The Invitation to Become: A Phenomenological Analysis of a Master–Disciple Relationship

Abstract

The contribution of this paper lies in its extension of the phenomenological insights of Martin Buber and Jean-Luc Marion—in particular, Buber’s philosophy of dialogue and the I–thou relation, and Marion’s articulation of saturated phenomenality—to the unique context of the relation between a spiritual Master and a disciple. The author of this paper is the disciple in question, such that a certain autobiographical dimension to the analysis is inevitable and even necessary. From this it follows that the analysis presented in no way aspires to apply universally to all Master–disciple relationships, though some generality may be possible to the extent that both Buber’s and Marion’s phenomenological insights may be generalizable to some degree. At heart, what is hoped is that the thick phenomenological descriptions contained in the analysis, expressions of a sustained application of the work of Buber and Marion to a unique context, will be of interest to the reader.

1. Introduction1

While common for centuries, even millennia, within religious traditions like Hinduism, Buddhism, and Daoism (or other traditions of Asia), the phenomenon of the “Master–disciple” relationship has had far less prominence within the three Abrahamic traditions, although it is certainly still there. One finds it, of course, in Islam’s Sufism, or in the Hasidic tradition of Judaism. Even within Christianity—whose overall Christo-centrism has sometimes cast Christ alone as the Master (or as a very unique kind of one, being God himself)—one nevertheless readily finds, in the mystical/monastic tradition, for example, any number of towering spiritual figures (some of them in possession of quite remarkable spiritual powers, if the legends be true) serving as spiritual guides for others who are not yet as far along the path. Nevertheless, it needs to be pointed out that in the Abrahamic traditions, the Master–disciple relationship is generally characterized differently than in Asian traditions. This is in part due to the theological articulation of the “wholly Otherness” of God in the Abrahamic traditions. These traditions essentially have what might be called “dualistic ontologies”, with uncreated divine nature standing over against, or utterly transcendent to, and bringing into being, created nature.2 In Christianity, the only perfect mediator of the divine–human interaction is the Christ (God himself incarnate) in whom the two natures come together in union.3 By contrast, religious ontologies of Asian traditions tend to be overall (though are not exclusively) monistic in expression, the whole universe being characterized as a manifestation of the divine reality4, with the Master being the one who has “realized” that divine reality already within themselves, so that they are then able to awaken that reality which is still sleeping and undeveloped in others.5

With this in mind, we might consider different types of Master–disciple relationships. Within the Abrahamic traditions (with the exception of Christ himself), Masters are human figures with a high level of spiritual development who are able, in whatever measure, to “see into the soul” of the disciple under their care, and who assist the disciple in their journey towards God. Some of them might even have considerable spiritual powers, bordering on the “miraculous”. But they are not considered divine figures in themselves.6 By contrast, the Master–disciple relation within ontologically monistic traditions unfolds within the understanding that the divine reality is already ontologically present and needs awakening within all (or at least within all sentient) beings, and that the Master is the one who has fully “realized” (or who has undergone the realization of) that knowledge within themselves, and has actualized the powers that accompany that knowledge, including “seeing into the soul” of the disciple. In other words, in monistic traditions, the Master is generally held to be a revelation or fully conscious, individual manifestation of the divine.

The focus of this paper will be to undertake a phenomenological analysis of a Master–disciple relation as defined within very specific parameters, concerning which the following points need to be made explicit. Firstly, the analysis will have an autobiographical dimension to it, to the extent that it will be based on my own first-hand experience of my relation with my spiritual teacher, Sri Chinmoy, of whom I have been a disciple–student for 29 years (at the time of this writing). I will also draw from personal accounts of the experience of the Master–disciple relationship of other students of Sri Chinmoy whom I have known for many years.7 While it might be charged that, on account of this autobiographical focus, at least some of what I discuss in my analysis may be open to the charge of psychologism, I reply that (1) Some generality may be possible to the extent that the phenomenological insights employed in the analysis may be generalizable to some degree. My basic approach will be a form of descriptive or introspective phenomenology, which examines subjective experience while seeking to move beyond mere individual accounts (or narrative interpretations) of experience to describe essential structures or properties of consciousness.8 (2) In addition, I am interested in the way in which the specific personal struggles and psychological limitations involved in opening to, in undergoing, a spiritual awakening in relation with a specific Master, idiosyncratic though they may be, might nevertheless be considered “possibilities of consciousness”. Such “possibilities of consciousness” can certainly be effectively (and rigorously) phenomenologically described through a first-person lens, and a reflective discussion of such “possibilities” also allows for a further layer of introspective analysis of the unique dynamic of the Master–disciple relationship. My two key influences for this approach will be Martin Buber’s articulation of the I–thou relation and Jean-Luc Marion’s articulation of saturated phenomenality. My purpose is to present a satisfyingly “thick descriptive” account of my own experience of the Master–disciple relationship, an account that I hope will be of interest to readers, not only for the thematic focus, but also for the way in which I bring to that description the phenomenological insights and vocabularies of Buber and Marion.9

Secondly, while Sri Chinmoy’s teaching is generally ontologically monistic (so that the Master–disciple relationship here would be characterized as traditionally understood within monistic traditions), I will not be here presenting a systematic discussion of the ontology on which his teaching is based.10 Still, there is a certain sense in which the ontology (implicit though it may be) has decidedly influenced my tandem use of Buber and Marion here. For example, one of the features of Buber’s analysis is the idea of the I–thou relationship being an a priori—as having a developmental dimension, so to speak—built directly into it. I appeal, for example, to his discussion of the child and the “primitive”11 for insight into the extreme asymmetry of the Master–disciple relation. Of course, Marion’s articulation of the encounter with saturated phenomenality also implies asymmetry. But Marion’s thought is generally articulated and understood within a Christian context.12 Within a Christian ontology, the asymmetry of revelation is not a thing to be overcome—or, if it is, then the whole discussion must be set within an eschatological orientation. Whereas for Sri Chinmoy’s essentially monistic ontology, the relation between Master and disciple must at long last be transformed (if it is to be fulfilled) into a relation of mutuality that has potential within an individual’s lifetime. For Buber, this would not mean that the I–thou relation would dissolve, rather that it would grow into the full maturity of its dialogical nature. To that extent, I do find Buber’s aim of mutuality in the I–thou relation (while nevertheless preserving the relation’s undoing of the nominative subject) to be a pertinent feature of his thought for my analysis here, one not specifically addressed by Marion’s account of saturated phenomenality. All of this will be discussed in depth in what follows.

