara, or “God” in the Yoga Sutras as a “unique soul” who is untouched by the conditions of life. Ishwara “contains the seed of omniscience,” and by virtue of being timeless, he is also the first teacher. He is intimately connected with the mantra OM. Although we use the masculine pronoun here, Ishwara is completely impersonal. It is the consciousness beyond our ego-identifications, the essence of our own beings. The Tao, Ishwara and the Heavenly Father as presented by Jesus in the parable are all impersonal. There is no sense of judgment or need to control. There is simply unconditional love. There is a Divine Principle which operates through us and within us, a possibility and a promise.
As Echhardt Tole writes:
So really what it comes down to, it's God. Wherever you look, it's God appearing as this, that, that and what you really love and appreciate in each form is the divine formless out of which each form comes. But to be able to sense that you have to sense it in yourself first. And that is seeing the beauty in everything, that's really what it means.
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