Power Corrupts...

In my fellowship, as in many spiritual communities, we have a master-disciple relationship going back in chains of lineage to our fellowship's founding members. The teaching of the original 100 are carried on through these lineages, and have reached out to well over two million people across the world.

But as with any society where there is this master-disciple relationship, there are problems.

Master-disciple always implies a power-structure, a relationship based upon a fundamental inequality of power. In spiritual paths, theoretically, it is the duty of the master to raise the disciple up to his or her own station; the goal is to extinguish the power-structure entirely, so that all may be equal. The goods which the master has are to be shared without fearing diminishing returns.

Often as not, however, the master grows accustomed to power; or the disciple becomes accustomed to impotence, so that when the disciple attempts to exert himself or the master attempts to shake loose his needy student, conflict arises.

In the realm of spirituality, this is an incredibly dangerous game. Gurus have used the submission of their students for personal gain; disciples have used gurus as crutches, abject excuses to avoid responsibility for their selves and their lives. The central premise of trying to bring everyone to an equal plane, at least in wisdom, is somehow lost in the shuffle.

In my fellowship, this is often more of a problem than usual, I feel. The central teachings can be transmitted within the space of a few months, weeks, or even days; and once the central teachings are passed along, one is authorized to teach. There is no long period of study; there is no subtle gradation of teaching. One is plunged immediately into the role of teacher while still being... less than perfect, shall we say.

I am an authorized teacher in my fellowship; I have, at least nominally, several students. I know and practice the central teachings, and additionally I have - I think - somewhat extensive knowledge of a variety of teachings from other lineages. I am always seeking to learn more, knowing that the more wisdom I have, the more I can pass on. Maybe some understanding of the Gita will allow me to reach a Hindu better; perhaps I am aware of a Christ-based meditation of Loyola's that will help some Catholic. Although I, personally, considering myself a Sufi of the Bektashi way, I want to be a polyglot of spirituality, able to speak to the need in each person.

In spite of all this, I rarely know what to do. I have knowledge of the basic teachings, and I can pass these along, but there are situations and circumstances that arise in the lives of my students that, quite frankly, I have no experience in handling. I try to listen for some answer within, some knowledge picked by the divinity inside, to give out. Usually, though, I think these are like suggesting band-aids for arterial wounds. Any healing that might come of my suggestions is purely voluntary.

I'm aware of the power dynamic in my relationships, as well. It sits in the background, a temptation ever present, and I fear it. There are times when it seems to take over, when I seem to think that I know what my student really should do. Other times it's easier to acknowledge that at best my answers are pathetic.

I am no guru.

And in fact, I dread and loathe the responsibility. The price of receiving the teachings, I was told, was that I teach them to still others; but now, having the teachings, the last thing I want is to teach. The lives of my students always strike me as being so infinitely and unnecessarily complex, such a mess of misunderstanding and petty feeling, that I don't understand the purpose of the great majority of their thoughts and emotions. I wonder why they willingly make such heavy-going of things.

My problem is that I want a teacher of my own to be able to ask all these questions, someone removed and apart, a person I feel I can trust. I don't trust even my own teacher, though. We've grown apart over time; I feel like there is less to share with him, fewer questions. And I've come to see, more and more, his faults rather than his wisdom. The power dynamic in our own relationship has come to seem more and more burdensome. I distrust the whole system, but am remiss to set it aside lest the teachings themselves, so important, become lost in the struggle for equality and equity.

I try my best to hold to bar that dynamic from entering my own mentor-disciple relationships. I try to stress my humanity and frailty and lack of knowledge; I've learned to accept the fact that I have no power to compel others, and also attempt to stress to my disciples that I hold no real power over them. I want them to know that we walk together, as equals, through this process, and that I am no better than they are.

I fear it is the best I can do, the only thing I can do.

Like a Kid in an Office-Supply Store

Once upon a time, in a place a little far away, and not too long ago, I was alone.

I was alone, and friendless, and I had almost nothing. I lost everything I had, and everything that I knew, or thought I knew, was suddenly no longer worth anything because it no longer made sense, or worked. I was tired, and very scared, and while in this state, I stumbled (by chance or Providence, I cannot say) upon a group of people who took me in.

They were, and hopefully still are, a motley bunch. They accepted me unconditionally, only asking that I might come back to see them again, which I gratefully did. They offered me a place to go, and their charity, care, and compassion, and a way to get in touch with an unsuspected inner resource that would enable me to meet every challenge I might ever face - if I wanted that way, that is. Lonely, and scared, and tired, I wanted it. Quite desperately, in fact.

Over a period of time, I found that inner resource. I carry it with me all the time, 'closer than my jugular vein', you might say; like looking around the corner at another life behind ordinary life. A subtle art of seeing, an intimate intuition of the way things should always be.

