The Eighteenth Commandment: What Are the Values of the Gurdjieff Teaching?

Where in the vast body of the Gurdjieff ideas and practices are the values of the teaching to be found? There is much rigor in its emphasis on ideas and practice, as if the first task is to become a more conscious, inwardly balanced human being, who in time will reflect fruitfully about values. Nonetheless, it is true that from the very beginning of participation in the teaching one is responding to values undeclared, uncharacterized as such. Yet they are there, secret lights, quiet sources and encouragement for striving. A slight shift of perspective eventually reveals that what one initially took to be simply, and dauntingly, an injunction—work on yourself in this way, along these lines—bears within it a powerful value. It is this slow revelation of the values of the Gurdjieff teaching that I invite you to explore with me. 

Starting with values, arraying them like a catechism or composite morality for the pupil to ponder, was not and is not Gurdjieff’s way. Values—there are so many—lie concealed within the ideas and practices. The first words of teaching that I heard were simple, arresting: “We need a new attention and a new relaxation.” Everything that followed—introductions to practices of inner work, enrollment in a Movements class, learning to listen with clarified receptivity, work with others on projects as large as operating a steam roller to repair a driveway and as delicate as studio crafts—were the field where these two possibilities, a new attention, a new relaxation, could be explored. I didn’t think of them as values, I thought of them as radically new personal projects, the desiderata of a rescued life. 

You are likely aware of the centrality of the practice of self-observation in the Gurdjieff teaching and, alongside it, deeper still, the invitation to remember oneself. The ancient cornerstone of the teaching is the Delphic injunction: "Know thyself." The most direct route to self-knowledge—a route strewn with obstacles, lit with hope—is self-observation. But it’s not a matter of “no sooner said than done.” It calls for a years-long, no doubt lifelong, exploration. In early group meetings when our life in the Gurdjieff teaching was just beginning, we were given a helpful key, a simple, direct question to ask ourselves: “Who is there?” It would stop us, call us to awareness, call us to question. 

At first the practice of self-observation, of accompanying oneself as one lives, is likely to yield the rough sketch of an identity. As time and practice go on, it may draw closer to being instantaneous, honest, and lucid: one sees more, not from a distance but from a close position within oneself. And values tumble out of this practice, they make themselves known: the primal value of self-knowledge; the willingness and perseverance to strive to know with immediacy; the self-respect that surprisingly emerges as one faces oneself, both all the good one has and is, and all the struggles that must not be evaded. Gurdjieff taught what is now called mindfulness a century ago and throughout his years in the West, though the term “mindfulness” doesn’t fully capture what he taught, which was to know “with one’s whole mass,” as he sometimes expressed it. The destiny of self-observation is to become that kind of knowing. 

Self-remembering is another matter. As initially presented in the early years of the teaching in Russia, it is a question of sensing and knowing that one is present: there is not only everything and everyone around one, there is also oneself, recognized. It is not as easy as it may sound: there tends to be a blank in every room, it is oneself. However, as the Gurdjieff teaching has evolved through several generations, self-remembering as a practice has acquired other values. To remember is not just to see, not just to record states and changes, impulses and resistances; it is a return to something closer to the fullness of one’s identity, even to the experience of oneself as a child of God, a participant in cosmos. It is for a moment or longer to be moved deeply by what one is and what we all are in this vast, multi-storied world. Self-remembering can be understood as the gateway to religious understanding and experience. That is its terrain: mysterious, heartening, limitless or nearly so. 

A pair of values is immersed in the practices of self-observation and self-remembering (though I would rather call self-remembering a gift than a practice). That pair of values is the hidden and the shown. Diligent Gurdjieff students tend to become sensitive to these two values. So much is hidden from us; the larger possibilities of human being no less than the unseen habits and resistance that distance those possibilities and make them seem more than one can hope for. On the other hand, so much is shown, becomes visible and factual, as work on oneself continues through years of concern and love. We live between the hidden and the shown, at times longing to be shown what is hidden. It makes for a kind of vividness. As some of you may recall, Gurdjieff was once asked what it is like to live from essence, by which the questioner meant the very core, not the surface, of what one is. Gurdjieff replied, “Everything more vivid.”¹ 

It must be apparent to you now that every value in the Gurdjieff teaching is lived as a question, as a basis for striving, exploring, learning. 

I will now take up a new theme: the values and value structures explicit in Gurdjieff’s writings. In the earlier years of participation, there may be little recognition that in point of fact Gurdjieff’s writings present something like a cascade of value statements. One is struck by certain formulations and explores their practical meaning without necessarily looking at other value statements. For example, among the Gurdjieff aphorisms there is this: “Like what ‘it’ does not like.”² What could be clearer? Many participants in the teaching take it as direct guidance to challenge subjective preferences, to enlarge the boundary of the acceptable, to scrape against one’s pettiness and comfort-seeking ways. What may not be recognized until later in life—perhaps only when one is asked to teach—is that this proposal is situated in a much larger network of values and proposals. It is that larger network I would like to explore now. 

Certain texts stand out, among them Gurdjieff’s definition of what he calls the remarkable person, found toward the beginning of his autobiographical Meetings with Remarkable Men. “From my point of view,” he writes, “he can be called a remarkable man who stands out from those around him by the resourcefulness of his mind, and who knows how to be restrained in the manifestations which proceed from his nature, at the same time conducting himself justly and tolerantly towards the weaknesses of others.”³ I often look wonderingly at this definition. Does it set the bar too low? Doesn’t “remarkableness” begin somewhere higher, in more mystical realms? Gurdjieff seems to answer these doubts with a straightforward “no.” Those men and women are remarkable whose minds are ceaselessly creative and strive to be equal to every circumstance—this is a high enough bar for any of us. Beyond that, those men and women are remarkable who know themselves sufficiently to govern themselves; they have learned not to burden others with whatever rawness, impulsiveness or egotism still lives in them, and they have learned to be just and tolerant toward others’ weaknesses. There is a concern here for sound relationships, for community, that threads its way through all of Gurdjieff’s writings. We may call these baseline values, but to my mind the baseline is placed high, at the level of lifelong challenge. 

