Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch (19 page)

It seems inevitable that anyone who possesses a unique point of
view is bound to cause disturbance. One cannot have a definite, positive
view concerning the meaning and purpose of life without its affecting one’s behavior, which in
turn affects those about one. And, sad as the truth may be, it usually affects people
unpleasantly. The great majority, that is. As for the few, the disciples so-called, all too
often their behavior lends itself to caricature. The innovator is always alone, always subject
to ridicule, idolatry and betrayal.

In reading the lives of the great spiritual leaders of the past-Gautama,
Milarepa, Jesus—or even figures like Lao-tse and Socrates—we profess to understand their
tribulations. We understand with our minds, at least. But let a new figure appear in our
midst, one armed with new vision, greater awareness, and the problem begins all over again.
Men have an ingrained tendency to regard these irruptions of the spirit as closed dramas. Even
the most enlightened men sometimes.

Should the new spirit happen to be embodied in a woman the situation becomes
even more complex.
“It is not a woman’s role!”
As if the realm of spirit were man’s
alone.

But it is not merely because she was a woman that Jean Wharton found herself
involved, it was because she was a person, a very human person. I must confess, in passing,
that it was with her own sex that she encountered the greatest difficulties. Which is not so
strange perhaps, considering the efforts men have made over the centuries to warp women’s
minds.

But to get back to the heart of the matter…. The whole problem is
heartrendingly set forth in the second volume of Wasserman’s trilogy, which begins with
The Maurizius Case
. In the English translation this second volume is called
Dr.
Kerkhoven
. The man, Kerkhoven, is an extraordinary healer who happens to be an analyst
instead of a spiritual healer. His very gift is his undoing. In saving others he crucifies
himself. Not willingly and deliberately, but because being what he is, doing what he does (for
others) involves him in a drama which is beyond his or any man’s powers to cope with.
Kerkhoven had no intention of “saving
the world.” He was a man of
passion, of deep insight, of pure, unselfish motives. He became the victim of his own
compassionate nature. One has to read the book to be convinced of his almost flawless
character.

In a way, the reading of this trilogy, together with my long and most fruitful
talks with Renée Nell in Beverly Glen, prepared me for at least a partial, and certainly a
most sympathetic, understanding of Jean Wharton’s own inner drama. As I interpreted the
situation, she had reached a point where the futility and absurdity of helping others had
become a flagrant reality. She had broken away from the Church, from any and every kind of
organization, in fact, just as earlier in life she had parted from home and parents. Extremely
sensitive to the sorrow and suffering of others, aware of the ignorance and the blindness
which is the cause of all our ills, she was virtually compelled to accept the roles of mentor,
comforter, healer. She fell into it naturally and unassumingly, more as an angelic being than
as a doer of good deeds. In performing her duties she innocently believed that she was
awakening the afflicted to the nature and existence of the true source of power and health, of
peace and joy. But, like all who have made the experiment, she gradually came to perceive that
people are not interested in the divine power which is theirs but only in finding an
intermediary who will undo the havoc which they have wrought through stupidity or meanness of
soul. She discovered what others know only too well in a cynical way, that people prefer to
believe in and worship a god who is remote rather than live out the godlike nature which is
their inherent being. She found that people prefer the easy path, the lazy, irresponsible
path, of confession, repentance and sinning anew to the hard but direct path which leads, not
to the Cross, but to life more abundant, life everlasting.

“Old hat!” you say? But have you dismissed it with your intellect or from
bitter personal experience? It makes a difference. No one elects to be a martyr, however much
it may seem that way to those who are immune to heroic ordeals. And no one sets about
saving the world unless he has first experienced the miracle of personal
salvation. Even the ignorant are capable of distinguishing between a Lenin and a Francis of
Assisi, between a Franklin D. Roosevelt and a Ramakrishna, or even a Gandhi. As for Jesus the
Nazarene or Gautama the Buddha, who would even dream of comparing them to any historical
figure?

