"Bob Hoffman was a criminal. Simple"

When Governor Jerry Brown vetoed a bill that would have extended the statute of limitations for clerical sexual abuse, he said, “There comes a time when an individual or organization should be secure in the reasonable expectation that past acts are indeed in the past and not subject to further lawsuits.”* (SacBee)

Bob Hoffman has been dead for more than 20 years, and he raped me 44 years ago, but I’m just uncovering the severe emotional consequences of his abuse. Now, at 76 and in the last part of my life, I know that the effects of abuse can extend beyond any "reasonable expectation" that they are past. I also acknowledge that most reasonable people would think that such old grievances might not be subject to any lawsuits, and, as much as possible, I do try to function as a reasonable person. However, as the Hoffman Process “teaches,” the effects of negative actions persist over generations, and to paint over the dark side of Hoffman’s legacy with the portrait of a grandfatherly spiritual seer who just wanted everyone to lead lives of freedom and happiness is total nonsense.

When a respected Zen teacher read my #gaymetoo post, she told me that she has encouraged many students of Buddhist teachers who abused their positions to satisfy their sexual urges to pursue lawsuits. Then she said, “Hoffman was a criminal. Simple.” She is right. California law stipulates, “Therapy Never Includes Sexual Behavior. . . . Sexual contact of any kind between a therapist and a client is unethical and illegal in the State of California. Additionally, with regard to former clients, sexual contact within two years after termination of therapy is also illegal and unethical.”*

Most people who were close associates of Hoffman will admit that he was an extremely difficult man, and that his interactions with clients were, at best, unconventional, and at worst, unethical and abusive. Stan Stefancic labeled him a “malignant narcissist.” But these same people will also argue that Hoffman's basic insight allows them to overlook what they characterize as eccentricities. For years, I tried to excuse his behavior—perhaps he was the gay kid who was bullied and overcompensated when he was in a position of power.

But Hoffman became the bully as well as a predator, and if I let bullies get away with it, I am complicit. This I cannot and will not allow.

Whether or not his basic insight into human behavior as “negative love” can stand the test of time, whether or not the effects of his revolutionary “psychic therapy” are worth the expense, I cannot say. But I will say that Bob Hoffman was a criminal.


* It should be noted that Brown is a former Jesuit, and the Society of Jesus continues to be subject to numerous accusations of abuse by its members dating back many years.

*Hoffman operated as a clergy person. He was a recognized psychic in a spiritualist church. He called the people he trained as “psychic therapists.” Now the Hoffman Institute calls them “teachers.” But whether therapist, or clergy person, or teacher, the title does not excuse him from the moral or ethical standards that apply to professionals interacting with the people who come to them for help and pay them money for that help.

____________________________

Although I have tried to be objective, it is impossible to take a disinterested position with regard to the Process, given that Hoffman sexually abused me within 6 months after I finished my first process. 

Other Posts regarding Bob Hoffman and the Fisher-Hoffman Process of Psychic Therapy

The Ontological Odd Couple, and the Origins of the Fisher-Hoffman Psychic Therapy

Bob Hoffman was a Lunatic, a Liar, a Criminal, & a Fraud

Why Do Cults Need to Rewrite History?

The Truth about Bob Hoffman

The End of Patriarchy and the Beginnings of a Cult. 

It’s a cult, damn it. Nothing more

The Sad Demise of Bob Hoffman 

Jonestown and Our Deliverance from Cults

Bob Hoffman was a criminal. Simple 

© Kenneth Ireland, 2020

བླ་ན་མེད་པའི་སྒོམ་གྱི་ལམ།, The Universal Way of Zazen by Dogen Zenji, in Tibetan

Fukan-Zazengi, ​Universal Way of Zazen by Dogen Zenji

༄༅།། བླ་ན་མེད་པའི་སྒོམ་གྱི་ལམ།

Originally, The Way is complete and universal. How can we distinguish practice from enlightenment? The Vehicle of Reality is in the Self. Why should we waste our efforts trying to attain it? Still more, the Whole Body is free from dust. Why should we believe in a means to sweep it away? The Way is never separated from where we are now. Why should we wander here and there to practice?

བླ་ན་མེད་པ་དང་ཡང་དག་པའི་ལམ་དངོས་ན། བྱང་ཆུབ་དང་ཉམས་ལེན་བར་དུ་ཁྱད་པར་ཇི་ལྟར་འབྱེད་ཐུབ་བམ། ཡང་དག་པའི་ཆོས་ཀྱི་འཁོར་ལོ་དེ་ཉིད་ན་གནས་ལུགས་ཡིན་པས། གང་གི་ཕྱིར་ང་ཚོས་གཞན་ཞིག་ཐོབ་པར་བྱ་བའི་ཆེད་དུ་ངལ་ཞིང་དུབ་པས་འབད་བརྩོན་བྱས་པ་དེ་ཆུད་ཟོས་བཏང་བ་རེད། ལྷག་པར་དུ། གཞི་ཡི་སྙིང་པོ་ནི་དྲི་མ་མེད་པའི་རང་བཞིན་ཡིན། དྲི་མ་དག་པའི་ཆེད་དུ་ང་ཚོས་རྩོལ་བ་བྱེད་མི་དགོས། ང་ཚོ་གང་དུ་ཕྱིན་ཀྱང་འབྲལ་བ་མེད་པའི་གཞི་སྙིང་པོ་དེ་ཉིད་ཡོད་པའི་ཕྱིར། ཉམས་ལེན་ན་གནས་སྐབས་ཀུན་ཏུ་གང་གི་ཕྱིར་མི་བྱས་སམ།

Yet, if there is the slightest deviation, you will be as far from the Way as heaven is from earth. If adverse or favorable conditions arise to even a small degree, you will lose your mind in confusion. Even if you are proud of your understanding, are enlightened in abundance, and obtain the power of wisdom to glimpse the ground of buddhahood; even if you gain the Way, clarify the mind, resolve to pierce heaven, that is only strolling on the border of the Buddha Way.

