The limitations of my thinking and feeling have receded; everything seems to be one, even though diversity exists at the same time. Peace, joy, and love determine my state of mind.

Queues at the temple

It is full moon, and I pause on my hike in front of a temple where long queues of believers have formed. The pilgrims have brought offering plates filled with flowers, fruits, candles, and spices which they desire to present to the temple deity, with wishes of all kinds: success in their careers, in their families, with friends, health, etc. “The deity in heaven will hear us.”

This gives me pause for thought: all these wishes and expectations are forces, subtle matter, energies that will be answered, either through fulfilment or rejection. But do these answers come from “heaven”? What and where is “heaven”? I see the believers and can almost physically feel and see the different expectations expressed in their prayers, offerings, and blessings, their hopes, implored solutions to problems, and much more.

After the sacrifice, the believers turn away from the statue of their god, their deity, and donate a smaller or larger sum of money to the “serving” Brahmin. All of them? Yes, it appears so. They move on, past the line of beggars, some of whom are begging for alms with outstretched hands.

I remember a church promise given in Europe several hundred years ago: “When money clinks in the box, the soul leaps into heaven.” People wanted to buy their way out of sin. What do believers expect from their visits to temples, churches, or mosques? Happiness, success, wealth, spiritual enlightenment, ascension to heaven? Does heaven open up to them?

Thoughts while hiking

I walk on, out into nature, into the forest. Silence surrounds me, interrupted only by the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves. Where am I? Do I also pray/ask for things of this world?

Words from the Bible come to mind:

And when you pray, you shall not be like the hypocrites, who love to stand and pray in the synagogues and on the street corners, so that others may see them. Truly, I say to you, they have already received their reward. But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in heaven[1].

I sit down on a bench, my thoughts calm down, and in my mind’s eye I see the queue at the temple once again. Are the sacrifices and prayers in the temple comparable to what the Bible says? How and with what intention do we pray “in our inner room”?

In the Bhagavad Gita, Arjuna asks Krishna to reveal himself in his true form so that he can truly recognise him. Krishna grants him this wish having already imparted much divine wisdom to him. He opens Arjuna’s eye of intuition, and Arjuna sees Krishna in his cosmic form: a form full of grace and full of terror. Krishna explains to him:

Neither through the Vedas, nor through sacrifices, nor through study, nor through gifts, nor through rites, nor through strict asceticism can I be seen in this form by anyone other than you in the human world.[2]

The statement “pray to your Father who is in heaven” wants to show us a way, a way that we can or should follow, a way out of the entanglements of our being in this world, a way to an unknown unity, connectedness with the Father, with God. Krishna warns us that no sacrifices or rituals lead to the realisation of his true nature. I am touched by the words in the Gospel of John: ‘My kingdom is not of this world’. It seems to me that this is in accordance with Krishna’s instructions.

Calmly and without judgment, I try to organise my thoughts. A peace, a love that transcends all understanding, comes over me. A verse from a Rosicrucian text comes to mind:

In the original order of God, love is not a quality […], but a totality.

I remain in this calm state. For how long? Five minutes, an hour, I don’t know. Eventually, I move on. I perceive my surroundings, the forest, the trees, the moss, the rustling of the dry leaves, and the chirping of the birds differently, more intensely, and more beautifully. I feel a unity and connection with all of nature. I feel the thoughts and ideas within me, but with a distance: the experience of unity with nature extends further, much further. Is this a glimpse of another dimension, a heaven that is not of this world?

Tea house

The path leads out of the forest into an open field, and I stand before the majestically towering Himalayan peaks, their snow-covered tops glistening in the afternoon sun. I feel the titanic forces that once pushed these mountains together and raised them thousands of meters high. For the locals, these peaks are the seats of the gods to whom they make sacrifices, from whom they expect help and strength … What do these mountain peaks say to me?

The path continues steeply down into a valley and the village that is the destination of my journey today. I walk towards it. The friendly welcome, the flower garlands on the door, the welcome tea—I take it all in as if in a dream, join in the pleasant conversations, but inside I am far away …

After dinner, I retire early to a simple room, lie down on the cot that will be my bed for tonight, and see the images of the day before me. I remember a picture I saw in one of the Rosicrucian books: a wanderer, half-reclining, looks out from his world into a new, unknown one. Amazed and delighted, he sees an infinite universe. The lower part of the picture shows our familiar world, which is covered by a dome and separated from the endless universe by a band of planets, stars, and moons. This band separates our world, the world we know, from the upper part of the picture, where another dimension opens up, another world. The wanderer in the picture crouches on the ground of this world, but his head penetrates the band of celestial bodies, reaching beyond it into the higher dimension. Does he see and experience the „new earth“ and the „new heaven“, as it says in Revelation 21:1-2? A heaven, a world that extends beyond the known world, that surrounds and delimits it, or even encloses it? Jakob Boehme’s statement about the divine primordial substance comes to mind. The divine qualities that work within it separate from their original unified state. An enclosed space, our world, is created in which living beings can develop their specific nature in freedom.[3]

With this image in mind, I fall asleep.[4]

Breakfast

Waking up, I don’t remember my dreams, but I see the world through different eyes. The bright morning, the glittering snow-capped mountains, the simple and peaceful surroundings, everything is as usual, yet something inside me seems to have changed. What is it? I feel the unity of all life with a great, completely new awareness, with amazement, connectedness, and love. The limitations of my thinking and feeling have receded; everything seems to be one, even though diversity exists at the same time. Peace, joy, and love determine my state of mind. Is this a glimpse into the open other world, as the artist tried to depict in the engraving I mentioned? The many explanations I have read swirl through my head; I perceive them, but they do not touch me.

My friendly hosts address me and invite me to a simple breakfast. We talk about everyday things. But the conversation takes a turn when the host talks about his experiences in Europe: Don’t we all, in our own way, seek to understand nature and life, and to overcome suffering and death? He explains the four sacred truths of Buddhism to me in simple terms and emphasises that the Nirvana of the Buddhists, or the Heaven of the Christians, is open to all! We only need to recognise this and understand the relativity and limitations of the world. Unfortunately, we are still too attached to this world, its joys and its problems, and are not open to recognising the other world — call it nirvana or heaven. He quotes passages from the Bible and a Buddhist scripture.

John says in Revelation: And I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God.[5]

And in Buddhist scriptures, we read that Buddha’s nirvana is the highest state of liberation, peace, and freedom from suffering (dukkha) and the cycle of rebirth (samsara), achieved by extinguishing the fires of greed, hatred, and ignorance. It is not a physical place, but a profound state of being and wisdom.

After these statements, we remain silent and lost in our thoughts. After some time, the host rises and says goodbye. He wishes me deep insight.

[1] Matthew 6:5

[2] BhagavadGitainGermanLanguage.pdf Bhagavad Gita 11:48

[3] Das Mysterium Magnum (Interpretation der Genesis)- Jacob Böhme – Gesamtausgabe – Deutsche Überarbeitung

[4]Wikipedia: Flammarion’s wood engraving, also known as Wanderer at the Edge of the World or, in French, au pélerin (“on pilgrimage”), is the work of an unknown artist. The wood engraving first appeared in 1888 as an illustration in the subchapter La forme du ciel (“The Shape of the Sky”) of the popular science volume L’atmosphère. Météorologie populaire (“The Atmosphere. Popular Meteorology“) by the French author, astronomer, and president of the Société astronomique de France, Camille Flammarion, who founded the society in 1887.

[5] Revelation 21:1-2

I have never been afraid of losing God. I am certain that He exists, but I have never understood Him as “something” that could be possessed or, conversely, lost. This loss has never had any real substance for me. I could more easily conceive of losing myself from myself, than of losing Him. And yet, there is a silent fear of His absence that crosses many consciences: not the fear of the world nor the fear of oneself. It is a fear without a clear object but with a deep echo, as if something essential might be withdrawn from the fabric of reality.

This fear takes many forms. Some are silent and subtle, while others may be concrete. Some are metaphysical anxieties while others are closer to lived experiences. This type of fear invades Agnostics and those who experience the divine.

An  ordinary person’s fear or that of one who has barely stepped onto a path of light, does not arise from concepts, but from inner rifts. Desire and aspiration do not align and are torn apart. The movement toward the intensity of worldly experience and the movement toward God do not flow in the same direction.

There is sometimes a visceral or turbulent hunger that drives toward experience, consumption, or an intensity that is no longer merely vital but becomes dense, heavy, and almost opaque.  At the same time there is a genuine openness, an authentic subtlety, and a love for what is lofty which cannot be reduced to experience.

These people are not confused, superficial nor do they lack discernment. On the contrary, it is precisely their lucidity that makes the rupture more painful. After every descent, the upward climb back appears not as a moral obligation, but as an intimate recognition: “not here.”

And yet, the movement repeats itself. Here the fear of losing God takes on a very concrete form not as an idea but as a sensation of distance, of falling, of the impossibility of remaining in what is recognized as truth. Even this fear is in essence, an interpretation. It is not God who is moving away, but consciousness that temporarily identifies with a form that cannot reflect Him.