Never before, really, have I had it so good: never before have I been so in love, with my girlfriend, my God, and my life. I've discovered the fine and simple art of not-taking-yourself-so-damned-seriously, how to be a better child in and of this world, and I'm earnestly practicing it, trying to improve the skill with which I employ it in daily living. I've found out how to stop caring about so many, many things, and instead to really live with a certain simplicity and simplistic joy. I feel... wonderful.

Yet... alone. Apart. Different. From just about everybody and everything. Like a kid, surrounded by grown-ups, talking about really boring self-important things, silly gossip and petty rivalries and witless self-aggrandizement, people taking everything so bloody serious, taking themselves so bloody seriously, playing make-believe so hard that they've forgotten it's a game and aren't having fun any more.

Everything about the way I was taught, the training I got in how-to-remember-it's-not-important-and-neither-are-you, says this is all my fault. Not the other people, mind, but the feeling alone, apart, different. If I feel like a child surrounded by grown-ups, this way says, that means I'm the one doing something wrong.

Only, it's been about two years, now, and I've tried everything I can think to do to fix the problem, and none of it seems to work. Again and again, and again and again and again, I seem to keep coming to this place.

I'm starting to wonder, now, if maybe the problem isn't me; I'm starting to wonder if, perhaps, I'm just the only child in this room full of adults, and the problem is, instead, that I need to find the rest of us kids.

I mean, I've found one. My girlfriend is a kid, such as I describe. She knows not to take things so damned seriously. It's one of the things about her which I adore: the silly songs she sings, the way she wiggles her butt and dances around, the way she pouts and wants to help with the cooking and all the rest.

I guess I fear, sometimes, like now, that we're the only ones around.

I don't think we can be, really; there have to be more of us.

Just.... where?

Acceptance

I have one student in my lineage, who consistently fails. I've tried again, and again, with every skill I have, with every bit of knowledge that I have, with every shred of kindness I have, to help him along the Path; but he never seems to make it. When all is said and done, I can only do so much; I cannot walk the Path for him.

It has gotten to a point now where I don't even want to help him. Facing him - no, facing my inadequacy, my inability to find an answer - disturbs me. Here I am, one who has tread the Path before him, the teacher, the one who is supposed to have answers for him, and I have none left. Nor, if I did, would I want to give them to him, because I feel that if I gave them to him, he would use them and fail, and I wouldn't have anything any more.

But I cannot give up. That Imam Hussayn (sa) taught me, by his martyrdom. I am not allowed, by creed or conscience, to stop trying.

I'm worn out, though. I want the problems to go away. I want to stop looking at people and seeing this problem or that issue; I don't want to think in solutions or answers. I've created the situation myself. I stopped looking at people, I started looking at their problems, and so now, to me, the whole world is a mess of problems.

And I've cracked. I think. Something inside of me has given up. Something inside has begun to accept that it's a fucking mess without a solution and so fuck it.

There's liberation in that, of a sort. Because there aren't any answers, and nothing is ever going to get better, I feel free to be happy with things here, things now. And maybe I can start speaking with people again. Maybe I can let their problems be, not get involved, just live my own fucking life without having to be the answer-man.

Which means: I'm not a good person. I'm not a wise person. And that's OK. You know what? I accept that. I'm a liar and a cheat and a thief. I'm selfish and not very nice. I don't care any more. Because God made me this way, and obviously He did so for some reason, and more importantly, I like who I am. Because I know that in spite of all that stuff, I'm honest and good and generous and loving.

I'm tired of thinking. Today, I went throughout my day just doing each little task. I tried not to think about anything beyond the task. Got up. Got dressed. Made my bed. Checked email. Ate lunch. Went to work. Did each task at work. Came home. Just little bits, one by one, checked them off in my mind, doing each as each arose and checking it off, not thinking about the next one on the list, not thinking about the last one.

And I found the tiniest, the smallest bit of peace. And then I realized that I had a practice to, well, practice. Do each little thing. Don't think about it. Just do it. Very zen, 'n' all, just like doing dishes or folding laundry. Chop wood, carry water.

Practice, practice, practice.

Answering That of God in Everyone

Last Sunday, I went to a Quaker Meeting, my first.

And I liked it. A lot. It was held in a simple, small building, the inside furnished with wooden benches (with cushions, alhamdulillah). There was no iconography, no paintings, just the bare walls. Someone was kindling a fire in a large fireplace, which turned to a full blaze shortly thereafter. We all sat in silence, for one hour, except for three times when someone stood and spoke. I don't remember what they said, I just remember the silence, the simplicity, and also the warmth of my welcome, when it came time for me to speak myself and tell everyone my name, and why I was there ("Curiosity... thank you" was what I said, to plenty of laughter).

