Talks on the Prologue to John's Gospel, by Vladislav Rozentuller
Part 6 (From session of December 27, 2007)

I would like briefly to review three cosmic stages of development we have traced in the prologue to St. John's gospel. First, the foundation of the entire world — of all created existence — was established. All things have come into being, and all future potentials, have been declared, through the Word. At the heart of this creative act was God's capacity to give with His whole being in the act of creation — to give Himself, absolutely and without restraint. And so the inner, divine fire gave rise to an outer, physical fire that gradually became what we now call substance. From the fire of sacrifice comes physical substance.

The next step was the creation of life, which we recognized in a primal, flowing, "watery" movement that can generate all possible evolutionary changes — metamorphoses wherein each new being, form, or event arises organically from what went before. The old continually dies into the new. The inner principle of this life is love. Only through love can forms differentiate while retaining their inner connection.

And then there was light — the light of consciousness. The union of all living things — the intimate communion of every part with the whole — was raised to conscious knowledge. "Life became light." So we have existence through sacrifice, life through love, and consciousness through light. After that came the darkness.

From a psychological point of view the central element of darkness, as we saw in our consideration of the temptation in Eden, is desire. When desire came into the world, it changed the entire cosmic creation. Adamic humanity had consciousness, life, and existence, but, before the temptation, it never had anything of which it could say, "This is mine." Adam and Eve belonged to the universe, and it was the life of the universe, not their "own" life, that streamed through them. But after the temptation one could speak of my consciousness, my soul, my life, separate from the life of the universe. And this separation brought darkness. The light that illuminates all things became for mankind darkness. We don't know where we are coming from or going to. We are cut off from meaning. Why am I connected to this person or that one, why was I born here or there? -- no light clarifies these matters for me. My consciousness has become dark. This is the first consequence of the temptation in Eden.

The same darkness afflicts the human soul, which became isolated, separate, emptied of any objective feeling for the significance of world events. Our individual souls are more or less cut off from the world soul. Adam experienced the content of the world within himself; today we cannot even begin to do this without carrying out certain exercises. It's a struggle for us. The content of the world is outside of us. The result — a second consequence of the temptation — is a feeling of loneliness and emptiness. Instead of sympathy toward the world, we experience indifference or antipathy.

In the third place, we have darkness affecting the will. We gained the possibility to direct our will toward evil ends. Evil infected us, and the results are written large in history. Instead of giving life, we learned to take life. Consciously or unconsciously, more or less, all of us participate in the fight for existence. We sense our mortality and can hardly help feeling our own lives to be separate from the lives of others and unprotected. Even our simplest acts in pursuit of a livelihood — securing a job or accepting a promotion — may come at someone else's expense. Our souls have learned the reality of fear.

The temptation, then, was the occasion for the entry of darkness, loneliness, and fear into human existence.

We can also look at these changes in terms of the radically altered relation between the spiritual-moral and the bodily-natural aspects of the human being. Before the temptation our spiritual-moral being was independent of our bodily nature; it was higher than the body and was actually creating and sustaining the body. After the temptation everything was turned upside down. The spirit was pulled down into the body to such a degree that today we can't even know ourselves except through the mediation of the body. We experience our life and our inner, conscious being only by means of the body. In other words, the higher parts of our being have become dependent on the lower parts.

Further, after the temptation the body became a source of egotism. This did not happen earlier because nature, in and of itself, is not egotistic. But when, at the time of the temptation, egotistic forces crept into the human soul, and then into the body, they produced in the human being a contracting, grasping gesture that extended toward all of nature, which then ceased to be transparent to higher, spiritual forces. The world became for mankind a realm of objects, or separate things. That is, nature has fallen together with the human being. Our inner being -- our soul and spirit -- now relate to this world of things through the body. Our routine bodily experience gives us an experience of separateness, which manifests itself in the soul as our wishes and desires, as waves of egotism rising from the body. Where earlier we experienced the creative forces of nature without egotism, now we find our instincts.

So the spirit fell into dependence upon the body, and the body became a source of egotism. This, then, gave humanity two tasks: to free the soul and spirit from the body -- to be reborn not from the body but from the spirit -- and to make the flesh again transparent to the highest moral power, or to the Word.

Putting it in rather negative terms, we can say that the temptation resulted in an egotistic soul and (for us) a dis-ensouled, deadened world in which we find ourselves alone. But there is a positive side to this as well. If we were alone, it was also true that we were alone with our selves. We gained a quiet, still space where we could be set apart, not only from the divine will, but also from evil. To know both good and evil is to be in some sense separate from both. If we were purely good, or purely evil, you might say we were possessed by the good or the evil. But to have a possibility for both good and evil is to be identified with neither. We are in our selves, and this is where choice can take place — choice between above and below, between light and darkness, between good and evil.

