Read The Great Work of Your Life: A Guide for the Journey to Your True Calling Online
Authors: Stephen Cope
About halfway through his dialogue with Krishna, Arjuna begins to get it. And as his eyes open, he sees that Krishna, his friend and charioteer, is not just an ordinary guy. He is much more than a charioteer. To his astonishment, Arjuna begins to see that all along he has been in the presence of a Divine Being. Egad! Krishna is God!!
Upon recognition of Krishna’s True Nature, Arjuna has a wonderful and very human moment. He is embarrassed. He says to Krishna: “
Sometimes, because we were friends, I rashly said, ‘Oh, Krishna!’ or, ‘Say, friend!’—casual, careless remarks. Whatever I may have said lightly, whether we were playing or resting, alone or in company, sitting together or eating, if it was disrespectful, forgive me for it, O Krishna. I did not know the greatness of your nature, unchanging and imperishable.”
This moment endears us to our warrior friend. Arjuna says, in effect, “Gosh, God, I have not been paying you the proper respect.” Krishna will later explain to Arjuna that they have been friends through countless
lives—that they have known and loved each other through the rise and fall of many forms. Arjuna has forgotten the details, of course, but he realizes that it is indeed so. Step by step, Krishna has led Arjuna to understand his life—has led him to understand who he is, who he has been, and what his pilgrimage across the ages has been like.
Arjuna is now on fire with his love for Krishna. Out of his enthusiasm, he makes a somewhat premature request. He says, “I want to know you even more.” He begs to see Krishna’s divine form. “
Just as you have described your infinite glory, O Lord, now I long to see it. I want to see you as the supreme ruler of creation. O Lord, master of yoga, if you think me strong enough to behold it, show me your immortal Self.”
Of course, Arjuna really doesn’t know what he’s asking for. But Krishna wants to grant his wish. He wants to give him full knowledge of his Divine Self. But because he knows that Arjuna does not really yet have the capacity to perceive his illumined form, Krishna gives Arjuna “spiritual vision” to perceive what has previously been outside Arjuna’s limited perceptual range.
What emerges now is one of the great theophanies in all spiritual writing. The narrator, Sanjaya, recounts what Arjuna sees. It is one of the most masterful descriptions of the indescribable in all of world literature. (Robert Oppenheimer famously quoted it in 1945, when he was reaching for words to describe the first controlled explosion of the atomic bomb over the desert in New Mexico.)
Krishna’s divine form, says Sanjaya, “appeared with an infinite number of faces, ornamented by heavenly jewels, displaying unending miracles and the countless weapons of his power. Clothed in celestial garments and covered with garlands, sweet-smelling with heavenly fragrances, he showed himself as the infinite Lord, the source of all wonders, whose face is everywhere.”
Sanjaya continues: “If a thousand suns were to rise in the heavens at the same time, the blaze of their light would resemble the splendor of that supreme spirit. There within the body of the God of gods, Arjuna saw all the manifold forms of the universe united as one. Filled with amazement, his hair standing on end in ecstasy, he bowed before the Lord with joined palms …”
What is the lesson here for Arjuna? Arjuna—now with “spiritual
vision”—perceives the whole world, the entire cosmos, within the Divine form of Krishna. Krishna had already taught Arjuna that awakened ones see the Self in themselves and in all creatures. Now this teaching had become very concrete indeed.
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Enough! Cries an overwhelmed Arjuna. He soon tells Krishna to take away the vision. The blinding light is too much for his senses to bear. He feels his mortal form being ripped apart by its intensity. Indeed, his consciousness
has
been ripped apart. As we shall see, the vision will change Arjuna. He has received the great teaching: The whole world is within each one of us.
Once Arjuna has regained his equilibrium, Krishna drives home the point: “Arjuna,” he says (and I paraphrase), “the explosion of energy and consciousness you have just beheld is also within you. Coiled and ready. Thou Art That. If only you would connect with it. You saw all beings in me. All beings are also in you.”
Krishna continues, and says, in effect: “Now seeing the whole picture, you have the information you need in order to make your decisions about how to act in this world. You now know, incontrovertibly, that the whole world is in every being. You have now seen that you are One with it all. You have seen that the whole world is one family. There is no true separation between beings. This is the Truth.”
Arjuna is stunned. Humbled. And more than a little freaked out. He wants to hold on to the Truth. But he also wants to turn away from it. “When I’m in the presence of this Truth” he says, haltingly, “I
know
my real nature; and I act accordingly. My actions in such a case are effortlessly noble. But I forget. I forget who I am. Krishna, help! How do I maintain the fragile connection with this Truth?”
