• Embarking on a digital quest through the vast citadels of Google and beyond, an ancient relic was unearthed: the revered "export" scroll dated September 5, 2014. Rejoice, for the chronicles thought lost have been found. Welcome back to the complete tapestry of TTI.

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The Christ Yoga is Christ Consciousness and is beyond all other Yoga. The Christ Yoga is Freedom, and without freedom there is no Christ Consciousness-there is merely the self which is burdened with system, with knowledge, with technique. It will be seen, as we progress, that desire and search have their opposites, their resistance. All desires and searching are but an extension of the self, which is not the Real. The Christ Yoga is to understand all that is hiding the Real - the Christ. Therefore it is entirely different from all other types of Yoga, which are merely systems which demand a searching in which there is no finding. Thus “becoming” is an illusion. Reality is NOW. Now it is important to bear in mind that there is difficulty in understanding that which is new ever-renewing. We can understand what the mind is made up of, but it is what the mind is made up of that causes all the resistance to the new, to the Real. So in reading this book it is essential to read it aloud and listen as if you were listening to someone else without resistance, without prejudice, and only in this way can the mind know itself with all its opposites, its beliefs, and fabrications.

What I am going to say now is very important for you who are embarking on the road to Freedom - the Christ Yoga. Most people listen casually; they only hear what they want to hear - they shut themselves off from what is penetrating or disturbing their conditioning, their beliefs, their opinions. They listen only to the things that are pleasurable, satisfying their own conditioning. But there can be no real understanding if we listen only to those things that soothe us, that gratify or confirm our beliefs, our ideas. It is an art to listen to everything without prejudice, with-out building up defenses to protect our ignorance, our confirmed beliefs, our original knowledge, our particular idiosyncrasies and our own points of view, and listen to find out the truth of the matter. For it is only the truth that fundamentally frees us - not conclusions or speculations, but the perception of what is not true. What the mind is made up of is not Truth; the Truth is beyond mind, so the mind must cease to formulate before Truth is revealed.

The truth of the matter can never be revealed to a mind that is narrow, bigoted, conditioned with beliefs and knowledge that is binding and blinding.

The Christ Yoga is impossible to anyone who approaches it with a mind that is cluttered with private conclusions, prejudices and experiences. The Christ Yoga is the Love, the Wisdom of God - the Christ free and active, not merely an idea of It, which is a hindrance to Its Creativeness. An idea is but the projection of the self with all its conditioning surrounding it.

So, when listening, do not merely listen to the word but to the inward content of it, and thus you will discover the truth of the matter for yourself. When the mind is freed from its own formulations, only then is Truth uncovered.

When you are caught up in your daily struggles, in your fears, in your business worries, family quarrels, social enmities and frustrations, these may be too much for you. So you pursue the so-called Truth as a means of relief, but this form of escape can never solve any problem; it only dulls the mind while the confusion remains. As long as the mind is trying to escape through stimulations and so-called inspiration, through prayer or repeating mantras, it is incapable of understanding its own process which is essential to freedom. Self-knowledge is the only way. All forms of escape take you away from the fundamental principle underlying the Christ Yoga.

So, in listening, it is not the accumulation of ideas that will set you free, nor mere conclusions, theories or speculations, for these are a hindrance to Creativeness of the Truth. Only by understanding the self with all its fabrications can it be realized that this self-knowledge is the doorway to Truth, the gateway to the Christ Yoga.


This book, The Yoga of the Christ, is a continuation of and a sequel to my last book Beyond the Himalayas, and it describes the never-to-be forgotten sojourn with my friend, the journey to Zamsar and back to so-called civilization as we know it, to fulfill the task allotted to me.

The glorious revealing of the Christ Yoga is beyond price, and it is the foundation of the coming age when Love and Wisdom will prevail. What we know now as a civilization will be as ashes like similar civilizations of the past.

After we left the Hermit of Ling-Shi-La we both agreed that it would be better to reach the quiet of my friend’s sanctuary at Zamsar before we commenced our real work of the Yoga of the Christ, so we left it at that. In the mean-time we would enjoy each other’s companionship on the way, and every step of the way would be a revealing process to me. After crossing the Tsang Po (the great Brahmaputra) we took shelter in a cave beside the river for the night. There we found some dry wood and it lit a roaring fire on which we cooked some food we had taken with us. We kept the fire going well into the night and talked about the Hermit and his life. I fell asleep and did not wake until the sun rose. It was cold but I felt refreshed and went down to the river to have a wash. When I returned, breakfast was ready and we ate, and then made our way towards the trade route to Lhasa, rethreading our steps as far as a place called Dikyiling. From here we took the path to the left running along a river called the Rang Chu, and then we linked up with the trade route along the side of the great lake called Yamdrok Tso, sometimes called Lake Palti or the Turquoise Lake (because of its colour).