There are other, more subtle forms. Some people live with the conviction that they are fundamentally unworthy and that they are “too low,” “too imperfect,” “too far away.” This belief is not humility, but a refined form of self-centeredness. Another type of ego, an ego that does not function through excessive affirmation, but through assiduous self-denial.  Thus they create a deliberate distance, erecting a wall between their soul and God. They deprive themselves of the essence of their consciousness. In this way the Self is defined by a lack, and they remain fixated on it. This attitude also creates distance.

On the contrary, others do not feel this inner rupture at all. There is  strength, clarity, the ability to manage life, to build, to decide. There is no need for God because they do not feel their own insufficiency. These are the ever-victorious, the efficient, the self-sufficient. However, this self-sufficiency is not freedom, but rather a closing off within an autonomy that no longer opens itself to what transcends it. Here there is a form of distance, not through a fall, but through saturation.

There is also a quieter form of this distance, harder to recognize, because it does not appear as anxiety but as rigor. It is the stance of those for whom truth must be demonstrable, verifiable, formulatable in clear terms. Not out of superficiality but out of an authentic thought discipline. What cannot be established with precision cannot be affirmed and what cannot be affirmed remains outside the realm of the real.

In this rigor there is no hostility toward God. There is only the impossibility of including Him but this impossibility sometimes conceals a very subtle form of avoidance not because God would contradict thought, but because He cannot be contained by it.

He cannot be measured, located, nor placed in a causal relationship. Nor can He become an object of knowledge without already being reduced. Thus, to preserve methodological coherence, He is excluded.

This exclusion is not neutral and produces a world closed within its own conditions of intelligibility;  a complete world, yet one without openness. A world in which everything can be explained, yet nothing can be transcended. Here, it is not the fear of losing God that arises, but the impossibility of encountering Him.

Yet, this very impossibility indicates a limit of the way of thinking about Him. For what cannot be the object of knowledge is not by that very fact nonexistent, but merely inaccessible to a certain kind of access. To confuse this limit with nonexistence is perhaps the most refined form of distance; not a rejection, but a closing off; not a denial, but an impossibility accepted as a given.  In this form, God is not lost. He is quite simply excluded from the realm where He might be sought.

Thus, the fear of losing God is not a single one and appears in different forms as rupture, as guilt, as self-sufficiency, or as exclusion. However  one thing in common is that real distance is assumed between man and the divine. This assumption is never radically called into question.

All these distant fears, including exclusion, say more about the way God is conceived than about God Himself. In order to be lost, He must be an “other,” a “someone else.” To be lost, He must be sometimes present, sometimes absent. To be lost, there must be real distance between humanity and the divine.

In this space of distance, fear is born. Mystics of all traditions have known this experience. Not as a theory, but as a burning. Not as an idea, but as a night. It is the moment when presence becomes opaque and what was alive withdraws into silence. It is not God who disappears but the transparency through which He was recognized. In this tension, fear is not a weakness, but a form of purified love. It is love that is no longer sustained by light, but which refuses to fade into darkness. It is fidelity without confirmation.

When this distance is investigated to its limits, what dissolves is not merely fear, but the very structure that makes it possible. Then, even amidst contradictions, failures, or force, what is essential can no longer be lost.

The question naturally arises: has He departed, or has the sense of Him been lost? In the Cathar tradition and in living Gnostic movements, the problem is not framed as an accidental loss but as an original state. Man does not lose God over time; he is born into a condition of separation. The world itself is seen as a field of forgetfulness, a structure in which what is essential is obscured, fragmented, and dispersed.

In this view, the fear is not that God might be lost, but that man might remain trapped in what is not Him. This is not an emotional fear, but an ontological one. We do not fear absence, but remaining in inauthenticity.

The Golden Rosycross articulates this tension in a very precise way. There is talk of two natures: one of birth and one of calling. The natural human being is not capable by himself, of returning. Yet within him there is a spark as a possibility but not as a possession. This spark does not belong to the world of which man believes he is a part. It cannot be developed through accumulation, nor through perfection. It can only be awakened, and this awakening is accomplished through  rupture, through  death and a new birth. In this context, “losing God” takes on a different meaning. It is not the loss of a presence but the failure of a ka, new birth. It is not His absence, but the impossibility of participation.

And yet, even here, something remains unclear. Who is the one who would lose? And what exactly could be lost, if what is divine belongs neither to time, to space, nor to changing conditions?

There is a perspective in which the entire drama of loss dissolves without being denied. If God is conceived as an object of experience, then He can be lost. If conceived as a living presence, then He may or may not be felt. If conceived as a relationship, then the relationship may be severed.

But what if what we call God is none of these things? What if He is neither an object, a state, nor a relationship, but the very condition in which every object, every state, and every relationship arises? Then loss becomes impossible. Not because it is prevented, but because it cannot happen. You cannot lose what is not before you. You cannot lose what does not come to you. You cannot lose what is nothing other than the very evidence by which you know you exist.

Perhaps we do not need to keep God, but to stop treating Him as something that can be lost. God cannot be lost except by the one who believes he possesses Him as an object. “Man must become free of God in order to find God,” says Eckhart, not as  denial, but as  liberation from any constructed relationship.

What can be lost is only the way one has learned to recognize the divine. A form, an emotion, an imagined closeness. An inner language and not what makes any language possible.

In essence, the fear of losing God is the fear of losing a certain form of consciousness, a configuration, a mode of orientation. When this form begins to unravel, vertigo sets in. Not because something real disappears, but because what was taken as real loses its consistency.

Eckhart says something extraordinary in that deep within the soul there is a “spark” where God is born. He calls this place “grunt,” the foundation of the soul. Here the soul and God are not two separate realities.

“The eye with which I see God is the same eye with which God sees me,” he says. In this identity, the idea of loss loses its basis. If the eye that seeks and what is sought are not two things, then there can be no distance between them.

The true “night” is not the absence of God, but the absence of the forms through which He was recognized. Beyond this night there is no new light. There is no more intense presence nor confirmation. The impossibility of loss is much simpler and harder to accept, not as an idea, but as a fact. This fact does not produce elation nor security. It does not even produce peace in the usual sense. It produces only a subtle shift from relationship to evidence, from seeking to recognition, from fear to the impossibility of fear.

Perhaps we are not afraid of losing God after all. Perhaps we fear losing everything that made us believe we had Him. When this loss is complete, there is no void left.

What remains is what was never gained and could never be lost. What remains is what has always been. “Be still and know I am.”

The labyrinth as a Christian symbol of initiation, on the other hand, shows a different goal: The path through the labyrinth does not lead the pilgrims away, not anywhere, but they always remain very close to their fellow pilgrims, there are always points of contact with the other pilgrims at all stages. By walking this mystery path, pilgrims release the light of knowledge with every step and, above all, with every turn.

On a trip to the far north of Sweden, I came to a small village where I wanted to take a break. As it was still early afternoon, I wandered through the village, soaking up the clear, light blue summer atmosphere of northern Sweden. When I stopped in front of the last house on the street and admired a magnificent sunflower taller than a human being, which towered over the fence, the homeowner greeted me, and I replied as best I could in Swedish. He replied directly in German and said He had German ancestors. We got talking and eventually he invited me for a coffee on his terrace. We exchanged stories about where we came from and where we were going. Finally, he said, ’I’d like to show you something special. Come into the back garden.’ I followed him through the patio door.

In the garden, we walked towards a wall of shrubs and he led me through an enchanted gap, behind which we found ourselves in a rather extensive area. ‘I’m only officially a flower grower, my real work is this’, he said. I saw a large roundabout covered with many concentric rows of shiny white stones, large and small, a labyrinth. There always seemed to be a path between the rows.

I stopped spontaneously to let the harmony of the layout sink in. But I still didn’t quite understand the structure. The paths sometimes seemed to end or turn back. Are these paths all connected, or does each concentric stone circle stand alone? In any case, the centre of the roundabout seemed to be something very special: it consisted of a circle. In the middle rose a human-sized rose hedge that concealed what lay at its heart.

‘My life’s work,’ he said. The size of the complex was enormous; I estimated the diameter to be about thirty metres. Slowly, I recognised the structure of the labyrinth: it was divided into four sectors, through which the path meandered in concentric circles. ‘There are twelve circles,’ said my host.

‘This labyrinth,’ he continued, ‘is a mystery. It has nothing to do with a maze or the Cretan labyrinth from which Theseus was supposed to find his way out, with the help of Ariadne’s thread, as is well known. One enters this labyrinth voluntarily. It not only symbolises the path of initiation into the mysteries, but also contains many clues for walking the path of the mysteries and the dangers and possible distractions.

After entering, taking the first steps and having made the first three turns, you have already reached the innermost circle. The pilgrim may think: ‘I have already arrived!’ And they realise with surprise: ‘That was easy; I am one of the chosen ones, it is so easy for me.’ But you have not really entered the innermost circle yet, you are only allowed to touch its outer wall. But even at the outer wall, a strong aura emanates from the innermost circle, so that many people linger there. It is, in a sense, a place „where milk and honey flow“.’

