(Adapted from a lecture by Swami B.G. Narasingha in Vermont, USA, on 15th May 2002)
The ability to discriminate between matter and spirit is what separates humans from other species. Knowledge or jñāna, according to the Vedic standard, is not the ability to build rockets, but it is the ability to discern what is material and what is spiritual. On the path of devotion, the journey of a Madhyamādhikāri is a long one, filled with discrimination—knowing what is favorable or unfavorable, clean or unclean, good or bad. This stage of devotion requires them to discern true devotion from mere outward appearances, understanding that not everything that looks or feels spiritual is genuinely so.
One must learn the science of proper discrimination from the lives of great devotees. For example, Gaurakiśora dāsa bābājī had a tremendous faculty for distinguishing between material and spiritual. Once, a professional reciter of Śrīmad Bhāgavatam invited Gaurakiśora dāsa bābājī to attend his kathā. Gaurakiśora dāsa bābājī, knowing the man was not genuine, refused to attend. Because of this, many other devotees also didn’t go. The reciter, frustrated, moved his tent right across from Gaurakiśora dāsa bābājī’s hut, hoping to attract people by association. For seven days, Gaurakiśora dāsa bābājī stayed locked inside his hut, refusing to show his face. After the event, Gaurakiśora dāsa bābājī asked his servant to purify the area with cow dung and cow urine. The servant, confused, asked why purification was needed since the Bhāgavatam had been recited there. Gaurakiśora dāsa bābājī replied, “Bhāgavatam? I didn’t hear Bhāgavatam. All I heard was ‘rupee, rupee, rupee.’” He knew that the man’s recitation was motivated by a desire for money and honor, not devotion.
Śrīla Śrīdhar Maharaj could distinguish between mundane and spiritual sound, even when the sound is that of the holy name being chanted. There was a time when a prominent ācārya in England began manifesting extraordinary symptoms of ecstasy while chanting the holy name. The kīrtan would go on for hours, and the ācārya would even fall off the vyāsāsana in apparent ecstasy. And it was a high vyāsāsana too. It was quite a drop in those days. The devotees were divided—some thought it was genuine prema, while others were unsure. To resolve the matter, they brought a tape of the kīrtan to Śrīla Śrīdhara Mahārāja. After listening for just 1-2 seconds, he shaked off the headphones, cleared his ears, and declared, “It’s Māyā’s kingdom, Māyā’s sound.” It was later revealed that the ācārya had been taking LSD, and the so-called ecstasy was chemically induced.
The ordinary devotees couldn’t distinguish the true nature of what they were witnessing. It sounded good and looked good—he had tilak on, a śikha, and all the outward signs of being a devotee. He appeared to be in ecstasy, and why not? After all, he had been chanting for 20 years or so. Without proper discrimination, they were judging everything based on externals. But, to recognize a pure Vaiṣṇava, as the saying goes, “It takes one to know one.”
There are some guidelines we can follow to identify a bona fide devotee. While certain external signs like devotional dress, tilak, and neck beads are part of it, they aren’t the whole story. Imagine walking into Prabhupada’s pharmacy in 1926 and seeing a little man with a short crop of hair and a nice mustache. When the bell rings as you enter, he might greet you in Hindi, “Baiṭhiye, aap kaise hai?” You might think, “Is this man a Vaiṣṇava? He’s got a mustache!” You’d probably just ask for a bottle of Aspirin and leave, not realizing who he really was.
Once, a spiritual man came to the West, and the devotees asked Prabhupada about him. He had long hair and a beard and was opening a mission. The devotees were curious: “Is he bona fide?” Prabhupada responded, “I can’t tell how bona fide he is by how long his hair is. Long or short, what matters is what he says.” But even then, some people master what to say. The sahajiyas have mastered this art, and you must be a very close listener to understand the defect.
Take the Nitai Gaur Rādhe Shyām, for example. They chant a minimum of 64 rounds a day and have been doing kīrtan non-stop for 50 years at the samādhi of Śrīla Raghunātha Dāsa Goswāmī. Some of them even circumambulate Govardhana Hill before eating. But how do you know how bona fide they are? You’ve got to be a keen listener and know what you’re listening for. Then the subtleties emerge, like how they consider Nityānanda Prabhu to be Rādhārāni, whereas Gauḍīyas consider the position of Gadādhara Paṇḍita to be Rādhā-bhāva. If you understand the ontology of the siddhānta, you’ll know what’s what. But even with strict chanting and sādhana, some remain in the material plane of consciousness and have no entrance into the spiritual world. They are sādhus in the name only.
