English Articles

 

Vedantavani

October 2025

The Master’s Test

Where there is a need, there is also a fulfillment. Where there is a demand, there is also a supply. Whenever an aspirant yearns intensely for God, they find the path to fulfillment. Sri Ramakrishna often said, “The Mother will not allow any of her children to go hungry. He who is hungry in the morning will be fed in the morning. He whose appetite is awakened late at night will be fed in the evening.” Every sincere wish of a person will be fulfilled.

To determine the tendency of a person’s mind, whether it is toward good or evil, Ramakrishna would weigh the person’s hand in his own hand, from the fingers to the elbow. If the Master found the weight less than normal, he would conclude that the mind was leaning toward good. Let us give an example. While Sri Ramakrishna was staying in the Cossipore garden, suffering from cancer, the younger brother of the present writer one day came to visit the Master. The Master was very happy to see him. He had him sit beside him, questioned him about various things, and gave him many instructions. When I came in to see Sri Ramakrishna, he asked me, “Is this your younger brother? He is a fine boy and more intelligent than you. Let me see if he has good or bad inclinations.” Saying this, he took my brother’s hand in his, weighed it, and said, “Yes, he has good inclinations.” He then asked, “Shall I draw him towards me (i.e., turn his mind away from the world and towards God)? What do you say?” I replied, “Yes, please do so.” But Sri Ramakrishna thought for a moment and said, “No, not anymore. I have taken one, and if I were to take this one too, your parents, especially your mother, would be very sad. I have displeased many a Shakti (woman) in my life. Not anymore.”
The Master used to say, “People with different inclinations also have different ways of functioning physiologically, such as sleeping.” Experts can find signs of character in these things. For example, not all people breathe the same way during sleep. A worldly person breathes one way, a renounced person another.
Sri Ramakrishna said of women that there are two kinds: vidya Shakti, of a divine nature, and avidya Shakti, of an asuric or low nature. “Those of divine nature,” he said, “eat and sleep little. They do not care for sense gratification, they enjoy talking with their husbands on religious topics, and they save their husbands from evil thoughts and impure actions by inspiring them with spiritual thoughts. They help their husbands to lead a spiritual life so that they (the husbands) can ultimately realize God.” But the avidya Shakti are the exact opposite.
“They eat and sleep a lot, and they want their husbands to think of nothing but happiness.” When their husbands talk about religion, they get irritated.”
Sri Ramakrishna told us many things in this way. Once, he examined the body of Naren (Swami Vivekananda) in this way. He was very pleased with the result. He said, “You have all the good signs on your body, except that you breathe heavily during sleep. Yogis say that this indicates a short life.”

 

[from: Sri Ramakrishna as They Saw Him]

Selection from the book by Mary Saaleman

Kunt Hamsun

Kees Boukema

As Hamsun expected, his second novel, “Mysteriën,” received bad press. One reviewer wrote: “The extreme, tormented mind in ‘Hunger’ is presented here in a more subtle and even more perverse form, without explanation.” In another book review, “Mysteriën” was compared to the paintings of Edvard Munch, “an exponent of perversity, mysticism, and morbid hallucinations.” The comparison was apt: Just as Hamsun had declared that literature would no longer concern itself with one-dimensional people, but with real people, so Munch had announced that painting would no longer focus on people who read or knit, but on those who breathe, feel, suffer, and love. His now world-famous painting “Skrik” (Scream) is a case in point. It is a psychic self-portrait. It depicts a spiritual experience Munch had during an evening walk. He heard the landscape scream and was overwhelmed by a sense of despair, powerlessness, and depression. This painting, dating from 1893, depicts a sexless creature with its ears covered against a backdrop of the bright and soft colors of the sunset. Vague figures walk along the sides of the painting, completely oblivious to what is happening around them.

