SPIRITUAL MAN IS ETERNAL: THERE ARE NO DEAD!Published in The Theosophical Path THE APOSTLE Paul wrote: I die daily; and he meant exactly what he wrote, without reserve or equivocation. But Paul had the advantage over us moderns in that he wrote for people thoroughly familiar with theories of life and death that have become submerged since his day — submerged in part by the after-wave of Pauls own huge enthusiasm. Deathless and indestructible in essence, insofar as they were based on truth and rooted in absolute being, they were doomed as theories to die awhile, as men die too, and, like men, destined to be reborn in after time. Theories are, after all, not more nor less than bodies of ideas, even as our bodies are the temporary clothing of our souls. True ideas reincarnate into theories on the cyclic tides of time, as our bodies do also[?]; the temporary clothing of our souls. True ideas reincarnate into theories on the cyclic tides of time as certainly as do all other forms of the Eternal — forms so infinite that he who seeks to limit them or number their incalculable changes is as silly as the savage trying to put sunlight in a bottle. Every atom in the whole created universe dies daily, if we mean what Paul meant by the words. But must we therefore so identify ourselves with death, by act of will or lack of spiritual energy, that we become deaths servants? In an age so given to advertisement that neither creed nor politics nor tooth-paste can resist oblivion without such struggles for publicity as would have paid the whole expense of Caesars armies, death is better advertised than are all the other old and new illusions that human flesh is heir to. Death is as importunate as cigarettes; daily we are asked to make a blind- fold test of it — to choose which death we would prefer to die — instead of testing life with open eyes and choosing which life we shall prefer to live, which half-a-seconds thinking should suggest were much more profitable. Death and taxes, says the many-jawed-machine made myth, are inescapable. But are they? Death of what? Taxes to whom payable? If we must render unto Caesar what is Caesars — and we must, as even stars must render overflow of glory to the night — are we thereby identified with Caesars dim, inglorious beginning, with his vanity and vices, with his end at the mercy of any accident that stutters through the cogs of human prejudice? If we should render unto God the spirit that is Gods and that we feel within us, who shall tax that? Can death reach that holy thing? Dying daily is the art of living. It is the art of letting go all prejudices — of refusing to be buried in the shrouds of dogma — of repudiating selfishness. It is the lower self that dies — that lower self which, caught between the prongs of Karma, can, if we permit, provide us with opportunity to learn and put in practice what we have been born into the world to learn and inwardly digest. That inward WE is not these bodies that we too much value or, in moments of discouragement, accuse like dogs who bite the stick that beats them. Bodies are the suits we wear, in which to strut out parts on lifes amusing stage; and there is no greater mistake than to suppose that the actor should so emerge himself into the part he plays as to forget his own identity. I and my Father are one — not, be it noted, I and my body are one. If we forget that the Eternal Man is deathless, as long as we forget (no longer) we become deaths victims, self-identified with the illusion which we came into the world to conquer; worse than victims, traitors; we submit ourselves to be the instruments of cruelty, deceit, and death, increasing others difficulty, adding to the sorrow of the world instead of mastering our share of it, and squandering the overflow of vibrance for the benefit of others. We become bad actors, whimpering for praise, entitled to no better than the rotten eggs of a disgusted audience. For we forget, sometimes, there is an audience. Each man, as Shakespeare wrote, in urn plays many parts, and it appears to be a law that each of us, in course of time, must don dark buskins and a drab cloak, signifying loneliness. An empty stage, swept of its flowers that paid gay homage to some other actor — properties suggesting affluence and comfort all departed to the wings — dim light and the howling of lonely wind — no opportunity for bombast — silence that makes the house seem empty. Dread presents no opportunity for bombast — silence that makes the house seem empty. Dread presents itself. Sorrow is so encompassing that joy seems like a litter of decaying jetsam on the beach of grief. No support, no prompter — and an audience wholly unseen. Is that a despicable part to play? It is the greatest part of all, the richest in opportunity. It is a challenge to the actor who is cast for it to fill that stage so full of a divine unconquerable spirit that his victory over desolation charges life anew with faith and hope and sends his audience away refreshed — as earth is stirred to new endeavor by the assault of spring against the tyranny of winter storms. The actor may, if he chooses, so forget his own identity as to assume the very substance of the part and go down under it to earned oblivion. It is his privilege, however, to remember who he is, and who his audience — that unseen audience forever instant to detect good work, forever eager, when the curtain rings down, to applaud: Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Death, to such an actor, is the open door to Life, not too soon to be entered, since he knows there is no hurry and no need for it. He meets all anguish and adversity as a front-rank fighter, rapier in hand — the rapier of faith; unwilling to betray one trust by grudging one last effort, knowing that every blow he strikes at the worlds belief in purposeless calamity is struck for all eternity and all mankind. He knows, too, that the Lords of Life are cognizant and judging, not the noise he makes and not the fame men give him or withhold. They judge the quality of courage and of faith and good-will that he adds to the relief of tired humanity. Though death to him is Life Triumphant, since he knows that he and his immortal soul are one, and are one with Life Eternal, he refuses to accept release in death until the hour of victory when Life at last enfolds him in such Light that men no longer see him, and the shadow that they thought was he, disintegrates. For him, that is the curtain. He has played his part. His audience was not the men and women of the world; they, too, are players. For the Lords of Life and for the ever present Brotherhood he did his utmost. He has earned and retires to enjoy their comradeship in another phase of the eternal drama of the progress of the Soul of Man; his knowledge that the Eternal Man can never die, having raised him to the ranks of the Helpers from the undisciplined flocks of the helped.
Posted on: Mon, 08 Dec 2014 05:15:51 +0000
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