Nietzsche said, “God is dead.” But for the one for whom God has died, what remains of life except madness? Nietzsche died insane. Now there is another fear: that perhaps all of humanity may go mad and perish—for what Nietzsche declared has been accepted by millions.
Today two hundred million people in Russia think: “God is dead.” Eight hundred million in China are deepening this conviction day by day: “God is dead.” The new generations of Europe and America, and the youth of India as well, are increasingly agreeing that God is dead. And I want to say: Nietzsche died mad; let it not happen that all of humanity also has to die mad. For without God, neither Nietzsche could remain healthy nor can anyone else.
In truth, the death of God means the death of our search for whatever is highest within us, whatever is beautiful, auspicious, and true. It means the death of the quest for light and illumination. It means we have settled for being mere bodies and abandoned the search for the soul. We have settled for garments and stopped the search for life-breath. Temples still stand, their bells still ring. Churches still call upon God. But the temple of man’s life-breath lies in ruins, and the church of the human soul is nowhere to be seen. Stone walls remain, and within them priests for hire take the name of God. But the thirst of man’s being and the love of his being offered toward God have ceased. If this truth is not clearly understood, perhaps the love will never be rekindled. A sick man who believes he is healthy never seeks treatment. And a blind man who believes he can see will never search for eyes.
So when I say this, your mind will be hurt—and I want to bring that hurt—that the temple of your life-breath has fallen, and in that temple there is no voice now except the voices of priests for hire. I say it so that, if this truth strikes home, perhaps we will begin to rebuild the inner temple, and set out to find again the God who has left the heart.
But the priest of the outer temples would prefer that the God of the heart not be sought. For when one finds the God of the heart, one stops caring for the God of temples. Naturally, the custodians of religion will try that the real image of God not appear. Because if the real appears, what will become of the idols that are sold in the marketplace? Man is very dishonest. And the greatest dishonesty he has done is with himself: he has settled for a counterfeit God. We do not go in search of the real as long as the counterfeit “substitute” works. As long as the fake serves, who will go hunting for the genuine?
Then too, fake religion is very cheap. Real religion is a wager of life. For the counterfeit god we lose nothing; for the real God we have to lose ourselves entirely. We go to a counterfeit god to ask for something; with the real God there is no way except to give ourselves. The fake god is easy, comfortable, convenient. The real God is dangerous—living fire: one must burn, dissolve, become ash. Only those who are ready to become ash can invite God into the temple of the heart. The fire of religion has only one name: love. Call it prayer, call it practice, call it worship—no great difference. Whoever is ready to kindle the fire of love in his life-breath becomes worthy of God. But worthy is only he who is ready to lose himself. This is a reversed condition. Perhaps that is why we have stopped seeking God. And perhaps that is why people like Nietzsche could say there is no God.
Is this not an attempt to save ourselves—an argument, a logic to protect ourselves? Is it not that to save ourselves, we turn our backs on God?
It is so! For whoever turns his face toward God cannot remain standing; he must move, he must surrender totally. The moment you glance toward God, you cannot stop, you are already on the journey. Then the journey itself calls and draws you on.
This pull is just like someone who leaps from a roof and then asks, “What must I do to reach the ground?” We would say: you need do nothing. Just jump—just take one step—and the earth will do the rest. The earth’s gravity, the earth’s pull will bring you down. Take only one step; the earth does the rest. Raise your eyes once toward God; He does the rest.
But that very glance is dangerous. So we turn our backs. That much is in our power. To attain God we cannot do anything—but to lose Him we can do everything.
People ask me, “We want to seek God!” I ask them, “Where did you lose Him?” Because what is lost can be sought. How did you lose Him? For the method of seeking is the reverse of the method of losing.
I tell them a small story; let me tell it to you as well.
One morning Buddha came. As you have gathered here today, the people of that village gathered to listen. He came with a silk handkerchief in his hand. He sat down and began to tie knots in it. He tied five knots. Then he asked the assembly, “I want to untie these knots. What should I do?” And he pulled the handkerchief tight. Of course the knots tightened further. One man stood up and said, “Please don’t pull, or the knots will tighten even more.” Buddha asked, “So what should I do?” The man said, “First let me examine how the knots were tied. The method of untying is the reverse of the method of tying. Until we know how a knot was made, untying is dangerous; it may tighten and entangle further. First understand the knot well, only then begin to open it.”
So I say to those who ask about God: where did you lose Him? How did you lose Him? How was the knot tied?
But they have no idea; perhaps that losing happened many lifetimes ago. They don’t even remember that they ever lost Him. And remember: one who does not even know he has lost God cannot have an authentic search. Why would we search for what we never felt we lost? That is why most people who seem to be seeking God only seem so; they do not actually seek. We seek only what the pain of losing has made intense, whose absence is a thorn lodged in the heart, whose separation is being suffered. And the joy of union is for that one alone who has borne the pangs of separation. We are not afflicted at all by God’s absence. No one is.
Yes, people suffer—but for other reasons: someone suffers from lack of wealth, another from lack of fame, of position, of knowledge; yet others for other causes—poor health, no large house. But you will rarely find a person who suffers from the absence of God. I call that person religious who is afflicted because God is not.
Are we afflicted by the absence of God?