So how can you save yourself from being misled? It’s simple, follow the instructions of your guru. If Guru Mahārāja says, “Don’t read that book,” then you don’t read it. By following his guidance, you will have a chance to learn the right things from the right people first. Later, when you encounter various teachings, you’ll be able to discern what’s real and what’s not. Some books may seem very fanciful, colorful, sweet, and full of nectar, but you’ll know when something isn’t genuine.
For example, there’s a book called Adwaita Prakāśa, sold in ISKCON bookstores worldwide. Most devotees might read it and think, “This is pure nectar about Adwaita Ācārya.” And it is, but only on the surface. Laced within that nectar is a particular poison, specifically meant for the Gauḍīyas, the followers of Gaura-Nitāi. The book was written by those who claim to follow Adwaita Ācārya but hold contentions with the Gauḍīyas. They’ve crafted this book to be as appealing as possible to Gauḍīyas, making it seem filled with the kind of “Nectar Prabhu!”, they love. And that’s the bait. How do you catch a fish? You put a big, slimy worm on a hook, dangle it out there, and even if the fish has seen that hook a hundred times, it can’t resist the worm. The same goes for these deceptive teachings. What appears to be nectar might not be real Kṛṣṇa consciousness.
Real Kṛṣṇa consciousness isn’t always about experiencing immediate sweetness or “nectar.” It often involves sacrifice—a lot of it. The hard days spent working in Kṛṣṇa’s garden, with aching muscles, sunburned skin, and a sore back, might not seem like nectar at first. But in reality, this sacrifice, this pain for Kṛṣṇa, is a different kind of nectar. Over time, as these sacrifices ripen, they produce the highest form of spiritual nectar. Eventually, you get to retire, and someone else takes over the hoeing. So, what is nectar? It’s not always the sweetness you seek; It’s the hard-earned reward of sacrifice and devotion.
Even during kīrtans, devotees used to have wild ways of dancing. Nowadays, we’ve become much more conservative. People would watch us and wonder if something was wrong with us—thinking why we weren’t running up and down the temple room, spinning around, and passing each other in the air. That kind of uninhibited craziness was what they called ecstatic kīrtan.
However, this wild, ecstatic energy wasn’t always viewed positively. Prabhupada, noticing the shift in the style of kīrtans, once remarked that devotees should dance as he taught them in 1965. The “Prabhupada two-step,” as it was called, was simple: one step to the left, one to the right, with hands up or clapping. This became the standard after a big announcement at Mayapur, which was followed worldwide. When things quieted down in New Vrindavan, Kīrtanānanda wrote to Prabhupada, expressing concern that the kīrtans weren’t as ecstatic as before. Prabhupada wrote back and said, “Never mind ecstatic,” because he understood that what some considered ecstasy was merely youthful bile secretion. He didn’t blame the youth, but compared to him, we were all young, and this so-called ecstasy was just hormones firing. The real ecstasy of the holy name is something far superior—while one kind of ecstasy might make you dance, laugh, cry, or sing, another kind can leave you frozen like stone. However, we rarely see this latter form; instead, we often see only the outward displays of excitement. So, throughout Kṛṣṇa consciousness there is the real thing, and then there is the shadow of it.
Just as the sun illuminates everything but also casts a shadow, the holy name of Kṛṣṇa can bring out both the good and the bad within us. When we water the garden, weeds grow faster than the plants, and the same happens with the holy name—it nurtures everything, including the weeds in our hearts. As devotees, we must identify and weed out these undesirable qualities, or anarthas, to allow our devotional creeper to grow properly.
All devotional realities have a shadow, which serves as bait for those who are not truly qualified. Mystic powers are one such bone thrown to distract those who are more interested in the superficial aspects of devotion. Just as a dog chases after a bone without realizing it’s just a distraction, those who are not fully sincere in their devotion chase after shadow Kṛṣṇa, shadow nāma, shadow līla, shadow bhāva, or shadow prema. They believe they have attained something real, when in fact, they are only grasping at shadows. Of course, you wouldn’t want the dog to realize that the bone is merely a distraction. Similarly, Kṛṣṇa uses these shadows to keep those who aren’t fully sincere from the true path of devotion. Ultimately, sincerity is our guide, helping us develop the discrimination needed to see the real path and avoid distractions that can lead us away from real devotion.
And with sincerity comes humility—Humility is the single most adorable quality of the Vaiṣṇavas, often called the crest jewel in the crown of Vaiṣṇava-qualities. The opposite of humility, pride, is the most undesirable quality. In a temple, the only thing allowed to be puffed up are the poories—everything else, especially the devotees, should be subdued and humble. This humility attracts Kṛṣṇa more than any other quality of devotion.