I objected: ‘The paths are only marked by rows of stones; one could simply step over them and shorten the path.’ ‘Indeed, that is possible, because the path is not built in stone, but only marked. This corresponds to the principle of the Christian path of initiation, which is a path of gaining knowledge in freedom. The labyrinth symbolises a path of the soul that leads to complete maturity, so stepping over the boundaries makes no sense, but violates cosmic laws. Those who do not follow the symbol seriously cannot properly complete their soul’s development. But in fact, this stepping over is not uncommon, it’s more common than one might think, through occult practices, drugs and the like. Or simply through immaturity.’

After a while, I said, ’If you stay in the middle of the path, walking seems to be very easy. But if you dream and are not vigilant, especially at the turning points, you stumble over a stone and are awakened again.‘

’Exactly, this stumbling can manifest itself in life as an accident, a loss, an illness, but it can lead to a shock, to awakening and ultimately to insight, if all goes well. These white stones symbolise the fundamental laws of life and being that apply throughout the cosmos, and stumbling over them leads to ever more experiences, so that at some point the person has consciously internalised the divine order.’

I asked further: ‘On our journey through life, we encounter many people who, from our perspective, are going in a different direction – what does that mean?’ – ’They are also on their path, but at a different point in the curve, and therefore only seem to be moving in a different direction. They may be people with whom we exchange experiences and insights, which is helpful and very gratifying. Or they may be people who are in need and require advice, understanding or active help. Or thirdly, they may be people who already have more insight and can help me; but for that, I must be ready.‘ – ’How can I tell if a person is further along and can help me?‘ I asked. – ’We cannot determine whether someone is “further along” on the path, because we have no sense of something we have not yet developed. In the beginning, we often tend to smile at such people. But pay particular attention to the quiet ones.’

After a pause, he continued: ’We have only just arrived at the outer wall of our innermost being. But the stream of life urges the pilgrim at some point to go further, away from this place where milk and honey flow, and it leads us through eight more turning points.

“A fairy tale is quickly told, but a deed is not so quickly done”,

as they said so aptly in old Russia. For each individual turning point not only means a change of perspective, but is also the end of one stage of development and the beginning of a new one. After successfully passing through the eight turning points – how many lives does it take to do so, who knows? – the pilgrim arrives at the outer edge of the innermost circle for the second time, this time on the opposite side. It is more exclusive there; only a few have gathered there, but the result is still the same: the pilgrims are still on the outer edge of the innermost circle.’

After a moment of reflection, I objected: ‘But surely the pilgrims will not have remained the same after their many and undoubtedly dramatic experiences?’ – ‘That is precisely the crucial point. But in relation to the innermost, it remains the same. To help you understand, let me tell you a parable: When someone plans to emigrate to a country, they begin to learn the language and take an interest in the customs and also in the whole country. This enables them to pass an entrance examination for an advanced course and continue to learn the application and subtleties of the language, history, customs, leadership and order of the new country. But they have definitely not yet moved into the new country. To do so, once they have passed all the tests and the final exam, they must be patient until they – together with their companions – are invited to enter the new country.

So when the invitation does come unexpectedly, it means saying goodbye to the old country completely and being ready for a completely new beginning, because the last third of the path is long, there are another twenty-two twists and turns. But the pilgrims are all well prepared by their mature souls and are no longer alone. They are spiritually connected to their emigrant group, which can make the journey also entertaining. The group, as a community of souls, recognises the paths together and ‘illuminates’ them. This makes walking easier, and it is no longer necessary to stumble over stones. On the contrary, through collective illumination, the order of the whole becomes recognisable and the pilgrims are allowed to rejoice in the beauty and wisdom of the entire cosmos. They are able to truly recognise the glory of God for the first time and praise the Creator.

There may be people who seek a path of liberation as a journey far, far away from Earth into the depths of space. The labyrinth as a Christian symbol of initiation, on the other hand, shows a different goal: The path through the labyrinth does not lead the pilgrims away, not anywhere, but they always remain very close to their fellow pilgrims, there are always points of contact with the other pilgrims at all stages.

By walking this mystery path, pilgrims release the light of knowledge with every step and, above all, with every turn. The first pioneers still had to laboriously make their way through the darkness with every single step. As more and more pilgrims walk, this light becomes brighter and clearer, walking becomes easier, and eventually the entire labyrinth shines with a bright glow of knowledge.

The shape of the labyrinth contains all the views of a mystery path and is therefore a wonderful and beautiful work of art that could only have been conceived by a spirit soul or a spirit-soul brotherhood. To me, the labyrinth seems to be a symbol of the spiritual connection of all humanity, or even better: a plan for the development of the human soul. Or simply: an ark for all seeking souls.‘

’Did you walk the path to the end?’ I heard myself ask – and as I was still speaking, I realised how stupid the question was. ‘There seems to be something special about the labyrinth,’ he replied. ‘I felt it when I took my first step inside, with firm determination, as if an invisible force were urging me on and on to walk the path to the end. Did I walk the path to the end? Seen from the outside, it seems as if the hidden core of the labyrinth is an end, a concrete goal. But what would that goal be, what would it consist of?‘

After a pause, he continued: ’The path through the labyrinth is the journey through life, through many lives, carried and guided by a deep longing. At the end of the path lies the fulfilment of that longing. Therefore, before definitively entering the labyrinth, it is important to become aware of one’s goal in life.’

The question arose in me: ‘Where is my longing aimed? What is my goal in life?’

We were silent for a long time.

Then there was a rustling in the bushes behind us – a large dog came running up to him and nudged him with its snout. He stroked it. ’Thank you, Hanno,‘ he said and turned to me: ’I completely forgot that I still have a visit to make. I’m sorry, but we have to say goodbye. Have a safe journey back home; who knows, maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.’

We shook hands warmly and said goodbye.

In the spiritual tradition, there is much talk of being born from above. Yet every birth presupposes conception and a long period of gestation.

Gnosis is usually understood as a special kind of knowledge – deeper than philosophy and more inwardly experienced than religious doctrine. Yet even this understanding remains external, almost intellectual.

Gnosis is neither a sum of ideas nor the result of reflection. It is the Divine Fullness of Light which, meeting a heart turned toward it, begins to act within a person as both an event and a process. It cannot be brought about by an act of will or by the accumulation of information.

To approach an understanding of its nature, one may turn to a simple analogy – pregnancy. In various traditions, this state is called a blessed one: a time when a woman becomes a bridge between worlds.

Even those who have not carried life within themselves, but have been nearby and observed its development, sensing the quiet inner changes of the expectant mother, are able to perceive this miracle more deeply and subtly – the hidden growth of new life.

When a new life takes place, the outer world remains the same. Yet in the depths of the future mother a process has already begun that cannot be reversed. A seed has entered her, and now a new life ripens within.

Something similar occurs on the path of Gnosis. Initially, a person may seek truth – reading books, discussing ideas, turning to religion or philosophy. Yet all this remains a search from the outside.

In the depths of the human being, there is from the very beginning something that is not of this world. In ancient teachings, this is called by different names: a mustard seed, the Spark of the Spirit, the Spirit-Spark Atom, Atman.

Johannes Tauler writes: “Whoever wishes to find this inner Kingdom – and this is God with all His gifts and His own hidden essence – must seek it where it is, namely in the very depths of one’s being, where God is nearer to the soul and more intimate to it than it is to itself.”

This “something” is scarcely felt at first. For a time, it remains hidden, like a seed in the earth – undeveloped, dormant,  awaiting its hour. The seed begins to awaken only when a person becomes ready to receive the life-giving warmth of Light.

At a certain moment, what may be called a spiritual conception takes place – when the inner potential becomes ready to receive the life-giving Light, just as a mature ovum receives the seed. From this moment, the inner and the outer merge, and a new life opens within the person – its quiet unfolding begins.

Until this moment, the person sought truth. Afterwards, truth reveals itself within as it had always lived there, like a seed ripened for growth.

But, as in pregnancy, conception alone is not enough. The life that has arisen in the womb requires time. It develops in silence, in a hidden space beyond the reach of the noise of the outer world. A woman carrying a child gradually begins to take care of herself – not as a rule, but almost instinctively. She avoids what may harm the new life and listens more attentively to her body.

This listening gradually becomes a distinct form of knowing: she begins to sense the changes within and understand them without words.

Something similar occurs on the path of Gnosis. A person begins to look more attentively within. In the gnostic tradition, this was called self-knowledge – not analysis, but a quiet inward turning of consciousness, for it is there, in the depths of the soul, that a new life begins to unfold.

One who seeks truth only in the outer world is, in a sense, like a person searching for a child outside the mother’s womb.

The first stirrings – barely perceptible – give rise to a particular sense: a quiet certainty that there is life within. So it is on the path of Gnosis: at a certain moment, an unexpected clarity arises – without cause. A quiet joy and a peace difficult to express in words, like the first movement of new life in the depths of consciousness. It cannot be proven – but it can be recognised, as one recognises the movement of a child not yet seen.

But the path of gestation is not without danger. Premature birth carries risk to the child’s life. So it is with truth. Spoken too early, it becomes theory or dogma. Unripened truth easily turns into ideology.

There is another danger – more subtle still. At times, a woman may experience what is called a false pregnancy: the body and imagination create the sense of new life, although in reality there is none. Something similar, though it may seem strange, is possible on the spiritual path. A person may speak of higher things, read mystical books, discuss the mysteries of the universe – and yet within, no real development takes place.

