Chapter Seventeen
The Vows
of Renunciation
Any pledge one takes — what
to speak of any vow? — should have the force behind it of personal conviction.
A mere pledge states, “I
am not yet certain, for I don’t fully know myself in these matters.
But this is the direction I would like to take.”
A vow should have more force
behind it than a pledge. The vow of brahmacharya or tyaga must be backed
by sufficient conviction to be able to say, “I am sure, now, that
this is the direction I want to go, and I will build my life around
it.” This vow, in other words, implies more than the mere statement,
“I will try.” One has walked the length of the counter, and has
made his decision.
We must always accept the
truth, however, that the growth to perfection is directional: it is
not a sudden leap from the valley to the mountaintop. Only those can
make such a leap who are highly advanced already, and who don’t really
need any vows at all, for they have attained the very purpose of those
vows.
There is always the temptation,
on the upward climb, to turn back in discouragement and declare, “Oh,
but I find that it really is, after all, too high for me!”
There is a possibility of discouragement, of intense fatigue, and even
of such thoughts as, “I wonder if I locked the back door of my house;
maybe I’d better go back and make sure everything is still safe” — a
reawakened desire, in other words, to return to the lowlands of maya.
A vow is important. Verbalizing
a commitment gives it extra force. The spoken word directs power, and
reinforces one’s determination to be true.
When one starts up a mountain
side, however, no matter how strong his initial will to climb it, he
can’t know everything that awaits him farther on; he can only deal
with the present, and with his expectations of the journey. As the way
grows steeper, he may have to check his heart, his breathing, his muscular
endurance, to see whether he is in fact up to the whole climb. The more
obstacles he overcomes, of course, the greater the confidence he gains.
First, however, he must pledge
himself to make a valiant attempt. It is useless to make firm promises
until one has reached a level of such inner certainty that, for him,
the only alternative to the climb is death itself.
It doesn’t matter to him,
then, that he isn’t fully aware of what lies ahead. What if he finds
he must scale a steep cliff? What if he falls, and goes crashing onto
the rocks below? His courage must be such that he will press forward
no matter what the difficulties. The true renunciate is one who is willing
to face any obstacle in his struggle to reach the goal, for he
knows that there is no acceptable alternative. Even if he slips, his intention never falters. And even if he is killed, he knows that
he belongs utterly and completely to God alone. He is fully determined
to reach God, no matter how many lifetimes it takes, and never to accept
a lesser ideal. He vows never to stop until he reaches the top.
The vow of brahmacharya,
and also that of tyaga, are vows truly, and not mere resolutions. One
who takes these vows must abide by them “come hell or high water!”
as the saying goes. These vows, then, are not for weaklings. And penalties
exist for breaking them.
What penalties? They are
primarily inward, in one’s own consciousness. There is the possibility,
also — though it is a trivial one — that one who breaks his vows may
find himself ostracized by people who share the same high principles,
but who would never, themselves, dare to embrace them fully. Disappointment
in oneself is what can be really devastating. One’s will may become
paralyzed for a long time — preventing him, perhaps, from ever again
accepting another challenge with confidence.
When a person becomes disappointed
in himself, that letdown may take the form of only a temporary weakness,
followed in time by renewed determination. If, however, it amounts to
a deep acceptance of failure or defeat, it may last his whole life.
These consequences are up to him.
I knew someone who turned
back for a time to the world, and then, with great will power, resumed
her spiritual search. Her monastic associates challenged her, “How
can you dare to show your face here again?”
She shot back the reply:
“Do you expect me to worship my mistakes?!”
It must be understood, however,
that none of us lives alone in space, with no one and nothing to influence
him. When you turn toward God, the Lord Himself, and His angels, come
to your assistance. Everything worthwhile that you accomplish from then
on will, to a great extent, be due to that grace, and not to your efforts
alone. If you turn away from that grace, however, you may find yourself
abandoned by it. Grace will only reach out to save you if you have already
proved yourself deeply sincere in your commitment. If you have yet to
earn that extraordinary grace, and if the divine forces are not convinced
that you really want God alone, they may decide to let you learn life’s
lessons more thoroughly as you wander again, for a time, on your own.
As Yogananda put it, “God says, I will wait.”
By abandoning your vow, you
may actually open yourself to contrary, satanic influences. The greater
your rejection of the good, the more powerful those negative influences
will be in your life.
Yogananda also said reassuringly,
however, “God is no tyrant.” If you really do want Him above all
else, He will take you back into His all-loving, all-embracing arms.
It will depend above all on when you, yourself, are ready. He, as I
said, is always there, waiting for you. It depends, you see, on the
strength of your own will.
There is no need, certainly,
for the imposition of social strictures on any failed renunciate. Unless
his failure is accompanied by self-justifying condemnation of “God
and all that crazy crowd,” he deserves people’s compassion. The
inner penalties he draws will be what he deserves. Who is man, that
he should presume to say what the dictates of karmic law shall be?
I submit now the vows for
brahmacharis, tyagis, and Nayaswamis respectively. Each set of vows
will be given its own separate page.
Next
The Vow of Brahmacharya