The remainder of this paper will be divided into two main parts. The first part will unfold the methodological insights and vocabularies of Buber and Marion to be applied in my introspective analyses. The next section will then endeavour to bring those methodological insights to bear on my own experience of a Master–disciple relation.

2. Methodological Influences

2.1. Buber’s Articulation of the I–Thou Relation

Regarding the three realms of the I–thou relation—in his well-known classic of 192313, Martin Buber articulates his dialogical philosophy of the I–thou relationship as one of the two basic existential orientations, or modes of being, of human existence.14 This relationship, according to Buber, unfolds within three realms: with nature/animals, with fellow humans, and with “spiritual beings”. The relation with nature/animals takes place beneath language. With (some) animals, we are, of course, able to invite them up to (and at times over) the threshold of language; while plants and all lower beings, “from the stones to the stars” (Buber 1970, p. 73), remain at what Buber calls the “pre-threshold”. The relation with “spiritual beings”15—by which Buber means that which wants to be made manifest through the I, resulting in creations such as works of art, inventions, great actions, visions, and the like—takes place at the “over-threshold” of language and is brought into language through the human response of limiting the Thou in form. The relation with human others, for Buber, takes place within language and is the only one of the three kinds of I–thou relation that has the potential for perfect reciprocity—though it does not always achieve this perfection, and there some relations with human others that can never be perfectly reciprocal; in particular, Buber identifies (in the Afterword) three such relations: a relation of teaching, a relation of psychotherapist and patient, and a relation between a spiritual leader or guide and a person or congregation for whose spiritual well-being the leader/guide is responsible (more on this below).

Now Buber does not identify a separate I–thou relation that might unfold between the human and God. Rather, relation with the “Eternal Thou” holds open and shines through all I–thou relations, in whatever realm. This is because, for Buber, the “Eternal Thou”, in an unfailing address to the whole of creation as God’s own Thou, perpetually holds open the “between” in all such relations. In some sense, the “between” serves, for Buber, as something like an ontological ground—what he calls the “primal ground”. It is not God per se, but rather the “space” opened by the perpetual holding open by God of the I–thou relation with God through all such relations in the three realms. Moreover, this “between” is not just opened by God literally between an I and a Thou, as though it were a mere “objective space” separating them; on the contrary, it unites them. Indeed, it penetrates, it surrounds the I, even builds up substance within the I in its encounter with the Thou in a quite remarkable way. It is precisely this reality of the “between” that Buber calls variously throughout the text: “substance”, “spirit”, “actuality”, “reality”, and the “cosmic force of love”. And this Buber finally just calls the “Mystery”.

Symmetry and asymmetry—as mentioned above, of the three distinct realms in which the I–thou relation unfolds—with nature/animals, with fellow humans, and with “spiritual beings”—for Buber, the human–human I–thou relation is the only one capable of achieving reciprocity (or mutuality, or symmetry). But what exactly does such reciprocity, mutuality, and symmetry consist of here? Indeed, of what does the asymmetry consist in the relation with nature/animals and with spiritual beings? In answering this, it is first important to point out that, for Buber, the I of the I–It orientation is different from the I of the I–thou relation. In the former, the I knows and uses objects which have no “presence”, but are mere contents of the I’s experience; whereas in the latter, the I encounters an irreducible other who is not a content of experience of the I but an irreducibly personal presence commanding, in some sense, or calling forth, the giving over of the whole of oneself in response. In the I–thou relation, one is “drawn into relation”, specifically a relation in which “the power of exclusiveness has seized me”, in which the Thou “fills the firmament. Not as if there were nothing but he; but everything else lives in his light” (Buber 1970, pp. 58–59). Such a “being drawn” constitutes precisely a decentering of the I of the I–It structure of consciousness and a reorienting of it (by the force of the Thou itself) towards the other. The “exclusiveness” of the relation is due to the fact that the I of the I–thou relation ends up being given (in some sense) what it is as an I by that other, such that that other can in no way be placed side by side with other others as the multiple Its within the I–It structure of consciousness can be; rather, everything else takes on its meaning here for the I always with reference to the I’s relation to the Thou by whose force or presence the I becomes who it is. Of course, ideally, between humans, this relation of encounter would be mutual; in fact, it would be the very essence of dialogue, consisting in the mutual communication (which need not be accomplished in actual spoken words16) of this very being drawn into exclusive relation itself. One, as it were, presents oneself, gives oneself over to the other precisely as one drawn into relation—as given to oneself to be one who gives oneself.17 If actual words are spoken in the encounter, they might say anything at all; or one might even remain silent. What is important is only that the “basic word” (as a mode of being) is “spoken” with one’s whole being.

Now this kind of mutual communication, this speaking of the “basic word” in the very speaking of one’s own being drawn into exclusive relation, takes place, for Buber, only in the human–human I–thou relation because it takes place within language—the language that consists of the speaking of the basic word as a mode of being. Nature and animals are not able, for Buber, to fully speak this word. Our relationship with them takes place beneath language and is, therefore, always non-reciprocal, asymmetrical. Either they are Its for us18, or, if we are caught up into an exclusive relation with a natural or an animal Thou, we speak our basic word to them, but they cannot speak it to us in return. Of course, with some animals (for example, see Buber’s exquisite descriptions of his I–thou relations with his cats), we are able to invite them right up to, and at times over, the threshold of language (though even then, they are unable to speak the basic word with their whole being); but plants and all lower beings, “from the stones to the stars”, remain at what Buber calls the “pre-threshold”.19 The I–thou relation with “spiritual beings”, by contrast, takes place, for Buber, at the “over-threshold” of language and is brought into language through the human response of limiting the Thou in form.20 But in this kind of relation, which Buber calls “inspiration”, there also can be no true reciprocity, in part because the spiritual Thou remains veiled in its identity, though it nevertheless “blows around us and inspires us.” Buber references Nietzsche here who says of inspiration that “one accepts without asking who gives. That may be so,” Buber continues, “one does not ask, but one gives thanks.” And one is “unfaithful if they ascribe this gift to themselves” (Buber 1970, p. 176).