This quiet, inner space we have gained is nothing static; we may at one moment experience the stillness and openness of possibility, but in the next moment choice becomes inescapable and we move in one direction or another. Psychologically, or soul-wise, we move toward the good or the evil. It's very important to understand that temptation doesn't force us to do anything, but only tempts, challenges, and tests us. Our free, unforced choice is important not only to the spirits of good, but also to those of evil, which is why the serpent only offered the forbidden fruit to Eve. Human choice was in fact the next step in evolution.

Now we read further in the prologue to John's gospel:

There was a man sent from God whose name was John. The same came for a witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe.

There was a man....Remember that so far in the prologue we've been reading about the grandest cosmic themes: the Word, creation, light, life. So when, in this series of exalted themes, we suddenly hear about the coming of a man, we can easily imagine the importance of this coming. It suggests that the entire course of evolution is now brought to a focus in the human being. Suddenly, at the end of a broad survey of cosmic history, we find standing before us an individual man — and, strengthening the impression, we hear that he is a man "sent from God." The sending points us to the will that has been at work in the entire process of creation up to this point. The divine will at work in rocks and seas and stars, in trees and clouds and fire, now sends a man upon a mission. This can remind us that in our thirst for meaning and purpose there works the same will that is at work in all the natural world.

The human mission, as given to John the Baptist, was clearly stated: to become a witness. In general, we can give witness to many different things. The choice we always must make has to do with what we will give witness to. Interestingly, the name "John" itself gives witness, inasmuch as it means "God is merciful." In the context of the prologue, perhaps we can say that a man, after passing through the darkness, gives witness that not darkness, but light — not evil, but mercy -- lies at the heart of the world.

One does not normally witness to what is obvious. In witnessing we testify that, even though the crowd may see things quite otherwise, we know that such-and-such a thing is true. Moreover, witnessing is not just an awareness of truth; it involves the moral choice to take a stand. Witnesses have at times paid for their testimony with their lives, as did John himself. In fact, the Biblical word for "witness" is the same as the word for "martyr." The world was created from above by the divine will, and now there comes a human being to witness to this divine source — and to do so by putting his entire life on the line.

But why would the text, in speaking of one man's coming, say that this was to the end that all might believe through him? Why would all men be so intimately connected to this one man? We could naturally think that John, who had his own disciples, prepared them for Christ, and that at least some of them then received Christ at his coming. Then these latter had their own students — and so on in a widening stream of witnessing and belief. This is certainly a right way to think of the matter. But we can also see that not all people have faith in Christ. So the statement about "all men" coming to believe through him does not seem explained by this naturally widening stream of testimony. I think there is something more here. Can the act of witnessing itself be so profound that the one instance of it is enough? We noticed earlier that in all of evolution there is a reciprocal relation between giving and receiving; a profound giving is not possible except in connection with a profound receiving. Christ could not come unless there was somebody who could receive his coming and thereby bear witness to him. Without such a receiving, there could be only a coercive subjugation of the human race, which is quite opposite to the divine stance toward mankind. Christ could take up habitation among men only in a space prepared and opened up for him. In this sense John's activity was indeed the prerequisite for the divine approach to all men.

But perhaps there is still a further truth of the matter. We have a sense that John, in bearing witness to the light, is himself a direct representative of all humanity. It's not just that some historical movement will steadily increase with time, or that John acted on behalf of huamanity as a whole, but rather that all men somehow participated in the witness of John. Christ says of John that he is the greatest among human beings, but the least among angels. One might not think that, in outward terms, John was the greatest among human beings. But it is a different matter if all human beings were somehow present in his witnessing — if he truly spoke for all mankind which, in him, expectantly awaited and received the coming divine figure. Perhaps we can say that through John there was working the highest will of all humanity, which chooses to receive the light. We see here a meeting of two lights: the light of St. John's soul (the highest light of human witnessing in its striving for the truth) and the creative light all men knew from before birth — the "Light which enlightens every man that cometh into the world."

He was not that Light, but was sent to bear witness of that Light. That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. (John 1:8-9)

All this almost seems demanded by the narrative, once we consider its high and universal themes, the all-embracing evolutionary movements it deals with, and even the dramatic consistency of the text itself. The exalted picture of the descent of a divine being into humanity requires that he be met by the recognition of all humanity. On a spiritual level, given the decisive nature of the event for every human being, how could it be otherwise?