Then spiritual life becomes a role, and Gnosis becomes a beautiful language behind which emptiness is concealed.

Therefore, the true seeker gradually learns caution. He becomes less hasty in speaking and more attentive to what is taking place within. In this attention, a silence arises in which new life can grow. This silence is not so much a special state as a way of being with what unfolds, without rushing to conclusions.

And then, one day, the moment of birth arrives. Yet every birth, as a rule, is accompanied by crisis. Birth is always pain and the rupture of a previous state. The child, coming into the world, leaves the womb that was its first world.

Something similar occurs on the path of Gnosis.

When the New Human Being emerges, the former self-image dissolves completely and vanishes, giving rise to what has long been maturing in the depths. This is not a spiritual “improvement,” but a transformation of the very centre of life.

That which has long been formed in silence comes into the light. Gnosis ceases to be a spark or a possibility – it becomes a living reality of consciousness. A person no longer merely reflects on truth. He begins to live from it.

Tauler writes: “Whoever has experienced this in his depths while still alive is already in eternal life, in the Kingdom of God, closer to God than all others.”

The encounter with truth is not the moment when a person finds it. It is the moment when truth finds the one who has ripened to receive it within.

And then what long remained hidden as a spark suddenly reveals itself as Light.

Not in the sense of impoverishment, but as a deep reflection on the essentials that underlie all diversity, a spiritual transformation that leads to the essence of being human.

In a time when life is becoming increasingly complex, many people feel the need for inner clarity. This clarity can be found through the simplicity of the heart.

The illusion of diversity

The modern world thrives on diversity: cultural, religious and ideological differences shape our society. These differences are often presented as a strength and are a source of creativity, innovation and dynamic progress. On the other hand, however, no matter how valuable diversity may be, it also leads to conflicts, misunderstandings and divisions. Diversity is often also a stage for ego competition, where everyone fights to propagate and assert their own perspective.

In this diversity, it is easy to lose ourselves. The countless voices, opinions and views that surround us daily can become a noisy tumult that confuses the mind and weighs on the heart. Many people feel lost in this world of infinite possibilities and seek a deeper meaning, something that brings all these different parts together.

Jan van Rijckenborgh, one of the spiritual leaders of the International School of the Golden Rosycross, describes in his books how we can see through and overcome the dualistic nature of this world. To find clarity, to find a state of inner unity, we have to break through the illusion of opposites and discover the divine spark in ourselves and in all life.

A path to simplicity

This is where the concept of simplicity of the heart comes into play – not in the sense of being simple-minded or naive, but as a return to the essence, to unity. The simplicity we are talking about here is a state of being that exists beyond diversity. This path leads us to the inner source that unites all opposites. We can walk such a path if we have the courage and longing to do so. It culminates in experiencing, sensing and recognising the divine spirit spark within us. We become aware of our true nature – beyond ego, social conditioning and superficial identities. It is a state of deep connection with the self, the ‘other’ in our own being, the universal.

The medieval mystic Meister Eckhart (1260-1328) describes simplicity (“Einfalt “) as the highest goal of spiritual life. For him, simplicity means that the soul empties itself to make room for God. ‘The more man goes out of things, the more God goes into him, says Meister Eckhart. There is a profound truth in this statement: in a world that is constantly striving for more – more knowledge, more wealth, more power – the solution lies in letting go. The soul that dwells in simplicity recognises that true fulfilment can only be achieved by becoming one with the divine. This becoming one leads to a state of ‘serene being’, in which all worldly things lose their significance and the divine presence pervades everything.

The Bible also speaks to the importance of a simple heart. In the New Testament, it says: “The light of the body is in the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. “(In today’s language: If your eye is simple, your whole body will be full of light.) (Matthew 6:22). Mindfulness, prayer and the practice of inner silence are tools that can help us to break through the noise of diversity and find clarity and simplicity. It is about silencing the many voices in our heads and hearing the soft but clear voice of our hearts. In this silence, we realise that what divides us is only a superficial illusion, and that, at our core, we are all part of a greater whole. It is this realisation that enlightens. Then it becomes light within our being, and the voice of the heart becomes the voice of God speaking to us. This is why the psalmist says, “The entrance of Thy words giveth light; it giveth understanding simple. “(When Your word is revealed, it enlightens and makes wise the foolish.) (Psalm 119:130).

Simplicity in diversity

The discovery of simplicity does not mean rejecting or negating the world’s diversity. Diversity is a natural expression of the fullness of life. We can and should appreciate it in all its facets, even enjoy it. For we are part of it. But it can only truly fulfil us if we see it rooted in a deeper unity. This unity is divine simplicity, which exists beyond appearances.

Jakob Böhme, a German mystic of the 16th/17th centuries, describes the journey of the soul as a path from ‘multiplicity’ to ‘unity’. For Böhme, multiplicity – the uncountable diversity of the world – is a manifestation of the divine wealth of creation, but also a challenge. The soul must penetrate this diversity and return to its origin, to the unity of being. Böhme writes that this return to simplicity is not easy. It requires a deep inner transformation and the letting go of the ego. In his works, he speaks of the ‘inner birth’ of the divine in the soul. This process leads to a deep spiritual simplicity that recognises the essence of all things in their originality.

The call for simplicity of the heart may be an answer to our deepest longings. Perhaps it is the key to a new understanding of humanity and life where peace, harmony and unity are not just ideals but a lived reality. The diversity of life receives its true beauty in the unity of its source. In the simplicity of the heart, universal love breaks into the turmoil of our world. The path to simplicity, the path of love, is marked out within us. We can walk it, indeed, we can become this path ourselves.

Are we in the process of forming a beautiful, new overall picture despite our individualisation? Although a goal is set, the development towards it is a creative process in which freedom is intended, voluntary participation.

In front of me, I see pieces of a puzzle laid out on the table. If I do everything right, it will end up being a beautiful landscape. I start with a few border stones and then work my way further into the centre of the picture. Aren’t we humans like pieces of a puzzle? Each and every one of us is ‘knitted’ differently, has a different shape and different contents, different feelings and thoughts. Our habits and goals differ from person to person. Are we in the process of forming a beautiful, new overall picture despite our individualisation? Are we working on a common goal with the next step in the development of humanity, as it is expected in the new age, the Age of Aquarius?

Unlike a jigsaw puzzle, we are not finished pieces that fit together to form a predetermined image. The great seers of humanity describe a common goal for humanity and common stages of development that need to be achieved. Some speak of peace and freedom, others of brotherly and sisterly love that encompasses all people, animals, plants and all of creation.

Since the individual is connected to the collective and the individual waves of life are interdependent, the development of each individual has an effect on the cosmos as a whole. The waves of life – angels, humans, animals, plants and minerals – each have their own developmental task, but they always remain connected to each other because they influence each other. Thus, without the plant world, we would have no oxygen to breathe, and without pollination by insects, blossoms do not produce new plants.

The whole of creation is based on a single great plan. And this plan vibrates as a forward-pushing potential in every being.The Danish-American author, theosophist and Rosicrucian Max Heindel speaks of seven world bodies that undergo seven times seven developmental cycles over long periods of time, with activity and phases of rest.¹

Diagram

So, although a goal is set, the development towards it is a creative process in which freedom is intended and participation is voluntary. Today’s humanity has deviated from this divine plan of development by using its free will to strengthen its own being, to build up its own ego. It must therefore mature through experience. In everything it does, it is accompanied by the harmony and unity of the Divine-Spiritual. This makes it possible for the spiritual soul within each of us to sooner or later express itself – the soul in whose consciousness the whole can shine. In this way, we are repeatedly presented with a choice.

What about our will? Can I want what I should want in order to achieve the great developmental goal? No, I can’t do it just like that. Before I can really want something in freedom, there must be clear insight about what I am striving for with my thinking and feeling. Through experiences of all kinds, I learn that my will often brings about the opposite of what I intend, simply because the unpredictability of other people and circumstances, as well as my own uncertainty, are always present.

My feelings can also deceive me, and I learn this through corrections from outside and inside. From within, because my innermost self knows what is right, and from outside, because the world repeatedly shows me how far my feelings are from sensing and understanding people and things from an expanded perspective.

Only when reason and feeling have been purified by experience can I succeed in orienting myself towards what ‘really’ makes sense, towards the whole in which we are all embedded. It can only be grasped intuitively if I listen deeply within. Because that is where the answer is. It is pure when I am purified, when the veils before my innermost have become more permeable and I can therefore hear and understand the inner voice.

In his book Dei Gloria Intacta Jan van Rijckenborgh describes the process of becoming truely human on the basis of initiation steps. Before a new will can attune itself to the divine plan, which he calls ‘Mars initiation’, the initiations of Mercury (mind) and Venus (feeling) precede:

The Mercury and Venus initiations have become the property of the new human being. A light of God and a power of God have been handed over to him first hand. A strong, balanced, dynamic new will must begin to direct the Mercury-Venus gifts. Therefore, after the Venus initiation, the new ‘companion’ [the spiritual soul] is not yet fully created. This completeness will only reveal itself after the Mars initiation; the new Mars develops the new will of the ‘companion.²

If you start with the will first, then you are on the wrong track, because you go about it experimentally and forcefully. You then continue to move in the circuits of conditioning, remaining a piece of the puzzle that does not organically fit into the living whole. But the new aspects of consciousness can awaken, a self-initiation into one’s own innermost self can take place. It leads to insight into what is good for the whole organism of man and earth, for the creatures and worlds with which we are inseparably connected.