In the contrasts, the shifting perspectives, and the recurring inner contradiction of this Norwegian artistic concept, one can find the Yin-Yang symbol of Chinese Taoism. It is a dualistic symbol: two decorative scrolls depict a white and a black tadpole within a circle. The white Yang fish represents the active, masculine principle. The black Yin fish represents the passive, feminine principle. This opposition is not static; there is movement and sometimes struggle. It is precisely from this that the eternal energy of the universe arises. The attempt to suppress the other will never succeed, because that other is present within its own core. Each fish contains an ‘eye’ the color of the other fish. This eye can be seen as a seed of the other fish and can transform into its opposite. The ebb and flow is within ourselves, in our relationships, and in the world around us. It is the essence of Chinese philosophy.

In Vedanta terminology, the Yin-Yang symbol corresponds to maya. The Tao, literally the path or way, is described in the Tao Te Ching as “the origin of heaven and earth,” “the mother of the ten thousand things.” This description is reminiscent of what Vedanta calls Brahman/Atman. However, with the understanding that the Tao primarily denotes immanence, the connection with nature and the natural. The Taoist is not encouraged to realize the Tao, as a Vedantist aims to realize Brahman or the Self within us. The goal of the Taoist is to live a simple and natural life; a life attuned to and in harmony with nature. The yin-yang symbol is recognizable not only in Knut Hamsun’s work, but also in his personality and in his life, which had its ups and downs [‘Enigma’, p. 422].

Despite the negative reviews of ‘Mysteriën’, this and Hamsun’s subsequent novels proved to appeal to a wide audience. His books were successful not only in Norway, Germany, and Russia, but also in other European countries and in North and South America. His novel “How It Grew” won him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1920. However, between 1924 and 1927, Hamsun fell into a deep depression. He sought treatment from a Freudian psychiatrist. His later novels exude a profound aversion to “progressive” Western culture: the new school system, women’s emancipation, leveling socialism, industrialization, urbanization, and the growing obsession with sports. Hamsun considered England the origin and cradle of this “progress.”

When Germany invaded Norway in 1940, Hamsun called on the Norwegian people to lay down their arms. The Germans, in his view, had come to protect Norway from an attack by England and had assured them that Norwegian independence, integrity, and neutrality would be respected. Hamsun expected that, under German leadership, Norway could play a significant role in the “New Europe.” Hamsun himself was never a member of the Norwegian Nazi Party, but he did write dozens of pro-fascist articles in various Norwegian newspapers and magazines between 1940 and 1945. In 1943, he visited Adolf Hitler and Josef Goebbels. This visit and his pro-German journalism in the years 1940 and 1945 formed the main grounds for the charges brought against him after the war. On May 25, 1945, Hansun was placed under house arrest. On June 14, he was transferred to a hospital and then “for observation” to the University Psychiatric Clinic in Oslo. Based on the psychiatric report, Hamsun was acquitted of charges due to “permanently impaired mental capacity.” He was, however, ordered to pay a very large amount of compensation that ruined him.

During his detention, Hamsun once again showed himself to be “the ageless Asiatic philosopher, flowing along with life, objecting to nothing, in the dust, but not of the dust (…..). If the paths of great wisdom and great foolishness run close together, then he walked them both with the same kind of fearless helplessness, never quite knowing which one was on at any given time, and never caring.” (‘Enigma’, pp. 389 and 421). Hamsun, who—like the anonymous protagonist of ‘Hunger’—tried to maintain his dignity despite all adversity and humiliation, wrote his final masterpiece: ‘Along Overgrown Paths’.

It is a collection of memories in the form of novellas, diary entries, a retrospective, and the text of his defense speech during the criminal trial. The book was published in 1949 and sold out immediately. A passage from this book: “It said in ‘Verdens Gang’ that my case would be heard in September. Three days later, another newspaper said my case would not be heard in September. Nobody knows anything, but everyone seems to enjoy writing about it. Why don’t they keep quiet? The same sunshine, the same drought. I take my daily walk in the area and see everything scorched. It’s a terrible miracle. The forest is in bad shape and will have to be replanted, the heath is devoid of flowers for the bees. Has this ever happened before? The bees settle in their spots, look around, buzz a bit, and fly back home. I come to a precipice. I flee from that grim spot and continue walking along the inside of the road. For years, small stones, garbage, and all sorts of rubbish have been dumped here.