Beyond this, what can we recognize of St. John's uniqueness? In ancient cultures around the world — India, Persia, Greece, and elsewhere — we find other witnesses to the divine world. For example, Zarathustra was a witness to the spirit of the Sun, just as Moses witnessed to the spirit that spoke to him from the burning bush. What distinguishes St. John from all the others?

All John's predecessors bore witness to divine beings who, while connected to some element of nature such as fire -- a connection necessary in order for there to be any witnessing at all -- nevertheless remained essentially above created nature and outside the earth. It's one thing to be revealed in the warmth and light of flame, and quite another to speak from within a body made of dust. Only now does a divine figure descend without reserve into the created world where the human being lives. Zarathustra had in some sense to be pulled out of himself, out of the world of physical senses, in order to witness a being of light. St. John, by contrast, witnessed the divine entering fully into earthly human existence. At this moment we have the entire first half of evolution brought to a completion, or, rather, to a decisive turning point. We have a "new testament" or new possibility of witnessing.

This new possibility was a great offense, for example, to the Greek mind, which could not understand how the light that had created all of nature could now appear within the created realm. How could the limitless and the limited be united in one? And at this moment of transition from an older to a newer kind of revelation, we find John as the greatest prophet — the greatest of the past era, because he was witnessing not only the eternal, but the eternal within the perishable. The human being and eternity became extremely close. He did witness Christ entering into human existence, but his own vantage point remained external: he saw the spirit entering like a dove into Jesus.

The next step, then, requires something beyond witnessing. We have to take the light inside. The light of creation needs to enter the human soul, which requires the soul to clear an inner space that is open to the spirit. This is what happened archetypically in the soul of Jesus.

We read further:

He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not. He came unto his own, and his own received him not. But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name: which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God. (John 1:10-13)

In general, we're told, the created beings could not recognize the creating light. This is unsurprising. How could beings of nature understand what is above nature? It would be like a fish that lives in the ocean depths trying to grasp the notion of an atmosphere above. But the text, besides saying that "the world knew him not," also says that "he came unto his own." His own people, of course, were the people of Israel. But what made them his people?

In distinction from all other tribes and nations of that time, the worship of gods connected to nature had been forbidden to the Israelites. Idol worship was strictly proscribed, and this was because everything made, everything belonging to nature, had fallen from the divine realm of light into the world of separate things, and therefore into the world of egotism. Nothing from the outside world or the sphere of the senses was deemed appropriate for worship. Only inside, in the depths of one's own being, could the worshipper find something not already made, not already objectified, not cut off from the spirit. Only here was hidden the possibility for a new beginning, a fresh becoming; only here could be found the original moral force of creation, capable of renewing nature. When God said to Moses out of the burning bush, "I Am that I Am," He spoke of that which could not be identified with anything in nature -- neither with sun and stars nor with rivers, thunderings, and mountains -- but which was the creative source of all. The folk of Israel were predisposed in their souls to perceive this I AM — to perceive what is not already made, but is still becoming. This is why they were called "his own people." They were the "own people" of the I AM of the world.

But how do we reach this place of the I Am? Perhaps it is easy to understand, but difficult to achieve. You can begin by simply looking at everything given by the senses, including your own body, and saying, "That's not me." You are not your body. But then you can consider your feelings, which come and go without your actually being able to control them. "They, too, are not me." And again you can experience the thoughts you have had and recognize that "they are not me." Then you may come to a point of seemingly complete emptiness in your consciousness; nothing is there from the world of the senses. And when we find nothing in our consciousness from the side of the flesh, we have created the possibility to be filled from above with the spirit.

This practice of coming away from the flesh and seeking the spirit may look very much like the Buddhist practice of seeking nirvana. But in the I Am we do not merely withdraw or detachment ourselves from the world of things; we also create and radiate. We come to something like the eye of a needle, through which the spirit can radiate into nature. The I Am is the presence of heaven in the world of the flesh.

We can see this in the picture of the burning bush: we need to imagine fire without air or other natural substance -- the pure reality of fire, the element lacking all hardness, yet capable of dissolving even the hardest crystalline matter down to its fluent essence. In fire itself we cannot speak of distinct, separate parts; we have a kind of union. And in this reality we can recognize the unity of spirit and matter. The substance of this flame is extremely subtle; we can imagine it as matter born in its most purified form, matter freshly descended from the spirit. Such a flame is the symbol for the I Am.