As for human–human I–thou relations, as mentioned previously, reciprocity is the ideal. Nevertheless, much of the time, even such human–human relations are actually asymmetrical. It may happen indeed that we are caught up into relation with a Thou to whom we speak with our whole being the basic word, but the other is not so caught up reciprocally in relation with us (or vice versa). This does not necessarily entail that we or the other are therefore experienced strictly as an It, though that is possible too; as with nature and animal beings, humans can also be mere Its for us, or we for them. But it is also possible that we hover vaguely between the two basic words (I–It and I–thou). For though we may indeed be ready and willing to encounter an other in the fullness of the I–thou relation, though we may indeed be determined precisely not to fall into the I–It mode with respect to them, it may happen that we nevertheless fall short of the full I–thou relation, since, for Buber, such a relation is only partly due to will. The other part is grace: “it can also happen, if will and grace are joined, that…I am drawn into relation” (Buber 1970, p. 58). “It is a form of grace for which one must always be prepared, but on which one can never count” (Buber 1970, p. 178).21

Finally (and this is the important point for us here), for Buber, there are even among I–thou relations some relations that can never be reciprocal: a relation of teaching, a relation of psychotherapist and patient, and a relation between a spiritual leader or guide and a person or congregation for whose spiritual well-being the leader/guide is responsible. But in what precisely does this kind of asymmetry consist? In the teaching relationship, the goal is for the teacher to assist the student in realizing their full potential. This requires the teacher to have an intention22 regarding the student, and an understanding of how to move the student from their state of present actuality to one of their fulfilled potential. In the second relation, of psychotherapist and patient, a similar type of dynamic is present, though generally with respect to the patient’s achievement of a condition of health or healing. In the example of the spiritual leader or guide, there might be both teaching and healing dimensions involved, but also simple protection, assisting the spiritual charge in keeping their way on the “correct path”. But in any case, for all three of such relations, the intention set and the responsibility accompanying that intention—which would require teacher, psychotherapist, or spiritual guide to “live through this situation in all its aspects not only from his own point of view but also from that of his partner…practic[ing] the kind of realization that I call embracing” (Buber 1970, p. 178)—could never be something that was mutual here. If the student, patient, or spiritual charge ever reached the state of full potential or healing intended by the one doing the intending, the relationship would take on a different character, perhaps one of friendship, or it would just dissolve.

Now with respect to our purpose in the next section of this article, for our analysis of the (highly asymmetrical) Master–disciple relationship, two things should be mentioned here. (1) The Master in the relation with the disciple—who certainly must have an intention with respect to the disciple, and who certainly must practice “the kind of realization” that Buber calls “embracing”—may actually end up combining distinct aspects of all three of the relationships that Buber describes (teaching, healing, and spiritual guidance of the other). In my own analysis, I will focus primarily on teaching and spiritual guidance, though some concern for healing, too, is not absent. (2) Especially with reference to the concept of “spiritual teaching”, to the introduction of the student to spiritual realities that, at this point in the student’s spiritual journey, are wholly beyond their grasp, and even beyond the imagination, it is actually helpful to appeal to yet another aspect of asymmetry which Buber himself does not address in this context, but rather unfolds in his discussion about the I–thou relation as an a priori—namely, his discussion about the developmental stages of the child.23 While, for Buber, the I–thou mode of orientation is an a priori for the human, the child (in the early stages of its development) does not experience a fully formed relation with a Thou, or even yet an orientation towards an It, but only a (bodily) state of their own being that Buber calls “You-acting-I”/“I-acting-You”.24 This is a state in which the sense of self, as a stable pole in relation with a Thou, is still being built up—built up largely out of the recognition of an encountered exterior force repeatedly acting upon one’s body, and of responding with one’s body to such an exterior force. Eventually, the two poles emerge distinctly (the I and the Thou) from this experience. In fact, it is only once this stable pole of the I is established that a distinct I–It orientation is even possible (although the full capacity to stand in a mature I–thou relation is what really defines, for Buber, the fullest expression of one’s humanity). My proposal here is that the extreme asymmetry of the Master–disciple relation is, in some sense, one in which the disciple’s state is similar to the developmental state of the child—that is, as they exemplify a state of “You-acting-I”/“I-acting-You” (more on this below).

Two methodological dangers—this paper will focus on the intersection of two of the above-mentioned three kinds of I–thou relationship—namely, that with human others and that with spiritual beings. The relationship with human others will be examined, in particular, through the necessarily asymmetrical relation between the spiritual Master and the disciple. Furthermore, I will argue that it is precisely the excess of the asymmetricality of this relation that leads to its intersection with the relationship with spiritual beings. What is interesting here is the unexpected way in which the “between” of the asymmetrical human–human I–thou relation opens onto and even blurs into the “between” of the relation with spiritual beings.

Of course, any such phenomenological project will immediately be exposed to two dangers. (1) There is the danger that any analysis of the “between” will simply reify that “between” as precisely itself an It, in an I–It orientation, and in so doing close up the living reality of the “between” as a true opening in which the I–thou relation unfolds.25 (2) To the extent that the living reality of the encounter with the Thou who is the spiritual Master for the I that is the disciple, or with a Thou who is a “spiritual being” that wants to be made manifest through the I, has oftentimes very particular effects even on the physical body (interior “openings” within the heart or the mind, for example), there is the danger of reducing the encounter in any discussion of the relationship to merely what Buber calls the It–world of “interior feeling”—which unfolds when the I of the I–It mode of existence bends back upon itself.26 My primary methodological influence in the avoidance of both of these dangers—that is, the reification of the “between” and, most importantly, the I’s bending back upon itself into an I–It world of interior feeling—will be Jean-Luc Marion’s work on the saturated phenomenon (especially his discussions of the saturated figures of the idol, the flesh, and the icon).

2.2. Marion’s Articulation of Saturated Phenomenality

Givenness—Marion’s articulation of the saturated phenomenon, of “saturated phenomenality”, is now well-known.27 The basic idea is that in the relation of a consciousness to an appearing phenomenon, the intentionality of consciousness encounters (and ends up largely “objectively” determining) the phenomenon’s self-givenness. Marion’s main criticism of Husserl on this point is that, where Husserl privileges the role of intentionality in this relation, Marion argues that a certain priority should be afforded the principle of givenness. Starting out from givenness, one could then identify three basic types of phenomena: (1) the poor phenomenon, whose magnitude of self-givenness is weak and therefore readily determined (or even over- or reductively determined) by intentionality; (2) the common law phenomenon, whose magnitude of self-givenness is more or less of equal measure with, or adequate to, the force of intentionality at play; (3) the saturated phenomenon, whose magnitude of self-givenness is of such a measure that it overflows all efforts of the intentional consciousness to determinatively pin it down as an expression of “objective” phenomenality.28

The figures of saturation—now the self-givenness of saturated phenomena overflows intentionality in varying degrees, such that Marion delineates several figures of saturated phenomenality, and he does so specifically in relation to Kant’s categories of the understanding. The first degree of saturation overflows the understanding’s category of quantity, resulting in the saturated phenomenon to which Marion refers as the historical event; the second degree, resulting in the figure of the idol, overflows the category of quality; the third degree overflows relation, the flesh being its corresponding figure of saturation; finally, the icon is the fourth figure of saturation, resulting from the overflowing of the category of modality. Marion also speaks of a full-blown figure of revelation, whose magnitude of self-givenness overflows all the categories at once. For our purposes here, the figures of the idol, the flesh, and the icon will be the most pertinent.