ཁྱད་པར་གྱིས་འཛིན་སྟངས་ཐོགས་ནས། མི་ཡུལ་དང་ཞིང་ཁམས་ཀྱི་ཁྱད་པར་འབྱེད་ལ་དེ་བཞིན་དུ། བཟང་ངན་གྱི་རྣམ་རྟོག་དུ་མ་སྐྱེས། མ་རིག་པའི་དབང་གི་སེམས་ཀྱི་རང་བཞིན་རྟོགས་མི་ནུས་སོ། ཁྱེད་རང་གི་གནས་ལུགས་རྟོགས་བསམ་པའི་སྤོབས་སྐྱེས་ཀྱང་རུང་། མཐའ་མེད་པའི་གནས་ལུགས་ཤེས་པ་དང་བླ་ན་མེད་པའི་ཤེས་རབ་ཀྱིས་ནུས་པའི་གཞི་ཡི་སྙིང་པོ་ཐོབ་ཀྱང་། སེམས་ཀྱི་ཞིང་ཁམས་གསལ་པར་འཛིན་པ་འདི་ཡི་སངས་རྒྱས་ཀྱིས་གོ་འཕངས་འགྲོ་པའི་ལམ་གོལ་བ་ཡིན་ནོ།

You are still, almost always, lacking the vivid way of emancipation. Moreover, consider Shakyamuni Buddha who was enlightened from birth; to this day you can see the traces of his sitting in the straight posture for six years. And Bodhidharma who transmitted the mind seal; even now you can hear of the fame of his facing the wall for nine years. These ancient sages practiced in this way. How can people of today refrain from practice?

རྟག་ཏུ་ལམ་གྱི་རང་བཞིན་མ་རྟོགས་པ་པ་དང་། ལྷག་པར་དུ་རྫོགས་པའི་སངས་རྒྱས་ཤཀྱ་ཐུབ་པ་གང་སྐུ་འཁྲུངས་དུས་ནས་སྐྱོན་ཀུན་ཟད་ཡོན་ཀུན་ལྡན་རེད་དྲན། འོན་ཀྱང་ཐུབ་བའི་དབང་པོ་ལོ་དྲུག་དཀའ་པ་སྤྱད་པ་ད་ལྟར་རྟོགས་ལ། བྱང་ཆུབ་ཆོས་ཀྱི་སེམས་རྩེ་གཅིག་ཏུ་གཏད་ཏེ། ལོ་དགུ་རིང་སྒྲུབ་པ་གནང་ཡོད། འདི་ན་སྔོན་གྱི་དྲང་སྲོང་རྣམས་ཀྱི་ཉམས་ལེན་གྱི་ལམ་བུ་རེད།

Therefore, cease studying words and following letters. Learn to step back, turning the light inwards, illuminating the Self. Doing so, your body and mind will drop off naturally, and Original Self will manifest. If you wish to attain suchness, practice suchness immediately.

ཚིག་གི་རྗེས་སུ་མི་འབྲངས་པར་དོན་གྱིས་སུ་རྗེས་འབྲངས། བློ་སེམས་ནང་དུ་བསྡུས་ཏེ། འོད་གསལ་པའི་གནས་ལུགས་དེ་ཉིད་སེམས། ལུས་སེམས་རང་བཞིན་དུ་གཞོག་དང་གནས་ལུགས་དེ་ཉིད་མངོན་དུ་འགྱུར་འོང་། ཡང་དག་པའི་ཆོས་ཉིད་དེ་ཉིད་ཐོབ་པར་བྱ་བའི་ཕྱིར་དུ། ཡང་དག་པའི་ཉམས་ལེན་ཕྱི་ཤོར་མེད་པར་བྱས།

Now, for zazen a quiet room is best. Eat and drink moderately. Let go of all associations, and put all affairs aside. Do not think of either good or evil. Do not be concerned with either right or wrong. Put aside the operation of your intellect, volition, and consciousness. Stop considering things with memory, imagination and contemplation. Do not seek to become Buddha. To be Buddha has nothing to do with the forms of sitting or lying down.

མཆོག་ཏུ་གྱུར་སྒོམ་པའི་གནས་ན་དབེན་པའི་རི་ཁྲོད་ཡིན། ཟ་འཐུང་ཚོད་རིག་པར་བྱས། གྲོགས་དང་མཛའ་ཀུན་སྤངས་ཏེ། གནས་ལུགས་ངང་དུ་གཞོག། རྣམ་རྟོག་བཟང་ངན་གྱིས་རྗེས་སུ་མ་འབྲངས། བདེན་རྫུན་གྱིས་འཛིན་སྟངས་མ་བྱས། རིག་པ་དང་འདུ་ཤེས་མཉམ་གཞག་གི་ནང་དུ་གཞོག། བསམ་པ་དང་འཆར་སྣང་དུས་གསུམ་གྱི་རྣམ་རྟོག་དགག་ཏེ། སངས་རྒྱས་ཀྱི་གོ་འཕངས་ཐོབ་པའི་འདུན་པ་བྱས། སངས་རྒྱས་ཀྱི་གོ་འཕངས་འདི་ནི་ལུས་ཀྱི་དཀའ་སྤྱད་ཀྱི་གང་ཡང་མེད་ཐོབ།

Usually a thick zabutan is put on the floor where you sit, and a zafu placed on it. You may sit full lotus or half lotus. Your clothing should be loose but neat. Then put your right palm up on your left foot and your left palm up on your right palm. The tips of your thumbs should be lightly touching. Sit upright, leaning neither to the left nor right, neither forward nor backward. Your ears should be in line with your shoulders; your nose should be in line with your navel. Place your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Close your lips and jaw. Always keep your eyes open. Breathe quietly through your nose. After having regulated your posture, exhale completely and take a breath. Sway your body from left to right a few times. Sit stably in samadhi. Think of not-thinking.