All this helps us to understand how even his own people — those who had been prepared by a long and arduous history for this moment -- could not accept him. "His own people" could no longer be defined in a purely natural sense. No longer is it enough for us to be guided by nature. Nothing in our natural endowment — our blood inheritance, our natural capacities — can enable us to receive the light or to progress spiritually. The only thing that will work is personal choice issuing from a high spiritual awareness. In fact, it can become a trap to believe in the kind of special, "chosen" destiny that can be inherited automatically rather than through an essential act of spirit. On the other hand, to recognize the universal possibility of choice despite race, culture, or anything else, can be freeing and enlivening.

But there's another image we can bring into connection with the I Am, and that's the image of a child. For we are told in the prologue to John's gospel that those who believed on his name were given the power to become sons, or children, of God. One thing we can say about the child is that, through his perception, he lives much more in the wider world than we adults do, and this world for him is an ensouled, moral world. It sounds perfectly natural to the young child when we say, "Don't do that to the candle; you'll hurt it." Nothing surrounding the child is a mere object living in isolation from his soul.

So those who believed in the name of the divine I Am -- those who discovered and recognized their own highest center -- became children of God. Here we find ultimate, kingly power and sovereignty connected to child-like gentleness, openness, vulnerability, and trust. The power here is not of the outward sort, but rather a strength to be open and united with the entire world. It's a power to trust the underlying goodness of existence despite our hurts, and to know a world of beings rather than threatening objects from which we need to protect ourselves.

Remember that the entire passage we are considering is centered upon the Light — its coming, its relation to darkness, the witnessing of it, the reception or non-reception of it, and the power it gives those who receive it to become children of God. We might say that pure light is the state of consciousness which is not bound and restricted by the body. It is consciousness free of flesh, blood and desire, not prejudiced or burdened by anything outside itself--consciousness in its purest, lightest being.

We have considered, then, a conjunction of three images: light-consciousness in its purity, the I AM as a light-radiating center, and the child who still lives in the light.

But consciousness and the world of perception given in consciousness constitute only one part of us. We have to consider the entire soul. When the purity of the I Am spreads over the whole soul, not only our consciousness but also our feelings and impulses will be changed. Normally, our feelings are affected by external events, which sway us one way or another. This makes me happy, and that makes me unhappy. Under the influence of the I Am, however, our feelings become much more subtle, and at the same time less connected to our own person. They become more compassionate and also, which may seem paradoxical, quieter and more peaceful. We are no longer dependent upon what happens to us, and are no longer swayed this way and that. Not that we are at all cut off from our surroundings; they just cannot control us. Rather, we embrace them in our souls, so that our concern is directed more to others than to ourselves.

An example may help. It's completely in the nature of normal feelings that if someone hits us without justification, something flares up within us and we immediately want to strike back. This is to be determined by something from outside ourselves. The I Am, by contrast, is always determined from within; it is self-determined, and this is the secret of its ability to bring peace.

As for the moral impulses of will, the I Am does not need anything from life. In the certainty of its own eternal existence it becomes self-sufficient and therefore it is free to offer something to life rather than try to take something.

These three aspects of the soul — the light of perception, purity and peace of feeling, and moral strength for abundant giving — are brought together beautifully in the familiar Christmas text: "Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth toward men of good will" (Luke 2:14). The text describes not just some wish or vision for the future; it exactly describes the character of the child of God. Such a child perceives the glory of the highest beings, feels an inner peace, and radiates good into the world--all through the power of the I Am. So at Christmastime we see pictured in the birth of the child the mystery of the freeing of the soul and spirit from the flesh.

It's a kind of return to paradise whereby we recover Adam's pure nature — with one difference: we have gained a self-consciousness that Adam lacked, a self-consciousness that, in connection with inner purity, can become what we might call super-consciousness. This is not so much a return to heaven as it is an approach of heaven to the earth, as we see in the image of Mary bringing forth a child. The purity of heaven comes to earth in the form of a child, whose softness and freshness images the quality of constant renewal in the I AM.

With this step, half the mission of redemption is finished; the soul can become pure again. What remains is to redeem the flesh and the world from death.

One last thought. Buddha, recognizing the result of the temptation, thought that everything on earth is only pain and death and suffering, which we need somehow to escape. What he taught through certain of his exercises was how to become disconnected from our bodies. The aim was to return to the supernatural light we knew before our birth. Now, with Christ, the light is indeed regained, but not by returning to the world from which we were born. Rather, the light radiates outward through the human being on earth. This light, always giving, radiating, relating things, expresses individuality without radical separateness. We don't need to give up our individuality in order to overcome the separateness resulting from the temptation. The body-dependent personality, in being purified, can become more and more divine — more and more an expression of one's true name.