The anamorphosis—one more important aspect of Marion’s articulation of saturated phenomenality should be mentioned here, and that is Marion’s idea of the “anamorphosis”. The anamorphosis is especially connected with the saturated figure of the icon, although it has some part to play in the other figures of saturation too.29 The self-givenness of the icon, according to Marion, is invisible, irregardable. It is unlike the figure of the idol, whose self-givenness is of such an intensive magnitude of visibility that one can never take it in in a single gaze (and thus must return to it again and again to take in ever more). The self-givenness of the icon, by contrast, while likewise giving itself in an overflowing magnitude, yet does not give itself as visibility, but precisely as the invisible (Marion emphasizes, for example, the black points of nothingness in the centre of the eyes).

Now Marion’s discussion of the icon is, of course, deeply influenced by Levinas’ ethical discussion of the face of the other (although the figure of the icon need not be confined to an ethical context). In the face of the other is revealed an invisible counter-intentionality, a view coming from elsewhere, that contests and destabilizes one’s own intentionality in its effort to determine, or constitute, the other in some kind of manageable way, at least enough for one’s gaze to have something to “hold onto” conceptually. But neither does this counter-intentionality in its own turn merely determine or constitute the subject in a reductive way, as though the subject were here itself just an object for the other, as though it were some other I’s It. On the contrary, the subject is not, under the gaze of this counter-intentionality, merely reduced to, by being generalized as, the expression of a category. Rather does the icon individuate the subject, casting the subject (heretofore in the nominative as an “I”) now into the dative case: given to itself (as a “me”) precisely to be a self, but a self now oriented towards the other in a way intentionally appropriate to the other. The icon, for Marion, constitutes the self with the force of its own counter-intentionality by, so to speak, casting an intention upon the subject somewhat like images upon a screen—or even (more evocative of the “refashioning” of the subject by the intention) like a seal being pressed into soft wax: a new form given to the wax by the seal. Yet unlike the wax, the self in the dative does not simply “resettle” itself back into a “new nominative”, but continues in its decenteredness, in its givenness to itself, under the (endlessly indeterminable) counter-intentionality that continues to unsettle it.30

Now this recasting of the self into the dative (as a “me”, whom Marion calls l’interloqué, the one addressed), constitutes the anamorphosis. Of course, Buber himself does not distinguish between a nominative “I” and a dative “me”—rather only between the “I” of the I–It and the “I” of the I–thou orientation; nevertheless, there is a parallel here. As mentioned above, for Buber, the I of the I–thou relation is seized by, drawn into, taken up in the intimate relation with the Thou. It has no mastery over the Thou in the way that the I of the I–It orientation has a certain conceptual mastery over the It. To that extent, one might certainly speak of something like an anamorphosis in the context of the I–thou relation. But it also should be pointed out that this new “dative self” that one becomes in the anamorphosis may be articulated in very different ways. For Buber, it involves the intimacy of exclusive relation, aiming at (ideally) mutuality. Levinas, by contrast, articulates this recast self in ethical terms, as a self given to itself to be a self precisely in a responsibility for the other that never becomes mutual. As for Marion, while he is interested in the variety of ways in which this new self might be articulated, he ultimately ties them all back to the pure phenomenality of the anamorphosis itself, as a part of the possibility of saturated phenomenality, in general, and arising in response to what he calls the “pure call”.31

In what follows, I will discuss the anamorphosis as it unfolds for the disciple, standing face to face with the Master appearing as the saturated figure of the icon, in the context of the necessarily asymmetrical I–thou relation between Master and disciple. The saturated figures of the idol and of the flesh will also have some importance in this analysis. Finally, I will address the phenomenon of the “between” of the I–thou relation between Master and disciple in its intersection with the “between” of the asymmetrical I–thou relation with spiritual beings.

3. Phenomenological Analysis of a Master–Disciple Relationship

3.1. Relation with the Master

The Master as icon32—standing before the Master, face to face with the Master, the saturated phenomenality of the figure of the icon holds sway. Indeed, the potency of the (invisible) self-givenness of the Master’s person (or spirit) is quite tangible and can be overwhelming. It can be unexpectedly difficult to look directly into the eyes of the Master, and, even if one manages for a few short seconds to do so, it can be especially difficult to hold the Master’s gaze (or rather, to “hold oneself up” under the Master’s gaze) for longer periods. First of all, there is no possibility of determining the Master by one’s own intentionality here. More to the point is the difficulty of holding oneself up under the extreme gravitas of the counter-intentionality coming from the Master. One sees the Master’s face, to be sure, and yet one does not see it, for the counter-intentionality, invisible and yet excessive in its self-givenness, as it were blinds the disciple’s own33 (far weaker) intentional vision.34

Now phenomenalizing itself through the anamorphosis, the invisible counter-intentionality of the Master gives to the disciple (in my experience of it) to be a new self in three closely interconnected ways. (1) It commands recognition by the disciple of the Master’s height—literally, of the Master’s mastery. Of course, such a mastery does not consist just in the possession and exhibition of certain extraordinary spiritual powers or knowledge. It consists first and foremost in the force of the Master’s spiritual actuality, or spiritual reality. Spiritual reality has a density to it. It has intuitive weight. The Sanskrit word guru, referring to the spiritual teacher or Master, means literally “heavy” or “weighty” (from the PIE root gwere- = “heavy”). To stand before the Master is to feel the weight of their reality—even (and often first) as a force upon one’s body (more on this below).35 (2) The disciple, having recognized the Master’s height—or in any case, having sensed (and having faith in36) something real in the Master—is given to themself in the counter-intentionality precisely as a self invited to participate in that reality, and ultimately to “realize” that reality within themself—or rather, to open themself to allow that reality to realize itself in them, as their new self. The force of the counter-intentionality undergone in the relation with the Master, one might say, is an invitation to become, an invitation that (in some sense) has to be accepted by the disciple. But since it can be thoroughly unclear as to exactly what it is that one is invited to become here (of what, after all, actually consists the Master’s reality?), the “me” ends up being thrown back upon itself, feeling quite at a loss and with no resources of its own within itself to ever adequately answer to such an invitation (at least, determinately37). (3) Thus the significance of the third way in which the invisible counter-intentionality of the Master gives to the disciple to be a new self. In being overwhelmed by that reality, by its exorbitant force of self-givenness, by the (albeit invisible) excess of that reality—and, in so being, finding themself wholly inadequate to the task of realizing that reality within themself (either by their own powers, or knowing exactly where and how to begin opening to it that it might be realized in them, for them38)—the disciple, finally, is given to themself as a self invited to become a disciple of the Master—as a self bound to the Master, whose own reality, through the free gift of the effectiveness of the counter-intentionality over many years, can be made manifest as a spiritual reality within the disciple as well. So to repeat, the anamorphosis—the call of the anamorphosis—consists in these three things: (1) the gift of a self addressed by the reality of the Master; (2) the gift of a self invited to participate in that reality, by allowing that reality to be realized within oneself; (3) the gift of a self invited to become a disciple of the Master, whose own counter-intentionality will do (much of) the work (in some indeterminable way) of manifesting that reality within the disciple’s consciousness.