སྒོམ་པའི་གནས་གང་དུ་བྱས་པ་དེ། སྒོམ་གདན་རྒྱབ་དེ་ཐོག་ཏུ་སྒོམ་གདན་ཆུང་ཞིག་གཞོག། པད་མའི་དཀྱིལ་གྲུམ་དང་ཡང་ན་ཕྱེད་པད་མའི་དཀྱིལ་གྲུམ་བྱས། གྱོན་གོས་གཙང་མ་དང་གྱོན་གོས་ལྷུག་ལྷུག་གྱོན། རྐང་མ་གཡན་མ་གཡས་པའི་ཐོག་ཏུ་གཞོག། ལག་གཡན་མ་གཡས་པའི་ཐོག་ཏུ་གཞོག། མཛུབ་རྩེ་རྣམས་མ་རེག་ཙམ་བྱས། ལུས་དྲང་པོ་བྱས། གཡས་དང་གཡན་མ་བསྙེས། མདུན་དང་རྒྱབ་ཏུ་མ་འགུག།་རྣ་བ་ཕྲག་པ་དང་ཐད་དུ་གཞོག། མིག་སྣ་རྩེ་ཕབ་ཏེ་ལྟེ་བ་དང་མཉམ་པ་བྱས། ལྕེ་ཡ་རྐན་དུ་སྦྱོར། ཁ་མ་སྡང་མགྲེན་པ་ལྷུད་དུ་གཞོག། རྒྱུན་དུ་མིག་སྡང་ལས་ཙུམ་མི་རུང་། ལྷོད་པོ་ངང་དུ་དབྱུག་ནང་དུ་འཐེན།་རྒྱུན་དུ་ལུས་ཀྱི་འདུག་སྟངས་ཐོག།་དབྱུག་ཕྱི་དབྱུང་བ་དང་ནང་དུ་འཐེན།ལུས་པོ་གཡན་ཕྱོགས་གཡས་ཕྱོགས་ཐེངས་ཁ་ཤས་གཡོ་འགུལ་བྱས།ཞི་གནས་ངང་དུ་མཉམ་པར་གཞོག། རྣམ་རྟོག་གི་རྒྱུ་དགག།

How do you think of not-thinking Beyond thinking. This is the essential way of zazen. The zazen which I am talking about is not step-by-step meditation. It is simply the dharma gate of peace and comfort. It is the practice-enlightenment of the ultimate Way. In doing zazen, the Koan manifests itself; it cannot be ensnared. When you grasp this, you are like a dragon with water, or a tiger in the mountains. You must know that true dharma manifests itself in zazen, and that dullness and distraction drop away.

རྣམ་རྟོག་ལས་འདས་པའི་རྟོགས་པ་མངོན་དུ་བྱས། འདི་ནི་སྒོམ་གྱི་སྙིང་པོ་ཡིན། སྒོམ་གྱི་རིམ་པ་བཤད་པ་མ་རེད། སེམས་ཀྱི་བདེ་པ་དང་ཞི་བ་ལ་ཟེར། འདི་ནི་དོན་དམ་པའི་ཉམས་ལེན་ཡིན། སྒོམ་འདི་ཐོག་ན་བྱས། དེ་ཡི་གནས་ལུགས་མངོན་དུ་འགྱུར། འདི་ནི་འཆིང་ཐག་མ་རེད། གནས་ལུགས་འདི་རྟོགས་པ་ཡིན་ན། འབྲུག་ཆུ་ནང་དུ་གནས་པ་དང་། སྟག་ནགས་ལ་གནས་པ་བཞིན་ཡིན། སྒོམ་གྱི་སྙིང་པོ་དོན་དམ་པའི་གནས་ལུགས་རྟོགས་དུས། རྨོངས་པའི་བགེགས་རིམ་གྱིས་མེད་པ་གྱུར་འགྲོ།

When you rise from sitting, move your body slowly and stand up calmly. Do not move abruptly. You should see that to transcend both ordinary people and sages and to die sitting or standing, depends upon the power of zazen. Moreover, your discriminating mind cannot understand how buddhas and patriarchs taught their students with a finger, a pole, a needle, or a mallet, or how they transmitted the Way with a hossu, a fist, a staff, or by shouting. Needless to say, these actions cannot be understood by practicing to attain superhuman powers. These actions come from the practice which is prior to discriminating mind.