Rocks have also rolled down from the road at the edge. All well and good, but when I return, I have to walk along the outside and risk my life. It irritates me that I’m dizzy and a born coward; today I resolve that, just this once, I’ll stop and look down. I tremble and feel lightheaded, but I force myself to go a little further and look down. Yes, I was exaggerating…. It wasn’t bad, I didn’t roll over and over, but cowardly slid down the slope on my back. Then I stayed put.

Oh, it wasn’t dangerous at all. I looked around. From where I was sitting, it wasn’t so horribly deep down to the abyss, not so bottomlessly deep. I looked triumphantly over the lake that lay there, despising it somewhat, pretending it wasn’t there. I had only ended up here by chance; I wasn’t about to let this chance get the better of me; I pretended to be completely absorbed in stirring the trash. There were interesting things lying there, bits of wire and bones, a dead cat and tin cans. If someone were to pass by upstairs, they didn’t want to get the impression that I’d fallen down. I wanted to show them that I was looking for something, that I was searching for important papers that had blown away. A piece of paper was sticking out of the pile, a scrap of newspaper. I tried to pull the entire newspaper toward me, but that didn’t work. I was left with a torn piece in my hand. Since I don’t have my glasses, I can’t read what’s on it, but it looked like Gothic script, a local newspaper, so to speak. I tucked the piece away. Now I have to get back on the road. If a passerby happens to be there, I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me clamber straight up the slope, so I weave my way up. I haven’t made the journey in vain; I have loot in my pocket; chance hasn’t won.” (“Paa gjengrodde stier,” 1949; Dutch translation: “Along Overgrown Paths,” 1978, p. 107 et seq.).

Mr Kees Boukema is a scholar in Vedanta and Comparative philosophy. His brilliant and thorough-going articles on various philosophical and spiritual subjects are being published since the first issue of the magazine. His latest work is De Beoefening van Meditatie.

 

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About Family

From Psychologie magazine

Contributed by Francis Schaik

Our family influences our lives in all sorts of ways—even long after we’ve left home. The inescapable pressure of vertical loyalty. “No swearing in this house”—you might have heard that over and over again. These kinds of values ​​and beliefs are passed on in every family. This can also be done without words: for example, we always eat together at a beautifully set table, unexpected guests are always welcome (or must be waved away at the front door). But whether we were taught them explicitly or very casually, values ​​and beliefs endure throughout our lives and almost automatically influence our choices and the way we raise our own children. But do they still align with who we want to be? About loyalty and family rules. Why we do what our parents want (even if we think we don’t)

Thinking back on your family history can bring warmth, a sense of continuity and solidarity. It can also be a source of inspiration. The fact that your grandmother risked her life in the resistance against the Nazis strengthens your sense that you, as an individual, can do something about injustice. And the fact that your father played the violin so beautifully encourages you to let your children play an instrument too. Being part of a family of hardworking laborers can fill you with pride and self-confidence. Even frugality, combined with the ability to enjoy the little things, can be something to proudly pass on: “My mother knew how to cook delicious meals on a budget, why should we buy expensive ingredients?”

Unfortunately, unwritten family rules and traditions can sometimes be a burden. For example: we’ve been good doctors for generations; who am I to choose a different profession? Or: my parents say, “Just act normal, that’s crazy enough already”; can I still get married in a French chateau? And can I be content as a stay-at-home mom, while all the women in my family have careers?

Vertical Loyalty

Why do family values ​​still have such an influence on us? Even after we’ve long left home and gone our own way, we still consider our parents’ interests and expectations. This has to do with one of the most important motivators in human relationships: loyalty. A concept introduced into psychology in the 1960s by the Hungarian-American psychiatrist Ivan Boszormenyi-Nagy and now a fundamental principle of family therapy.

