There is a recurring linguistic signal in certain spiritual environments that should immediately alert a student—or a potential one. It is the systematic use of phrases such as: “what I’m telling you is only a simplification of something much more complex,” “some things cannot be explained in words,” “you’re not ready to understand this yet,” “this requires a more advanced level”...

At first glance, this kind of language may appear to signal depth or intellectual honesty. In reality, it often serves the opposite function: turning complexity into an instrument of power.

Of course, there are experiences that are difficult to put into words, and meanings that take time to be mastered. But the issue here is not difficulty as such. The issue is how that difficulty is handled. There is a radical difference between saying, “this experience exceeds language, but we can still describe its effects, its limits, and the criteria by which it can be recognized,” and saying, “this experience exceeds language, therefore trust me and wait.” In the latter case, complexity is no longer a reality to be explored, but a rhetorical veil.

The decisive feature of this language is the systematic absence of verifiable criteria. There are no shareable indicators of progress, no timelines, not even approximate ones. Everything is left to the guru’s judgment. As a result, the student has no way of knowing where they stand, what they are actually learning, or whether they are making progress or simply going in circles.

This produces a very specific effect: the infantilization of the student. They are implicitly told that they are not yet capable of understanding, that their perception is unreliable, that their judgment is premature. At the same time, the poor effectiveness of the proposed practices is justified: if they don’t work, the problem is not the methodology, but the student’s level—the fact that they are not yet ready for more advanced practices.

The student thus learns to doubt their own capacity to understand, confuses depth with obscurity, and internalizes the idea that genuine understanding is always deferred to an indefinite future. They become accustomed to waiting rather than transforming. Dependence on the teacher becomes structural, because only he or she seems to hold the key to levels that are endlessly promised and never truly reached.

This is not a path of knowledge. It is a form of authority management.

An honest approach does exactly the opposite. It does not shield the student from complexity, but exposes them to it from the start. It does not hide difficulties, but makes them explicit. It does not use mystery as a justification, but as a problem to be explored together. This, however, requires a fundamental condition: that the teacher genuinely understands that complexity, to the point of being able to speak about it without trivializing it or turning it into a fetish.

The parallel with science is quite instructive. A good teacher–researcher brings students quickly to the frontier of knowledge. That frontier is not hidden; it is shown as it is understood at that moment. Technical tools are refined along the way, but the horizon is clear from the beginning. No serious teacher protects students from the frontier of knowledge, because they know that the student’s depth is not inferior to their own—both deepen together.

Where there is genuine understanding, there is no need for indefinite promises or hierarchies based on opacity. True complexity does not infantilize, does not create dependence, does not demand faith. It only asks to be faced—openly and on equal terms.

Note: The topic of dysfunctional relationships between gurus and disciples was recently addressed in issues 28, 28S, 30, and 32 of AutoRicerca.