སྒོམ་ལས་སྡང་དུས། ལུས་ཀྱི་རྣམ་འགྱུར་ཞི་བ་དང་དལ་པོ་ངང་དུ་ལངས། སྤྱོད་ལམ་ཚུལ་དང་མཐུན་པ་བྱས། སྔོན་གྱི་དྲང་སྲོང་རྣམས་དང་ཉམས་ལེན་པ་རྣམས་ཀྱིས་སྒོམ་ལས་སྡང་པ་དང་སྐུ་མྱ་ངན་ལས་འདས་དུས་བཞུགས་སྟངས་སོགས་ལྟོས་དང་སྒོམ་གྱི་ནུས་པ་ལ་རྟེན་ཡོད། ལྷག་པར་དུ་སངས་རྒྱས་དང་བླ་མ་གོང་མ་རྣམས་ཀྱི་མཚན་འཛིན་གྱི་ལམ་ནས་བསྟན་པ་དེ་ཉིད། སེམས་ཀྱི་གནས་ལུགས་མི་རྟོགས་སྟེ། དཔེར་ན། ཕྱག་མཛུབ་ཀྱི་བརྡ། ལྕམ་ཤིང་གི་བརྡ། ཤིང་གི་ཐོ་པའི་བརྡ། གཉུག་ཤིང་། ཁུ་ཚུར། དབྱུག་པ། སྐད་ཆེ་པོར་གནང་པ། དོན་གང་ཡང་མི་གསུངས་པ་སོགས་ཀྱི་སྤྱོད་ལམ་ཇི་ལྟར་བསྟན་ཀྱང་བླ་ན་མེད་པའི་སྒོམ་གྱི་གནས་ལུགས་མི་རྙེད་དོ། འདི་ན་སེམས་ཀྱི་འཛིན་སྟངས་ལས་བྱུང་པའི་སྤྱོད་ལམ་ཀྱི་སྒོམ་ཡིན་ནོ།

Therefore, do not consider whether you are clever or stupid, and do not think of whether you are superior or inferior. When you practice wholeheartedly, it is truly the practice of the Way. Practice – enlightenment cannot be defiled. Making the effort to obtain the Way, is itself, the manifestation of the Way in your daily life. The Buddhas and sages, both in this world and other worlds, in India and China, preserved the buddha-seal in the same way and expressed the Way freely. They just practiced sitting and were protected by zazen. Although their characters were diverse, each of them practiced the Way of zazen wholeheartedly.

རྒྱུ་མཚན་དེའི་ཕྱིར། རྣམ་དཔྱོད་ལྡན་པ་དང་མི་ལྡན་པ། མཆོག་དམན་གང་དུ་བློ་ཡི་འཛིན་སྟངས་མ་བྱས། སེམས་སྟིང་ནས་ཉམས་ལན་ཡང་དག་པ་བྱས། སྒོམ་གྱི་ཉམས་ལེན་ཡང་དག་པ་འདི་ཉིད་ཡིན། བྱང་ཆུབ་ནི་དྲི་མེད་མ་པའི་ལམ་ཉམས་ལེན་གྱི་ཐོགས་ནས་གནས་ལུགས་རྙེད། དེ་ནི་ཆོས་ཉིད་ཡིན། རྒྱུན་དུ་འཚོ་བའི་ནང་དུ་ལམ་མངོན་གྱུར་བྱས་དགོས། དྲང་སྲོང་དང་སངས་རྒྱས་རྣམས་ཀྱི་གསུངས་རྒྱ་ནག་དང་རྒྱ་གར་སོགས་བདག་སྐྱོངས་གཅིག་ཏུ་བྱས་ཏེ། སྒོམ་ཉམས་ལེན་གྱི་བསམ་གཏན་ལ་གནས་ཡོད། སྤྱོད་ལམ་སྣ་ཚོགས་པ་ཡོད་ཀྱང་། ཡང་དག་པས་ཉམས་ལེན་དེ་དག་རེ་རེ་བྱས་ཡོད།

There is no reason to leave your own seat at home and take a meaningless trip to the dusty places of other countries. If you make a false step, then you will miss the way, even though it is before your eyes. You have already been given a human body which is vital, so do not spend your time wastefully. Since you are endowed with the essential functioning of the Buddha Way, why pursue worthless pleasures that are like sparks from a flint?

སོར་སོར་ཁྱིམ་གཞི་སྤངས་ཏེ་ལུང་པ་གཞན་དུ་རྒྱུད་དེ་གནས་ལུགས་འཚོལ་དུ་ཕྱིན་པའི་རྒྱུ་མཚན་གང་ཡང་མེད། གལ་སྲིད་ལམ་ནོར་དུ་ཕྱིན་ན་ཡང་དག་པའི་ལམ་དུ་མི་སླེབས། མིག་ཡོད་ཀྱང་གཡང་དུ་མཆོངས་པ་ནང་བཞིན་རེད། མི་ལུས་རིན་ཆེན་ཐོབ་པའི་དུས་འདིར། ཆུད་ཟོས་མ་བཏང་། འདི་ནི་སངས་རྒྱས་སྒྲུབ་པའི་རྟེན་གྱི་སྙིང་པོ་ཡོད་དེ་ཡིན། གནས་སྐབས་ཀྱི་བདེ་པས་ཆེད་དུ་བརྩོན་པ་ནི་མེ་སྟག་བཞིན་རེད།

Furthermore, your body is like a drop of dew on a blade of grass, your life is like a flash of lightning. Your body will disappear soon, your life will be lost in an instant. You, honored practitioner, after learning in a partial way like the blind people who touched various parts of the elephant, please do not be scared by the real dragon. Devote yourself to the Way which indicates Reality directly. Respect those who realize their Self and no longer seek anything outside. Be in accord with the buddhas’ bodhi. Succeed to the sages’ samadhi. If you practice suchness continuously, you will be suchness.