Where, exactly, the idea to go to a Quaker meeting came from, I cannot say. Perambulations (if I might use that word) on the Internet led me to it, and I decided to give it a shot; I figured I might as well go, and see. Nothing to lose. There was a small measure of fright involved - I hadn't set foot in a church for worship in years - but reminded myself that I had set foot in meetings of my own Fellowship with greater trepidation, after which the fears subsided.

I now feel a calling - I guess you could call it that - to go back, to go regularly, to become a member. I remember, especially, the feeling of lightness, calm and joy I carried with me when I left, a sensation I haven't felt in a long time.

I used to feel that way in my own Fellowship. It used to be a place I could go where I felt a sense of community, of shared effort in a common goal, a place I would visit and from which I would return to the world with a springier step. Now that I think about it, actually, I haven't felt that way about my Fellowship in a long time. Why that is, I don't rightly know. I'm willing to guess, though, that it's the repetition; hearing the same things spoken by pretty much the same people, watching the same melodramas unfold again and again and again. The feeling arises that there is nothing new under the sun, and I'm tired of the lack of... I want to say 'success', but it would be more accurate to call it, simply enough, 'change'.

Maybe that's why I look forward to getting up early on a Sunday morning (unheard of, for a person like me) rather than meeting with my own Fellowship tonight.

Meanwhile, I begin the very indefinite and hazy plans of a trip to Michigan this Spring, on or around Nowruz, to meet with another community, another Fellowship, another path. I'm hoping to pay a visit to the Bektashi tekke in Taylor, to become acquainted with some dervishes in the tariqah, and perhaps to pay a visit to Baba Arshiu. I'm hoping to begin my association with the Bektashi tariqah in a more formal manner, this way; at the moment, it's a very loose connection simply because of the limits of time, space and linguistic barriers, though not from a lack of desire for more proximate affliliation.

One thing which does concern me, however, is that I'd like to formalize my ties to both the Quaker Meeting I attended as well as the Bektashi tariqah, and I'm unsure as to how either will accept this dual affiliation. I find "that of God" in both homes; I find the fellowship of seekers I seek in the Meeting, and the path towards realization I seek in the tariqah.

We shall see what happens.

The God Thing

In spite of outward appearances, including this journal, I actually really dislike speaking about God.

I don't mind reading plenty on Him; sometimes, if a person knows what they're talking about, I even like to listen to others discuss Him. The vast majority of the time, though, whenever people bring Him up, I become uncomfortable and edgy.

This happened last night in the meeting of the fellowship to which I belong. He was the topic, and I instantly began to bristle.

I especially bristled at two specific types of comments:

(1) God is not some sort of psychological construct or conception;

(2) You must believe in a God of some kind.

The reason I bristle at (1) is simple: I don't know if my God is or is not some sort of psychological construct or conception. He very well may be. For all I know, I'm completely deluding myself, or tapping into some Jungian archetype, or I've deified mother/father categories and idealized latent memories of uterine bliss from my prenatal experience. Perhaps I've adopted the concept in order to 'fit in', or as a safeguard against some raw experience of the meaninglessness of existence.

I don't particularly give a shit.

I can't prove God exist, just as others cannot prove He doesn't, because God, by definition, is indefinite, or supradefinite, if you like. His one definite attribute is His inability to be defined. And one cannot logically or empirically say anything, positive or negative, about something that cannot be defined.

I believe in God, meaning that presupposing a lack of evidence of the Big Fella, I choose to go ahead and think He's around. He's a working hypothesis, of sorts; I suppose His existence and act accordingly and see what happens. And since supposing His existence and acting accordingly has improved the quality of my life considerably, I see no reason to give up that supposition.

I know, though, that it's just a supposition.

As far as (2) goes, I take a great deal of issue with the idea that anybody must believe anything. Allah, subhana wa t'ala, said, "la ikraha fiyy ad-din": "there shall be no compulsion in religion." I stick to that.

My First Guide taught me that in our Way, we don't compel anyone to believe anything; we instead remove the stuff that stands between themselves and their natural belief. We don't tell anybody that they have to believe in God or anything of the sort; instead, we gently remind them of the moments in their lives where they felt swept up in things bigger than themselves, where they had courage or compassion or love or wisdom beyond their day-to-day means. That's all.

Because God, as our book describes it, is just an 'unsuspected inner resource'; like a pool of strength upon which one can draw. That's all. What you want to call that? God or Higher Power or whatever? I don't really care. We don't really care. The idea, the only idea, is to help you gain access to that resource within yourself.

Whether that inner resource is a psychological construct or a genuine Supreme Being, I can't say.

But again: I don't care. My life is better. Who, or what, makes that happen, I don't care.