The maturing soul transforms us into a new human being who integrates him or herself creatively and responsibly into the perpetual process of development of creation, from moment to moment, from situation to situation. Each of us is an indispensable piece of the puzzle, of the greater whole. Everything is waiting for him/her to find the place that only he or she can occupy.

The impulse for this comes from the Spirit. The Spirit disquiets the soul and urges it to develop. The goal is the spiritualisation of the soul – and ultimately the spiritualisation of the world.

1 Max Heindel, The Rosicrucian World View, Diagram 8.
2 Jan van Rijckenborgh, Dei Gloria Intacta, Chapter 6

There are no secrets as such, only the uninitiated of all degrees.

There is hardly a simpler way to say what life is all about than in this sentence by Christian Morgenstern: It is not the truth that is complicated, but our inability to penetrate its simplicity. We are the ones who get lost in diversity. We cannot discern the truth because we are unable to set aside our own points of view and projections. We lack awareness. So, all our brooding only ever results in duplicating what we already know and think.

However, is it even possible to simply pull aside the curtain in front of the simple truth when we love this curtain, cling to it, decorate it, make it heavier, and possibly even be part of the curtain ourselves? There is no doubt that it is not that simple; we would need a method, a trick to outwit our own limitations. That sounds like one of the stories of Baron von Münchhausen, who was able to pull himself out of the mire by his own bootstraps.

But even if we are at a loss before the curtain, it is worth looking for a way to open it. It is not the “simple life”; it is not limiting our thinking or feelings; and it is not meditating into the unknown nor leaving behind what we hold dear. None of this would help us.

Perhaps we must first get used to the contradiction that all phenomena only appear to be true, but the truth is nevertheless accessible. What we generally understand by objectification or “objectively” means basically nothing other than turning all things into objects, into objects of our perception, into wagons in our ego’s railway station, which constructs exactly what we ourselves want to see, pretending that this oscillating diversity is already the origin. From the outside, we are confronted by our own, which is mirrored many times over. As upsetting as this observation can be, it is also beneficial because the search is worth it.

Lao Tzu called the simple truth Tao, and repeatedly said that this Tao is the source of everything, but is incomprehensible. Inconceivable for whom? For all people? For the Morgenstern’s “uninitiated”? Many people have listened to Lao Tzu’s texts hundreds of times, and they may have enjoyed them. That is not a bad thing. But it is obviously not enough to lift the curtain on the simple truth.

Let’s take a closer look at the Chinese version of the word curtain:

There is a famous passage in the Tao Te Ching, which appears several times. The most common reference is to chapter 25, where the last line reads: “Dao Fa Zi Ran“. A Chinese friend once translated these words for me very simply as “Tao is the law of nature“. He apparently meant well and didn’t want to irritate me. And he added, “It’s as simple as that”.

Fa means “method”, “way of doing something” or simply “law”.

But aren’t we making it too easy for ourselves if we only translate Zi Ran as “nature”? Because the term, like many others in the Chinese language, has a variety of meanings on several levels. And this is where the “ten thousand phenomena” that emerge from the One begin – and end with our curtain.

Zi Ran doesn’t just mean “nature”, but also “natural”, “simple”, “original”, “lightness”, “free from affection” or “the-from-itself-emerging”, and so on….

We could consider what nature might mean by the term Zi Ran. Probably not just the “external” nature that humans share with other living beings. But which one then? The dazzling variety of translations does not make things any easier.

Let us therefore return to Morgenstern for a moment: We can assume that Morgenstern’s “initiate” sees things (and the world) as they (really) are – and not as he imagines them to be. Initiation then means pushing aside one’s own veils. Non-initiation is decorating these veils.

Apart from the fact that Lao Tzu’s words are often cryptic and difficult to understand, we sense their depth. Taken seriously, they become a shock that shakes up our being and confuses our minds. Wouldn’t pushing aside the veils also mean pushing aside our own being, which constitutes our identity? We would be turning towards a nothingness or the “self-existing” (as Zi Ran is sometimes translated) – and all this “free from affection” as Lao Tzu says! A crazy, unfulfilling request, isn’t it?

It’s obviously about more than taking yourself less seriously, about more than eating and drinking less, talking less and about more than giving up comfort. It is about a different life, not just a higher octave in the known life, but ultimately about a different consciousness that no longer has its centre in itself.

Anyone who works – no matter what – and immerses himself completely in this activity forgets his surroundings and ignores himself. In a certain sense, he is no longer present. Many of us are familiar with this. It is a faint image of what Lao Tzu and Morgenstern are hinting at. But at least it shows that the ability is inherent in man. Those who are inside are initiated precisely because they are no longer just with themselves.

This experience leads us to suspect that, behind (or in) the diversity we are and that surrounds us, there is a nature of a different order, the “being-in-itself”.

Recognising this could be the first step; it takes some effort, but with it, we leave the auditorium and pluck a little at the curtain of confusing diversity.

Letting yourself be touched by it is the second step; it takes more courage and more effort; with it, we open a narrow gap in the curtain; we see the first contours and hear the music behind it, and begin to change.

And with the third step, we pull the curtain completely aside. This is certainly the decisive and most difficult step. It demands everything from us.

But for all three steps, we have to go on stage physically, the stage of our lives. We cannot escape this effort, because if we are stuck in our seats in the stalls, nothing will ever change.

This is how we move through all of Morgenstern’s “degrees of the uninitiated”.

When we then open the curtain, we realise: Behind it is – NOTHING.

Nothing, and yet EVERYTHING. Nothing that we know or can imagine. And yet it permeates everything.

Since ancient times, esoteric science has known the concept of karma. The word “karma” comes from Sanskrit and means “action.” This signifies that every action a person performs leads to consequences, karma. So, karma is a manifestation of the law of causation. That is, what was once done leads to the corresponding consequences. And since the human being is a manifestation of a higher system, which esotericists called a microcosm, part of this microcosm records the essence of the experiences of a given life, which constitutes the corresponding karma. Over countless manifestations, that is lives, in this field of existence, the microcosm has accumulated a huge amount of karma. Sometimes the experiences are understood, their essence is extracted, and then karma turns into a vast wealth of knowledge and wisdom that the respective reincarnated personality in the microcosm can use.

In other cases, however, the lessons of the experiences are not understood, and the human personality, which is currently a manifestation of the respective microcosm, has to face similar situations again and again in order to learn. Very often in such cases, people who encounter such situations perceive them as a great injustice. Frequently they react with words such as: “What did I do to deserve this?”, “Why is God punishing me?”, etc. It is clear that such people simply do not understand that they are not everything in their life systems, that they do not know themselves in regard to their true nature as microcosms.

Another reason for this misunderstanding is that people do not have a vision of the whole situation, but simply look at only part of the whole and, due to the limited consciousness of the ego, interpret things according to their own views, which are usually very narrow. A good example of such a view is the justice exercised by the earthly courts. It views a possible violation of the law as something separate from the whole, even from the rest of the life experiences of the probable offender, and delivers a verdict that is not always just even according to the laws on which it is based. Although the laws keep society in a certain balance, these cases show the limits of human understanding of justice compared to higher divine justice, which includes karma but is much more than that; it is much more comprehensive.

The real purpose of karma is not to punish, but to help human beings perfect their understanding through the lessons of life. In this context, the law of causation is a manifestation of the highest universal law, the law of Divine Love. In fact, Love lies at the core of all creation because GOD IS LOVE and all of God’s children are attracted like a magnet by the Love power of the Creator. So Love can also be seen as the driving force of evolution. This means that all universal laws that ensure universal order are subordinated and included in the law of Love.

The aim of this law on our plane of existence is to turn the transitory human being of time and space with egocentric consciousness into a higher, eternal being with omnipresent consciousness, which is what we truly are according to our deepest essence. To this end, the person who understands the true purpose of life should connect the higher divine power, permeating this nature order, to the inner spiritual being on the level of the human heart.

If we learn to create space for this being by gradually emptying ourselves of earthly, egocentric desires and impulses, we reach an inner silence and non-action of the ego. In this way, the divine power gradually saturates our entire microcosm and guides every step on the Path where lessons of life help us understand ourselves by showing us the different sides of our personality through our reactions in the various situations. Then we could understand what in our life helps the development of this inner spiritual being and what hinders it, so that we can begin to support the process by suitable new actions, directed both inwardly and into the concrete reality of the outer world, into everyday life.

Gradually, we acquire firsthand understanding that as individuals separated from the Source, from God, we are beings of the relative, imperfect. At best, we are relatively good, but from the higher perspective of the absolute, this also means that we are not good, imperfect. Furthermore, we must remember, as mentioned above, that very often the things that happen have a root cause in the past of the microcosm, a lesson that has not been understood and still needs to be learned.