མི་ལུས་ནི་རྕེར་ཟིལ་བ་བཞིན་རེད། མི་ལུས་ནི་གློག་འགྱུར་སྐད་ཅིག་བཞིན་རེད། མི་ལུས་མི་རིང་པར་བརླག་འགྲོ། མི་ཚེ་སྐད་ཉིད་དུ་མེད་པར་གྱུར་འགྲོ། བླ་ན་མེད་པའི་ཉམས་ལེན་པས་གསུངས་ན། མིག་ལོང་པའི་གང་ཟག་གི་གླང་པོ་ཆེའི་མགོ་ལུས་ཚང་མ་ལག་པའི་རེག་པ་བཞིན་སློབ་གཉེར་པ་རྣམས་ཀྱི་ཕྱོགས་རེས་ལམ་ལ་མ་འཇུག་པར་ཡང་དག་པས་གནས་ལུགས་ལ་མ་འཇིག་པར་འཇུག་པར་བྱས། ཆོས་ཉིད་ལ་འཇུག་པས་ནི་རང་ཉིད་ཀྱི་དད་པ་འགྱུར་མེད་བྱས། ནང་གི་གནས་ལུགས་དེ་ཉིད་ཚུལ་དུ་བཞིན་དུ་རྟོགས་པ་དང་ཕྱི་རོལ་དོན་ལ་མི་ཞེན་པ་རྣམས་ལ་གུས་པ་བྱས། གཞི་སངས་རྒྱས་ཀྱི་སྙིང་པོས་ལ་འཇུག་དང་དྲང་སྲོང་རྣམས་ཀྱི་བསམ་གཏན་ལ་གནས་པ་ལྟར་གྲུབ། ཉམས་ལེན་ཚུལ་དང་མཐུན་པ་རྒྱུན་ཆད་མེད་པར་བྱས་དང་། འབྲས་བུ་དེ་བཞིན་ཉིད་ཐོབ།

The treasure house will open of itself, and you will be able to use it at will. ནོར་བུ་རིན་པོ་ཆེས་མཛོད་ཁང་རང་

ཉིད་ཀྱིས་ཁང་སྒོ་ཕྱེས་ན། ནང་དུ་འཇུག་ཏེ་ལོངས་སུ་སྤྱོད་ཐུབ་པར་བྱེད་ཅིག།

ZCLA version, English translators unknown

ཀུན་གྲགས་ཀྱི་བོད་ཡིག་ཏུ་ཕབ་སྒྱུར་བྱས། November 15th, 2019

བྱང་ཆུབ་ཆོས་ཀྱི་གསུང།, The Blue Cliff Record, Cases 1, 2, 3, and 4 in Tibetan

                                                       བྱང་ཆུབ་ཆོས་ཀྱི་གསུང།

སྐབས་དང་པོ།

                                                                  ཟབ་པ་དང་རྒྱ་ཆེའི་རྣམ་གཞག།

དུ་བའི་རྟགས་ལ་བརྟེན་ནས་ལ་ཕར་རི་ལ་མེ་ཡོད་པ་དང་།    བ་གླང་རྭ་ཕྱོགས་གཅིག་མཐོང་ན་ཕྱོགས་གཞན་ཡོད་པ་དང་། ཟུར་གསུམ་ཡོད་པ་རྟོགས་པའི་དུས་ན་ཟུར་གཅིག་ཡོད་པ་རྟོགས་ནུས།

བཏེགས་པའི་ནུས་པ་ལ་བརྟན་ནི་དངོས་པོ་དེའི་ཡང་ལྗིད་སོགས་རྟོགས་ཐུབ།རྒྱུ་མཚན་ལྡན་པའི་རིག་པའི་ལམ་ནས་གཏན་ལ་ཕབས་པ་འདི་གོས་ཧྲོལ་པོ་གྱོན་པའི་གྲྭ་པ་དཀྱུས་མ་ཞིག་གི་ཉིན་རེའི་འཚོ་པའི་ཟ་འཐུང་ཡིན།     དེ་ནི་རྣམ་རྟོག་གི་རྦ་ལོང་འཁྲུག་ཞིང་སྐྱེ་འཆི་འཁོར་ལོ་འཁོར་པས་རྒྱུ་རྐྱེན་དུ་མ་ལས་གྲུབ་པའི་འདུ་བྱེད་ཀྱི་དངོས་པོ་འདི་དག་ནི་འགའ་འདུས་ཀྱི་ཕྱོགས་ཀུན་ཏུ་བསྐོར་པས།         མ་རིག་པ་སྤང་ཞིང་ཡང་དག་པའི་་གནས་ལུགས་ལ་བརྩོན།   དེ་ཕྱོགས་མཚུངས་དྲི་བ་ཞིག་སུའི་ཚེ་སྲོག་དང་

སུའི་བྱ་སྤྱོད། དེ་ཕྱིར་གནས་ལུགས་ལ་དཔྱོད་པ་བཙུན་པ་Setcho’s རྨོངས་པའི་དྲྭ་བ་ནང་དུ་བཅུད།

གོང་མ་ཆེན་མོ་བཙུན་པ་བྱང་ཆུབ་ཆོས་ལ་དྲིས་པ། ཡང་དག་པའི་གནས་ལུགས་དང་བདེན་པའི་དོན་ཇི་ལྟར་ཡིན།   བཙུན་པ་བྱང་ཆུབ་ཆོས་ཀྱི་ལན་དུ་ཟབ་པ་དང་རྒྱ་ཆེ་ཉིད་ཡིན་དེ་ལས་ལྷག་པའི་གནས་ལུགས་མེད་གསུངས། གོང་མ་ཆེན་མོའི། ཁྱོད་སུ་ཡིན་ཞེས་དྲིས། བྱང་ཆུབ་ཆོས་ཀྱི། ང་སུ་ཡིན་མི་ཤེས་ཞེས་ལན་སྤྲད། གོང་མ་ཆེན་མོའི་གོ་བ་མ་ལོན།

