By John Sherman

First published in the Gangaji Foundation Newsletter, 1997

This is a story about the deep, sweet mystery of Satsang; a story about life helplessly, secretly serving Truth, which is only "life" by another name. This is a story about Satsang as Hell. This is a true story, and these words will certainly fail to do it justice. Still, it demands to be told.

Gangaji found me in a prison in Colorado in June 1994. When sshe appeared, I had for as long as I can remember, known only hopelessness and despair — despair so thick and profound it seemed to me to be truth itself. In the moment of meeting her, in no time — now — it was all finished. Looking into her eyes I saw only her, seeing only me, seeing only her self, seeing no other. In that moment, without restraint or hesitation, she laid bare for me the absolute, the naked core of her being — which is beyond all possibility of denial, the core of all Being. Just like that — in a trillionth of a sliver of an instant — she who comes empty-handed, she who has absolutely nothing to give, gave me everything.

Returning to the senses (strange how often that movement is used as a synonym for a return to sanity), I found that the "me" who called itself John Sherman was now only the state of being totally, helplessly in love with her; so in love it seemed that breath had no purpose other than to love her; so in love it seemed that breath must fail unless she looked at me. There seemed to be quite literally nothing left of me but loving her.

Since I could not sit at her feet waiting for her gaze accidentally to fall on me, I had to find some way to attract her attention — to make me pleasing to her. Otherwise, I would surely die. So I wrote her letters, love letters, one after another. I told her I adored her. I told her of the wondrous blaze of vision and revelation and mystery that now comprised the greater part of my experience. And she read my letters to you, and she honored me extravagantly. And she loved me. How could this be? It seemed — it is — a miracle. Oh, how I reveled in the splendor with which I was so unjustifiably showered. I wanted nothing now but to die in her love.

All the while, of course, I knew beyond knowing that the letters, the visions, the revelations, the mystery, the wonder, the joy were all only reflections of the fire in which all the "me" that yearned so for her was surely being incinerated. I knew that, in truth, only my ashes would please her. All the better. How happy l was in the burning, how proud I was of my resolve to prove my love. And then mind, which had lain in wait in the most deeply hidden lair of the lie, opened in me the heart of its hunger, came to me as if by magic — as the most intense, richest, most luscious gratification of its fundamental cravings. And I, fool that I am, said yes — this is what I want, this I must have. Instantly, Paradise became Hell. Instantly, she who is only love, kindness, warmth, and welcome became unyielding, merciless, cold and cutting steel.

Once, during the sweetest moment of my love affair with the phenomenon of Realization, I wrote to her warning of my weakness and begged her to keep a sharp eye on me, never to let go of my hand lest I fall and be lost. She never took her eyes off of me, her love never faltered. She is the Truth at the heart of all my falseness.

I fought and clawed in a frenzy to escape her, to escape the Inescapable, and she never moved. I snarled at her, accused her of holding me to a higher standard than she did others, and she said, "So what?" I told her, "Okay, I'll stop, but the stopping will hurt. Know that you are the cause of this pain." And she said, "So what?" I wished with all my heart that I had never met her, that I could return to the familiar comfort of despair, but even despair was denied me. I wallowed and languished in the uselessness of all this wishing, and she said, "So what?"

One day in June, about a year after she had found me, she came to satsang ablaze in fury, terrible in beauty. She denounced me, vilified me. She reviled my letters, telling all present that however exquisite and moving the might be, they meant nothing. Nothing. The writer of these letters had betrayed all that had been so freely given, had turned from love and life, had surrendered to greed and lust.

When I heard the tape of that satsang, I refused even to consider the invitation to die that shone so clearly in the core of her fury. I preferred to imagine that I had lost everything, that I had been abandoned, that I had done nothing to deserve this, that she didn't understand... and so forth. And she said, "So what?"

But there were many hearts present that night who knew for whom this fierce sword, forged in the garbage fire of my betrayal, was truly intended. Many saw this sword and instantly recognized it to be meant for them. They welcomed it into their hearts, hungered only to be true, only to have it cut through the tenderest, most subtle layers and sinews of the lie that there's someone to hunger, someone to suffer, someone to be true or false. This is Satsang. This is the sliced-open heart through which Truth shines pure and clear.

Who was giving satsang that night? Who was receiving? Who knew what mystery was opening there? How in love we are with the idea that we know what's going on, that we can know. How unwilling we are to open our hearts to the vastness of immaculate not-knowing, of no one to know, no possibility of knowing, nothing hidden from view. Thinking we know what the teacher looks like, we blind ourselves to the radiance of self-effulgent Guru, other than which there is nothing. Thinking we know what service is, we serve only ego. Thinking we know what surrender is, we are paralyzed by thought's poisons, too crippled to open our arms in true surrender. Thinking we know what love is, we are bereft of love. Thinking we know what Satsang should be, we refuse to see that Satsang alone IS.

We see the suffering, the horror, the cruelty of the world, and we imagine that we can bring peace, bring Satsang to it, never suspecting that the world, just as it is, is Satsang. There is no world apart from you, no "you" apart from the world. All the horror, all the cruelty, all the violence, all the suffering is yours only, is you, is Self. The world cries out only to be free of "me", and of all the "me's" that so burden and torment it. Papaji tells us that the only help we can ever give is to not give rise to a single thought. Why is this so hard for us to hear — so easy to ignore?

Thinking we know what peace is, we bring only violence and discord. Only peace brings peace.

In this life that you have been so privileged to call yours, satsang has appeared to open Itself to Itself. This is none of your doing. You cannot live satsang -- satsang lives you. Therefore, let satsang live this life free of interference and second-guessing, free of you. It will do so anyway, without your surrender, with or without you. Be quiet, be at peace. Let this miracle have you. See that all ideas, without exception, are worthless now.

In the silent, surrendered, open heart, satsang is ALIVE, and sees only itself in your misery or in your happiness, in your surrender or in your rebellion, in Paradise or in Hell. Satsang sees no mind, no striving, no you, no me, and it means nothing to satsang which heart opens to welcome Its sword. In satsang there are no open hearts or closed hearts; there is only Heart. In satsang there are no two lives; there is only Life. In satsang there is not Satsang and the world, there is no door to the satsang hall behind which world looms; there is only satsang, permanent, ever-present, eternal, uncontrollable Satsang. Only Love. All else is imagination.

Be still. You are that Love, that Heart. Disappear in That. Nothing else matters.

Englewood Federal Correctional Institution, 1997

© 2002 John Sherman. All rights reserved.