The Silent Deviation

How seeking comfort can subtly replace true surrender in spiritual practice

By Vraja Bihari Dasa

“To show special mercy, I, dwelling in their hearts, destroy with the shining lamp of knowledge the darkness born of ignorance.” —Bhagavad-gita (10.11)

I sometimes wonder if my Krishna consciousness practices are a purifier or a painkiller.

If I spend too much time on consuming news and other stimulating online content, then when I turn to my Krishna consciousness practices—like hearing and chanting—I inadvertently begin to seek a “kick,” a thrill, or a drug-like high. I start looking for lectures that entertain or sensationalize, or I crave extraordinary explanations and emotionally charged experiences. And if I don’t get that, I know I have YouTube, news channels, and web series to fill the gap. This mindset only takes me further away from Krishna.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve gotten the basics of Krishna consciousness wrong. Bhakti is not meant to give me a drug-like pleasure; it is meant to act as medicine.

A drug numbs or gives pleasure—it creates a temporary high, helping me forget my present suffering. But medicine may be bitter and uncomfortable at first, although it truly heals. That’s because it addresses the root cause.

The deviation begins

When I hear the incredible verses of the Srimad-Bhagavatam or hear about great devotees who remained untouched by the material world due to their absorption in Krishna, I instinctively think: “I should also try not to be influenced by the material world.” So far, so good.

But here’s where the deviation begins.

In the subtle, subconscious layers of the mind, the message I internalize is: “I should not feel suffering, and therefore I should use hearing and chanting as an escape from pain.” I begin to approach spiritual practices not as a way to take shelter of Krishna, but as a way to avoid suffering. That’s a major deviation.

We are meant to take shelter in hearing and chanting of Krishna’s names and pastimes—and as a natural result, we may become unaffected by the material world. But instead, we focus on the byproduct: “I should not be affected.” This byproduct becomes our goal, and so, our hearing and chanting is no longer about shelter—it becomes a tool for pain relief. That’s when everything shifts. Our practices subtly change.

We begin to crave relief more than Krishna. We use hari-nama and krishna-katha as a drug.

When we treat Krishna consciousness like a drug, we unconsciously look for: comfort, not confrontation; escape, not engagement; emotional highs, not heart surgery.

When we treat it as medicine, we say: “Let me taste the bitterness too, if that’s what will cleanse me.”

The advanced practitioners, however, don’t approach Krishna consciousness to escape suffering—they embrace suffering if it helps them serve Krishna more deeply. They see hearing and chanting as an end in itself.

But we may, unconsciously, take to Krishna consciousness for comfort. That’s why we seek performance-based classes—those with music, jokes, and pleasing vibes. We forget that Krishna consciousness has two aspects:

1. The medicine of hearing the harsh truths about this material world.

2. The sweetness of Krishna’s pastimes.

We need both karela and gulabjamun.

Our classes should disturb us a little—they should shake us into confronting the realities of death, time, detachment, and the urgent need to surrender. But instead, we avoid difficult discussions. We want to feel good. We seek the “drug” instead of the “medicine,” because we desire happiness—not Krishna’s happiness, but our version of happiness.

Fast food is quick, tasty, and gratifying—but in the long-term it weakens the body. A home-cooked meal may take effort, discipline, and lacks addictive flavor—but it nourishes and sustains. Likewise, classes or chanting that are only “spiced up” to entertain may delight us like spiritual fast food. But steady, sattvic practice—sometimes bland, sometimes spicy—is what truly strengthens bhakti.

Can Krishna consciousness heal everything?

We enjoy krishna-katha, but we often avoid addressing deeper emotional issues—like family conflict, heartbreak, anxiety, or loneliness—and end up practicing a form of spiritual bypassing. It’s heartbreaking to see how often devotees try to heal deep emotional wounds through chanting alone, thinking that chanting will solve everything and no other support is needed.

Yes, ultimately chanting can heal everything. But to really allow that healing to happen, we must accept the full scope of Krishna consciousness. Sometimes, Krishna may even give us more suffering—not less. This could be His mercy, meant to burn off lifetimes of karma and false ego. Yet, we glorify suffering as Krishna’s blessing in public classes, but in our private lives, we desperately want to be free from it. We want Krishna to assist in our plans to be permanently happy in this material world—not to take us out of it.

