Is the Bhagavad Gita Psychologically Damaging?

“My therapist told me to stop hearing classes on the Bhagavad Gita because they are psychologically damaging for me.” This startling statement came from a petite young Indian woman who approached me after a class I had given in Perth, Australia. She had waited patiently while others spoke with me and, after the crowd had dispersed, requested a private conversation. My organizer, who had been standing nearby, graciously moved away to give us some space. We sat in the temple hall, a peaceful place that had once been a church. Yet despite the soothing surroundings, the expression on her face was unmistakably anxious. Concerned, I asked, “Why did your therapist say such a thing?” She hesitated before answering. “Because I have trauma associated with death.” Swallowing a lump in her throat, she continued. “When I was a child, the roof of our house collapsed. I managed to duck under a bed, but I saw my mother and sister being crushed to death.” “I am so sorry to hear that,” I said gently. “Take your time.” After a few moments, she continued. “Since then, I have lived with a constant fear of death. Eventually, I started seeing a therapist, and gradually that fear became manageable. “Then a friend gave me a copy of the Bhagavad Gita and told me about your website, GitaDaily.com, and your classes. I found the Gita’s wisdom illuminating and your presentations very clear and applicable. They helped me understand not only life’s ultimate purpose but also how to face life’s ups and downs more steadily. “I came to Australia for my studies. By then I was doing much better, so I didn’t look for a therapist here because I didn’t think I would need one. But recently I attended a class whose whole theme was that death can come at any moment. The speaker showed video clips containing example after example of people dying unexpectedly—someone suffering a heart attack while driving, someone collapsing while shopping, someone dying while watching television at home, someone suddenly passing away while eating a meal with the family, someone standing on a balcony talking on the phone and suddenly toppling over after a heart attack. “Watching one death after another brought all my fears back. I became overwhelmed. Since I didn’t have a therapist here, I called my therapist in India. She has become like a second mother to me, and I trust her deeply. She told me, ‘You have gone to Australia for your education. These classes are agitating you and may make it difficult for you to focus on your studies. Stop hearing them and focus on what you have gone there to do.’ “So I followed her advice. I stopped hearing Bhagavad Gita classes for almost three months, and gradually my agitation decreased. But when I heard that you were coming here, I decided to attend your class just so that I could ask you this question. I have found your classes encouraging rather than agitating.” Listening to her, I was reminded once again of how difficult life can be, and how much more difficult those difficulties become when they are filtered through the unique psychological burdens that each of us carries. When a Helpful Teaching Hurts “I understand where your therapist is coming from,” I replied. “Her concern is valid. But I think her solution may be too sweeping. “I don’t think this experience necessarily means that you need to give up hearing the Bhagavad Gita altogether. Rather, you may need to become more selective about which speakers you hear and which themes you focus on. The wisdom of the Gita has already helped you, and it can continue to help you. The key is to approach that wisdom in a way that supports your healing rather than aggravates your wounds.” She looked thoughtful. “How can I be sure that I approach the Gita in a way that heals rather than harms me?” “Let’s first understand the principle,” I replied. “Suppose a good medicine has cured many people but produces a side effect in a particular patient because of that person’s medical history. Does that side effect invalidate the medicine? And even more, does it invalidate the entire treatment?” She slowly shook her head. “Certainly not. Similarly, contemplating the unpredictability of death can function like one medicine within the Gita’s much larger treatment for our spiritual growth. “Remembering the reality of death—and even the possibility that it can come at any time—has helped many people seriously contemplate what really matters in life. That contemplation can gradually impel them to turn toward the Lord, who ultimately matters. Increased spiritual focus is the intended effect of the teaching. “But the same teaching can affect different people differently. A person strongly influenced by rajas may think, ‘If death can come at any time, let me enjoy as much as I can before I lose the opportunity.’ A person overwhelmed by tamas may think, ‘If death can come at any time, why do anything at all?’ Thus, a teaching intended to inspire spiritual purposefulness may instead stimulate material pleasure-seeking in one person and utter passivity in another.” Gently, I continued, “In your particular case, because of your traumatic history with death, this teaching has produced an undesirable effect. But the Gita’s message is far bigger than this one teaching. Just as a patient can continue treatment using other medicines, you can focus on other teachings within the Gita and continue your spiritual growth.” She considered this for a moment. “Can you give me an example? What teachings should I focus on?” “The most important would be Krishna’s unfailing love for us and his enduring presence within our hearts. “Broadly, there are two powerful impetuses for spiritual growth: the world’s temporariness and Krishna’s mercifulness. The more we internalize the reality that this world is temporary, the more we feel driven to seek something that lasts beyond it. That search can ultimately turn us toward spiritual reality and toward the supreme spiritual reality, Krishna. “But we can also be drawn toward Krishna positively. The more we contemplate his inexhaustible love for us, the more we feel inspired to reciprocate that love. We become convinced that developing our relationship with him is the most meaningful and fulfilling use of our life’s