བཙུན་པ་བྱང་ཆུབ་ཆོས་ཡང་རྩེ་གཙང་པོ་བརྒལ་ཏེ་GI རྒྱལ་ས་འབྱོར་པ་རེད།     

ཅུང་ཙམ་རྗེས་ལ་གོང་མ་ཆེན་མོ་ཞབས་ཕྱི་SHIKO བྱང་ཆུབ་ཆོས་བསྐོར་དྲིས་པ། SHIKO མི་རྗེ་རིན་པོ་ཆེ་ཁྱེད་ཀྱི་ཁོང་སུ་ཡིན་པ་མཁྱེན་ལགས་སམ་ཞུས་པས།  གོང་མ་ཆེན་མོའི་གསུངས་ལན་དུ།       ངའི་མི་ཤེས་སོ། ཡང་SHIKO ཞུས་པ་ཁོང་ནི་སངས་རྒྱས་དང་ཐུགས་དབྱེར་མེད་དུ་འདྲེས་པ་འཕགས་པ་སྤྱན་རས་གཟིགས་དབང་ཕྱུག་རེད་བཤད།

གོང་མ་ཆེན་མོ་འགྱོད་པ་རབ་ཏུ་སྐྱེས་ཏེ་ང་ག་རེ་བྱེས་པ་རེད། མྱུར་དུ་བང་མི་བཏང་ཏེ་བཙུན་པ་བྱང་ཆུབ་ཆོས་གདན་འདྲེན་ཞུས་ཞིག་ཞེས་བཀའ་ཕབས།

SHIKOགྱི་ཞུས་པ་མི་རྗེ་གོང་མ་རིན་པོ་ཆེ་ལགས།      བང་མི་བཏང་ཏེ་ཁོང་གདན་འདྲེན་ཞུས་མི་ཐུབ།          དེ་བཞིན་ཡུལ་མི་ཚང་མའི་ཞུས་ཀྱང་ཁོང་ཕྱིར་ལོགས་ཕེབས་མི་སྲིད།

ཚིགས་བཅད།

ཟབ་པ་རྒྱ་ཆེ་བདེན་པའི་གནས་ལུགས་ཡིན། །

རྣམ་འབྱེད་བློ་ཡི་བདག་ཉིད་ཇི་ལྟར་རྟོགས།

ཞེས་བཙུན་པ་བྱང་ཆུབ་ཆོས་ཀྱི་གསུངས་པའི་གོང་མ་ཆེ་མོ་ཁྱོད་སུ་ཞེས་དྲིས། ཁོང་གི་ལན།ང་སུ་ཡིན་མི་ཤེས་གསུངས།

དེ་མ་ཐག་ཏུ་ཁོང་ཁུམ་སེམ་མེར་ཡང་རྩེ་གཙང་པོ་ང་བརྒལ་ཏེ་ཕྱིན་སོང་།   ཚེར་ཤིང་སྐྱེས་ནི་ཚེར་མའི་སྡོང་བུ་ཇི་ལྟར་སྟོང་།  དེ་ཕྱོགས་མཚུངས་ས་གཞི་ཐོག་གི་འགྲོ་བ་མི་ཡོད་དོ་ཅོག་ཁོང་གི་རྗེས་སུ་ཕྱིན་ཀྱང་ཁོང་ཕྱིར་ཕེབས་མི་འོངས།       ཁྱོད་ཀྱི་ཁོང་གི་རྗེས་སུ་ལོ་ངོ་སྟོང་ཕྲག་དང་སྟོང་བཅུ་སོགས་ཕྱིར་ཕེབས་རྒྱུ་འདུན་པ་སྐྱེས་ཀྱང་རེ་བ་སྟོང་ཟད་དུ་གྱུར་པའི་འདུན་པ་བློ་ཐོང་ཞིག་ཞུས།  ས་གཞི་མཁའ་རླུང་གཙང་མའི་ཚད་ཅན་གྲུབ་པའི་བསྐོར་བ་རེས་མོས་བྱེད་ན་རྒྱབ། གཡན་གཡོན་མཐའ་བསྐོར་ཀུན་ཏུ་བལྟ་པའི་འདི་ནི་དམ་ཆོས་ཐོག་མར་དར་པའི་བྱེད་པོ་ཡིན།  དགེ་བའི་བཤེས་གཉེན་གྱི་གསུངས་པ་རེད་ཞེས།  ཁོང་རང་ཉིད་ཀྱི་རང་ཉིད་ལ་སྤྲད། ཁོང་འདིར་གདན་དྲོངས་ཤིག། ངའི་ཁོང་དགེ་སློང་དེའི་ཞབས་སེལ་ཆོག།

སྤྱི་ལོ་༢༠༡༩ཕྱི་ཟླ་༤ཚེས་༢༧སྔ་དྲོ་ཞི་བདེ་ཇ་ཁང་ནང་དུ་བྲིས།

ངོ་སྤྲོད།

ལྷ་ཡུལ་དང་གོ་ལ་ཆུང་ཆུང་རེད་ལ། ཉི་མ་དང་ཟླ་བ་སྐར་མ་ཚང་མ་ནུབ་ཞིང་སྐད་ཅིག་ཉིད་མུན་ནག་ཏུ་གྱུར།

རྒྱུག་བརྡུང་གི་ཚག་སྒྲ་ནི་ཆར་རླུང་དང་འབྲུག་སྒྲ་བཞིན་རེད། ཁྱེད་རང་གི་ད་དུ་གཞི་ཡི་ལམ་ཡང་དག་པའི་ཉམས་སུ་མ་བླངས། རྫོགས་པའི་སངས་རྒྱས་ཚང་མའི་ཡང་གནས་ལུགས་སོ་སོ་རྟོགས།   འདས་ཟིན་པའི་མེས་པོ་དམ་པའི་རྒྱུད་པ་ཆ་ཚང་རྟོགས་མི་ཐུབ།སྡེ་སྣོད་བསླབ་པའི་རིམ་པ་ཚང་མ་འདིར་བཤད་མི་ནུས། རིགས་ལམ་རྒོད་པའི་སློབ་ཕྲུག་ཚོའི་སོ་སོར་གཅེས་འཛིན་གྱི་བློ་ཐམས་ཅད་ལས་རྣམ་པར་རྒྱལ་མི་ནུས།

