Uncontrolled, the hunger and thirst after God may become an

The words of Aldous Huxley fall upon us like the echo of a mystic bell: “Uncontrolled, the hunger and thirst after God may become an obstacle, cutting off the soul from what it desires. If a man would travel far along the mystic road, he must learn to desire God intensely but in stillness, passively and yet with all his heart and mind and strength.” These words are not a denial of longing but a shaping of it. For longing itself, like a wild river, can destroy if unbridled, but if guided, it becomes the life-giving stream that carries the soul toward eternity.

To hunger for God is natural to the soul, for within every human heart there is an emptiness that nothing of this world can fill. Yet Huxley warns that even this holy desire, when ungoverned, can become its own idol. The seeker may grow restless, grasping at visions, demanding signs, chasing the divine with fevered haste—and in so doing, he blinds himself to the quiet whisper where God truly dwells. The paradox, then, is this: one must long with all one’s being, but that longing must be clothed in stillness.

The mystics of old knew this truth well. St. John of the Cross, in his Dark Night of the Soul, spoke of the agony of yearning for God and yet being asked to walk in silence and emptiness. He knew that the lover of God must endure a purifying fire, where even holy desires are refined, where passion is transfigured into quiet surrender. To rush, to demand, to consume—even spiritually—is to clutch at smoke. But to wait, to abide, to yield in passive trust is to allow God to reveal Himself in His own way and time.

History offers us the radiant example of Buddha. In his early zeal, Siddhartha starved himself, tortured his body, sought the divine through extremity. But enlightenment came not through hunger and thirst carried to destruction, but through the Middle Way—desire transformed into calm awareness, longing reshaped into serenity. His story, though born of a different path, mirrors Huxley’s truth: that the soul advances not through violent striving, but through disciplined stillness.

This teaching does not banish intensity; rather, it commands us to carry intensity in balance. Desire God with all your heart, yes—but not with frantic grasping. Seek with all your mind, yes—but not with arrogant pride. Offer all your strength, yes—but not as a force that seeks to wrestle God into submission. Instead, let the flame of longing burn steady, not wild; let the river of passion flow deep, not flood. In this harmony, the soul finds the very union it seeks.

The lesson is clear: even holy hunger must be disciplined, even sacred thirst must be guided. When passion runs unchecked, it blinds the eyes of the spirit and deafens the ears of the heart. But when longing is married to stillness, when desire is joined to surrender, then the mystic road opens wide, and the traveler walks with peace toward the Eternal.

Practical action lies in this: in prayer, do not always grasp—sometimes simply rest in silence. In seeking, do not always demand—sometimes simply wait. Discipline your heart not to extinguish its desire, but to steady it, so that it does not burn itself out before the journey is complete. Practice moments of quiet, of passive trust, where you say not “I must find You now,” but “I am here, and I await You.” In such surrender lies the deepest strength.

So let Huxley’s words be carried as timeless counsel: the mystic road is not conquered by storming heaven, but by walking with steady steps, with longing wrapped in stillness, with passion transfigured into peace. For the soul that learns this art discovers that God is not in the frenzy of desire, but in the silent union of heart, mind, and strength surrendered to Him.