There is hardly anything less reasonable than the usual expectation
most men raised in the comfort of modern life carry within them that
life remain reasonable. A man enjoying the soothing relaxation of a
reasonable life should above all other men be alarmed about his
ultimate fate. If a man expects to awaken from the illusions of the
lower centers, from the misperception inherent in these functions
about the nature of life, then he had better come into frequent
contact with disturbance, difficulty, danger, disaster and dilemma.
There is hardly anything a typical man wants less. The nerves of the
body do not want to experience stress, there is no wish for constant
anxiety, men predictably want to remain calm and barely if ever
perturbed. No one wants to emit the symbolic perspiration of blood
that accompanies the extreme pressures required for psychological
disassembly, nor face the need for mustering a strenuous collection
of the wits from the faltering lower centers as is often demanded in
the face of shocking misfortune. Men that are raised in our
environment of stability and affluence have their functions set to
expect order and a universal adherence to a variety of social
conventions, this expectation is highly conducive to the cultivation
of the feature of sleep known as vanity. Nothing can penetrate this
particular result of human hothouse cultivation, there is no way into
the sensitivity of essence of such a resident so that there can be
moments of self-remembering. Everything real simply bounces off the
guardian rows of self-confident white teeth that are permanently
posed in a smile of indifference, shocks ricochet without evoking the
least twinge of genuine emotion. When such a man comes into contact
with the work of the Fourth Way, even though he feigns humility for a
short time in artificial deference to those his magnetic center
imagines are above him, soon this lifelong personality emerges and
the self-assuredness that lingers as the result of never having been
tested by a trial of torment adopts the external work persona and
begins to infiltrate the social community of the locality by assuming
the role of another wholehearted believer who belongs and deserves
due respect based on his limited seniority. There is no and can never
be any real work in such a member, this type of adherent has
assimilated the work ideas into his personality. What he believes is
self-remembering is simply an inner declaration of loyalty to a
cause. He often feels a kind of distant longing for the ideals of
awakening, but because everything lands on his social persona nothing
penetrates. This is the position of most of those populating the
societies of the work. When such types are highly defensive and vocal
about the particular shade of understanding that permeates and is
promoted by their group or school it is the result of a kind of
spiritual nationalism, it is the politics of interpretation at work.
Inside the heart of the man's being nothing is actually stirring. His
loyalty is no more reverent or sincere than any conventional patriot
and his understanding is localized in the rationale of his
personality, meanwhile his essence is barely developing, if at all.
What changes this typical situation are trials of torment, disarming
shocks, nagging friction and pressure enough to disassemble the
barrier of vanity by permanently collapsing the superficial smile of
self-confidence. Naturally it is the man's ability to transform the
suffering that makes any difference in the development of being and
consciousness, simply putting pressure on men does not necessarily
improve them. Once a man realizes what kind of life is required to
actually develop a conscious soul then his being has to struggle
against the instinct to decline the privilege. There is a reason why
there are not thousands of men number five roaming the planet,
despite the thousands that claim that level of being, a man has to
transform a soul out of a barrage of afflictions against the
sensibilities of the lower centers and few there are that have the
heart for it.
-From the pages of G. W. Goodwin
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