When she had demonstrated to her own satisfaction that she
could
cure
people of their physical ills, when she discovered that it was not so much a doing as a
seeing, she devoted her energies to the task of convincing others that she herself was but an
instrument—“Not I but the Father!”—that this same healing power was within everyone’s reach,
if one would but open his eyes. This honest endeavor only brought confusion and
misunderstanding. And increasing alienation. Not that people ceased calling on her for aid (of
every sort), but that the very ones she had made well again were the hardest to convert to her
way of thinking. As for the outsiders, those who watched from the sidelines, it was all a
foregone conclusion. They saw the ridiculous in the sublime. They saw ego where there was only
self-effacement.

In touching on these problems I used to urge her to employ greater detachment.
It was easy for me to recognize how she fell into the same trap over and over, how she allowed
herself, all unwittingly, to be used and exploited. How a simple question, which she thought
to be sincere, could lead her into explanations which were exhausting. Sometimes in her
compulsive behavior, in her eagerness to set things right, leave no stone unturned, I would
accuse her (silently) of meddling. To even hint of such a contingency would have distressed
her. She was totally unaware, or seemed to be, that she was perpetually hovering over others
in readiness to be of service. Ever on the alert, she was like a sentinel fighting off
fatigue. Her very nature decreed that it could not be otherwise. Her efforts to correct this
attitude must, I know, meet with indifference in the minds of those who can readily close
their eyes where the afflictions and misfortunes of others are concerned.
But to those who are aware, supremely aware, the problem is not one of shutting the eyes
or of keeping them open, it is one of refraining from intervention. “Fools rush in where
angels fear to tread,” goes the saying. Obviously, angels see farther and deeper than ordinary
mortals; if angels give pause it is assuredly from no thought of self-protection.

When should one lend oneself to action? What constitutes an
act?
And
may it not be that not to act is sometimes a higher form of action? Jesus was silent before
Pontius Pilate. The Buddha delivered his greatest sermon by holding a flower up to the
multitude to behold.

“Jean,” I once ventured to say, “you have declared that all is good, that evil
is but the negative of that which is all positive, that the plan is perfect, that light
triumphs over darkness, that truth must and does prevail…. But can you forbear to succor the
weak, can you forbear to straighten out crooked souls, can you respond to foolish questions,
or imperious demands, with silence? Can you just
be
what you are, confident that
nothing more is demanded of you? Is not
being
the all? Or, as you put it,
seeing?
Seeing through the false, the illusory, the unreal?”

There was never the slightest doubt in my mind as to her sincerity. The one
defect, if I dare call it that, which I could detect in her was an inordinate sense of
compassion. And yet, what greater link can there be between the human and the divine? The
compassionate nature is awakened precisely when the heart and mind become as one, when the
human will surrenders in absolute trust. In true compassion there is neither attitude nor
involvement. Nor is there any relinquishing or deplenishment of powers. Quite the contrary,
indeed. When compassion is manifested, all discordant elements are instantly attuned. But it
can only make itself felt, only become operative and work its magic, when there is absolute
certitude, absolute accord with truth. When “I and the Father are one.”