In our daily lives, we are constantly guided by loyalties, both large and small. Boszormenyi-Nagy calls loyalty in self-chosen, reciprocal relationships—such as those with friends, partners, colleagues, and even the greengrocer—horizontal loyalty. The stronger we feel connected to people, the stronger our loyalty: we do our best to meet their expectations and consider their interests. And if we receive too little in return for our efforts, we can always choose to end the relationship.

Vertical loyalty is of a completely different order: that between parent and child. All our choices—from our careers to our choice of partner—are colored by the desire to meet parental expectations, Boszormenyi-Nagy argued. Even if we are determined to do things differently from our parents. That is the inescapable pressure of vertical loyalty. Because the existential bond between parent and child can never be undone, loyalty to our parents remains unconditional and ever-present.

No matter how badly our parents may treat us, or how much we despise them. Even if your parents are long dead, or if you have broken off all contact and moved halfway around the world, you remain a child of your parents. Loyalty between parent and child is not just about being faithful to each other, says psychiatrist Ivan Boszormenyi-Nagy. It is about the giving and receiving between generations. In self-chosen relationships, the balance between giving and taking is roughly equal, but not in vertical relationships. Initially, parents give much more to their children than the other way around: they bear all the responsibility and invest time, money, and energy in caring for their children. According to Boszormenyi-Nagy, a child realizes that they owe their life to their parents and wants to give something back. They repay their parents in their own way. A baby rewards their parents by smiling at them, a schoolchild works hard to bring home a good report card, comforts their mother when she’s sad, or draws a picture for their father who is in bed with the flu. Children want their parents to be proud and satisfied.

 

About the Historical Jesus

Paulo J. S. Bittencourt
Professor of the History Course at UFFS – Erechim Campus

Dogmatic theologians and religious fundamentalists might argue that historical research on Jesus is irrelevant. It is the historian’s responsibility to refrain from theological speculation. Two temptations, therefore, lure them into the wilderness of certainties regarding what can be reliably known about Jesus of Nazareth. The first reflects the apologetic (or laudatory) danger, often more in the end products than in their intentions, and can be categorically expressed in the following terms: it is a grave error to assume that the study of the historical Jesus justifies Christianity without dogma or doctrine. The second arises from the historian’s own discipline and is closely linked to the previous threat. Marc Bloch called it “the idol of origins,” that embryonic obsession that blindly compels the historian of religion to provide a criterion for the value of religions based on the study of origins. Christians may ignore history in shaping their religious experiences, but they cannot deny that Christianity is essentially a historical religion. Its fundamental dogmas are based on historically unique events. [James H. Charlesworth warns us: “As James P. Mackey states in ‘Jesus the Man and the Myth: A Contemporany’ (London, 1979, 1985), ‘the Christian faith is more closely bound up with the person of its founder than any other faith, living or dead… the real person of Jesus of Nazareth, its historical founder, is central to the Christian confession than the founder of any other religion is to the formulated creeds’ (…).” Charlesworth emphasizes in this regard that the Gospels are not simply creeds. “Pontius Pilate, for example, is a familiar name, not because he has now been found inscribed on a stone in Caesarea (…), but because he is part of the Passion narrative.” Let us, for example, return to his Confession of Faith, quoted by Bloch himself: “I believe in Jesus Christ (…) who was crucified under Pontius Pilate.” It is thus from the very beginning that its foundations spring. Reinforced by this theological infiltration, the focus on origins is another way of anticipating a threat lurking within the historian, a threat much more familiar to him: that of projecting the plot’s unfolding a posteriori, both in its meanderings and its resolutions, back to the beginning of the first act. “The oak grows from the acorn. But the oak comes into being and remains only when it encounters favorable environmental conditions, which do not originate from embryology.”
This danger is all the greater given that the historian uses tradition as a source for the analysis of Christian origins. Tradition is not merely the fog that obscures the object of interest; it becomes the very means of investigating and merging with it. It therefore seems impossible to dispel it. With Ernst Käsemann, we learn, in fact, to understand that “history is accessible only through tradition, that is, through what has been handed down to us by others who came before us. There is no other way to penetrate that time before us and to stand apart from us.” But, Charlesworth emphasizes, “tradition must be selected and interpreted. History, therefore, only acquires meaning through interpretation.” After many letters of Paul, three of the four canonical Gospels, in this case the Synoptic Gospels, are precisely the best sources we use to reconstruct the historical Jesus and the first generations of his movement. But are they better because they are in the New Testament? Aren’t we forgetting the apocryphal sources, which have been rejected as heretical since Irenaeus of Lyons consecrated the canon of the Gospels in the second century, or when the Council of Nicaea (325) laid the foundations for orthodox Trinitarianism? Are we not endorsing an apologetic stance here? Surprising as it may sound, the answer is no.