The purpose of every lesson is not to make us suffer, but simply to give us the right understanding, to change us. So, nothing in our life ever happens accidentally, life can be seen as a school that teaches us to truly live. Suffering comes from our non-acceptance and resistance. If we, connected to the supreme divine power, on the basis of a profound awareness of our imperfection can accept life’s lessons with deep humility, whatever they may be, then we can live in the aforementioned completely new, correct way, thus transforming karma into dharma.

When in this way we undo the resistance, the barriers between our consciousness and the spiritual being within, we gradually merge with that True Self. Then we shall be filled with intense inner joy and bliss, because God is the very substance of Love, the highest vibration imaginable. Then nothing will be able to separate us from the Source, the Lord of All Life. In this way, karma can be seen as a major contributing factor in the process of our transformation, imperfect beings of time and space as we are, into beings of Eternity according to our innermost essence.

In any authentic tradition – whether Vedantic, Christian or Hermetic – the question “Who am I?” is not a psychological one, but one of inner discernment. It does not seek a conceptual answer, but an immediate recognition of what remains when all identities are set aside. In Rosicrucian language, it is the difference between the old nature and the new inner man. In Vedantic language, it is the difference between the ego, the subtle identity, and the inner Light. To clarify this structure, we will use three terms from the Advaita Vedanta tradition, adapted to a language appropriate to Western esoteric schools:

• ahamkāra – the psychological ego, the “biographical self”
• asmitā – the subtle identity, the “spiritual ego”
• chidābhāsa – the reflection of Light in individual consciousness

Ahamkāra – the biographical self (ego). Ahamkāra is the structure through which man perceives himself as a separate person, situated in time, defined by desires, fears, opinions and roles. It is the ordinary self that affirms: I am right, I am hurt, I am searching, I want to develop spiritually, I aspire to liberation. This identity is necessary for functioning in the manifested world, but it becomes an obstacle when the being aspires to real transformation. In the doctrine of the Golden Rosycross, this level corresponds to the dialectical nature and reactive personality, subject to the impulses of memory and conditioning.

Ahamkāra is inherently unstable because it is built on the past and projection: on what has been and what it hopes to become. It cannot provide a lasting foundation for transfiguration, but must be recognised and overcome for a change of order to take place.

Asmitā – The subtle self (ego), the witness who still believes itself to be someone. Asmitā refers to an extremely refined form of self-identity. It is no longer the biographical or psychological self, but the inner feeling of a consciousness that perceives itself as present, lucid and witness to its own experiences. This level is often experienced as deep silence, clarity and inner light, and frequently occurs in meditation, contemplation, prayer or Rosicrucian work.

However, from the perspective of the Golden Rosycross, this state remains linked to the personality. It constitutes a spiritualised self, a subtle presence that experiences itself as pure and mystically oriented, but which continues to exist through separation. It is precisely its elevated character that makes it stable and defensive: experiences are validated as truth, and any enlightenment that could dissolve this centre is rejected. Within the Golden Rosycross, this level can sometimes be confused with the manifestation of the “New Soul”. In reality, it represents only the subtle reflection of the enlightened personality, not the actual birth of the New Man, which implies a change of order and the definitive disappearance of the ego centre as the governing authority.

Chidābhāsa – Reflection of Light in the mind.  Chidābhāsa designates the reflection of spiritual light in the field of human consciousness. It makes perception, understanding and inner experience possible: seeing, hearing, thinking, contemplating. It has no will of its own and no identity; it is a reflection of light in the mental instrument of personality. In hermetic language, it can be compared to the light reflected in the mirror of the mind, but not to the source of light itself.

It is like a light turned on in a dark room; in its presence, the self knows itself as the psychic structure of the personality, has access to memory, and gains clarity and orientation in the dialectic field. And in the absence of adequate spiritual knowledge, it can lead to various erroneous identifications, such as: I am the body and mind, thus generating ahamkara, the dialectical personality, or I am the light, I am pure consciousness, I am the witness, thus generating asmita, the subtle ego. From this perspective, asmitā is the most difficult link to overcome: it is not a gross ego, but a spiritualised, stable, luminous and seemingly impersonal self. That is why it is often confused with realisation, especially by advanced seekers who have already overcome the gross forms of the dialectical self.

But there is a major difference between the reflection of light (chidābhāsa) and the rose of the heart. The rose in the heart, the atom of spirit, is not a reflection and does not belong to personal consciousness. It represents the original spiritual principle, of a different ontological order than the mind and experience. The rose does not illuminate through reflection, but exists as the latent seed of a new life. While chidābhāsa can be experienced and claimed by a subtle “I”, the Rose of the Heart cannot be possessed, observed or experienced as a state. It does not manifest itself through experience, but through rebirth, when personal will ceases to be the determining centre of the microcosm.

In the Golden Rosycross it is emphasised that personality, even if refined, calm and enlightened, still belongs to the old nature. It can contemplate the light, experience it and interpret it, but it cannot embody it. The real work begins only when this subtle identity ceases to claim the light for itself and personal will withdraws. Only then can the spiritual principle become decisively active in the microcosm.

Why is Asmitā the most subtle obstacle?

Most schools have created methods, or practices, each in its own way of working with ahamkāra, the personality, but very few refer to asmitā. Moreover, some have understood that asmitā is a spiritual goal, identified with liberation.

There are some deep and structural reasons why many seekers, even if they are in spiritual schools, cannot go beyond the level of asmitā.  Asmitā is the last bastion of the ego, and it is ‘luminous’, not gross.

The gross ego (ahamkāra) is easy to observe: desires, fears, attachments. Asmitā generates “I am the observer,” “I am consciousness,” “I am the witness,” “I am on a spiritual path.” It is refined, resembles the truth, and therefore is not detected as an error. It seems spiritual. That is why Śrī Ramana Maharṣi [1] said: “The subtle ego is the most dangerous, because it wears a cloak of light.”

“The greatest obstacle is not the gross ego, but the ego that believes itself to be spiritual,” warns Jan van Rijckenborgh. This is the “last veil,” that subtle feeling that the experience of pure spirit still belongs to someone, that it could remain in the sphere of experience of the dialectical ego. This is the last thread that must be cut before the “Light of the Spirit” can penetrate freely.

Many contemporary spiritual practices do not dissolve the centre of the ego, but refine it. They lead to a subtle form of identification with consciousness itself, which is experienced as a higher “state” of personality. Although such exercises can purify the field of thought and bring inner peace, they remain within the sphere of dialectical nature and do not free the being from duality. As long as there is an “ego” that experiences, observes or possesses this state, the being remains bound to the dialectical field. In this way, the old self is not dissolved, but transformed into a spiritual self, which delays the true transfiguration of the microcosm. This type of self, or ego, is called by Ādi Śaṅkarācārya [2] : “asmitā sattvică”, the most subtle veil.

If man continues to seek liberation through exercises of personality, the ego remains the active centre of the microcosm. Even experiences of tranquillity, unity or expanded consciousness can become means by which the old self is maintained. Without a profound clarification of the difference between personality and spiritual principle, no change of order takes place. Transfiguration begins only when the consciousness of the ego is transcended and the original spiritual force can act freely.

Attachment to spiritual identity (“I am someone evolved”) is a subtle form of pride through which I say to myself: “I have practice,” “I have initiations,” “I am a disciple,” “I am awake,” “I have intuited non-duality,” “I am from a great school.” This creates an “I” that must be protected, and this protection prevents its dissolution. Asmitā is not afraid of meditation, prayer or service, but it is mortally afraid of dissolution.

Overcoming asmitā means giving up control, giving up the position of “the one who experiences,” giving up any personal ontological basis. It is shocking to the psyche. That is where the “dark night,” “aridity,” “emptiness,” “desolation” appear. Many avoid this.

Asmitā provides meaning (I am on the path), direction (I am moving towards enlightenment), status (I have a level), belonging (I am part of a school). Without asmitā, all this “spiritual ground” disappears. Most people are not existentially prepared for a life without a “spiritual self”.

Only a few masters know how to distinguish samādhi from non-experience, or Gaudapāda’s non-dual realisation. Indeed, samādhi designates a state of deep tranquillity and concentration of consciousness, in which the activity of the personality in the dialectical field is suspended and an experience of inner unity arises. From the perspective of the Golden Rosycross, this experience, however elevated, remains bound to the order of nature and is therefore transitory. Transfiguration does not consist in a state of consciousness, but in a radical and irreversible transformation of the microcosm through the activation of the inner spiritual principle. Samādhi can prepare for this orientation, but it is not equivalent to the birth of the New Man.

Gaudapāda, the author of the Māṇḍūkya Kārikā, expresses a radical non-dualistic teaching in which liberation is not described as an experience or state of consciousness, but as the recognition that true reality is unborn and untouched by becoming. From this perspective, non-dual realisation does not belong to the experiential field of personality, but consists in the definitive exit from the illusion of separation, through the dissolution of any identification with the old self. Translated into Rosicrucian language, this corresponds to the end of the domination of the dialectical microcosm and the irreversible orientation towards the original spiritual order, beyond time, becoming and experience.

