Searching for the house of God

I have talked many times about a beautiful poem of Rabindranath Tagore. The poet has been searching for God for millions of lives. He has seen him sometimes, far away, near a star, and he started moving that way but by the time he reached that star, God had moved to some other place. But he went on searching and searching–he was determined to find God’s home–and the surprise of surprises was, one day he actually reached a house where on the door was written: “God’s Home.”

You can understand his ecstasy, you can understand his joy. He runs up the steps, and just as he is going to knock on the door, suddenly his hand freezes. An idea arises in him: “If by chance this is really the home of God, then I am finished, my seeking is finished. I have become identified with my seeking, with my search. I don’t know anything else. If the door opens and I face God, I am finished–the search is over. Then what?”

He starts trembling with fear, takes his shoes off his feet, and descends back down the beautiful marble steps. His fear is that God may open the door, although he has not knocked. And then he runs as fast as he has never run before. He used to think that he had been running after God as fast as he could, but today he runs as he has never run, not looking back. The poem ends, “I am still searching for God. I know his home, so I avoid it and search everywhere else. The excitement is great, the challenge is great, and in my search I continue to exist. God is a danger–I will be annihilated. But now I am not afraid even of God, because I know where he lives. So, leaving his home aside, I go on searching for him all around the universe. And deep down I know my search is not for God; my search is to nourish my ego.”

Rabindranath Tagore is not ordinarily associated with religion. But only a religious man of tremendous experience can write this poem. It is not just ordinary poetry; it contains such a great truth. This is the situation: blissfulness does not allow you to exist; you have to disappear. That’s why you don’t see many blissful people in the world. Misery nourishes your ego–that’s why you see so many miserable people in the world. The basic, central point is the ego.

For the realization of ultimate truth, you have to pay the price–and the price is nothing but dropping the ego. So when such a moment comes, don’t hesitate. Dancingly, disappear… with a great laughter, disappear; with songs on your lips, disappear.

  • Osho


Here is thy footstool
and there rest thy feet
where live the poorest,
and lowliest,
and lost.

When I try to bow to thee,
my obeisance cannot reach down
to the depth
where thy feet rest
among the poorest,
and lowliest,
and lost.

Pride can never approach
to where thou walkest
in the clothes of the humble
among the poorest,
and lowliest,
and lost.

My heart can never find its way
to where thou keepest company
with the companionless
among the poorest,
the lowliest,
and the lost.
Rabindranath Tagore
translation from the original Bengali by an unknown poet


Right now Bob, I’m loving the way you think.


LA & Bob,

You guys are going to have to stop this sort of thing. It make’s me want to cry…


Hi Guys,

as W.B. Yeats wrote:
“The traveller in the read-brown clothes that he wears that dust may not show upon him, the girl searching in her bed for the petals fallen from the wreath of her royal lover, the servant or the bride awaiting the master’s home-coming in the empty house, are images of the heart turning to God. Flowers and rivers, the blowing of conch shells, the heavy rain of the Indian July, or the moods of that heart in union or in separation; and a man sitting in a boat upon a river playing lute, like one of those figures full of mysterious meaning in a Chinese picture, is God Himself.”

It is easy to submerge into this poetry and just be carried along with the flow.



LADIES: Sorry to break into this tear-jerker but…
What happens when god starts looking for the poet?
I would argue that the search for god is god itself.

By the way, I am merely teasing the poems are beautiful and profound.

Hi T4M,

`Prisoner, tell me,
who was it that bound you?’

It was my master,' said the prisoner. I thought I could outdo everybody
in the world
in wealth and power,
and I amassed in my own treasure-house
the money due to my king.
When sleep overcame me
I lay upon the bed
that was for my lord,
and on waking up
I found I was a prisoner
in my own treasure-house.’

`Prisoner, tell me,
who was it that wrought
this unbreakable chain?’

It was I,' said the prisoner, who forged this chain very carefully.
I thought my invincible power
would hold the world captive
leaving me in a freedom undisturbed.
Thus night and day
I worked at the chain
with huge fires
and cruel hard strokes.
When at last
the work was done
and the links were complete
and unbreakable,
I found that it held me in its grip.’