The asymmetry of the Master–disciple relation—of course, it goes without saying that the relation with a saturated phenomenon—in this case, the icon—is an asymmetrical one, with the counter-intentionality of the icon casting the self into a state of dativity, a being-given-to-oneself, gifted-to-oneself, about which two peculiarities should be noted. Firstly, that the gift of the self is experienced as wholly gratuitous—that is, precisely as gift, and removed from any possibility of “exchange” (to the point where even the determination of it as gift seems to undermine its very possibility).39 Secondly, that the counter-intentionality here gifts one to oneself indeterminately as a (so to speak) “future self”, through a persistent invitation to become. In other words, one experiences oneself as addressed by the counter-intentionality precisely as that future self—and, to that extent, in Marion’s concept of the counter-intentionality, one finds at play the Husserlian sense of intentionality as a determination (of a future self) coming from elsewhere. Yet this is a determination requiring an endless hermeneutic, since it remains largely indeterminable by the one so addressed.

What, then, can be said of this asymmetry with respect to Buber’s I–thou relation? Earlier it was said (in Note 22) that in Buber’s discussion of the “intention” held by the teacher for the student, that the “intention” could be interpreted as something like a “goal” for the student, thus differing in its sense somewhat from the Husserlian sense of objectivizing (literally, a throwing out before oneself in a conceptualizing determination) of a thing as a phenomenon. Nevertheless, there is certainly a determination here, certainly a “casting out before”—and yet not so rigorously determining that the student becomes no more than an object, no more than an It for the teacher. Indeed, here, too, one might say that a “future self” (of the student) is in some sense determined by the teacher in a sort of counter-intentionality. Yet, Buber would insist that the student remains at all times a Thou for the teacher. In fact, perhaps it might be said that the best teaching takes place when the teacher not only encounters the student as they are in the present as a Thou, but even encounters the student in their “future self” as a Thou—that is, a Thou yet fully to emerge into actuality.40

It is also particularly fruitful to discuss the asymmetry of the Master–disciple relation in the context of Buber’s discussion of the development of the child (as discussed above). Indeed, as an I–thou relation with a human other, the Master–disciple relation is overwhelmingly asymmetrical, for the Master’s reality, in which the disciple has been invited to participate, overwhelms the understanding by the intuitive magnitude of its self-givenness. One is cast in the relation as if back to the origin of the emergence of relation to the Thou that dominates in childhood—a Thou acting upon the I, “You-acting-I”. In returning to the experience of the “You-acting-I”, one feels oneself, little by little, emerging as the “I” of a persistent pole oriented towards the Thou, by the Thou, and according to the Thou’s intention (in other words, given to oneself originally as a “me” in that relation, though becoming established in one’s self as an “I” in a new reality). This action of the Thou upon the “me”/“I” (before the I and the Thou are properly split and can face one another mutually in the relation) can, in fact, be undergone in quite a bodily way—or, more properly speaking, in phenomenological terms, a “lived bodily” way41. Indeed, Buber strongly emphasizes the lived bodily dimension of this developmental stage, writing that all the “appearances to which he attributes “mystical potency”…stimulate his body and leave an impression of such stimulation in him” (Buber 1970, pp. 71–72).42 A similar thing can be said of the Master–disciple relationship. The lived bodily dimension of relation with the Master can indeed be quite potent “mystically” and can also stimulate and leave impressions of such stimulation in the lived body. As mentioned above, spiritual reality has a density to it. It has intuitive weight. To stand before the Master is to feel the weight of their reality—even (and often first) as a force upon one’s body.43

The saturated figures of the flesh and the idol—now, in the extreme asymmetry of the I–thou relation between Master and disciple, the saturated figures of the flesh and the idol become prominent.44 The flesh, according to Marion, can be saturated in such a way that it appears without relation—that is, the magnitude of its givenness fills the entire phenomenological horizon, thus overflowing the understanding’s category of relation.45 One feels oneself to be acutely bodily unsettled—but one is unable perfectly to say by whom. In the context of the present analysis, of course, it would have to be surmised that the unsettling is here effected by the Master. By who else? But who is the Master? Not just that physical body sitting there, looking upon one, just as human as any other. Rather, the Master is, in some sense, none other than the invisible actuality or reality that, quite literally, makes an impression upon one’s lived body. The invisible actuality or reality, one might say, phenomenalizes itself through the impression made upon one’s lived body—to the point where it almost seems to withdraw, phenomenally, altogether, thus leaving the flesh to fill the entire horizon.

Herein, therefore, lies the methodological danger as spoken of above. On account of the extreme asymmetry of the disciple’s I–thou relation with the Master, many a time the Master’s phenomenality is experienced primarily through the effect that they have on the lived body, such that the anamorphosis focuses much of its work on the saturation of the category of relation. Time and again, one is helplessly, so to speak, viscerally thrown back upon the impressions of one’s own flesh (and upon the longings of the flesh awakened therewith), such that the Master sometimes barely appears at all, receding into the background well behind the flesh which now fills the entire horizon. This “deeply impressed” flesh, affected first in a hetero-affection (coming from the other), ends up “anamorphing” (so to speak) into a turned-back, solicitous auto-affection of the flesh whose desire is now roused towards the full realization within itself of that same reality that has made these impressions upon it in the first place. For long after the “touch” of (the weight of) the Master’s counter-intentionality has been withdrawn, a distinct trace of the impressions remains active and rousing within the flesh, so that the flesh itself is (auto-affectively) driven to (re)establish their potency permanently within itself. The very longing of the flesh is to become “spiritual”, or better, “spiritually potent”—not in the sense of a non-bodily spirituality, of a spirit–body dualism, rather in a sense indeterminable, non-ontologizable, though phenomenologically appreciable as potency, as actuality, as reality—and, even, to “spiritualize” itself by its own powers. One thinks with Paul here of those who “having the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons and daughters, for the redemption of our bodies” (Romans 8:23)—except that the flesh that is groaning here does not wish to simply wait eagerly, but to bring it about itself. “Not the I but the body wants to make things,” says Buber, “tools, toys, wants to be inventive” (Buber 1970, p. 73)—wants to give birth to itself as that very invisible reality that first aroused its fleshly longing.