Now Krishna gives him the keystone: “Arjuna, that is why I have given you your dharma,” he says (and here and in the following paragraphs, I paraphrase Krishna). “Your dharma is your way of staying connected with your True Nature. It is the particular way in which you can devote your life to the welfare of all beings. Your dharma is your very own way of expressing the Truth. Your dharma is the one place where
you can penetrate the fleeting world of form. Where you can live as I live, fully connected with the whole world of mind and matter. Where you can live in the sure knowledge that you are not the Doer, but only a vehicle of the great Doer.”
Krishna reiterates his earlier teaching: Know your dharma. Do it with all your passion. Let go of the fruits. And now he adds a fourth and final teaching:
And turn it over to me
. Surrender the whole process to me. Surrender your life’s work to God—to the divine within you, and to the divine within all beings. In this way your forgetfulness and delusion will slowly disappear. When you are immersed in your dharma, the wave becomes the sea again. Don’t you see? Dharma is your path home.
“Now do you see?” says Krishna. “In this mortal life you must
walk by faith
. You must walk by faith, not by the sight of your limited human vision. In order to walk by faith, you must gradually learn to trust me and my guidance. You must gradually learn to surrender your will. You cannot steer your dharma with the vehicle of self-will—the will of the small “s” self. Self-will will always steer you toward delusion, toward forgetfulness, toward separation. This self-will—driven by the grasping of small “s” self—is the greatest enemy of freedom and Oneness.”
Krishna’s teaching at this point in the dialogue becomes bold and challenging: “Keep all your senses tuned to the ineffable at all times. Listen for and follow my guidance every step of the way. Let go of doubt. And finally, see Me in every human being. See the Divine within yourself. Within everyone. And act accordingly. Your actions will be effortlessly noble—and will create happiness for you and for the whole world.”
Arjuna now understands that the real task he must master in this lifetime is
learning to walk by faith
. And he realizes that enacting his dharma is, in itself, the greatest act of faith.
In this final section of the book, then, we will explore two of the central themes in Krishna’s powerful final lessons to Arjuna:
1. Walk by faith.
2. Take yourself to zero.
We will examine the lives of two great examplars of these principles—beginning with an investigation of the astonishing life of Harriet Tubman,
a nineteenth-century American slave who surrendered her life into the hands of God, and who discovered, as Thoreau did, that one person’s freedom could burst the fetters off a million slaves. And finally, we’ll look at the life of Mohandas K. Gandhi, perhaps history’s most brilliant student and exemplar of the Bhagavad Gita. In the process, we will also revisit the stories of our old friends Brian (the priest) and Katherine (the dean) as they continue to come to grips with the perils and promise of their own individual dharmas.
Most families have dharma teaching-stories. Of course we don’t call them that. But think for a moment of your own family’s dharma stories. These are usually tales of the courage and character of some colorful forebear, who against big odds thrived in her authentic calling. When these tales are told over and over again they develop a flavor of myth. The young people at the grown-ups’ table on Thanksgiving roll their eyes when they hear them for the twentieth time. Still, these stories creep into our psyches, and help to form our sense of what might be possible for us.
In my own family, my grandmother, Armeda Van Demark Crothers, was the teller of these tales. She told them at Sunday dinner, or seated in a wicker rocking chair on the front porch of the family summer cottage. One of her favorites was the story of my great-great-great grandfather, Dr. Elias Willard Frisbie. Dr. Frisbie lived from 1799 until 1860 in the little town of Phelps, New York—the upstate village where I spent happy weeks and months as a kid, and where my grandmother lived out her entire life.
Elias Frisbie was an ardent abolitionist, and his house was a hub on the so-called “Underground Railroad” during the decade leading up to the Civil War. The Underground Railroad—as every tenth-grader in Phelps knows—provided a network of invisible support to fugitive slaves from the Deep South all the way to Canada. My grandmother told
stories of Dr. Frisbie’s risky commitment to this invisible road to freedom, and of his involvement with fugitive slave Harriet Tubman, whose own home was in the nearby village of Auburn, New York. Grandma emphasized: By helping runaway slaves, Dr. Frisbie put himself in serious danger. His actions were in direct violation of the Fugitive Slave Law of 1850.
Grandma knew great dharma material when she heard it. She told tales of the midnight movement of fugitive black faces through the woods around Phelps; of near encounters with police; of the dreaded slave catchers who occasionally haunted the little village and surreptitiously surveilled suspect homes. Her tale usually ended with the story of a triumphant parade in Phelps—a parade of slaves and their white supporters—that went right up the center of town. Dr. Frisbie was at its head. And the moral of the story? Do what you know is right even if you have to take risks. The fine Dr. Frisbie was hewing to his high ideals.