Pablo Sender – USA
Pablo Sender; this photo was taken in Italy, July-2025
From time to time, it is important to pause in our daily activities and pose certain probing questions to ourselves—questions that, while perhaps uncomfortable, can illuminate the nature of our commitments and motivations. One such question that merits consideration by those engaged in theosophical work is: “What do you love more, Theosophy or the Theosophical Society?”
This question may at first appear to establish a false dichotomy between two aspects of a unified whole. Yet as a thought experiment, it serves a valuable purpose. It compels us to examine the underlying priorities that guide our actions and shape our organizational decisions. So, if you consider yourself an earnest TS member: What constitutes your most important concern in your theosophical life and work? Is it directed toward making the TS grow as an institution? Or does it center on spreading the teachings of Theosophy?
The Institutional Imperative
Let us consider the first possibility: suppose we discover, through honest self-examination, that our focus is primarily on the TS. In such a case, we are mainly concerned with institutional growth and organizational success. Our energies become directed toward increasing public awareness of the Society, generating interest in its activities, enhancing its reputation, and expanding its membership. We measure our effectiveness by statistical indicators: how many people attend our programs, how many new members join each year, how successfully we compete with other organizations for attention and resources in an increasingly crowded marketplace of spiritual alternatives.
This institutional focus may seem entirely reasonable and even necessary. After all, an organization requires resources—financial support, dedicated members, physical spaces, publication capacity. Growth appears not merely desirable but essential to organizational survival and effectiveness. So, what would be wrong with focusing on making our organization more accessible, more relevant to contemporary people, more successful by conventional measures?
In this approach, there is a potential problem. If institutional growth becomes the primary measure of success, what happens when we discover that the core teachings of Theosophy do not generate as large an interest as other programs? Perhaps activities addressing contemporary issues—civil rights, environmental activism, and so on—prove more successful in drawing crowds and recruiting members. Perhaps classes in psychism or paranormal phenomena generate greater attendance. Perhaps offering simplified, attractive answers to life’s complex questions—answers that require less study, less discipline, less fundamental transformation of consciousness—proves more popular than the challenging path outlined in Theosophical literature. Without even realizing what is happening, we may start leaning towards prioritizing these more popular programs over those which do not attract so many people.
Suppose we follow this path with dedication and skill. A few decades hence, we may indeed succeed in making the TS considerably more successful by institutional metrics. Perhaps membership has doubled or quintupled. Perhaps the organization commands greater respect, possesses more resources, occupies more prominent space in public discourse. By every conventional measure, we have achieved organizational success. But if that stronger, larger, more successful Society is no longer engaged in “showing to men that such a thing as Theosophy exists,”[1] as H. P. Blavatsky wrote—then what precisely is the point of that growth? We will have built an impressive institutional body, but one that has forgotten its animating spirit.
The Atlantean Reversion
This pattern finds a striking parallel in the esoteric history of humanity. According to Blavatsky, humanity initially understood an essential truth: the physical body serves as a temple of the spirit. The body was valued not as an end in itself, but as a necessary vehicle for the spark of divinity that constitutes our true nature. Because the body served this higher purpose, it was deemed important that it be maintained in strength and health. Thus, in the early Fourth Root-Race—the Atlantean civilization—physical culture, athletic development, and bodily perfection were pursued with dedication. In time, however, a significant shift occurred. The subtle and invisible spirit gradually receded from conscious awareness, while the body, being tangible and evident to the senses, increasingly commanded attention. Eventually, the Atlanteans ended up worshiping the body for its own sake. The servant had become the master; the vehicle had replaced the driver.
This “Atlantean reversion” can be seen in all human endeavors, particularly in spiritual and philosophical movements. The tangible tends to overcome the intangible; the exoteric tends to eclipse the esoteric.
A Perennial Danger
This danger was recognized with particular clarity by J. Krishnamurti, who frequently expressed his concerns about organizational structures. He once pointed that in the early years of a spiritual or philosophical movement, when the founders and those who knew them personally are involved, there exists direct connection to the original vision and purpose. However, as the organization grows and the people who were in touch with the founders are no longer present—increasing attention becomes devoted to maintaining and expanding the organization. In the worst cases, the organization becomes primarily concerned with its own perpetuation and aggrandizement. It may continue to invoke the name of its founder and claim allegiance to its founding principles, but its actual priorities have shifted.
As theosophists, we desire—quite naturally and reasonably—an organization that has strength and dynamism. We want the TS to be effective, influential, and capable of reaching people. These are not ignoble aspirations. Yet we must never lose sight of the fact that the TS was established to serve as a vehicle for the spreading of divine wisdom. If in our efforts to promote institutional growth we keep this fact in mind, then we won’t cross certain lines. We will not dilute core teachings merely to make them more palatable. We will not replace serious study with “spiritual entertainment” simply because the latter draws larger crowds. We will not measure our success solely by membership numbers if those numbers reflect a departure from our founding purposes.
Conclusion
If I had to answer the question that I posed at the beginning of this article, despite the fact that most of my life has been devoted to working in and for the TS, I would be forced to say that I love Theosophy more than the TS. Fortunately, when we keep the right perspective such a dichotomy is not real. While this question serves its purpose as a thought experiment, as a tool for clarifying priorities and examining motivations, in practice, no choice between Theosophy and the TS is necessary. If we genuinely love Theosophy—if we truly recognize the transformative power and profound importance of its teachings—we will naturally desire a Theosophical Society that manifests vigor, dynamism, and reach, because only through a strong and capable organization can the spreading of Theosophy in the world be effective.
[1] The Key to Theosophy, Section 4