No pain at all. Without God our affairs go on just fine. Yes, sometimes in sorrow we remember Him. But even that is not remembrance of Him; it is remembrance of sorrow, and the hope that His remembrance might remove it. That is why in happiness people don’t remember God. People say, in suffering God is remembered. But the God remembered in suffering is false remembrance—because it arises from sorrow, not from God.
So I call that one religious who remembers God in happiness. But He can be remembered in happiness only by one whom His absence stings, who feels the loss. One may have a palace, wealth, everything—and yet there is an empty space that neither money, nor friends, nor wife, nor husband can fill. In that emptiness the first sprout of God’s seed germinates—right there. Do you have that empty space? Is there a corner in your heart that nothing can fill, that remains empty no matter what you pour in?
I’ve heard a story about Nasruddin. A man came to him one day: “I want to find God; show me a path! People say you can.” Nasruddin said, “I’m just going to the well to draw water; come along. Perhaps in drawing water you’ll find the way. If not, come back with me and I’ll tell you. But be sure to return; don’t leave before I do.” The man said, “What are you saying? I’ve set out to seek God!” He went along. Nasruddin picked up two buckets and a rope and told him, “Until I finish drawing water, don’t ask questions. This will test your restraint. When we return, ask whatever you like.”
The man said, “What do I care for your water and your rules! I have already asked: I want God—what is the way?” They reached the well. Nasruddin set a vessel on the well’s rim—a vessel with no bottom, hollow on both sides. The man wondered what he was doing, but he had been forbidden to ask, so he waited. Nasruddin drew a bucket of water and poured it into that bottomless pot. The water ran straight through. He poured a second bucket. That was too much for the man—he forgot his vow. “What madness is this? This pot will never fill!” Nasruddin said, “You’ve broken the condition; you may go. I told you, don’t ask until I’ve finished and returned.” The man said, “But you would never finish! No matter how long you pour, this vessel will never fill. I’m not as mad as you.” He left. As he was leaving, Nasruddin said, “One who is not yet mad—how will he set out to seek God?”
The man went home. But all night Nasruddin’s words tolled in his sleep: “One who is not mad—how will he seek God?” He tossed and turned. He thought, “He may be crazy, but not so crazy as to pour water into a pot with no bottom! He did say: if you remain silent, perhaps in the drawing of water the answer will be found.” Was he giving me an answer? Before dawn he returned to Nasruddin. “Forgive me—I think I erred. I should not have questioned; I should have watched. Were you perhaps teaching me something?” Nasruddin said, “What greater teaching could there be! You called me mad—but look to yourself: into your mind you have been pouring all life long, and it is as empty as ever. It is a bottomless pot.”
Our mind is like an abyss, a bottomless chasm. If we fall into it, we go on falling—ad infinitum—never arriving anywhere.
Yet we have poured so many things into this mind; still, nothing has filled it. An old man’s mind is as empty as a child’s. Often, the old man’s is even emptier—because a lifetime of experience brings a deeper sense of void. But we go on stuffing. Our logic is: if the mind is empty, fill it harder and it will fill. But it has not filled even a grain’s worth until now; then no amount of stuffing will fill it. Had it filled even a little, then a mountain’s worth might do; but not a grain has ever filled it. Mind is an emptiness in which nothing ever fills.
I’ve heard this about Alexander: he grew despondent because a friend brought him a message from a fakir. “I was passing by a fakir,” the friend said, “and he sent a message for you. He said, ‘I hear Alexander is out to conquer the whole world. Tell him: when he conquers the whole world, what will he do then? There is no second world.’” Alexander had not yet conquered the world; he had only set out. But he sat down dejected: “I never thought—if I conquer the whole world, what then? There is no second world.” He grew sad at the thought. Does even this whole world not fill Alexander’s mind, that he needs a second? He would still need one.
It is said that when Alexander died he instructed, “Let my hands hang outside my bier, so people can see I too depart empty-handed—my hands are not filled.”
Everyone goes empty-handed. But that we go empty-handed is not the great truth. We go empty-handed because all life we remain empty-handed. How else could we go? We die empty because we live empty. Yet we have no sense of this emptiness. A man’s religious inquiry begins with awareness of that vacant space in his heart.
Do not rush out to seek God; first find the empty space in your heart. Before you invite the Guest, see that the house has a place—clean and ready. Do not run to seek Him; He may be standing at your door. Clear the empty space and He will enter. But in our hearts—is there any empty space? If you look you will be troubled: you will find thoughts piled up, desires upon desires, cravings upon cravings—no emptiness anywhere—and yet the mind always feels empty. The whole time it seems full of something, and the whole time nothing is in your hands. That is man’s paradox—utterly empty, with only a dream of fullness.
By thoughts, desires, cravings—no one has ever been filled. Yet by them we appear to be. They are lines drawn in air—or better, drawn on water: you cannot even draw them; they vanish as you draw. Still we live as if filled with them, and one day depart empty-handed. For lifetimes this story goes on, until we forget that something could have been and did not happen. Something within us could have manifested but did not. A door that could have opened remained shut. A seed that could have cracked open remained intact. A spring that could have burst forth did not. But with long time and long journeys, this is forgotten. And our journeys are not of a day—they are long.