It took us three days to reach this point, the going being extremely rough, just a mere narrow two-foot path, but eventually we reached the trade route which meant comparatively easy going. When we reached a small town called Pede Dzong my friend called on the headman whom he knew well and he supplied us with two ponies. I was glad to have that faithful Tibetan pony all the way to Zamsar and back. My mount was a stallion, jet black, not a spot of white anywhere, and very sure-footed. I named him Black Prince. At first he was a little fresh, but he settled down as we got to know each other. One gift I always had was that of getting on well with horses, for I had been brought up with them in my early life. I can remember, when I was quite young, that we had a very wild black stallion called Black Prince. None of the others dared go near him, yet I could enter his loose box and feed him with linseed cake which he chewed with relish. One day my parents saw me feeding him and they were extremely distressed, indeed they forbade me to do such a thing again. Yet I loved that horse and at no time did he try to kick or bite me. From then onwards I was supposed to have what was known as the horseman’s word. What that meant I did not know, and it was considered to be a secret. Yet I am convinced that there is no such thing as a horseman’s word, only a response to love that one has for animals. My Tibetan pony reminded me of Black Prince, and hence his name.

My friend and I spoke about things in general on our way, for we had already decided not to pursue our real work till we reached Zamsar.

For miles we wandered on, taking in what we saw. My thoughts often strayed to the sanctuary of the Hermit of Ling-Shi-La and what had been revealed to me there. To me the Hermit was a real memory, and much of what he had said was unfolding in my mind as we went on our way. My thoughts and those of my friend were often very much the same; many times we would speak of the same things.

On the third day we reached the Turquoise Lake. “So this is Yamdrok Tso,” I said. It could well be a loch in the Highlands of Scotland where I was born, with an island not far from the shore and, beyond, the mountains covered with snow. The water was of a greenish blue which gave it the name of Turquoise Lake. No wind was blowing and the surface was calm. I got off my pony and went down to the water’s edge. From there I could see plenty of fish swimming around, hundreds of them. My angler’s eye fastened on a few and I wished I had a rod and line just then.

“What an angler’s paradise!” I said to my friend. “Yes,” he replied, “I could see the glint in your eye but we have no time for fishing now.”

Here we were, 14,000 feet above sea level, and it was fresh even though the sun was shining. The lakeside was covered with wild flowers, making a profusion of colour. “What a sanctuary,” I said, for there were hundreds of wild duck and geese on the lake. I picked up a stone and threw it into the water near them and off they flew, quacking over to the island about half a mile away. I felt joyful---the scene was so lovely, with life all around us, and the roughest part of the journey over. All day we rode along the lakeside, and we passed several trains of yak and donkeys carrying loads both ways. In one train I counted more than 500 yaks and in another train I counted 150 donkeys.

The village of Pede Dzong juts out into the lake, and right on the farthest protruding part stands an old fort. It reminded me of Glen Urquhart Castle jutting out into Loch Ness of Inverness-shire in Scotland. Around the ruins were patches of wild flowers; blue and violet delphiniums were there in profusion, with other wild flowers such as gentian, etc.

We made two halts on the way, cooked our food and slept in our sleeping bags. The only things that troubled me were the mosquitoes. We traveled around the lake till we came again to the Tsang Po, after crossing the Nyapso La. From this pass, 16,000 feet up, we could look down the valley of the Tsang Po, and as far as the eye could reach I could see the valley was covered with green, red and brown patches of cultivation through which the great Tsang Po flows. Here and there the high ground on each side of the river was dotted with houses with red roofs, and on the far side was a great range of mountains covered with snow. I gazed upon it for some time and the I heard my friend’s voice calling: “Where are you?” for he had gone ahead. I replied: “Coming”, and I could hear my voice echoing down the valley. It was a sheer sensation, and I recall it as I write.

Down we went zigzagging for nearly 5,000 feet and then we came upon this very fertile valley. The wild flowers were in profusion over two feet high. Never had I seen such an array of colour. There were blue and violet delphiniums, primulas and gentians, wild rhubarb and Chinese poppies and may other wild flowers.

Where the track reaches the Tsang Po the river is over a quarter of a mile wide and it flows very rapidly. I threw a piece of wood into the surging mass of water, and the wood sped away at the rate of about thirty miles an hour. The Tsang Po was in spate, the snows from the great Himalayas were melting, and recently there had been heavy rains lasting some days. We rested at a place called Changda Dzong. My friend was known all along the trade route, and we were made welcome in Changda at the home of the headman, a man called Dor Tsang. We were fed well and slept well. Next day we proceeded down the side of the river to Chaksam. Here we crossed without incident on a ferry made from trees with spars tied across them, holding them together.