It is precisely here, moreover, that the saturated figure of the idol also phenomenalizes itself. The idol is the bedazzling phenomenon, overflowing the understanding’s category of quality. It gives itself in an excessive intensive magnitude of intuition that it is precisely not invisible (as the counter-intentionality of the icon is), but offers more visibility than one can take in in a single glance. It is a visible being that becomes an absorbing focus of one’s whole vision, the “lover” needing to return to it again and again to see more of it. In some sense, the idol (just like a mirror) contains and reveals that highest reality that already exists within oneself—or at least that highest reality that one already vaguely grasps more or less enough of to move towards it as a goal still within the reach of its own willpower. Now interestingly, in the discussion at hand, the visibility in question is actually twofold. In one sense, the idol that bedazzles is indeed the Master themself (who, as mentioned above, as an icon, recedes well into the background as soon as the saturated figure of flesh is phenomenalized). Here, the idol (the Master) communicates a reality that one already begins, albeit vaguely, to feel germinating within oneself, so that the Master becomes the mirror of one’s own highest self (which, of course, closes one off to the counter-intentionality of the Master as icon). But in another sense, the idol is precisely the viscerally visible sense of the spiritual reality that one interiorly feels and moves towards—as it were, desiring in the flesh to piece together a coherent spiritual unity out the scattering of fleshly impressions aroused within one by the excessive intuitive weight of the Master’s consciousness. Here, the idol is, in fact, nothing but the self, bedazzling one as a sort of future fullness of self, aimed at and strained towards by one’s own desire.

In short, the road to the spiritual heights is indeed saturated with fleshly desire and with idols—even fleshly desire that makes of its own desired fullness precisely an idol. But this is not a mere temptation and obstacle, as many a mystic (and theologian) from the tradition would have it be thought. Rather, fleshly desire really announces the logic of the anamorphosis itself (and thus the encounter with the other); but the other disappears under the powerful sway of the saturated figure of the flesh, absolving the flesh from all relation, such that the flesh’s desire to produce itself as a spiritual actuality (an idol) ends up becoming the whole focus of the Master–disciple relation. But the problem is this (as mentioned above in Note 26): according to Buber, if the I (or in this case, the lived body) attempts to realize the I–thou relation “inside” of itself—zealously seeking out, as it were, the “God within”—it will not succeed. The only thing that unfolds, in the end, is an interior It–world consisting of the reification of interior (in this case, lived bodily) feelings.46

The interior limit of the flesh—an interesting and quite well-known story from Buber’s life could be mentioned here. Buber’s early philosophy of “realization”47—that is, prior to the development of his philosophy of dialogue in I and Thou—betrays a good dose of existentialist influence, even Nietzschean influence. The idea of the flesh being gripped by the desire to produce spiritual realities from out of its own depths, from out of its own “abysses”, as it were, would have been quite appreciable for him. But something happened to him in 1914, which Buber later described as being pivotal for him in the development of his philosophy of dialogue. That summer a young man, whose name has been recorded only as Mehé, came seeking advice from Buber, whom he did not know personally, but only by his reputation as a wise counsellor. Buber, who regularly enjoyed ecstasies in his meditations and concentrated “ingatherings” of his creative powers, was too inwardly withdrawn in that moment to be truly and wholly present for the man, although he listened to him and responded politely. Two months later, Buber learned from the young man’s friend that he was dead: he had enlisted and had volunteered to be placed at the very front of the fighting.48 So sharply did this event affect Buber that he made thereafter a sort of personal ascetic vow: not to allow himself any longer the indulgence of the private meditative ecstasies that came to him so easily, precisely so as to make himself available for, wholly present in, all of his relations with others. Indeed, criticizing his own earlier tendency to focus so deeply and exclusively inside of himself, he later wrote that “[m]any celebrated ecstasies of love are nothing but the lover’s delight in the possibilities of his own person which are actualized in unexpected fullness” (Buber 1961, p. 21). In other words, Buber’s distrust after 1914 of his former “interior” focus could not help but distinctly inform his judgement as articulated in I and Thou that seeking out the “God within” will not succeed, that the only thing that unfolds, in the end, is an interior It–world consisting of the reification of interior feelings.

Now all of that being said—and, yes, gratitude to Buber certainly for his warning of such a methodological danger—yet there are those who ostensibly have not at all closed themselves off to the I–thou relation, not at all fallen headlong into an interior “It–world”, for all their “mystic plunging” into themselves and even for all their articulations of the experiences of the flesh as the plunge progresses. Especially within the Christian tradition, of course, such “plunges” aim at a union with God. The whole tradition of bridal mysticism, for example, seeking the “mystical marriage” of the soul with Christ the Spouse who lives in the very core of one’s being—as Teresa of Avila expresses it, as the “spirit in the centre of one’s soul”—is particularly notable. One need only read the The Interior Castle49 or Teresa’s Life50 to realize that, for a long part of the journey before one arrives to that deep core where the Spouse is waiting for one, and from whence they call to one to guide one ever more deeply inward towards themself, there is just a whole lot of lived bodily desire and rousing “viscerality” that must be waded through first. I would venture to say that perhaps there is a lot more space inside there than Buber seems to allow for; also, for the likes of Teresa, that journey within is never a journey through a mere interior It–world, but is always first opened and then guided by the call of the other at their core.

The key point (for the purposes of our analysis) is this: Teresa’s inward journey ultimately did not fold in upon itself into a mere interior It–world, but rather reached what I shall call here the interior limit of the flesh (where all idols crumble)—and, at that limit, an opening of the flesh to a fully alive I–thou relation with God. Of course, it is important to highlight that the Christo-centrism of the Christian tradition yields an added dimension to the I–thou relation which would not be present in Buber’s thought. For Buber, as mentioned, there is no direct I–thou relationship with God apart from the fact that it shines through the I–thou relations that one has with all others in the three realms. For a Christian focused on Christ, by contrast, God is encountered directly not only through the relationship with Christ, but as Christ, who is just as fully human as he is divine. The mystical journey inward, therefore, does not close the I off from the human–human I–thou relation, but focuses it rather on the human Christ alone who is also divine. But even beyond such Christo-centrism, there are Christian mystics, just as there are Islamic (Sufi) and Jewish mystics, who are focused, not on Christ, but on the intimate, deeply relational, loving personality of God who is encountered deep within their lived bodies/souls. While few of these have ever been as explicitly visceral in their writings as Teresa’s expressions have been, nevertheless the appeal to the interior limit of the flesh is still there. References to experiences such as the heart opening, the mind opening, the interior breath, the interior dilation, the soul rising up, etc., all have a very subtle visceral dimension to them which expresses, not metaphorically, but phenomenologically, the opening of the flesh interiorly to the other to allow for a living I–thou relation.