In a single life too we forget. If I ask you, do you recall anything before the age of five? Hardly anyone does. You certainly existed, otherwise you would not be here—but you remember nothing. If you were hypnotized and led into deep trance, memories before five would return. Not only before five—even experiences in your mother’s womb can surface. If your mother fell while you were in her belly, that memory too lies hidden in you. The first moment you entered the womb—that memory is hidden in you. The moment you died in your previous life and lay upon the cot—that memory too is stored in you. All these memories are gathered within. Compared to the layers of memory in a single person, the summit of Everest is small and the Pacific Ocean shallow.
Among all these memories one thing is forgotten: that I am still empty. Until that is remembered, the search for God cannot begin. The search for God does not begin by hearing the word “God.” The word “God” is not God. Nor does it begin by seeing someone else seeking God. If it does, it will be borrowed, not real. And at God’s door, counterfeit, borrowed things do not pass; there one must bring something of one’s own. Something of one’s own! There the knowledge gathered from others is of no use, nor the words you learned elsewhere, nor the doctrines tradition taught you. There you must offer something that is yours.
But even our God is an imitation. Seeing his father, the son begins to seek God. Seeing the neighbors, a man goes to seek God. Children go to temples because they see their elders go; and those elders went because they saw theirs. Can we make God by imitation? Can we ever reach Him by following behind someone?
Impossible! For the longing, the thirst of the life-breath—if it is not yet mine… And a false thirst does not exist. The man of false thirst will never reach the lake. And even if he reaches it, he won’t recognize water as water. To recognize water, you need your own thirst. Thirst is the recognition of water. Who else will recognize it?
God is present twenty-four hours a day, all around. But lacking thirst, one person runs to Kashi, another to Mecca, another to Jerusalem, another to Kailash. Without thirst we must search elsewhere. With thirst, He is in every breath, in every particle of air, in every leaf of every tree. Only He is—no one else is.
Yet we get no sense of Him. We will not—because the same uproar that rages outside rages within. A storm of thoughts is blowing inside; we are caught in it. We do not sense the empty space, we do not feel the ache anywhere.
That ache can be felt. Look at Nanak, Kabir, Raidas, Farid, Mahavira, Buddha, Jesus, Muhammad—you will find two moments in their lives. But we are dishonest with ourselves; we refuse to see one of those moments and see only the other. In Nanak’s life there is a time of tears and a time of overflowing joy. A time of pain and separation, and a time of fulfillment and finding. But we see only the time of finding and not the time of pain. In Meera’s life there is a time of weeping and a time of dancing. We remember her dance; we forget her tears. In Buddha’s life there is a dawn of light, but there is also the dark night of new moon.
We too want the light—but who wants the new moon’s black night? We want union—but who will endure separation? We want to drown in God’s bliss—but the pain?
We have seen a mother when her child is born: the first glimpse of her child, and her eyes overflow with joy beyond measure. But who will bear the labor pains? That smile comes after them.
We keep Nanak’s smiling picture in mind and think, “When will our hour come to be so full of joy?” But we discard the image of his weeping, when the life-breath turned to tears, when the heart was all brine, when there was nothing but tears and calling. That we do not keep in mind.
You cannot choose half of God; you must choose Him whole. The first part must be completed before the second opens. Anyone can love the flower—but there is also the labor of sowing the seed. Anyone can welcome the blossom with a smile—but there is also the resolve to raise a tree. Our basic fallacy about religion is this: we think religion opens the door to joy. But that door opens only for the one to whom this whole world has become pain and sorrow; before that, it does not open. One who has not yet known suffering cannot know joy. Then we borrow.
Nanak sang songs, but they were songs of joy. We, who have not yet crossed the bridge of pain, if we sing those songs, they become borrowed and meaningless.
Meera danced. Some dancer might dance better than Meera. But that dance will not have Meera’s joy—because before that dance there was not Meera’s pain, Meera’s fire, Meera’s long sorrowful journey.
God has two aspects: first separation, pain, sorrow; and then the door of bliss. This path of separation, pain, sorrow, and darkness—on it none of us would wish to walk. We all want bliss; we all want God. So we spend our lives, many lives, chasing a half-god, a false half-search. Our union does not come. How to generate that first half—that is what I am saying. It arises when the futility of life, its meaninglessness, its emptiness strikes home.
We rise in the morning, sleep again at dusk; we are born, we die; we earn, we lose; all the story of life without any larger meaning, without any higher purpose—like a straw drifting on waves from this shore to that, and that to this, thinking, “I journey.” We live just so, and think we journey. Journey happens only in the life of the religious man. In the lives of others there is only this-shore to that-shore. Journey is possible only where that dimension, that doorway named religion opens.
But in the name of religion we have erected madhouses. In its name we have built insanities.
This morning when I arrived, I saw a new face of religion. I was delighted—God’s play is vast and worth seeing. At the station many people stood with black flags. I thought perhaps welcoming sannyasins with black flags is a new custom. I wasn’t sure they stood for me; I didn’t expect so many would come to welcome me. So many do not gather to welcome a religious man. Perhaps someone else was coming. But when those friends came near me and began shouting slogans, I realized they had come for me. Then I was even more amused—they welcomed me with such charming words! They told me I am irreligious, to go back!
One thing became certain: at least they are certain they are religious.
