k~Blog

Last week, the New York Times ran an article by ROBIN MARANTZ HENIG entitled, Darwin’s God. More back and forth polemics between the academic pundits who say there is no God or religion and the ones who say there is. Big guns—all of them: Scott Attran, Sam Harris, Richard Dawkins, Daniel Dennett, Stephen Jay Gould, David Sloan Wilson.

The usual group of over-ambitious academics using rhetoric and reason to prove or disprove the existence of God—and bolster their reputations. For what? Some of the arguments are really weak like, in moments of extreme stress, people invoke God’s help, therefore he must exist. That’s tantamount to: we need Him, therefore he should be there. He is, isn’t he? Tell me he is, please!

Why do we have to argue the extremes: God or no God? Why can’t we explore the in-betweens? What, for instance?

First, let’s admit that trying to prove or disprove God is reaching across a void, a void we cannot cross with the intellect. That is the academic’s greatest folly, using the mind to apprehend the invisible.

So, how do we proceed then? Let’s try lowering the threshold and see if there’s any evidence that resides outside our accepted physical world, and possibly intersects with it. Something that doesn’t strain our logic or our beliefs because we can “walk” from one experience to the other. What kind of phenomenon am I talking about? Well, near death experience, for one. Never having had an experience of this sort, I have no observations to add. But I do accept the reports of hundreds of people who entered a kind of spirit world for a short period before “coming back” to talk about it. Their reports often cite common factors between these experiences.

Does this prove that there’s a God? No, but it does prove that there is something beyond our accepted physical experience. Some people will say it amounts to nothing. They accept nothing less than a hoary Bloke with lighting bolts and a beard, who talks to them from a burning bush. If it isn’t this monolithic icon, then it isn’t worth talking about. After all, near death experience isn’t responsible for creation.

Well, I have a seamless example that flows from the physical world into the metaphysical. Yes, it’s a Kundalini story. After activating my Kundalini, I became aware that, due to a childhood accident, my body had been deformed. Because I was very young, I blotted out all memory of the accident. As soon as I activated my Kundalini, it began to restore my body to its previous—before my accident—state. How do I know this? While meditating, I was able to see the form of my “original”—what I chose to call my “perfect”—body. It fit like a template over my actual body. Each time I lay down, I watched the Kundalini stretch my actual body to the limits of its template overlay. It was as if my body was being inflated under enormous air pressure, causing it to gradually swell outward. Kundalini was sending vital growth energy throughout my nervous system. This activity was responsible for the gradual physical restoration of my body to its intended state.

So my question is: where had this template resided during all this time? Almost thirty years had elapsed between my accident and the activation of my Kundalini. It must have been hiding—or hidden—somewhere. But where? Does it really matter where? The point is, it existed, waiting patiently for the activation of my Kundalini, so that it might once again be useful.

To me, this proved there are designs for our bodies that, once created, never cease to exist. Ultimately, my body was reconstructed—perhaps, retrofitted is a better word—according to the blueprint in the template. Does this prove the existence of God? No, but it does prove that some entity has a “hand” in our design.

This experience enabled me to see that we are all perfect at that split-second moment before conception. Of course, like a building before the foundation is laid, at that moment our beings are only blueprints. These blueprints—the numinous plans laid out for our substantiation—are perfect. At the moment of conception—the moment the egg is fertilized by the sperm—the body begins to take shape. It’s the moment when, were we able to stand over our perfectly designed blueprints, we would wonder if they could be executed as designed. That’s the job of Kundalini. Until the moment of birth, it controls our substantiation. The moment we are born we become conscious and Kundalini—our natural life force—becomes inactive. Of course, after we’re born, something always does interfere. We get sick, accidents occur, we become addicted, we grow older, our bodies break down. It’s not that things can’t happen while we are in the womb, they can. By and large, however, our time in the womb is peaceful. After we are born, the frequency of interference increases because that’s when we start doing things to ourselves. That’s when we bring our will, or lack of it, to bear. That’s when the serious damage to our bodies is done.

Most of the time we just go on living. What else is there to do? That’s the irony of Kundalini: just when we need it most, it becomes dormant. If only the blueprint could have been realized without interference—the operative expression being realized without interference. By that I mean without some stimulus altering the growth process.

So—and this requires a leap in logic—if I could see the original design for my body and it was perfect in every way, there must be some sentient agency that created this design. And even though my growth took a detour on account of my deformity, the blueprint continued to exist in some ethereal computer-memory-like storage, waiting for the day that I might learn of its existence and find a way back to it.

Happily, Restorative Meditation (RM), the method of meditation I developed, allowed me to find my way back to my perfect body. It restored my deformed body, and, in so doing, proved both the existence of the blueprint and the restorative power of Kundalini.

Don’t take my word for anything I say; I don’t want you to. I want you to find out for yourself. For Kundalini is not something that can be observed in a Petri dish or isolated by medical experiments or psychological testing. The power I discovered is systemic. It works with the rest of the body functioning around it. And if it worked for me, it will work for you. That is, if you approach it correctly. What is the correct approach? My book, DIARY OF A CONNECTICUT YOGI, explains my approach in detail.

Nevertheless, academics persist in relying on the intellectual ability, the one instrument incapable of proving or disproving the existence of God. Why? What makes them persist? Don’t they realize that if everyone from Aristotle onward failed, they are no more likely to succeed? In fact, their persistence tells us more about them than it does about the existence of God. What does it tell us? It tells us that they are merely following the dictates of their conditioning. Remember, these are people who have trained their minds in pursuits like philosophy, rhetoric, anthropology, and logic. So they use the tools that made their reputations—in this case, the human mind—to “further” their theoretical investigation on the “existence” of God.

This approach is doomed to failure. Of course, failure only spurs them to try harder. Sharpening their attacks, the debate devolves into personal attacks on each other’s respective intellectual capacities. The back-and-forth polemics have begun. It’s no longer about God; it’s about how-much-smarter-I-am-than-the-other–guy.

Academics are extremely bright; they are also extremely limited, especially when it comes to exploring this question. Not only are they limited, they are ill-prepared. They refuse to explore other resources in the arsenal of human investigative tools. They end up trading opinions with colleagues across the front pages of scholarly journals, in a selfish attempt to gain recognition for their erudition and bolster their reputations. But when you get right down to it, what they are writing about is only their opinions, supported, as it were, by intellectual pyrotechnics. There writings contain no empirical research, no personal observation.