Thus, it seems as if there is a persistent call, or invitation to become, of the icon that effectively reasserts itself again and again, in spite of the great temptation to, the methodological danger of, absorption in the flesh and its idolatrous desires. Just where the gravitas of the counter-intentionality of the icon reaches its heaviest point and the flesh seems to close in upon itself to become its own idol, there also, at the flesh’s interior limit, the “call” sounds forth from within—and there also the icon suddenly re-phenomenalizes itself. Actually, here a curious ambiguity takes hold of the self, as if the usual distinction between “outer” and “inner” begins to lose its force. Once again, one feels oneself to be given to oneself as a “me”, but the counter-intentionality of the icon coming both from the Master (outside of one) and from within (seemingly, through the Master’s contact with one’s inmost being). Between these two “extremes” (of outside and inside) lies a flesh that experiences itself as though thoroughly penetrated by that counter-intentionality (and by its invitation to become), as by a persistent hetero-affection piercing through any and all fleshly (self-)idols. In fact, this is an experience of being so deeply known (and affected) by the other in the force of that counter-intentionality that it is experienced as a being given to oneself not only as a “me” who is invited to become, but as one who is loved.51 And because loved, therefore also made fecund. Teresa writes, for example, that (what she calls) the “spiritual marriage” with the Spouse at one’s core makes one “pregnant” in one’s soul. But pregnant with what?52 In what follows, I will discuss the idea of spiritual pregnancy in relation to the concept of “divine qualities of consciousness” (such as love, light, peace, etc.).

3.2. Relation with Spiritual Beings

Spiritual beings as divine qualities—here we might consider again Buber’s discussion of the I–thou relation with “spiritual beings”—an I–thou relation that takes place at the “over-threshold” of language, as Buber says, involving spiritual realities that want to be brought into manifestation in language through the I (and thus, after all, the distinct aptness of the metaphor of “spiritual pregnancy”). But what exactly are these “spiritual beings”? Buber himself is rather vague when it comes to defining them, saying only that (1) they are encountered in (as?) inspirations, (2) one does not ask concerning their identity (though one should be grateful for them), (3) demanding of the I that they be brought into manifestation in language through the I, they nevertheless suffer a limitation in becoming so manifest in a finite form. The I suffers too, knowing full well that the spiritual being, here encountered as a saturated phenomenon (yet another expression of the icon), in the overflowing potency of its self-givenness, can never wholly be expressed.

But perhaps, if we can say no more of the spiritual beings themselves, more can be said of their (albeit severely limited) manifestations in language. Buber himself typically cites as examples things like artworks. But they could also be great actions, political or cultural visions53, or the articulation of high ideals. Surely, Teresa’s programme of Carmelite reform or Hafiz’s poetic output (see Note 52) could be counted among the manifestations “birthed” from their respective spiritual pregnancies. Or perhaps such manifestations can be found even in something like the qualities or aspects of the reality that is the Master’s consciousness that want to become manifest in the disciple’s consciousness too. Let us revisit here my previous analysis of the Master–disciple relation as based in my own experience with Sri Chinmoy. Let me call to mind once more the three closely interconnected ways in which the invisible counter-intentionality of the Master gives to the disciple (in my experience of it) to be a new self, as I had articulated them above: (1) the gift of a self addressed by the reality of the Master; (2) the gift of a self invited to participate in that reality, by realizing that reality (or opening to allow that reality to be realized) within oneself; (3) the gift of a self invited to become a disciple of the Master, whose own counter-intentionality will do (much of) the work of manifesting (in some indeterminable way) that reality within the disciple. Is such a manifestation in the disciple of the qualities or aspects of the Master’s consciousness what is meant, then, when it is said that the disciple is invited to participate in the Master’s reality? If this is so, then we must also, of course, pose the question of how the I–thou relation here with “spiritual beings” (the qualities and aspects of the Master’s consciousness) differs from the I–thou relation with the Master himself as an icon.

In answering this question we must first consider of what “qualities and aspects” of the Master’s consciousness we are here speaking. Sri Chinmoy’s writings are filled throughout with discussions of “divine qualities” such as light, peace, bliss or delight, love, etc. These are not mere nouns, but are, so to speak, spiritual “substances” or spiritual actualities or realities for Sri Chinmoy.54 At times in his discussion of such qualities, they are treated as if they are wholly gratuitous gifts of grace or revelations from God. But they are also discussed as being (in some sense) the results of spiritual practice and discipline—not so much in the sense that spiritual discipline is capable of cultivating these qualities by its own power, rather in the sense the spiritual discipline prepares one to receive them and to open to them (such that some human effort is required, if only as a willed openness to their manifestation within one). In either case, such qualities are (a part of) the very content of that which the self is invited to become in relation to the Master’s counter-intentionality. They are themselves something that one literally becomes in time, or that which becomes substantiated within one in time. They “press upon” one’s consciousness to transform it, to be themselves manifested therein, until the spiritual actualities that they are over time come to fully constitute one’s own consciousness. To “morph” (or, as it were, “anamorph”) into such qualities as light, peace, bliss, love, etc., is what it means to have “realized” one’s participation in the Master’s reality.

To that extent, it is generally not clear how exactly these two I–thou relations are distinct—that is, the relation with the Master and the relation with spiritual beings (or qualities and aspects of the Master’s consciousness) are both relations that are very much an expression of an encounter with the saturated phenomenon that is the icon.55 For, as the question was posed previously, who is the Master? Not just that physical body sitting there, looking upon one, just as human as any other. Rather, the Master is, in some sense, none other than the impressive actuality or reality (with all its qualities and aspects) that, quite literally, makes an impression upon one’s lived body—to the point of arousing in that body, in the disciple’s consciousness, the overwhelming desire to manifest that reality (or to have that reality manifested) within themself. The Master is light—and as such, the disciple is encountered by the Master’s light seeking to make itself manifest in the disciple’s consciousness; and the disciple desires this manifestation. The Master is love—and as such, the disciple is encountered by the Master’s love seeking to become manifest in the disciple’s consciousness; and the disciple yearns for this manifestation. There is certainly some sense in which these qualities can also be idolized (as discussed previously) as the very form of a “future self”, but that is an idol that becomes ever and again undone by the persistence of the all-penetrating counter-intentionality of the icon, which never really allows one to completely “settle” oneself again firmly in the nominative.56 To that extent, this “future self”—of which, perhaps, it can only be said that its nature is determined precisely as the various qualities of the Master’s consciousness, here subjectively hypostasized—ends up being itself encountered as the “spiritual being” par excellence wanting to be made manifest within the disciple’s consciousness.

