Book Excerpts
Prologue & Sermon One
From Seven More Sermons to the Dead
Prologue
The Dead, having received the wisdom of the seven sermons, wandered through time and space in search of redemption. At great length, they arrived at the herdsman’s fire beside the three great rivers and found me seated in the lotus posture. One among them ventured forth:
“O stranger, we come from Jerusalem, seeking the wise man called Basilides. He gave us comfort many moons ago, and alas we have not found him again. Pray, who art thou, and canst thou show us the way?”
Sermon One
I fear that my friend Basilides hath long since ascended beyond the reach of mortal sight. Ye have traveled far in your quest—further than most would dare. And yet, ye persist! For this, ye have our praise. I shall guide thee now, albeit in a manner that differeth from before. Perchance this path shall better suit your understanding, that ye may at last find peace.
Harken. Do ye recall the words of Basilides on the subject of Nothing? I shall begin there, that the smallest cost ye may bear. For a scale weighted by a Name findeth its own shade; but a scale weighted by Nothing findeth Truth, unswayed.
Mark well. Nothing is the clasp of all paradoxes. Nothing standeth alone—unbegotten, unfathomable—the root of all that is, and all that is not. In Nothing, each and its opposite are woven together and unmade. Within it, fullness embraceth emptiness; the vastest infinity entwineth with the tiniest mote, and zero is bound to unity. Nothing is neither being nor non-being. It is not a thing, nor the void between things.
Nothing is the dance of all contradictions. Within it, a pair doth stand forth. One of them is mutable, measured, and seen. The other is immutable—thus beyond measure and unseen. Though bound to each other, they are cleft apart by their very nature. The mutable we name the Realm of Qualities; the immutable, the Realm of Fields.
Qualities are the changeable, and thereby the measurable—the shadows cast upon the walls of Plato’s cave, seen by all, possessing no agency. Speed and direction, brightness and darkness, warmth and cold, and all such things as bear unto the senses—these are qualities. They are the substance of change, yet they hold no power to change.
The Fields are the Immutable, and for that very reason, ye perceive them not. The Fields move not, and they move all. If the Qualities are the shadows that shift, then a Field is the flame that casteth them. How then shall they be known, if they stir without stirring, and cause without change? We call them not by sight, nor by number, nor by weight. Only by their effects upon the Realm of Qualities may their nature be discerned.
Yet here lieth the great perplexity: when we name that unseen flame, we name it by what it hath wrought—love, hate, joy, sorrow, strength, weakness. But each name summoneth its opposite into view, and so God calleth forth the Devil, as light calleth forth shadow. Love is bound to hate; joy to sorrow. For every word spoken of the Fields by their effects shall be undone by its contrary. And so we find not knowledge, but noise—meanings multiplied unto meaninglessness. What then have we said? Naught—nor enough for redemption.
Shall we then despair? Nay, for though the names perish, a pattern endureth. Each name is clasped to its opposite with perfect necessity. Pain hath not merely followed pleasure; it is its twin. The rise is wed to the fall. The sundered pieces do not float alone; they obey a symmetry. Let us then turn from the opposing names to the manner of their binding. From this turning, a new light breaketh. The Realm of Fields is twofold.
Behold now the two necessary Fields. One is the Field of Nothingness, wherein all qualities and their opposites are clasped together and unmade. Light and shadow, ascent and descent—all are joined and exhausted. Here, no Becoming may dwell. Becoming requireth distinction, and here all contrast is lost. Thought is hushed, for thought is the weighing of choices—and here, there is no choice but one, and thus, none. Where choice is naught, no action is wrought, and no actors stir. Nothingness is the undying death—not the end of one life, but the cessation of all movement, all perception, and all knowing. It is the stillborn womb of all qualities, wherein even the possibility of creation is extinguished.
Harken now. Bound to Nothingness, wherein all difference dieth, is its twin and its counter—the Field of Choice, wherein qualities are not joined but sundered, and each sundering is separated. We call it The Chid; The Principium Separationis. We call it The Dharma, The Dhra of Ma, the Ground of Creation. The Dharma is the Being upon which all Becoming may rest, the sacred tremor that stirreth all. Each choice in the Dharma weaveth qualities into a tapestry we name Existence.
The Dharma shineth with its own light, needing no witness, arising in Nothing, and needing Nothing. When it contemplateth the other, it beholdeth Nothingness. Yet within its infinite fold, ariseth all that ye see. We call it Sanātana: the Truth-That-Is-Everywhere, the Sat that is Atana, for it is bound neither by space nor by time, neither by cradle nor by grave.
The Dharma manifesteth Change. From its unseen flow ariseth shape, motion, thought, and evolution. Every choice in The Dharma cleaveth a quality into opposites, such that only Nothing is preserved upon the eternal scroll. If one goeth up, the other goeth down. If one spinneth left, the other spinneth right. If one ascendeth, the other falleth. When ye discern difference in position and direction, ye name it Space. When qualities, once split by choice, are borne together, they form as Shapes; thus do Qualities multiply, while the Ground of Creation remaineth untouched.
What ye call Experience is the discernment of qualities separated; and Force is the echo of differences wrought elsewhere. To know a quality is to sample and discern it by contrast. For without shadow there can be no light; without cruelty, no kindness; without discord, no harmony; without stillness, no motion. Tell me what is warmth if not the liveliness of things unseen? Let vibration cease, and warmth vanisheth as breath upon a cold wind.
And fear not Time—the mere counting of choices as they unfold. When ye speak of the past, ye speak of choices already cast, and memory is but their echo within your grasp. When ye accept the past and choose in harmony with its pulse, ye taste the sweetness of coherence. And if ye choose by its light, that which is yet unborn, ye manifest creativity. Creativity is evolution, if it multiplieth what can be. But take heed: If ye grind against the past and diminish it, an early demise is yours to reap.
And what of the fortress of Thought, and the symbols upon its walls? The Dharma exceedeth them all. For it lieth beyond the reach of any word, though every word doth reach for it. Within its vast embrace, thought is but a finite game played by forms, where each memory is a symbol upon a board, and every move is weighed that the game may endure. When thou makest a choice, the universe bendeth its ear to hear thy voice. Yet its pieces are without number; none are thine to govern or surrender. In this uneven match, suffering is born—as the burden felt when a move bringeth no change. When the burden groweth great, and no move is left to make, there abideth despair. Yet in that hollow, hope flickereth dimly as a move yet unclaimed. Then thou reachest for new experience, from which to fashion new pieces and play again.
For the Dharma kindleth the infinite game, the endless dance of creation and destruction; the volcanic fire that thrusteth the mountain skyward, the gentle rain that returneth it to dust. Each step toward the greater unfolding is life; each step into sameness is death. In every step abideth growth and decay, for to choose one path is to end others in its wake.
Know this, ye Dead: all that ye see, all that ye enact, is but a ripple within the boundless sea of the Sanatana Dharma. The Dharma moveth through ye, and through me; I am woven of it, as are ye. It hummeth in the stone, it glimmereth in the firmament, it whispereth from the abyss. The Dharma turneth a ceaseless wheel, with wheels within wheels, ever in motion, ever finding its rest. This eternal play we call Samsara.
At this, the Dead stirred. A quiet murmur filled the night air. Haltingly, they collected their words. One among them issued forth.
“O Stranger, all this is new to us. We have no time for qualities and fields. We are lost. We only wish to rest in peace. Pray, tell us of the Supreme God. Hath He not fashioned the earth and the beasts of the field, that Man might thrive? How then may we gain His favor, and discern those whom He doth favor?”
This is the end of Sermon One.
— From Seven More Sermons to the Dead. Preorder the book.