Is being religious so easy? And will religious men be found at railway stations waving black flags? Their firm conviction that they are religious will prevent them from being religious. And to think another is irreligious—only an irreligious man thinks so. Otherwise, what concern have you with the other? A religious man’s only concern is: am I religious or not? What concern has he with another?
I’ve heard of a fakir named Hasan. One night he prayed, “God, a man lives next door—very irreligious. A thief, a cheat, an atheist. Take him from this world.” In a dream that night God said, “Hasan, you seem wiser than I! I have given this man breath for forty years, food for forty years; I have not complained once. And you have become more religious than I—because you have decided he is irreligious!”
The very thought of seeing another as irreligious, the very concern with others—that is irreligion. Concern with oneself—that is religion. But we are so entangled in concern for others that we will think about everyone except the one person—our own being.
Perhaps you’ve never noticed: you may remain deprived of thinking about yourself and think about the whole world. From morning till night you think about others—only not about yourself. Life slips by; many lives can slip by. He who does not think about himself will never experience his inner emptiness. And without sensing inner emptiness, the search for God does not begin. Inner emptiness is one side; the search for God is the other side of the same coin.
Do you feel there is some lack within? Some absence? Does something inside feel hollow?
Then a ray of God can descend into your life. But understand this emptiness rightly. And do not try to run from it. There are many escapes. One man can go sit in a cinema to forget his inner emptiness for three hours. Another can listen to music and forget. A third can play cards. A fourth can smoke. A fifth can even take to bhajan-kirtan to forget his inner emptiness. This is not real devotion; it is only forgetfulness. It is losing oneself, not knowing oneself.
If the inner emptiness becomes visible, do not escape—stand in it. Stand within it. Just by standing in that emptiness, pain begins. Stand there and the ground beneath shifts, the sky above disappears. Stand there and a groan rises that becomes the search for God.
But no one consents to stand in emptiness. The one who does—his life changes. We all flee. The moment emptiness is felt, we snatch up the newspaper. A whiff of emptiness—and we try to tangle ourselves somewhere, to get occupied, to drown—whether in alcohol or in music—anywhere to forget ourselves.
One who tries to forget himself cannot set out to seek God. One who stands in the ignorance of himself—“within me there is nothing, only void”—and sits in that void, he becomes available to remembrance of the Lord. For in that emptiness there is so much pain, such bottomless sorrow, such a sting, such fire, that it all becomes a call for God. Without it, the call does not arise.
I remember hearing of Farid. One morning he was going for a bath when a man asked on the way, “When will my search for God begin?” Farid said, “Come bathe with me—I’ll get it started.” They entered the river. When the man ducked his head under, Farid seized his neck and held him down. He pressed hard. The man was shocked—one does not expect such things from saints. Though saints sometimes seize your throat for your good! The man thought he would be killed—he didn’t know his life was being given. He struggled with all his strength, but Farid was strong. Finally he broke free and stood up. His eyes were red. “What kind of man are you? I thought I had come to one who had found God—you turned out a murderer! You would have killed me!” Farid said, “These matters can be settled later. First, the essential: when you were under the water, how many thoughts did you have?” He said, “Thoughts? There were no thoughts! For the first time in my life there were no thoughts. There was only one thought—how to get a breath? Just one breath! Even that thought soon vanished; then every pore of my body screamed—breath! Not even a thought, but my every cell vibrated, every heartbeat cried—one breath! Then even that was not a thought; my very life cried—breath!”
Farid said, “God will be found on that day when your whole being cries—God!”
This is the meaning of remembrance. It does not mean clashing cymbals and shouting “Ram, Ram.” If your life-breath cries even once, the matter is done. And if a lifeless person shouts all his life, nothing is accomplished; only time is wasted.
Farid told him, “The day there remains in your breath and every pore only one cry—not even a cry, but a single longing, a single thirst—God!—that day the thing is complete.”
But for this—just as Farid held him under the river—each person must press himself under his own void, under his own absence. That personal futility, that personal emptiness within—one must be held down there. Pressed there, remembrance dawns.
But remembrance does not mean a name. Remembrance does not mean words. Remembrance means: a call. Remembrance means: thirst. Remembrance means: the restlessness of the life-breath. Not thoughts, not words. The mind has no work at God’s door; it is the work of the whole being. Mind is a very small thing, a corner. Our whole life-breath is vast. When the call arises from the whole being, the event happens. But for that call to arise, we must discover our emptiness.
It will not be difficult to discover it; it is present in everyone. We need only lift our eyes. Often what is most near is not seen because it is too near. We forget it; we forget even to remember it. Distant things we notice; the nearest we forget. The one with Koh-i-noor on his chest does not see it—others do. Within us is that emptiness, that space, that temple, that gurudwara, that mosque from which God can dawn. But we don’t go to see it; we don’t go to seek it—because it is too near. Kashi is far, Mecca is far, Kailash is far—we run there.
Remember one thing: wherever I am here, I will be the same even if I reach Kashi; I do not change. By changing places, people do not change. Had it been so, the world would have become religious long ago. Changing place is easy. Yes, when a person changes, the place changes. But changing place does not change the person. One must change oneself.
Today I will give you only one sutra. Because those friends will get very tired, their throats will ache—we should have compassion on them. For as long as I speak, they will not be silent; then the sin will be laid on me.