Although the river was at this time considered dangerous, we reached the other side safely, more than half a mile down from our starting point.

Here the river widens several miles and winds its way through the sand wastes as far as the eye could see.

The track now on the other side of the river zigzagged up and down, sometimes high above the river and then down again by the riverside, till we reached the Kyi Chu, a river almost as wide as the Tsang Po. (Kyi Chu means river of happiness.) Here these two great rivers meet, the Kyi Chu coming down from Lhasa and the Tsang Po running into it. At the meeting of these two snow rivers there was great turbulence, whirlpools hundreds of feet wide whirling and surging, aggravated by the swollen waters. No living thing could last in this torrent of rushing snow-water for more than a minute; even a boat would be swamped and sucked down in the whirling mass of water which was once ice and snow.

We watched this terrific struggle going on as the waters met. I said: “I don’t think there is anywhere in the world a sight like this.”

“No,” my friend assented, “this is one of the great sights of the world, but few from the outside world have ever seen it.”

Both rivers were now one and turned at right angles. It was still the great Brahmaputra, and Kyi Chu swallowed up in it, now one, making its way to the sea through the richest fertile area in Tibet. We could see away in the distance both sides of the river richly cultivated. Throughout this area there are a number of ferries. The first is at a place called Dorjetra, another is farther down at a place called Chitishio Dzong, another is at a place called Gerba, and yet another is at Timen, all being in a stretch of about forty to fifty miles, an area never yet visited by any Westerners.

We were still clad in the robes of the Lama and had all the privileges that are afforded them. My friend did the talking, I answering in Tibetan when asked a question; but never allowing myself to be caught up in a flowing conversation. On the way we met several Lamas who knew my friend personally as a great sage, and this put him always in the foreground.

Next day we reached Drepung Monastery, the largest monastery in the world. My friend was well acquainted with the Abbots there and we were made very welcome. My friend told them of my work and why I was in Tibet, and this created great interest among the Abbots. I was introduced to a Lama called Mundu (that was how his name was pronounced). He was educated in India and went to England to study mining engineering. He was a delightful fellow.

He spoke excellent English and we had many animated talks together. I was amazed at the size of Drepung Monastery. It is a big town, self-contained, with over 9,000 Lamas. The main hall accommodated over 6,000 Lamas at one time. The prayer wheels were the largest I have seen in Tibet; they were about ten feet in diameter and moved on cog wheels. A handle turned a large wheel which in turn turned others which turned the great wheel with ease. When one revolution of the prayer wheel was made, a gong rang which could be heard all over the entrance hall in which it stood; this was a sign that your sins were forgiven.

The ritual and all the paraphernalia were much the same as in other monasteries, like those I mentioned in my book Beyond the Himalayas.

I had been given comfortable quarters and good food. We stayed in Drepung only one day and one night, as we wanted to proceed to my friend’s sanctuary at Zamsar as quickly as we could. We decided not to waste our time with officials, so we agreed after visiting the Potala at Lhasa to go on. The Abbots were astonished at our decision. Officialdom to them was of great consequence, but to us it was merely waste of time.

As we reached the gateway leading into Lhasa we came upon a swarm of beggars sitting by the roadside, with their tongues protruding as a sign of thanks for what they expected to receive.

These beggars are professional and would not deign to do any other work. They are led by the bandits I told you about in my book Beyond the Himalayas. They also assume that banditry and begging are a gentleman’s occupations. From the outskirts of Lhasa the Potala looked majestic with its golden roofs shining in the sun. It stands upon that great rock upon which it was built many centuries ago, seventeen stories high, long before America was ever heard of. Yes, the Potala is perhaps the largest single building in the whole world. We went to the Potala with written permission. The Regent was then in charge. The Dalai Lama was in Darjeeling in India at that time, having had to flee for his life. I saw most of the outstanding things including the Garden of Mystics, the Dalai Lama’s tomb, etc., his throne and many other important things which make up their religion in which I was much interested; knowing what religion is, I knew that it was all made to impress. We think that by giving a coin to a beggar we have solved the problem. We call it charity, so we feel important, we feel noble. But is it noble? Are we not all responsible for the society that permits of this tragedy in human wastage?

We see the aged, the blind, the crippled, the diseased, we see the loathsome state of affairs outside these majestic edifices built of stone, cluttered inside with riches. Yet the living are allowed to rot and die in their appalling misery. Yes, we stand branded, yet unashamed of our own miserable handiwork, in which organized religion fails to raise her head because she belongs to the society that is responsible for this state of affairs.