What I detected in her now and then was a wavering, or indecisiveness, which
prompted her in weak moments to give that
little push which only the
“master” can refrain from giving—or give because he is certain of the outcome. Formerly she
had given many an exhausting push, and had paid the price for doing so. There was little
danger of her relapsing. The question was how to go forward, how to be of greater service
without creating new temptations, new traps, which the ego ever lies in wait to exploit. With
every ounce of wisdom she possessed she schooled herself anew each day to banish even the most
innocent kind of intercession. Aware that self-exhortation is but a reminder of hidden
failings, she also disciplined herself to do whatever her inner promptings urged. Fighting to
leave herself open, to avoid making decisions, to eliminate opinions, use no will, meet each
situation as it arose
when
it arose and not before, fighting not to fight, struggling
not to struggle, deciding not to decide, she was indeed making herself a battleground.
Outwardly there was little trace of this many-sided conflict; she was always serene,
confident, optimistic, and therapeutic, even without meaning to be so. Inwardly, however, she
was consumed. She had a role to play in life but the nature of this role was becoming more and
more elusive. The more she evolved, the deeper her insight, the less there was for her to do.
And she had always been a very active, very energetic person. She scarcely knew what is called
fatigue. Moreover, she had done her utmost to make herself as anonymous as possible. She had
surrendered even the desire to surrender. But her life—to those who watched her anxiously—only
seemed to become more hectic, more involved. Her comings and goings were as erratic as the
quivering of a compass needle in the presence of hidden ore. Everyone had a different
explanation for her behavior, but no explanations hit the mark. Not even her own.

To cut short the
déroulement
of her personal history, as I soon
shall, is not to pique the reader’s curiosity nor to arouse interest in an exceptional
personality—the world is full of remarkable “personalities”—but to draw attention to a problem
which vitally concerns us all, however little we may think about it. It is some
times said about this transitional period we are passing through that
this
time there will be no world figure to emerge and lead us out of the
wilderness.
This
time we will be obliged to save ourselves. (Which is, of course,
what every great teacher struggled to make man understand.) Given the dire circumstances in
which the world at large is now enmeshed, it is strikingly noticeable that there is no one
recognizable figure on the horizon capable of inspiring us as a world leader. Neither is there
any new doctrine whose message, if followed, would deliver us from our inertia. That the
Kingdom of Heaven is within—or “within our reach,” as scholars now insist the translation
should be—that man needs no intermediary, that he cannot be saved except by his own efforts,
that the abundance of the earth is inexhaustible—these ineluctable truths now stare us in the
face implacably and incontrovertibly. There is indeed a cruel, ironic validity to our stubborn
refusal to be saved. The contemptuous, scornful way in which we treat would-be saviours is not
altogether a reflection of our imperviousness. We
know
today that the “do-gooders”
and the “fixer-uppers” are capable of doing more damage than the carefree, heedless
sinners.

As a people, we Americans have submitted to some perilous experiments. Ever
since 1914 we have been trying to patch things up for the world. Not with a clear, clean
conscience, it is true, but not entirely in hypocritical fashion either. In brief, we have
behaved as a people would who have had more than their share of the good things of life, who
have not been crippled morally, physically and spiritually by successive invasions and
revolutions. Yet we have failed completely to ameliorate the harrowing conditions which beset
the rest of the world. Not only that, but we ourselves have deteriorated and retrogressed. We
have lost much of the character, the independence, the buoyancy and resiliency, to say nothing
of the courage, faith and optimism, of our forefathers. Still a young nation, we are already
weary, filled with doubts and misgivings, and absolutely at sea as to what course to pursue in
world affairs.
All we seem able to do is to give ourselves more
injections and arm to the teeth. When we do not truculently threaten or menace, we wheedle,
cajole and appease as best we know how. It is clear to all the world that all we really care
about is to enjoy our huge piece of pie in peace and tranquillity. But we know now beyond all
doubt, and it is this which disturbs us profoundly, that we cannot enjoy our pie while the
rest of the world starves. We cannot even have our piece of pie unless we aid others to have
theirs too. (Assuming that they want pie and not something more substantial.)

If it is abundance we worship, then common sense would dictate that we cease
wasting our time and energy on the manufacture of destructive products and destructive
thoughts. Imagine a man who is strong and healthy, who wants nothing of his neighbor because
he has more than enough at home, and who insists on taking pills, donning a full coat of armor
when he goes to work, and then proceeds to build walls around his dwelling place so that
nobody will break in and rob him of so much as a crust of bread. Or who says: “Yes, I shall be
happy to sit down to the table with you, but first you must change your ideas.” Or who goes
even further and says: “The trouble with you is that you don’t know how to live!”