(Throughout this discourse, a few people set up a loudspeaker very near the venue and, under the pretext of devotional singing, created a noisy disturbance to disrupt Osho’s talk.)
Osho's Commentary
Today two hundred million people in Russia think: “God is dead.” Eight hundred million in China are deepening this conviction day by day: “God is dead.” The new generations of Europe and America, and the youth of India as well, are increasingly agreeing that God is dead. And I want to say: Nietzsche died mad; let it not happen that all of humanity also has to die mad. For without God, neither Nietzsche could remain healthy nor can anyone else.
In truth, the death of God means the death of our search for whatever is highest within us, whatever is beautiful, auspicious, and true. It means the death of the quest for light and illumination. It means we have settled for being mere bodies and abandoned the search for the soul. We have settled for garments and stopped the search for life-breath. Temples still stand, their bells still ring. Churches still call upon God. But the temple of man’s life-breath lies in ruins, and the church of the human soul is nowhere to be seen. Stone walls remain, and within them priests for hire take the name of God. But the thirst of man’s being and the love of his being offered toward God have ceased. If this truth is not clearly understood, perhaps the love will never be rekindled. A sick man who believes he is healthy never seeks treatment. And a blind man who believes he can see will never search for eyes.
So when I say this, your mind will be hurt—and I want to bring that hurt—that the temple of your life-breath has fallen, and in that temple there is no voice now except the voices of priests for hire. I say it so that, if this truth strikes home, perhaps we will begin to rebuild the inner temple, and set out to find again the God who has left the heart.
But the priest of the outer temples would prefer that the God of the heart not be sought. For when one finds the God of the heart, one stops caring for the God of temples. Naturally, the custodians of religion will try that the real image of God not appear. Because if the real appears, what will become of the idols that are sold in the marketplace? Man is very dishonest. And the greatest dishonesty he has done is with himself: he has settled for a counterfeit God. We do not go in search of the real as long as the counterfeit “substitute” works. As long as the fake serves, who will go hunting for the genuine?
Then too, fake religion is very cheap. Real religion is a wager of life. For the counterfeit god we lose nothing; for the real God we have to lose ourselves entirely. We go to a counterfeit god to ask for something; with the real God there is no way except to give ourselves. The fake god is easy, comfortable, convenient. The real God is dangerous—living fire: one must burn, dissolve, become ash. Only those who are ready to become ash can invite God into the temple of the heart. The fire of religion has only one name: love. Call it prayer, call it practice, call it worship—no great difference. Whoever is ready to kindle the fire of love in his life-breath becomes worthy of God. But worthy is only he who is ready to lose himself. This is a reversed condition. Perhaps that is why we have stopped seeking God. And perhaps that is why people like Nietzsche could say there is no God.
Is this not an attempt to save ourselves—an argument, a logic to protect ourselves? Is it not that to save ourselves, we turn our backs on God?
It is so! For whoever turns his face toward God cannot remain standing; he must move, he must surrender totally. The moment you glance toward God, you cannot stop, you are already on the journey. Then the journey itself calls and draws you on.
This pull is just like someone who leaps from a roof and then asks, “What must I do to reach the ground?” We would say: you need do nothing. Just jump—just take one step—and the earth will do the rest. The earth’s gravity, the earth’s pull will bring you down. Take only one step; the earth does the rest. Raise your eyes once toward God; He does the rest.
But that very glance is dangerous. So we turn our backs. That much is in our power. To attain God we cannot do anything—but to lose Him we can do everything.
People ask me, “We want to seek God!” I ask them, “Where did you lose Him?” Because what is lost can be sought. How did you lose Him? For the method of seeking is the reverse of the method of losing.
I tell them a small story; let me tell it to you as well.
One morning Buddha came. As you have gathered here today, the people of that village gathered to listen. He came with a silk handkerchief in his hand. He sat down and began to tie knots in it. He tied five knots. Then he asked the assembly, “I want to untie these knots. What should I do?” And he pulled the handkerchief tight. Of course the knots tightened further. One man stood up and said, “Please don’t pull, or the knots will tighten even more.” Buddha asked, “So what should I do?” The man said, “First let me examine how the knots were tied. The method of untying is the reverse of the method of tying. Until we know how a knot was made, untying is dangerous; it may tighten and entangle further. First understand the knot well, only then begin to open it.”
So I say to those who ask about God: where did you lose Him? How did you lose Him? How was the knot tied?
But they have no idea; perhaps that losing happened many lifetimes ago. They don’t even remember that they ever lost Him. And remember: one who does not even know he has lost God cannot have an authentic search. Why would we search for what we never felt we lost? That is why most people who seem to be seeking God only seem so; they do not actually seek. We seek only what the pain of losing has made intense, whose absence is a thorn lodged in the heart, whose separation is being suffered. And the joy of union is for that one alone who has borne the pangs of separation. We are not afflicted at all by God’s absence. No one is.
Yes, people suffer—but for other reasons: someone suffers from lack of wealth, another from lack of fame, of position, of knowledge; yet others for other causes—poor health, no large house. But you will rarely find a person who suffers from the absence of God. I call that person religious who is afflicted because God is not.
Are we afflicted by the absence of God?