ཁྱེད་ཀྱི་རྟོགས་པ་མངོན་དུ་གྱུར་ན།་

དྲི་བ་ཡི་ལམ་ན་རྒྱས་པར་འགྲེལ་ཆོག་གམ།  ཚིག་གི་བཤད་པའི་སངས་རྒྱས། མི་གཙང་པའི་འདམ་དང་ཞག་ཐིགས་ཅན་ཆུ་རེད་ཞེས་འགྲེལ་ན།ZEN ཀྱི་རྗེས་འབྲང་ཚང་མ་ངོ་ཚ་པོ་ཞི་དྲགས་རེད། རྣལ་འབྱོར་པ་རྣམས་ཀྱི་ཡུན་རིང་པོ་ནི་གཉིས་འཛིན་གྱི་རྭ་བ་ལས་འདས་པའི་ཚིག་གི་མཐའ་ལས་འདས།

ལས་དང་པོའི་དཀྱུས་མའི་ཐབས་ལམ་གྱི་སྒོ་ནས་ངེས་པར་བརྟགས་ཤིང་དཔྱད་པའི་ལམ་ནསགནས་ལུགས་དེ་རྟོགས་དགོས།

སྐབས་གཉིས་པ།

CHAO-CHAO དགེ་རྒན་ཅོར་ཅོར་གྱི་ཚོགས་མང་ལ་གསུངས་པ་རེད། ཐེག་ཆེན་ལམ་དེ་དཀའ་ལས་ཁག་པོ་མ་རེད། སྤོང་ལེན་གཉིས་ལ་འདས་དགོས།         དེ་བཞིན་དུ་ཚིག་གི་བརྗོད་པ་ནི་སྤང་བླང་རེད། གཉིས་འཛིན་གྱི་བློ་འདས་པ་དེ་སངས་རྒྱས་ཀྱི་གོ་འཕངས་རེད། ང་ལ་མཚོན་ན་སངས་རྒྱས་གོ་འཕངས་ཐོབ་མེད། ད་དུང་ཡུལ་ལ་ཡོད་མེད་ཀྱི་འཛིན་སྟངས་ཡོད།

དེ་མ་ཐག་ཏུ་སློབ་ཕྲུག་ཞིག་ཁྱེད་རང་གི་སངས་རྒྱས་ཀྱི་གོ་འཕངས་ཞེན་པ་ཅི་ཕྱིར་མ་སྐྱེས་སམ། དགེ་རྒན་CHOA་CHOA]ཅོར་ཅོར་གྱི་ལན་དུ། ངའི་ཀྱང་ཧ་མི་གོ། སློབ་ཕྲུག་གི་སྨྲས། དགེ་རྒན་ལགས་ཁྱོད་རང་མི་ཤེས་ན་ཡང་རྒྱུ་མཚན་ཅི་ཕྱིར་ཁྱོད་རང་གི་སངས་རྒྱས་གོ་འཕངས་ལ་མི་ཞེན་པར་མི་རུང་བཤད་དམ། དགེ་རྒན་གྱི་ལན་དུ།དྲི་བ་དེ་ཙམ་འགྲེགས་སོང་། མགོ་སྒུར་དེ་ཕྱི་ལོག་སོང་བཤད།

སྐབས་གསུམ་པ།

དགེ་པའི་བཤེས་གཉེན་ཆེན་མོ་[MA]སྐུ་ཁམས་བདེ་པོ་མེད་པར་རེད། དགོན་པའི་ལྟ་རྟོག་པས་སྐད་ཆ་དྲིས་པ།  

ཉེར་བཅར་གྱི་ཉི་མ་དེ་ཚོ་ནང་ཁྱེད་གཟུགས་ཁམས་བདེ་ཐང་ཡིན་ནམྲ

དགེ་པའི་བཤེས་གཉེན་ཆེན་མོ་[MA]མ་ཡི་ལན་དུ།

ཉི་མ་སངས་རྒྱས་ཀྱི་ས་ཁ་ཕྱོགས།

ཟླ་བ་སངས་རྒྱས་ཀྱི་ས་ལ་ཁ་ཕྱོགས།

འདི་དགེ་རྒན་ཆེ་མོ་{KEE}་ལགས་ཀྱི་ཟུར་ཁྲིད་གནང་སྐབས་རང་ཉིད་ཀྱི་རང་སྦྱོང་གི་ཚུལ་དུ་བསྒྱུར་པ་ལས་ད་དུང་ཞིབ་བྲིས་དང་སྐྱར་བཅོས་གང་ཡང་བྱོན་མེད་པའི་གཟིགས་མཁན་པ་རྣམས་ཚོ་ཡོ་སྲང་ཡོད་པར་མཁྱེན།

མཁན་པོ་ཀུན་དགའ་གྲགས་པ་འམ་ངག་དབང་རྣམ་རྒྱལ་གྱི་སྤྱི་ལོ༢༠༡༩ཕྱི་ཟླ་༥ཚེས་༧ཉིན་བྲིས་

Bob Hoffman—#GayMeToo

October 1st, 2019

I have been struggling with my relationship with Bob Hoffman for more than 40 years. Ever since I finished the original Hoffman Process, then called “Fisher-Hoffman Psychic Therapy,” the incidents I’m going to reveal have been painful and problematic. Still now, more than 20 years after his death, they continue to trouble me.