Jan van Rijckenborgh indicates in many of his writings that nothing dialectical can cross the threshold of the inner Temple. No matter how pure the inner witness may seem, if it still perceives itself as a subject, it belongs to the old nature. The New Soul has no observing “I,” but is total transparency. Ramana Maharṣi is very clear: “Without inquiry into the source of ‘I am,’ asmitā cannot be overcome.”

In many schools, the inner investigation “vichara” is missing. Vicāra is the inner act of inquiry through which man withdraws his attention from the dialectical field of the nature of this world and directs it towards the centre of the microcosm. It is not an analysis of thoughts, but a lucid vigil in which the personality becomes transparent and the inner fire of the spiritual principle is called into activity. Through this orientation, the old self loses its dominance, and the seed of the New Man can be reached and awakened.

Mainly, Asmitā preserves itself through self-deception, and has two main strategies. The first involves hiding behind the light, “I feel peace, therefore I am consciousness.” The second is hiding behind understanding, “I have understood non-duality.” Both are subtle illusions.

The essential conclusion is that most seekers do not go beyond the centre of the self because it can be refined and spiritualised, becoming subtle and seductive. In many contemporary schools, transformation is understood as a refinement of personality through virtues, moral exercises, or elevated inner experiences. But these means do not dissolve the ego; they give it new legitimacy.

Without a profound clarification between the real and the unreal, between what belongs to the dialectical order and what belongs to the original spiritual order, the being remains tied to its identity, even if it is called “spiritual.” The fear of dissolving the ego arises, and subtle experiences are confused with realisation.

The true transcendence of the centre of the ego is not a psychological process, nor an accumulation of virtues, but a radical change in the orientation of the being, in which the personality loses its leading role. From this point on, the path is no longer one of self-improvement, but becomes mystical and non-personal: an opening of the microcosm to the free action of the spiritual principle.

“The transfusion of light as a microcosmic mutation” or the birth of the New Man

Asmitā dissolves when the inner Light (Spirit Spark) penetrates the heart and mind, transforming reflection into “Living Fire”. The ego does not disappear, but is “burned” into a higher vibration. In Rosicrucian language, the “transfusion of light” is the moment when the Original Light, coming from the field of the Spirit, penetrates the microcosm, untying the egotic reflection (asmitā) and setting in motion the birth of the New Man. It is not a metaphorical act, but a real change in the structure of consciousness.

The transfusion of light is the direct contact between the Original Light (Spirit, Divine Spark, rock of Being) and the individual consciousness that until then functioned reflexively (chidābhāsa) and identified (asmitā). In hermetic terms, the higher light radiates into the microcosm and begins to break the connection between self-centredness and the forces of the old life. In spiritual terms, the light of true Consciousness begins to expose the falseness of the small subject (“psychological witness”).

This “transfusion” is not produced by the mind, but by a simultaneous opening in two centres:

The sacred heart (the microcosmic centre of the Spirit’s action) becomes permeable, renounces self-defence, renounces living for itself. This opening creates access for the “Ray of the Spirit”.

The silent mind, which reduces noise, suspends the egoic reaction, is in a state of lucid availability.

When these two coincide, light spontaneously enters the system. You do not draw it in; it enters when there is a crack in the egoic structure.   “Light is not attracted, but enters when the inner structure becomes permeable.” The Jan van Rijckenborgh teachings state that the original light is not “called” by personal will. It enters spontaneously when the personality relinquishes its claims and a breach is created in the egocentric armour.

If we analyse the root cause that actually triggers the transfusion, we see that all traditions are very clear: it is not practice that produces light, but light that responds to a mature inner calling. The real cause is a deep saturation, when one no longer wants to repeat the old ways of life, an extreme sincerity, when one no longer desires anything from spirituality for oneself.

The cause is also an inner surrender, not “worship,” but the renunciation of personal centrality. It feels like a call from the microcosm itself. Sometimes the microcosm is “prepared through suffering,” other times through maturation. Nothing voluntary can force it.

Is this immersion of the original light into the structures of personality a personal merit or is it a grace? Here it must be clearly stated that this transfusion of light is not produced by the person themselves. Asmitā cannot dissolve itself, nor can it let go of itself. It is grace, but not arbitrary; it follows the laws of the microcosm. Light pours forth when the microcosmic field is open and prepared. It is not a favour, but a consequence of true inner maturation.

Personal effort does not produce light, but it prepares the ground. The effort that the student can make consists of purifying intention, honesty, self-observation, ethical living, and calming the mind. As they say in the Golden Rosycross school:  “The old man prepares himself, but the New Man is born through the Grace of the Spirit.”

The New Man is not a perfection of the old, but the emergence of a different nature. We do not transform the ego into a more subtle ego. The old man withdraws, and a new consciousness, which has no personal centre, begins to work.

Another legitimate question is how this light will feel in the student’s life. The transfusion is recognised by several clear phenomena. A cold, neutral, impersonal light, it is not emotion, it is not ecstasy, nor energy; it is clarity. A feeling of “detachment from the centre”. You are no longer the centre of the experience. It is silence without a possessor. There is a reversal of motivation; you no longer do something “for yourself,” you just “stand in My Light” and eventually “My Light works in you towards the world.”

It feels like transparency, like a loosening of the tension between the witnessing self and the acting self. This is the sign of the dissolution of asmitā. There is no longer an “I who observes.” Only pure observation without identity, aimless, equal, disinterested contemplation. You no longer feel that you belong to the spectacle you are contemplating. Identity dissolves into Light, and what lives on no longer belongs to the person. For the Golden Rosycross, identity is not preserved: only the microcosm, as a temple of Light, remains active. The person becomes a transparent instrument.

The “transfusion of light” can occur in three typical moments. After a profound inner crisis, an example being one’s personal “Gethsemane” as a rupture between the old and the new. In states of intense tranquillity with self-surrender. Not in concentration, not in ecstasy, but in “total acceptance”. Or spontaneously after years of preparation, when the structure is sufficiently transparent. It cannot be planned, but the ground can be prepared through radical honesty, refusal of self-delusion, openness of heart, renunciation of self-image protection, simple and pure living. And especially by recognising and unmasking the asmitā ego in its action: “I am the spiritual witness” as the last obstacle. When the student sees this, the light comes in naturally.

In order for students to recognise asmitā, they must distinguish the three levels of the ego already mentioned: the fluctuating, emotional, biographical self (ahamkāra); the spiritual self (asmitā) – calm, witnessing, luminous, but still separate; and the Light as a presence without identity – chidābhāsa – Being. The goal is not to perfect asmitā, but to transcend it, allowing the transformative principle of the New Soul to act directly.

In conclusion, “Who am I?” is not the question through which we find a new identity, but the question through which all identities dissolve. When asmitā disappears, what remains is not a “spiritual self,” but a nameless presence, a radiant silence that does not belong to the person. This is the gateway to the New Man, to authentic spiritual birth, to the true Being of Light.

[1] Śrī Ramana Maharṣi (1879–1950) is one of the most important modern teachers of the Advaita Vedānta tradition, known for his method of self-inquiry (ātma-vicāra), formulated through the question “Who am I?”. His teaching does not propose a new doctrine, but directly points to the recognition of the non-dual nature of the Self, beyond identification with the body and mind, in a living continuity with classical Vedāntic apophatism.

[2] Ādi Śaṅkarācārya   (8th century AD) is the main systematiser of Advaita Vedānta, the non-dualistic tradition of classical Hinduism. Through his commentaries on the Upanishads, Brahma Sūtra and Bhagavad Gītā, he formulated a radically apophatic metaphysics, in which ultimate reality (Brahman) is devoid of any determination (nirguṇa), and the phenomenal world is explained as an appearance conditioned by ignorance (avidyā). His influence was decisive both in the history of Indian philosophy and in the configuration of subsequent non-dualistic discourse.

For a life that lasts only a few decades, can one expect an eternal reward—or fear eternal damnation?

The concepts of karma and samsara, as well as the idea of reincarnation, are generally associated with culture from the East. However, belief in reincarnation and in the law of karma that governs it was also present in the Western world. It is likewise affirmed in the Gospels, as evidenced not only by the apocryphal Gospels but also by certain passages in the canonical Gospels, from which references to reincarnation were at some point removed. For example, in the Gospel of John (9:1–3), concerning the man blind from birth, the disciples ask Jesus who was responsible for this misfortune – the man himself or his parents. The very way the question is phrased indicates that a life prior to the present incarnation was clearly assumed. There are more such examples in the Gospels.

The Sanskrit word karma has two meanings: “action” and “fate.” In this dual meaning lies a certain hint, suggesting a connection between a person’s mode of life and their destiny. In other words, through one’s actions, a person creates their own fate. This truth is so deeply rooted in human awareness that it has been preserved in proverbs such as: “As you make your bed, so must you lie in it,” or “Every man is the architect of his own fortune.” In the Bible (Hosea 8:7) we read: “For they sow the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.”

And yet not everyone remembers this truth, nor does everyone draw conclusions from it. One such conclusion might be the realisation that our present life is just „one frame in a long movie.” This helps explain why misfortunes sometimes appear at an early stage of life, despite the lack of any rational justification.

Why does a person act in a particular way at a given moment rather than in another?

