According to Osho, you don’t feel like leaving because, even while the mind doubts and his words seem false, a nascent faith has already begun sprouting in the heart. The heart recognizes truth before the intellect does, so an inner, greater presence in you trusts and holds you here. Don’t force belief; let honest doubt ripen into living faith.
Your heart quietly knows there’s truth here even if your head doesn’t, so it keeps you from leaving.
From the Discourses
Passages where Osho speaks to this question — each links to the complete discourse.
Osho, your words do not inspire any reverence in us, and all your words seem false. Yet why is it that we do not feel like leaving this place? This has been asked by Anand Saraswati.
My very words are such that faith cannot settle. Because I am not speaking of the world in which you have faith, and in which faith would easily settle for you. What I am saying goes over your head. You will have to raise your head a little. There are only two ways. Either I lower what I am saying; then I become pointless, with nothing of substance left. The other way is that you lift your head a little—rise a little higher. Everyone imagines that he already has faith, it only needs to be seated. You do not have faith yet. If it were there, it would have settled. In those who have it, it has settled. If there is no faith at all, how will it sit? Your situation is like this: I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin went to the eye doctor and said, “My eyes are…
Osho, you say the same thing in countless ways. But when I listen to you, it feels as if I am hearing it for the first time. And I feel so much joy that I don’t feel like going back home. What should I do—what can I do—so that I can just keep listening to you!
You will feel as if you have been made to rise out of season, before time—as if you were not yet to go and yet had to go. And if you go in that way, your home will become even more desolate than before. I do not want to make your home desolate; I want to make your home a temple. I want that when you go home, your home’s new form is revealed. I do not want to tear you away from home, from the world, from family life. That is the newness of my sannyas: I do not want to sever you from the world; I want to join you to the world in such a way that your connection with the world becomes a connection with the Divine. Let the world no longer be a barrier between you and the Divine; let it become a means. If…
"The head is greatly agitated," the questioner says. "I am troubled. I came seeking power; here I found peace. I wanted lordship; here I found emptiness."
Keep no secrets between yourself and Truth—hide nothing. Be naked in every way. Let go in every way; then there is no concern. I—and should I leave the wine-gathering so thirsting? Even if I had sworn abstinence, what was it to the cupbearer? In ordinary taverns it may happen: I—and should I leave the wine-gathering so thirsting— that I return thirsty from the tavern. Even if I had taken a vow not to drink, the cupbearer could still have filled my cup, could have insisted, persuaded—by force, I would have drunk. In ordinary taverns such things occur. But in the Supreme Tavern, the one who has dropped everything never returns thirsty. The one who clings to everything—he goes back thirsty. Look at the clingers: how parched, how sad, how weary and defeated they remain! Look at those who have let go—Mahavira, Buddha—see how filled they are! Their thirst is quenched…
It is asked: “I have neither faith nor devotion; then why do I keep coming to you again and again?”
When someone says to a person, “I love you completely,” I ask, why add “completely”? Is love not enough? Is there any such thing as incomplete love?—There is. That is why adding “completely” to love is dangerous: it clearly means it is not there; you are only putting on a show. And lest someone suspect otherwise, you keep repeating: “completely, completely; firm belief.” That poem is just like that: “Practice is never fruitless—holding this belief I sit.” There is a desire within that practice should not be fruitless. Lest it be fruitless, you are deceiving yourself: “No, no; it never is.” Is practice ever fruitless? Never! But the fear is there, deep inside. The world may win; my defeat— so be it, may Your victory be forever. My greatest victory is that my rhythm sounds to Your flute. Having erased the line of “mine” and “Yours,” I have taken sannyas…
Question: Second question: Osho, I don’t understand what you say. What should I do? All my critique of doctrines—wasted; no guru-mantra found, no initiation; today the very dust shows one hue, tomorrow another, in every grain. Here, love does not answer love; the flower of truth does not bloom as a dream; self-interest has become the master, wisdom a weary maid, tired at every step. No fathoming the depth of life! My mind’s restless fish keeps playing with the waves. With this fish-like mind you will not fathom the depths. And here the talk is of the unfathomable, the inaccessible. Satsang is precisely where the mysterious is spoken of. Mystery is not something to be understood. If it were understood, what mystery would remain? What is understood is that it cannot be understood. You have to enter, to dive. It can be drunk.