Now an easily accessible text,⁴ the aphorisms were originally a set of painted inscriptions on the walls of the Study House at Gurdjieff’s Institute near Paris in the years 1922 to 1932. They were written in a novel, flowing alphabet devised by the distinguished artist Alexandre de Salzmann (1874–1934), in collaboration with Gurdjieff. It was known only to the pupils at the Institute; the aphorisms were hidden, private messages to those willing to learn the alphabet. The aphorisms are a small encyclopedia of values. “Remember you come here having already understood the necessity of struggling with yourself—only with yourself. Therefore thank everyone who gives you the opportunity.” This injunction is incomparably steadying as one makes one’s way in community, where differences naturally arise and, in some instances, can become sharp and lasting. And yet something else is true and needed. The aphorism I’m thinking of reads “If you have not by nature a critical mind your staying here is useless.” So, we are not to lay down our arms and glowingly accept everything: we must know discerningly, must assess not only other people and circumstances but also ourselves. Another aphorism from the Study House walls: “Practice love first on animals, they are more sensitive.” In this there is Gurdjieff’s characteristically ironic attitude toward humanity but also a valid starter kit. That irony, that measured distance from humanity, is a feature of Gurdjieff and the teaching well worth understanding. Among the great teachers and teachings, it strikes me as nearly unique; the closest parallels are the Cynic Diogenes and the Stoicism of Epictetus. 

Among the many aphorisms there is one that speaks to the fundamental aim of the teaching: “Here there are neither Russians nor English, Jews nor Christians, but only those who pursue one aim: to be able to be.” An undercurrent of Christian teachings is evident here, as this is Gurdjieff’s revision, or better, renewal of lines in St Paul’s letter to the Colossians (3:11). Paul wrote, “Here there is no Gentile or Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all, and is in all.” In Gurdjieff’s recension, the value of what he called “being” is shown to be central, the center of the center. What is being, as he exemplified and showed the way toward it? And to recall a memorable expression from his major work Beelzebub’s Tales:⁵ what is “the being of a responsible being”? 

These are the deepest and best waters. Potentially, being is all that one is, awakened: all that one is, no longer constricted by automatisms; all that one is, able to serve the good resourcefully. Being is a force in the world; it can be sensed in others as a force. I do not know what being is for those who possess it fully, but the encounter with men and women of being is a reminder, a call. The direct encounter with Gurdjieff, and with some of his pupils in later years, was of this kind. But “the being of a responsible being” is not remote: he and she belong here; however remarkable, they are nearby citizens. 

I would like to conclude by thinking with you about a narrative in Beelzebub’s Tales that addresses yet another value, conscience. The narrative concerns the Sphinx, a highly original version of that traditional image, associated with a school that once flourished on the continent Atlantis.⁶ It isn’t possible to condense into this talk all of the details and meanings of this Sphinx. “This emblem,” we read, “constantly reminds and indicates to us that it is possible to attain freedom. . . .” It has the torso of a bull, reminding of the need for “indefatigable labors”; the legs of a lion, signifying that “the said labors should be performed with (the) cognizance and feeling of courage and faith in one’s ‘might’”; the wings of an eagle, signifying that “during the said labors and with the mentioned inner psychic property of self-respect, it is necessary to meditate continually on questions not related to the direct manifestations required for ordinary being-existence”; and where the head would be expected in this altogether special version of the Sphinx, there is instead “the Breasts of a virgin. . . (expressing) that Love should predominate always and in everything during the inner and outer functionings evoked by one’s consciousness.” Further, this part of the Sphinx is united with the rest of the image by a cushion of amber, an electrical non-conductor known from ancient times, signifying “that this Love should be strictly impartial.” 

This is Gurdjieff, and the image overall is called “Conscience.” Years ago, before a new French edition corrected against the Russian original looked carefully at key terms, it could have occurred to the reader that this was a mistranslation.⁷ Shouldn’t it be “consciousness”? Isn’t that what Gurdjieff taught? But there is no question about it: the mighty Sphinx, with all its attributes, in Russian is named Sovest: conscience. This raises an engaging question: was Gurdjieff teaching the way to awakened, integrated consciousness for the sake of awakening conscience, which he once called “the knowledge of the heart”? This is a perspective to be explored.⁸ 

The title of this brief talk refers to “the Eighteenth Commandment.” What is that Commandment? It appears in the Tales where Beelzebub fiercely advocates against animal sacrifice in ancient civilizations, no doubt speaking also to our need to respect the human body, its untapped potential, and legitimate needs. “The eighteenth personal commandment of our Common Creator: ‘Love everything that breathes.’”⁹ Elsewhere in the chapter Beelzebub explains that we humans need all species on this planet for our development, as if they are all mirrors and teachers. It’s an odd but characteristic thing that Gurdjieff doesn’t fill in the blank between the ten biblical commandments and this eighteenth. Who knows why? Are we to write them as we live?  

Within his novel Mount Analogue, a classic work in Gurdjieff literature, René Daumal speaks of “peradams”—brilliant small gems that can be found even in featureless sand, but only by those who are ready to discover these “peradams” on nearly every page of Gurdjieff’s writings. Between the vast network of ideas and the more hidden realm of practice, consider a fertile middle zone: values. To be encountered, recognized, and lived.