The Gospels are the best sources for historical research, precisely because they are the earliest surviving accounts of Jesus’ life. Yet, they are far from ideal. We are dealing with interpreted traditions, naturally with a view to conversion, which gives us access to evangelical and pre-evangelical traditions that are important to those who passed them on. The apocryphal Gospels, despite disagreements, can undoubtedly provide additional information about Jesus. This is true, for example, of the Gospel of Thomas and the Gospel of Peter. But aside from their generally highly legendary nature, they were all written after the New Testament Gospels. We seek older sources, although the age of a source is not always the correct one.

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Professor Paulo Bittencourt teaches History at the UFFS, Erchim Campus, Rio Grande de Sul. “Federal University of Southern Frontier” [UFFS] is one of the best universities of Brasil with highly qualified professors at the helm. Professor Bittencourt never rejects our request for articles, though he is very busy.

 

 

 

या निशा सर्वभूतानां तस्यां जागर्ति संयमी |
यस्यां जाग्रति भूतानि सा निशा पश्यतो मुने: || 2:69||

yā niśhā sarva-bhūtānāṁ tasyāṁ jāgarti sanyamī
yasyāṁ jāgrati bhūtāni sā niśhā paśhyato muneḥ

Millions upon millions are running after darkness, thinking that it is light. They do everything possible for getting that darkness. They fight, wage wars, kill, burn, harm others, everything possible to be in that darkness and get more and more of it. However, after all it is just darkness. The wise are very few on the earth. They know that darkness is misery.  They are in Light. They seek light through prayer, meditation, service, and so on. That is the path. This confusion of darkness as light is the hold of evil on life.

 

Sri Ramakrishna: Why should that be so ? I have heard of a deputy magistrate named Pratap Singh. He is a great man. He has many virtues: compassion and devotion to God. He meditates on God. Once he sent for me. Certainly there are people like him.

The practice of discipline is absolutely necessary. Why shouldn’t a person succeed if he or she practises sadhana ? But he doesn’t have to work hard if he has real faith in his guru’s words.

Once Vyasa was about to cross the Jamuna, when the gopis also arrived there, wishing to go to the other side. But no ferry boat was in sight. They said to Vyasa, ‘Revered sir, what shall we do now ?’  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Vyasa. ‘I will take you across. But I am very hungry. Have you anything for me to eat?’ The gopis had plenty of milk, cream, and butter with them. Vyasa ate it all. Then the gopis asked, ‘Well, sir, what about crossing the river?’ Vyasa stood on the bank of the Jamuna and said, ‘O Jamuna, if I have not eaten anything today, then may your waters part so that we may all walk to the other side.’ No sooner did the sage utter these words than the waters of the Jamuna parted. The gopis were speechless with wonder. ‘He ate so much just now’, they said to themselves, ‘and he says, “If I have not eaten anything . . !” ’ Vyasa had the firm conviction that it was not he, but the Narayana who dwelt in his heart that had partaken of the food.