No pain at all. Without God our affairs go on just fine. Yes, sometimes in sorrow we remember Him. But even that is not remembrance of Him; it is remembrance of sorrow, and the hope that His remembrance might remove it. That is why in happiness people don’t remember God. People say, in suffering God is remembered. But the God remembered in suffering is false remembrance—because it arises from sorrow, not from God.
So I call that one religious who remembers God in happiness. But He can be remembered in happiness only by one whom His absence stings, who feels the loss. One may have a palace, wealth, everything—and yet there is an empty space that neither money, nor friends, nor wife, nor husband can fill. In that emptiness the first sprout of God’s seed germinates—right there. Do you have that empty space? Is there a corner in your heart that nothing can fill, that remains empty no matter what you pour in?
I’ve heard a story about Nasruddin. A man came to him one day: “I want to find God; show me a path! People say you can.” Nasruddin said, “I’m just going to the well to draw water; come along. Perhaps in drawing water you’ll find the way. If not, come back with me and I’ll tell you. But be sure to return; don’t leave before I do.” The man said, “What are you saying? I’ve set out to seek God!” He went along. Nasruddin picked up two buckets and a rope and told him, “Until I finish drawing water, don’t ask questions. This will test your restraint. When we return, ask whatever you like.”
The man said, “What do I care for your water and your rules! I have already asked: I want God—what is the way?” They reached the well. Nasruddin set a vessel on the well’s rim—a vessel with no bottom, hollow on both sides. The man wondered what he was doing, but he had been forbidden to ask, so he waited. Nasruddin drew a bucket of water and poured it into that bottomless pot. The water ran straight through. He poured a second bucket. That was too much for the man—he forgot his vow. “What madness is this? This pot will never fill!” Nasruddin said, “You’ve broken the condition; you may go. I told you, don’t ask until I’ve finished and returned.” The man said, “But you would never finish! No matter how long you pour, this vessel will never fill. I’m not as mad as you.” He left. As he was leaving, Nasruddin said, “One who is not yet mad—how will he set out to seek God?”
The man went home. But all night Nasruddin’s words tolled in his sleep: “One who is not mad—how will he seek God?” He tossed and turned. He thought, “He may be crazy, but not so crazy as to pour water into a pot with no bottom! He did say: if you remain silent, perhaps in the drawing of water the answer will be found.” Was he giving me an answer? Before dawn he returned to Nasruddin. “Forgive me—I think I erred. I should not have questioned; I should have watched. Were you perhaps teaching me something?” Nasruddin said, “What greater teaching could there be! You called me mad—but look to yourself: into your mind you have been pouring all life long, and it is as empty as ever. It is a bottomless pot.”
Our mind is like an abyss, a bottomless chasm. If we fall into it, we go on falling—ad infinitum—never arriving anywhere.
Yet we have poured so many things into this mind; still, nothing has filled it. An old man’s mind is as empty as a child’s. Often, the old man’s is even emptier—because a lifetime of experience brings a deeper sense of void. But we go on stuffing. Our logic is: if the mind is empty, fill it harder and it will fill. But it has not filled even a grain’s worth until now; then no amount of stuffing will fill it. Had it filled even a little, then a mountain’s worth might do; but not a grain has ever filled it. Mind is an emptiness in which nothing ever fills.
I’ve heard this about Alexander: he grew despondent because a friend brought him a message from a fakir. “I was passing by a fakir,” the friend said, “and he sent a message for you. He said, ‘I hear Alexander is out to conquer the whole world. Tell him: when he conquers the whole world, what will he do then? There is no second world.’” Alexander had not yet conquered the world; he had only set out. But he sat down dejected: “I never thought—if I conquer the whole world, what then? There is no second world.” He grew sad at the thought. Does even this whole world not fill Alexander’s mind, that he needs a second? He would still need one.
It is said that when Alexander died he instructed, “Let my hands hang outside my bier, so people can see I too depart empty-handed—my hands are not filled.”
Everyone goes empty-handed. But that we go empty-handed is not the great truth. We go empty-handed because all life we remain empty-handed. How else could we go? We die empty because we live empty. Yet we have no sense of this emptiness. A man’s religious inquiry begins with awareness of that vacant space in his heart.
Do not rush out to seek God; first find the empty space in your heart. Before you invite the Guest, see that the house has a place—clean and ready. Do not run to seek Him; He may be standing at your door. Clear the empty space and He will enter. But in our hearts—is there any empty space? If you look you will be troubled: you will find thoughts piled up, desires upon desires, cravings upon cravings—no emptiness anywhere—and yet the mind always feels empty. The whole time it seems full of something, and the whole time nothing is in your hands. That is man’s paradox—utterly empty, with only a dream of fullness.
By thoughts, desires, cravings—no one has ever been filled. Yet by them we appear to be. They are lines drawn in air—or better, drawn on water: you cannot even draw them; they vanish as you draw. Still we live as if filled with them, and one day depart empty-handed. For lifetimes this story goes on, until we forget that something could have been and did not happen. Something within us could have manifested but did not. A door that could have opened remained shut. A seed that could have cracked open remained intact. A spring that could have burst forth did not. But with long time and long journeys, this is forgotten. And our journeys are not of a day—they are long.
