HPB-SB-8-115

T i

vol. 8, p. 115

H. P. Blavatsky Scrapbooks

from Adyar archives of the International Theosophical Society

vol. 8 (September 1878 - September 1879)

Legend

SBT, DT

• HPB note
• HPB highlighted
• HPB underlined
• HPB crossed out
• <Editors note>
• <Archivist note>
• Lost or unclear
• Restored

<<   ☰   >>

eng • рус

The Theosophists in Bombay

...

Whom Shall We Worship?

We have received the following letter:—

To the Editor of “The Spiritualist.”

Rear Sir,—I notice a suggestion in the last number of The Spiritualist for united religious services among those who profess and call themselves Spiritualists; but there is a lion in the path of no phantom kind. Can we agree as to the Worthy One to whom we shall render this homage, or what form the rendering itself shall take? Are we to adore sublimated matter, omnipotent force, fortuitous concurrence, or limiting ourselves to become Pantheistic, Brahministic, awe-struck venerators of the angel “John King?” or fusing all minor differences, to be content with mystic gazing into the infinite moonshine of the future?

Are we to worship round a dissecting table, a spiritually wrecked music stool, a test-tube of blue sky, in an oak grove, before the unveiled Isis, or in Lamb’s Conduit-street, on our heads or our heels? Are our prophets to be decently schooled, or is Milton to be allowed to have his grammar muddled, as I have too often heard it muddled, by “speakers with tongues,” and “pythonesses,” on various “progressive” platforms? Finally, if the guides Shakespeare and Milton should differ on “fundamentals,” do we take our choice, or fight it out?—I am, sir, yours ever,

No Matter Who

.

Our reply to the above letter is, “Worship God.”

If our correspondent asks for a more precise definition of The Master who is to be adored, the following committee might be appointed to give it—viz., the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, the Pope of Rome, the Sultan of Turkey, the Patriarch of the Greek Church, the chief representatives of the Brahminical and Buddhist Churches, and the President of the National Association of Spiritualists, likewise those worshippers of the Unknown God, Professor Huxley and Professor Tyndall, whose “position” is that they are unacquainted with the Deity, and under no obligation to define Him. Furthermore, Mr. Bradlaugh might be appointed to represent Atheism. Our correspondent, after making affirmation that he has no undue prejudice or bias for or against any of the sections of religious thought represented by the rest of the members of the committee, should be appointed chairman.

If these heads of religious thought cannot agree among themselves as to whom we shall worship, even under the guidance of their unprejudiced chairman, why ask for a decision through the public press?

Would he repudiate the definition arrived at by this representative committee, and appeal for an answer to the multitude, to the tens of thousands of preachers in the tens of thousands of the pulpits of the world? Would he appeal to the myriads of teachers of those millions of different religions which probably prevail on other planets than ours? If so, a Spiritualistic preacher has perhaps as much right to be heard as any other, therefore we bring one of the inspirational sermons of Lizzie Doten, the American trance medium, to the front. Her text was, “And I saw no temple therein.” (Rev. xxi. 22):—

’Twas the ominous month of October— How the memories rise in my soul! How they swell like a sea in my soul!— When a spirit, sad, silent, and sober, Whose glance was a word of control, Drew me down to the dark Lake Avernus, In the desolate Kingdom of Death— To the mist-covered Lake of Avernus, In the ghoul-haunted Kingdom of Death. And there, as I shivered and waited, I talked with the Souls of the Dead— With those whom the living call dead; The lawless, the lone, and the hated, Who broke from their bondage and fled— From madness and misery fled. Each word was a burning eruption That leapt from a crater of flame— A red, lava-tide of corruption, That out of life’s sediment came, From the scoriae natures God gave them, Compounded of glory and shame. “Aboard!” cries our pilot and leader; Then wildly we rush to embark, We recklessly rush to embark; And forth in our ghostly Ellida,* We swept in the silence and dark— O God! on that black Lake Avernus, Where vampyres drink even the breath, On that terrible Lake of Avernus, Leading down to the whirlpool of Death! It was there the Eumenides found us, In sight of no shelter or shore— No beacon or light from the shore. They lashed up the white waves around us, We sank in the waters’ wild roar; But not to the regions infernal, Through the billows of sulphurous flame, But unto the City Eternal, The home of the Blessed, we came. To the gates of the Beautiful City, All fainting and weary we pressed, Impatient and hopeful we pressed. “O Heart of the Holy, take pity, And welcome us home to our rest! Pursued by the Fates and the Furies, In darkness and danger we fled— From the pitiless Fates and the Furies, Through the desolate realms of the Dead.” “Jure Dvino, I here claim admission!” Exclaimed a proud prelate, who rushed to the gate; “Ave Santissimo, hear my petition, Holy Saint Peter; O why should I wait? O fans pietatis, O glorious flood, My soul is washed clean in the Lamb’s precious blood.” Like the song of a bird that yet lingers, When the wide-wandering warbler has flown; Like the wind-harp by Æolus blown, As if touched by the lightest of fingers, The portal wide open was thrown; And we saw—not the holy Saint Peter, Not even an angel of light, But a vision far dearer and sweeter, Not brilliant nor blindingly bright, But marvellous unto the sight! In the midst of the mystical splendour, Stood a beautiful, beautiful child— A golden-haired, azure-eyed child. With a look that was touching and tender, She stretched out her white hand and smiled: “Ay, welcome, thrice welcome, poor mortals, O why do ye linger and wait? Come fearlessly in at these portals— No warder keeps watch at the gate!” “Gloria Deo! Te Deum laudamus!” Exclaimed the proud prelate, “I’m safe into Heaven; Through the blood of the Lamb, and the martyrs who claim us, My soul has been purchased, my sins are forgiven! I tread where the saints and the martyrs have trod— Lead on, thou fair child, to the temple of God!” The child stood in silence and wonder, Then bowed down her beautiful head, And even as fragrance is shed From the lily the waves have swept under, She meekly and tenderly said— So simply and truthfully said: “In vain do ye seek to behold Him; He dwells in no temple apart; The height of the heavens cannot hold Him, And yet He is here in my heart— He is here, and He will not depart.” Then out from the mystical splendour, The swift-changing, crystalline light, The rainbow-hued, scintillant light, Gleamed faces more touching and tender Than ever had greeted our sight— Our sin-blinded, death-darkened sight; And they sang: “Welcome home to the Kingdom, Ye earth-born and serpent-beguiled; The Lord is the light of this Kingdom, And His temple the heart of a child; Of a trustful and teachable child, Ye are born to the life of the Kingdom— Receive, and believe, as a child.”

* The dragon ship of the Norse mythology.

A Hindoo Theatrical Announcement

...

Fools and Philosophers

...

Editor's notes

Sources

• 

  London Spiritualist, No. 331, December 27, 1878, pp. 301-2