energies.” After a pause, I added, “In fact, as your awareness of Krishna’s unfailing love grows, it may gradually give you a larger spiritual reality within which to face your fear of death.” She looked intrigued. “How might that happen?” “Because Krishna’s love for us is a reality bigger than death. Krishna loved us before we were born into this life, and Krishna will continue loving us even after we die.” As I spoke, I looked at her carefully, wondering whether my use of the very words death and die might trigger her. But she seemed more absorbed in what I was saying than disturbed by those words, so I continued. “The more we practice bhakti and appreciate Krishna’s constant presence within our hearts, the more we begin to realize that he is a reality far bigger than this world and everything that can happen within it. And as Krishna becomes a bigger reality in our consciousness, our fears about the problems of this world—including the ultimate problem of death—can gradually become smaller. “So you don’t have to stop hearing the Bhagavad Gita. You can simply become more selective about which topics within the Gita you hear about and which teachers you hear from.” She nodded. “Your answer has removed a big burden from my heart. Thank you so much.” Learning How Others Learn Later, while journaling about that conversation, my thoughts gradually shifted from what she had experienced to how I myself communicate spiritual truths. On what basis do I select the topics I speak on, and how do I decide the way in which I speak about them? Her experience made those questions feel more urgent. Those questions drew me toward a framework I have drawn from the Mahabharata’s deep deliberations on dharma. To discern what is right, we need to consider three factors that I summarize with the acronym ICE: Intent, Content, and Effect. My intent may be entirely positive. I may sincerely want to help someone understand spiritual truths and become more serious about spiritual life. My content may also be sound, grounded in guru, sadhu, and shastra. But even when my intent is good and my content is right, I still need to consider the effect my words are having on those who hear them. Good intent and sound content do not relieve me of the responsibility to consider their effect. I am sometimes painfully reminded that my words may not always have had their intended effect. This happens especially when I look back at notes from talks I gave during my first decade of practicing and teaching bhakti. There I find statements that were sweeping and generalized, without sufficient consideration of the contexts in which different people might hear them. Those statements may not have been inaccurate, but they were still ill-considered. I can very well imagine that younger version of myself justifying such statements: “My intent was good. My content was right. If people aren’t ready to hear hard truths, that just shows that they aren’t sincere.” Today, I wince at the self-righteousness of my younger self. The Gita itself offers a striking corrective to that attitude. In Bhagavad Gita 17.15, Krishna describes disciplined speech as anudvega-karaṁ vākyaṁ satyaṁ priya-hitaṁ ca yat: speech should not cause unnecessary agitation; it should be truthful, pleasing, and beneficial. What strikes me is that truthfulness is essential, but truthfulness alone is not enough. The question is not merely, “Is what I am saying true?” but also, “Is the way I am saying that truth likely to help the person hearing it come closer to the ultimate truth? Are my words making their path toward Krishna easier or harder?” My travels across the world have repeatedly reminded me that the people who come to hear the Gita’s message have real histories, and those histories often include real wounds. If I refuse to consider those histories, that demonstrates not the purity of my conviction but the paucity of my compassion. To better understand the effect my words are having, I consciously try to spend time understanding the people I am speaking to. Before talks, I often speak with the organizers about the audience and their concerns. After talks, I try to talk with members of the audience directly. And when the organizers set up a table with my books and invite people to approach me to get their books signed, that provides a particularly helpful setting for interacting with them. Both their questions and their answers to my questions help me understand how what I said actually landed. I recognize that I cannot control how everyone interprets my words. If someone misunderstands or misapplies something I say, I cannot take responsibility for every consequence. But as a human being, I still feel morally responsible to do what I reasonably can to avoid unnecessarily agitating or wounding others. That sense of responsibility has also tempered how I speak uncomfortable truths. I sometimes feel tempted to take the shortcut of dodging or diluting such truths. But rather than taking that shortcut, I try to present hard truths softly. I try to place potentially agitating truths within a more reassuring, larger context—especially the larger reality of Krishna’s mercy. That way, even when people hear something difficult, they can still feel encouraged to take steps toward him. As I reflected on the Perth conversation and on my own journey as a teacher, I felt driven to offer an earnest prayer: My dear Lord, I seek your forgiveness for whenever my inconsidered words may have made someone’s path toward you more difficult than it needed to be, even when those words were not inaccurate. Please help anyone whom my words may have wounded to find healing through more welcoming and uplifting experiences of your love. Please help me become more aware and alert to how my words impact others. Even when I need to speak unpalatable truths, let me not speak them unpalatably. Let me present them within the larger, sweeter reality of your ever-present love. Please help me to learn how to help others to learn. *** 17.15 Austerity of speech consists in speaking words that are truthful, pleasing, beneficial, and not agitating to others, and also in regularly reciting Vedic literature. The post Is the Bhagavad Gita Psychologically Damaging? first appeared on Chaitanya Charan Das, Bhagavad Gita ISKCON .