In a single life too we forget. If I ask you, do you recall anything before the age of five? Hardly anyone does. You certainly existed, otherwise you would not be here—but you remember nothing. If you were hypnotized and led into deep trance, memories before five would return. Not only before five—even experiences in your mother’s womb can surface. If your mother fell while you were in her belly, that memory too lies hidden in you. The first moment you entered the womb—that memory is hidden in you. The moment you died in your previous life and lay upon the cot—that memory too is stored in you. All these memories are gathered within. Compared to the layers of memory in a single person, the summit of Everest is small and the Pacific Ocean shallow.
Among all these memories one thing is forgotten: that I am still empty. Until that is remembered, the search for God cannot begin. The search for God does not begin by hearing the word “God.” The word “God” is not God. Nor does it begin by seeing someone else seeking God. If it does, it will be borrowed, not real. And at God’s door, counterfeit, borrowed things do not pass; there one must bring something of one’s own. Something of one’s own! There the knowledge gathered from others is of no use, nor the words you learned elsewhere, nor the doctrines tradition taught you. There you must offer something that is yours.
But even our God is an imitation. Seeing his father, the son begins to seek God. Seeing the neighbors, a man goes to seek God. Children go to temples because they see their elders go; and those elders went because they saw theirs. Can we make God by imitation? Can we ever reach Him by following behind someone?
Impossible! For the longing, the thirst of the life-breath—if it is not yet mine… And a false thirst does not exist. The man of false thirst will never reach the lake. And even if he reaches it, he won’t recognize water as water. To recognize water, you need your own thirst. Thirst is the recognition of water. Who else will recognize it?
God is present twenty-four hours a day, all around. But lacking thirst, one person runs to Kashi, another to Mecca, another to Jerusalem, another to Kailash. Without thirst we must search elsewhere. With thirst, He is in every breath, in every particle of air, in every leaf of every tree. Only He is—no one else is.
Yet we get no sense of Him. We will not—because the same uproar that rages outside rages within. A storm of thoughts is blowing inside; we are caught in it. We do not sense the empty space, we do not feel the ache anywhere.
That ache can be felt. Look at Nanak, Kabir, Raidas, Farid, Mahavira, Buddha, Jesus, Muhammad—you will find two moments in their lives. But we are dishonest with ourselves; we refuse to see one of those moments and see only the other. In Nanak’s life there is a time of tears and a time of overflowing joy. A time of pain and separation, and a time of fulfillment and finding. But we see only the time of finding and not the time of pain. In Meera’s life there is a time of weeping and a time of dancing. We remember her dance; we forget her tears. In Buddha’s life there is a dawn of light, but there is also the dark night of new moon.
We too want the light—but who wants the new moon’s black night? We want union—but who will endure separation? We want to drown in God’s bliss—but the pain?
We have seen a mother when her child is born: the first glimpse of her child, and her eyes overflow with joy beyond measure. But who will bear the labor pains? That smile comes after them.
We keep Nanak’s smiling picture in mind and think, “When will our hour come to be so full of joy?” But we discard the image of his weeping, when the life-breath turned to tears, when the heart was all brine, when there was nothing but tears and calling. That we do not keep in mind.
You cannot choose half of God; you must choose Him whole. The first part must be completed before the second opens. Anyone can love the flower—but there is also the labor of sowing the seed. Anyone can welcome the blossom with a smile—but there is also the resolve to raise a tree. Our basic fallacy about religion is this: we think religion opens the door to joy. But that door opens only for the one to whom this whole world has become pain and sorrow; before that, it does not open. One who has not yet known suffering cannot know joy. Then we borrow.
Nanak sang songs, but they were songs of joy. We, who have not yet crossed the bridge of pain, if we sing those songs, they become borrowed and meaningless.
Meera danced. Some dancer might dance better than Meera. But that dance will not have Meera’s joy—because before that dance there was not Meera’s pain, Meera’s fire, Meera’s long sorrowful journey.
God has two aspects: first separation, pain, sorrow; and then the door of bliss. This path of separation, pain, sorrow, and darkness—on it none of us would wish to walk. We all want bliss; we all want God. So we spend our lives, many lives, chasing a half-god, a false half-search. Our union does not come. How to generate that first half—that is what I am saying. It arises when the futility of life, its meaninglessness, its emptiness strikes home.
We rise in the morning, sleep again at dusk; we are born, we die; we earn, we lose; all the story of life without any larger meaning, without any higher purpose—like a straw drifting on waves from this shore to that, and that to this, thinking, “I journey.” We live just so, and think we journey. Journey happens only in the life of the religious man. In the lives of others there is only this-shore to that-shore. Journey is possible only where that dimension, that doorway named religion opens.
But in the name of religion we have erected madhouses. In its name we have built insanities.
This morning when I arrived, I saw a new face of religion. I was delighted—God’s play is vast and worth seeing. At the station many people stood with black flags. I thought perhaps welcoming sannyasins with black flags is a new custom. I wasn’t sure they stood for me; I didn’t expect so many would come to welcome me. So many do not gather to welcome a religious man. Perhaps someone else was coming. But when those friends came near me and began shouting slogans, I realized they had come for me. Then I was even more amused—they welcomed me with such charming words! They told me I am irreligious, to go back!
One thing became certain: at least they are certain they are religious.
Is being religious so easy? And will religious men be found at railway stations waving black flags? Their firm conviction that they are religious will prevent them from being religious. And to think another is irreligious—only an irreligious man thinks so. Otherwise, what concern have you with the other? A religious man’s only concern is: am I religious or not? What concern has he with another?