That’s when we start using Krishna consciousness as a drug:

· Stimulating lectures.

· Emotionally charged kirtans.

· Spiritual highs that keep my inner questions at bay.

And even though these things are good and necessary, my internal mood should be different. My prayer should be: “I am Yours, O Krishna. Please help me serve You. Help me face the difficult questions. Let me know that I am suffering, let me see that the material world is broken, and let me long only for You.”

We cry…. but for the wrong reasons

Right now, I cry not because I miss Krishna, but because the material world is hurting me. I pray not to deepen my relationship with Krishna, but to get relief. I want God to help me succeed in my version of a peaceful material life.

But if I truly want to return to Krishna—if my tears are real tears of separation—I’ll be willing to hear the difficult truths. I’ll welcome challenging conversations, not just comforting ones. In any genuine relationship, not all talks are easy or happy—some are hard, but necessary.

In a way, these are not yet tears of separation from Krishna, but tears of frustration with material existence. Still, they’re valuable. Even the wrong reason to chant can lead to the right heart, if we stay honest and keep walking. A bad reason to start chanting is better than no reason at all—if it becomes a gateway to sincerity.

There’s a subtle Westernized (even consumerist) notion of spirituality: that it should make us feel “uplifted” or “positive.” But real bhakti can be a heavy confrontation with our ego. Like the Desert Fathers of Christianity who entered solitude not to feel peace but to fight demons, a mature devotee enters Krishna consciousness ready for war—not just for bliss.

Seeking Comfort versus Truth

Those who take it as medicine will ask serious questions and seek answers from scripture. And that’s the turning point — moving from a comfort-seeker to a truth-seeker.

Srila Prabhupada called bhakti “the cooling balm” and “the soothing process”—but it still penetrates deep, uproots the anarthas, and heals us. It’s sweet like nectar, but transformative like lightning.

It was Thomas Merton who said, “Spiritual life is not a dry, bloodless elevation. It is a consuming fire.” If our bhakti is just a tranquilizer, we may never become the kind of soul Krishna longs to see. But when we start allowing it to become a medicine—even if bitter—then we’re being prepared not just to feel relief, but to receive real love.

Krishna consciousness is meant to cure our disease of material attachment, not just soothe our symptoms. And unless we approach it with sobriety, surrender, and a willingness to face what hurts, we risk staying spiritually stagnant—even while appearing spiritually active.

If I understand Krishna consciousness as medicine, I’ll accept the pain and healing as part of the process. But if I see it as a drug, I’ll only seek relief and pleasure. If it’s medicine, I’ll ask deep questions, seek real answers, and be open to hearing the Srimad-Bhagavatam in its full depth—not just the sweet and soothing parts.

At the start of the Bhagavad-gita, Arjuna seeks relief from the battlefield’s horror. But Krishna doesn’t pacify him emotionally—instead, He gives philosophy, truth, and a call to duty. He also instructs him, “The person who is not disturbed by happiness and distress and is steady in both is certainly eligible for liberation.” (Gita 2.15). Krishna urges Arjuna to become titikshavah (“tolerant”). He doesn’t give relief but calls for inner transformation.

Accepting the unpalatable

When asked if Krishna consciousness would solve all the world’s problems, Srila Prabhupada said, “We are not so much concerned with problems. We are concerned with self-realization.” He was clear that bhakti is not to make our life better—it is to make us better.

He often said, “If you want to be cheated, there are many cheaters. But if you want truth, you must be ready to accept what is not palatable.” He never diluted the philosophy for emotional pleasure. Thomas Kempis, in his Imitation of Christ said, “If you seek comfort in this world, you will never be comforted by God. Blessed is the one who chooses the truth, even when it burns.” The famous author, C.S. Lewis wrote, “We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.”

Our relationship with Krishna matures when we stop wanting Him just to make us happy and start wanting Him even if it breaks us. Real love says: “Wound me if You must, but don’t leave me ignorant.”

The soul has two paths in spiritual life: it can seek Krishna as a balm, or it can surrender to Krishna as the surgeon.