Spiritual beings and creativity—just one more thing needs to be mentioned here about such a “spiritual pregnancy”—namely, that it might be described in a twofold manner: (1) The spiritual pregnancy lies in the gift of a self invited to participate in the Master’s reality, by allowing that reality to be realized (with all its qualities and aspects) within the self, hypostasized as a “future self”. The problem is that it is difficult to see—for it is invisible—precisely how the counter-intentionality of the Master does (much of) the work of manifesting that reality within the disciple’s consciousness. Moreover, it is often the case that the I–thou relation with the Master’s reality interpenetrates and becomes confused with the I–thou relation with spiritual beings (qualities and aspects of the Master’s consciousness) seeking to become manifest in the consciousness, initiating their encounter with the I in the persistent invitation to become opened by the Master. All of this was discussed in the previous section. (2) But there is also a second fold of the “pregnancy” in which the I–thou relation with spiritual beings manifests in a way more typically held out as an example by Buber, namely, in creative works—although this second fold of the pregnancy is not truly separable from the first fold. For the way that the Master works in the goal of manifesting their reality within the disciple is through a genuinely co-creative relationship with the disciple, that is, through the gifting of inspiration. Just as the goal of the teacher is to assist the student in realizing their full potential, such that the teacher must have an intention regarding the student, and an understanding of how to move the student from their state of present actuality to one of their fulfilled potential, likewise the Master, with the intention of bringing into manifestation their own spiritual reality within the disciple, understands how to move the student from their present state to fulfilment by making good use of the disciple’s own capacities (which, of course, the Master has identified by “looking into the disciple’s soul”). In this way, it is part of the Master’s intention that an I–thou relation be opened with “spiritual beings” who wish to have themselves be made manifest in language (in creative works) and who can easily make use of the disciple’s natural capacities to be so brought into manifestation. It may even be the case that they awaken within the disciple capacities that the disciple never knew previously that they had—or perhaps they did not have them until they were inspired in them, for the express purpose of manifesting within themself certain qualities and aspects of the Master’s consciousness. For it is often precisely through the practice of creative activity and the production of creative works that the disciple enables the qualities of the Master’s consciousness (light, love, peace, etc.) to be brought into manifestation in their own consciousness as well. Such creative activity actually, therefore, serves and assists the Master’s work within them, being itself a vehicle for the manifestation of the qualities of the Master’s consciousness within them.57

At the very least, we can point out for the purposes of our analysis that it seems to be the case that the Master holds open a persistent “invitation to become” in which not only do they engage the disciple in an I–thou relation as an icon, but also a “between” in which the disciple is encountered within an I–thou relation with “spiritual beings” as well, and it is precisely this latter encounter which assists with the development of the disciple’s creative capacities (creatively struggling with the Thou that is the spiritual being to bring it into manifest form). Such creativity, then, on the part of the disciple truly ends up being an expression of co-creativity with the work of the Master within them (which, in its own way, prevents the fleshly desire of the disciple from sliding into idolatry).

4. Conclusions

As stated in this paper’s abstract, the contribution of this paper lies in its extension of the phenomenological insights of Martin Buber and Jean-Luc Marion—in particular, Buber’s philosophy of dialogue and the I–thou relation, and Marion’s articulation of saturated phenomenality—to the unique context of the relation between a spiritual Master and a disciple. My focus on Buber and Marion specifically is due to their discussion of the alteration, or undoing, of the nominative subject in the encounter with a Thou or with the saturated phenomenon. Other thinkers, Emmanuel Levinas most notably, also deal phenomenologically with this theme, but Levinas’ concern is predominantly ethical, which is not a key focus for this paper. I have attempted here to weave the two thinkers’ ideas together (while nevertheless aiming to do justice to each one individually) to address certain features of the specific Master–disciple phenomenon as experienced in my own 29-year relationship with Sri Chinmoy. Where relevant, I have pointed out where a certain idea in one thinker (not articulated in the other, or not articulated in the same way) can be used fruitfully in the analysis. My hope was that the thick phenomenological descriptions contained in the analysis, expressions of a sustained application of the work of Buber and Marion to a unique context, would be of interest to the reader. While some of what has been discussed might be open to charges of psychologism (for, of course, it is assumed that not all disciples will experience the relationship with the Master in the same way), still some generality may be possible to the extent that the phenomenological insights employed in the analysis may be generalizable to some degree, and in any case I was interested in the way in which the “experiences” to be analyzed might be considered “possibilities of consciousness”, including the specific personal struggles involved in freely opening to, and in undergoing, a spiritual awakening in relation with a specific Master.

One last point might be made here about a certain tension in my use of the ideas of Buber and Marion side by side. I mentioned above (in the Introduction) that my primary focus was phenomenological and, as such, that I would not be presenting a discussion of the ontology of Sri Chinmoy’s thought. But there is a certain sense in which the ontology (implicit though it may be) has influenced my use of Buber and Marion here. For example, one of the features of Buber’s analysis is the idea of the I–thou relationship being an a priori, having a developmental dimension, so to speak, built directly into it. I appeal, for example, to his discussion of the child and the “primitive” for insight into the extreme asymmetry of the Master–disciple relation. Of course, Marion’s articulation of the encounter with saturated phenomenality also implies asymmetry. But Marion’s thought is generally articulated and understood within a Christian context. Within a Christian ontology, the asymmetry of revelation is not a thing to be overcome—or, if it is, then the whole discussion must be set within an eschatological orientation. Whereas for Sri Chinmoy’s essentially monistic ontology, the relation between Master and disciple must at long last be transformed (if it is to be fulfilled) into a relation of mutuality that is potential within an individual’s lifetime. For Buber, this would not mean that the I–thou relation would dissolve, rather that it would grow into the full maturity of its dialogical nature.58 To that extent, I do find Buber’s aim of mutuality in the I–thou relation (while nevertheless preserving the relation’s undoing of the nominative subject) to be a pertinent feature of his thought for my analysis here and one not specifically addressed by Marion’s account of saturated phenomenality.