I’ve heard of a fakir named Hasan. One night he prayed, “God, a man lives next door—very irreligious. A thief, a cheat, an atheist. Take him from this world.” In a dream that night God said, “Hasan, you seem wiser than I! I have given this man breath for forty years, food for forty years; I have not complained once. And you have become more religious than I—because you have decided he is irreligious!”
The very thought of seeing another as irreligious, the very concern with others—that is irreligion. Concern with oneself—that is religion. But we are so entangled in concern for others that we will think about everyone except the one person—our own being.
Perhaps you’ve never noticed: you may remain deprived of thinking about yourself and think about the whole world. From morning till night you think about others—only not about yourself. Life slips by; many lives can slip by. He who does not think about himself will never experience his inner emptiness. And without sensing inner emptiness, the search for God does not begin. Inner emptiness is one side; the search for God is the other side of the same coin.
Do you feel there is some lack within? Some absence? Does something inside feel hollow?
Then a ray of God can descend into your life. But understand this emptiness rightly. And do not try to run from it. There are many escapes. One man can go sit in a cinema to forget his inner emptiness for three hours. Another can listen to music and forget. A third can play cards. A fourth can smoke. A fifth can even take to bhajan-kirtan to forget his inner emptiness. This is not real devotion; it is only forgetfulness. It is losing oneself, not knowing oneself.
If the inner emptiness becomes visible, do not escape—stand in it. Stand within it. Just by standing in that emptiness, pain begins. Stand there and the ground beneath shifts, the sky above disappears. Stand there and a groan rises that becomes the search for God.
But no one consents to stand in emptiness. The one who does—his life changes. We all flee. The moment emptiness is felt, we snatch up the newspaper. A whiff of emptiness—and we try to tangle ourselves somewhere, to get occupied, to drown—whether in alcohol or in music—anywhere to forget ourselves.
One who tries to forget himself cannot set out to seek God. One who stands in the ignorance of himself—“within me there is nothing, only void”—and sits in that void, he becomes available to remembrance of the Lord. For in that emptiness there is so much pain, such bottomless sorrow, such a sting, such fire, that it all becomes a call for God. Without it, the call does not arise.
I remember hearing of Farid. One morning he was going for a bath when a man asked on the way, “When will my search for God begin?” Farid said, “Come bathe with me—I’ll get it started.” They entered the river. When the man ducked his head under, Farid seized his neck and held him down. He pressed hard. The man was shocked—one does not expect such things from saints. Though saints sometimes seize your throat for your good! The man thought he would be killed—he didn’t know his life was being given. He struggled with all his strength, but Farid was strong. Finally he broke free and stood up. His eyes were red. “What kind of man are you? I thought I had come to one who had found God—you turned out a murderer! You would have killed me!” Farid said, “These matters can be settled later. First, the essential: when you were under the water, how many thoughts did you have?” He said, “Thoughts? There were no thoughts! For the first time in my life there were no thoughts. There was only one thought—how to get a breath? Just one breath! Even that thought soon vanished; then every pore of my body screamed—breath! Not even a thought, but my every cell vibrated, every heartbeat cried—one breath! Then even that was not a thought; my very life cried—breath!”
Farid said, “God will be found on that day when your whole being cries—God!”
This is the meaning of remembrance. It does not mean clashing cymbals and shouting “Ram, Ram.” If your life-breath cries even once, the matter is done. And if a lifeless person shouts all his life, nothing is accomplished; only time is wasted.
Farid told him, “The day there remains in your breath and every pore only one cry—not even a cry, but a single longing, a single thirst—God!—that day the thing is complete.”
But for this—just as Farid held him under the river—each person must press himself under his own void, under his own absence. That personal futility, that personal emptiness within—one must be held down there. Pressed there, remembrance dawns.
But remembrance does not mean a name. Remembrance does not mean words. Remembrance means: a call. Remembrance means: thirst. Remembrance means: the restlessness of the life-breath. Not thoughts, not words. The mind has no work at God’s door; it is the work of the whole being. Mind is a very small thing, a corner. Our whole life-breath is vast. When the call arises from the whole being, the event happens. But for that call to arise, we must discover our emptiness.
It will not be difficult to discover it; it is present in everyone. We need only lift our eyes. Often what is most near is not seen because it is too near. We forget it; we forget even to remember it. Distant things we notice; the nearest we forget. The one with Koh-i-noor on his chest does not see it—others do. Within us is that emptiness, that space, that temple, that gurudwara, that mosque from which God can dawn. But we don’t go to see it; we don’t go to seek it—because it is too near. Kashi is far, Mecca is far, Kailash is far—we run there.
Remember one thing: wherever I am here, I will be the same even if I reach Kashi; I do not change. By changing places, people do not change. Had it been so, the world would have become religious long ago. Changing place is easy. Yes, when a person changes, the place changes. But changing place does not change the person. One must change oneself.
Today I will give you only one sutra. Because those friends will get very tired, their throats will ache—we should have compassion on them. For as long as I speak, they will not be silent; then the sin will be laid on me.
(Throughout this discourse, a few people set up a loudspeaker very near the venue and, under the pretext of devotional singing, created a noisy disturbance to disrupt Osho’s talk.)