The first path—using Krishna consciousness as a drug—feels easier. We take shelter of kirtana, classes, chanting, or good association not to transform, but to temporarily dull the ache of samsara. It feels spiritual, even devotional, but deep down it can be just another layer of anartha—a refined, subtle form of sense gratification which acts as emotional relief rather than spiritual rebirth.

The second path—the medicine path—is much harder. It means being willing to hurt if it will help. It means accepting that Krishna will not always comfort us, but He will always cleanse us. Like Kunti Devi, the mother of the Pandavas, praying “Let calamities come again and again,” or the gopis lamenting Krishna’s absence—real bhakti often deepens through discomfort, not delight.

We want Krishna to assist us in our plans for being permanently happy in the material world. That is perhaps the root of the drug mentality. It’s not atheistic. It’s not even overtly selfish. It’s just misaligned. We don’t want to serve Krishna’s plan — we want Krishna to bless our plan. And as long as we do that, our bhakti will be subtly self-centered.

In an amusement park, you come to escape reality, feel high, and be entertained. In a school, you come to learn, get corrected, and sometimes feel uncomfortable—but you graduate wiser. If we treat temples, retreats, and kirtanas like amusement parks, we’ll seek highs and avoid homework. But Krishna consciousness is educational — a place to be taught, not just tickled. If we only want feel-good, goosebumps-style bhakti, we’re asking for an amusement park ride. But Krishna consciousness, like a school, includes correction, contemplation, even occasional confrontation with truth.

In amusement parks, you skip the hard stuff. In school, you take tests—they’re unpleasant but necessary. Similarly, Krishna tests us—not to fail us, but to reveal us to ourselves.

Bhakti as a drug gives a high; bhakti as medicine gives depth.

The true healing

True healing begins the moment we stop begging Krishna to make our life more comfortable and start begging Him to make our heart more surrendered. So now, when I chant
or hear, I am trying to ask myself: “Am I taking this as a painkiller?” Or “Am I letting this become a spiritual surgery?”

The holy name is both: it is the sweetest relief and the deepest purification. But it becomes medicine only if I let it expose, cut, and heal the disease of wanting anything other than Him. Krishna consciousness sometimes gives us temporary relief. But its real purpose is to cure us—of lifetimes of rebellion against Krishna.

So, let me chant attentively, prayerfully, and soberly. Not to feel a drug-like ecstasy, but to become steady, surrendered, and truly healed. Let me grow sober in bhakti.

A tourist only visits when the weather is nice. A farmer works in all seasons—knowing even storms are necessary for a good harvest. A “drug” devotee prays and chants only when the mood is nice. A “medicine” devotee accepts Krishna in sunshine and in storms—because they want the harvest: prema.

Tourist bhakti is seasonal—when things go well, when the kirtana is melodious, when classes are light, when there’s time and mood. Farmer bhakti is faithful—he chants even when the mind screams, listens even when the topic stings, and serves even when no one claps.

A tourist looks for a photos, selfies and postcard; a farmer waits for a harvest. In bhakti, the harvest is not feeling better—it’s becoming surrendered. Farmers accept the necessary suffering: plowing hard earth, breaking stones, working under sun and storm. Similarly, a serious practitioner of bhakti digs into hard habits, endures inner dryness, and still continues.

“No rain, no grain.” In spiritual life: no struggle, no realization.

Tourists are here for moments; farmers are here for seasons. Devotees who see Krishna consciousness as medicine are in for life—they may not always enjoy it, but they trust the process.

A tourist wants experience — “Was it fun?”

A farmer wants results — “Did it grow?”

The tourist returns home with photos; the farmer returns home with grain.

The amusement park gives memories; the school gives maturity.

Let us not reduce Krishna consciousness to a feel-good show. Let us sweat in the field like a farmer, sit attentively in the classroom like a sincere student, and take the bitter medicine with gratitude—because it is curing the soul, not just comforting the ego.

Vraja Bihari Dasa holds a post-graduate degree in International Finance and an MBA from Mumbai University. He is a resident monk at ISKCON Chowpatty and an active teacher of bhakti-yoga. Visit his website: www.yogaformodernage.com

Image caption: Are we taking Krishna consciousness as a painkiller drug or as an unpleasant surgical operation?

A tourist visits only when the whether is nice, while a farmer works in all seasons.