We can explain this, for example, by a person’s character or genes, as well as by the environment in which they were raised. But can character or the environment into which a person is born – shaped by birth, upbringing, and education – really be the work of chance? Some may think so. Others explain it as the incomprehensible decision of a higher power, which, however, is difficult to reconcile with the justice expected of such a power. Still others attempt to seek deeper causes and accept the teaching of karma. It must be added at once that acknowledging the operation of the law of karma – that is, the law of cause and effect – also requires accepting reincarnation.

When we speak of “karma,” we mean a certain record inscribed upon the “firmament” of the microcosm [1] in which we currently dwell as earthly personalities. This record concerns our deeds, as well as the conduct of beings who were present in this microcosm before us. In everyday language, and in a greatly simplified sense, we say of these beings that they are “our previous incarnations.” However, this shorthand way of saying things must be properly understood. We, as earthly and mortal personalities, are only one-time inhabitants of the microcosm, just as our predecessors were likewise only one-time inhabitants of it. The only eternal entity is the microcosm itself, which – due to a dramatic event called the “Fall” – no longer exists in the eternal realm – but in the world of time and space.

The fact that, as earthly personalities, we become connected with a particular microcosm is not a matter of chance. The earthly personality – that is, the lower ”I“ – arises within the field of the microcosm, in its “field of manifestation” or “field of respiration,” surrounded by the auric being, the higher ”I“ which is the bearer of karma. This personality not only comes into being under the influence of the auric being, but is to a large extent its creation. Through the karmic record, of which the auric being is the bearer, an essential connection exists between us and our microcosmic predecessors.

It may be said that through their actions – recorded in the microcosm as karma – they have, to a significant extent, contributed to our present life path, our ups and downs. Likewise, it must be said of ourselves that if we do not liberate ourselves from the wheel of life and death, our conduct – also recorded in the auric being – will influence the fate of the next personality in “our” microcosm.

Fortunately, this need not be so.

The great and joyful alternative to remaining in the wheel of life and death is liberation. The presence of the earthly personality (that is, ourselves) within a given microcosm is guided by an extremely important and clearly defined purpose. That purpose is cooperation in the process of regenerating this microcosm, in raising it from the state of the Fall – that is, contribute to its liberation.

If, as earthly personalities, we recognise the necessity of this task and devote ourselves to its fulfilment, opening ourselves to the Forces that make its realisation possible, then the microcosm, accordingly regenerated, will be able to return to its original homeland.

Action and Duty in the Bhagavad Gita

A beautiful exposition of the operation of karmic law can be found in the Bhagavad Gita, where reference is made to the “mysterious paths of karma.” In this poem, alongside the term karma, meaning right action, there also appear the concepts of vi-karma – wrong action – and a-karma – inaction.

It is necessary to understand the intricacies of (proper) action,
the nature of wrongful action,
and the nature of inaction.
The path of karma is profound and not easily understood.
(Bhagavad Gita, IV.17)

“Karma,” or proper, action due, is also understood as duty. Every person in life faces the fulfilment of some action, some duty, which, as we know, is not a matter of chance.

The Proper Action in Ancient India

In ancient India, this “proper action” was always defined in connection with a person’s position in society. As is well known, ancient Indian society was divided into four layers, the so-called varnas. The highest was the Brahmin varna, the second – the warriors, the third – farmers, merchants, and artisans, and the lowest – the servant varna.

The assignment of duties based on membership in a given varna was further intertwined with the duties arising from the particular stage of life a person was experiencing. In other words, the duties of a youth were different from those of the head of a household, and different from those of an elder.

Importantly, and as strongly emphasised in Indian tradition, whether someone belonged to, for example, the Brahmin varna or the warrior varna was determined by birth within that varna. And what determined birth in a given varna? The answer is: karma. That is, the fate shaped by previous incarnations, reflecting the quality of one’s past conduct.

In India, the duty of a Brahmin is beautifully defined: it consists of knowledge and sacrifice. This is sometimes interpreted superficially: knowledge is seen as merely learned, intellectual knowledge, and sacrifice is seen as an external act. However, a Brahmin is a “twice-born” person, meaning “reborn” or “regenerated,” possessing true, inner knowledge, whose selfless life itself constitutes a sacrifice for the spiritual element in their heart, the atman.

There are many beautiful stories describing Brahmins. Among their qualities was, for instance, the ability to provide effective care for the community in which they lived. They were considered, in a sense, healers, capable, through their own purity, of neutralising evil threatening the community and nature. “A fortunate land in which Brahmins settle,” people said, “is visited by neither natural disasters nor wars.”

On the other hand, a country from which Brahmins depart declines toward ruin. But why do Brahmins leave a given land? Simply because its inhabitants repel them through their behaviour.

And what if a Brahmin did not meet certain criteria? There are plenty of such examples, both in texts and in real life… In such cases, it means that he is not truly a Brahmin, but a member of a lower varna, sometimes even the lowest, and claims of his birth in a Brahmin family are false.

A heartening example of the opposite situation – when someone of unknown origin demonstrates through their conduct that they are a Brahmin – is the story of a boy named Satyakama, which means “Lover of Truth.” When his teacher asked him about his lineage, he answered truthfully that he knew nothing of it. “Then your father must have been a pure Brahmin, for only the son of a Brahmin can be so honest,” the teacher replied. Therefore, belonging to a particular varna was determined by a person’s conduct, their quality expressed in deeds – that is, their karma.

Karma, A-karma, and Vi-karma

The word karma, meaning action, is linked in Sanskrit texts to the verb kṛ, which means “to do” or “to perform.” This gives rise to the phrase: “perform the action” (kuru karma), that is, simply: act. However, due to the multiple layers of meaning of karma, it also signifies: “fulfil your (highest) destiny” – attain liberation, “fulfil your calling as a human being.” In other words: live in a way that frees you from the bonds of karma.

Such pure action is also referred to in the Bhagavad Gita as a-karma – inaction. It would be a grave mistake to understand inaction superficially.

He who perceives inaction within action,
and action within inaction,
is truly wise among men,
and remains in a transcendental state,
even while performing all manner of activities.
(Bhagavad Gita, IV.18)

A-karma is inaction in the sense of freedom from karma, that is, freedom from karmic bonds. It signifies great activity, intense effort, yet in a way that does not create karmic attachments – “leaving no trace.” This is one of the great mysteries of the path to liberation: selfless action, free from desire for positive results and free from fear of negative consequences.

The “ego” (I) is not capable of such action; it is contrary to its nature. Any attempt to achieve this state through the ego of this nature is bound to fail. Only a person whose ego has been dethroned and has given way to the consciousness of the new soul is capable of action that is inaction. Such action characterises Krishna, who presents himself in the Bhagavad Gita (X.20) as the atman present in the heart of every human being. The atman, the spark of the Spirit – the Rosicrucian “rose of the heart,” says:

Action leaves no trace on me;
I do not desire its fruits.
(Bhagavad Gita, IV.14, excerpts)

If one acts with the intention of achieving a desired effect and expects the fruits of their action, they receive them in the form of bondage. This kind of action is called vi-karma, that is, improper or wrongful action.

Dharma

In the context of karma, both the Bhagavad Gita and other Sanskrit texts also use the term dharma. The word appears, for example, in expressions describing the duties assigned to each varna at different stages of life. It also appears in conjunction with the word “science” (śāstra), where it denotes a collection of texts defining eternal laws and customs.

Dharma is key to the spiritual world of ancient India, though it is difficult to capture its meaning in a single word. It derives from the verb dhṛ, which means “to hold” or “to sustain.” Dharma is law and moral norm – not imposed by human legislation, but in accordance with the functioning of the cosmos: the unshakable law that maintains the order of nature, the order of society, the order of the individual. One could say that the dharma of a Brahmin is knowledge and sacrifice, while the dharma of a warrior is to fight the enemy.

The Warrior Varna

The fight against the enemy is generally understood literally. The warrior varna consists of kings and knights, whose element is war. Yet in the Bhagavad Gita, this battle is elevated to another level – the level of the human being.

Those who belong to the warrior varna and are born into it, are directed there by the force of their karma and find themselves at a particular stage of life. They have already left behind the group of people who devote all their efforts to material concerns and building the economic foundations of the community. Warriors have a different calling. They are warriors on the path of life, which is simultaneously the path of liberation. They fight against the inner enemy – their old, earthly nature, egocentric, full of pride and anger.

And what happens when the warrior wins this battle?
They become a king-without-an-enemy.
That is, they who have already fulfilled their knightly duty, their karma.
Those who have conquered the evil within themselves.
They have thus attained the qualities of a Brahmin.
They have achieved liberation.

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[1] Microcosm – Man, as a minutus mundus, a “small world,” constitutes a complex spherical life system, in which, moving from the center outward, one can distinguish the personality, the field of manifestation (also called the respiration field), the essential aura, and the sevenfold spiritual magnetic field. The true human being is a microcosm. What is commonly understood as a human in this world is merely the imperfect personality of a degenerated microcosm. Our present consciousness is the consciousness of the personality and is therefore aware only of the world to which it belongs.
(Jan van Rijckenborgh, The Coming New Man, Glossary)