Yes, Lhasa is a city of beggars, filth and intrigue. There is no idea of sanitation, men and women squat down on the street like dogs. It is only the cold climate that keeps an epidemic from spreading. Dead dogs lie on the roadway, others are so emaciated that they can hardly walk, with sores all over. I felt that if I had a gun I would shoot the poor miserable beasts to free them from their misery. The dead ones are eaten by the living, for that is all the food they can find. Litters of pups are born from an emaciated bitch that can hardly crawl herself. It is a miserable sight to witness in the centre of one of the great religious places in the world. The disregard for life of all kinds, even human life, is beyond description. Tibetans will spend any amount of time and money on their “dead” religion but have little or no interest in the living things around them; even the most primitive hygiene is sadly lacking. We see magnificent buildings, temples with golden roofs, etc., built over the dead bodies of past Dalai Lamas, yet ordinary kindness to the very least is lacking. Where is there Love in any of these religions? There is none! Not even in the best of them, they are cold dogma with no love or life in them. Most of the shops, which are really stalls, are run by women. In fact they are considered better business people than the men. We got to the Post Office where we found a Lama who spoke English. He was educated in India. I posted a letter to a great friend of mine, Dan Wanberg (who has now passed from this earth life) in Johannesburg; his wife Teddy still has that letter, which she regards as one of her most cherished possessions.

The name Lhasa means “the place of the Gods”. We visited the holiest shrine in the world, Jo-Kang. It has a golden roof which shines in the sun. This shrine was built in A.D. 650 to enshrine the image of the Buddha brought by the wives of the great King Song-tsen-Gampo.

In 1925 a plague of smallpox broke out in Lhasa in which about 8,000 people died; their bodies were put into heaps and burnt outside the city, and the stench, I was told, was too terrible.

As we passed the Temple of Jo Kang we saw beggars and pilgrims alike prostrating themselves in the filth before the temple, uttering prayers all the time; they crawled along on their bellies because it would be sacrilege to walk. What has the mind of man come to when he worships a building built with hands? He grovels in the dirt debasing his very soul---the real temple of the living God. I was so disgusted by what I saw that for me the very presence of the great Potala lost all significance.

We entered the temple where there was a large figure of the Buddha covered with diamonds and precious stones, probably the most precious image in the world. Around this image were gold butter-lamps which have been kept burning without a stop for hundreds of years. We passed other shrines on the way, but to describe these would fill a book by itself.

One shrine I must mention is that of Palden Lhamo. This Buddha is equal to the Hindu God Kali, wife of Shiva. There were two images, of which showed her as a frightful monster clad in the skins of her human victims and eating the brains of others from a human skull; around her were the emblems of disease and death, hideous masks, and all the hideous contraptions for killing people. Her face was too horrible to look upon. This was what the poor deluded people had to look upon! If this is religion then the sooner we get rid of it the better, and perhaps now the Communists have occupied this so-called holy city the sooner will this so-called religion, which lives on intrigue be relegated to the scrap heap where most of its poor deceived adherents are thrown without mercy, without care or love. What I saw in the Potala I will describe in more detail in the next chapter.

* * * * *

Agricultural methods in Tibet today are exactly as they were a thousand years ago. The surface of the earth is still scratched with primitive ploughs, but without the winter frosts to break up the soil this plaguing would be useless. The sound of the deep-toned cowbells which hang around the necks of the yak or dzo pulling the plough adds to the fascinating picture, which though primitive has its charm. The women, barefooted, with their skirts tucked well above the knee, walk behind the plough scattering the seeds which are immediately covered with earth by a primitive harrow made from a log of wood with hard spikes of wood pushed through holes burnt for that purpose.

As soon as the seedlings appear, the Ngak-Pa or miracle worker comes along with a large number of mud balls; and he lays a spell upon the earth, goes to the top of the nearest hill and offers prayers to the various spirits for the protection of the crop from hailstones, hailstorms being very prevalent in Tibet. When the clouds appear on the horizon he extends the fourth finger of his right hand and blows blasts on a human thighbone and commands the storm to retire. If the storm does not obey and hail stones fall, he works himself up into a frenzy and repeats mantras over his beads and hurls a handful of these enchanted mud balls at the storm. If the hail passes without damaging the crop he becomes the centre of admiration and reverence from the cultivators, but should they lose their crops he not only forfeits his fee but also has to pay a fine imposed by the government. This is idiotic superstition at its best.

At harvest time all the village turns out to bring in the crops which are cut and threshed at the same time and place. A suitable piece of ground is prepared and the oxen are brought in to tread out the corn or whatever it is, and eat their fill while doing so.

The threshing is now completed with flails which consist of two pieces of wood joined together with a yak skin hinge; then the chaff is separated from the corn and packed away for cattle feed during the winter. When the harvest is over there is great rejoicing; the people dance, drink beer to their hearts’ content, many being unable to stand up. The “occasion” ends with singing and dancing.

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