Last April, when Ashish and I returned from India, we realized that after nearly 10 years of being inseparable, something had changed in our relationship. I had become restless and irritable, and couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I tried to pretend that everything would eventually return to normal, but some line had been crossed. After several blowups, he told me it was over, and he left me. I was crushed.

Ash and I had come to the end of a deep, loving relationship, but certainly the breakup had nothing to do with his actions. So why did I feel betrayed? Not 10 minutes into the first session with a therapist, I found myself talking about Hoffman, our therapist/client relationship, being stalked by Hoffman, not 4 months after I finished the Process, and before the therapist could even ask the question, I blurted out that he raped me. It was not a consensual sexual encounter between adults, but an uninvited, unwelcome, and painful sexual violation by a man in whom I’d placed my trust. Of course, I felt betrayed.

I had met Hoffman at a point when I was in the midst of an enormous disruption in my life’s trajectory. I left the Jesuit order; I abandoned my professional aspirations to be an architect, and struggled to create a fulfilling livelihood; I came out as a gay man; I embraced a very active role in the world of gay liberation; I began my quest to find a nurturing relationship with another man. I would love to acknowledge Hoffman as the impetus for this change of direction, and celebrate him, or at least be grateful towards him. Instead, the only feelings that I have towards him vary between indifference and outright hostility, depending on the circumstances in which I find myself thinking about him.

And now the project of writing #gaymetoo.

A victim should not have to apologize. And yet part of the reason I’ve been silent all these years is that I’ve somehow felt that anything I might say that would damage Hoffman’s reputation is somehow inappropriate. Why? Because he is an admired figure, even if some of his past is murky, hidden, or idealized.

But many other abuse victims have felt the same misplaced feelings of complicity, so it’s probably most liberating to start with all the reasons why I shouldn’t even start. In 1973, I was 29. I was not an adolescent choir boy and certainly capable of consent. I am also gay. In the gay community, attitudes and norms for sexual encounters have always been relatively permissive, and I am certainly not a prude.

At the time Hoffman was 48 or 49, and, although that’s a significant age gap, I just ended a 10-year relationship with a man 25 years younger than myself. It’s also true that the 70s were a time of sexual revolution. The norms of our conservative parents’ generation were being toppled. The War in Vietnam had forced my generation to question the moral authority of all our institutions. Although the authority of the Church had not yet been pummelled by the pedophile scandal, in the wake of Vatican II, we certainly questioned the role of celibacy for priests and religious. Everything was in flux.

It’s also true that I had just come out. That journey for many gay men, and I assume lesbians too, of my generation during that period of revolution was tumultuous. It certainly was for me. Everything that happened in my personal life then felt like upheaval. That will become clear if you read through to the end of this piece.

And among the most persuasive reasons I’ve hesitated to write is that the Process Hoffman developed, despite its problems, seems to have helped an enormous number of people. Of course, the enterprise has changed and evolved since Hoffman first started his psychic readings with people in the “reading room” of his tailor shop on 15th Street in Oakland in the late 60s. The current practitioners have shed the barbaric practices that violated professional standards of the client-therapist relationship, and it took more than just calling people who stood in the powerful role of therapist “teachers.” Teachers can still be the objects of serious and debilitating transference.

And if this appears to be just another “hit piece” against a man whom many take to be somewhat of a luminary in the transpersonal psychological world, or if it devolves into “I said, he said,” I’ll miss the mark.

And so why write at all?

Because something deep inside me tells me that I have to. After years of personal work, thousands of dollars in therapy, countless hours in the rooms of 12-step recovery, experimenting with every personal growth program that I could find, talking to spiritual counselors all over the world, I cannot forget that Bob Hoffman took advantage of me in an entirely unethical and selfish way. In a way, writing about it may perhaps allow me to forgive Hoffman, or at least understand why it remains so painful and debilitating.

The current #metoo movement has focused on high, powerful men taking advantage of young girls. Of course, the ongoing scandal of priests abusing their position to satisfy their sexual drives with adolescent boys is a kind of #Catholicmetoo story. But not as sensational as Roman Catholic Cardinals being held to account for their past sins, there is more than enough evidence of older gay men taking advantage of younger men in the process of coming out, so I have to tell my story.

And most importantly, I have to heal myself. I cannot harbor any illusions of rehabilitating my relationship with Ashish, but I want to hold it as a cherished part of my life. And perhaps we both can share this and be friends.

So let me begin at the beginning, or at least as close as memory allows me to approach a relationship that began in 1972-3 and lasted until Hoffman died in 1997. Although time has thankfully erased many of the details, I am confident that my reporting is factual regarding the actions, times, and places. And of course, the emotional interpretation is mine alone.

In 1972, I was a Jesuit scholastic, bright, enthusiastic, inquisitive, and, to most observers, engaged in my life. I loved the Jesuits and had done well in the rigorous course of study. I was certainly accepted and encouraged by fellow Jesuits and superiors. I didn’t hide what I characterized as struggles with my homoerotic feelings from my superiors, and they tried to help in whatever way they could. Still, the prospect of a lifetime of celibacy seemed more and more like a chain rather than a path to fulfillment.

I was unhappy and frustrated, and although I tried to hide from it, I knew that I was at a turning point in my life.

Then early that summer, over the course of a long conversation with another young Jesuit in New York, where I was a student at Woodstock College, the famous Jesuit Theologiate that had relocated close to Columbia University, I heard about a Jesuit priest, Bob Ochs, who was working with Claudio Naranjo in Berkeley, California. Bob P. told me about his experiences with the Enneagram, the liberation of psychological work that was also, at its base, spiritual. Something inside me felt a connection, or perhaps I was just grabbing at straws in my pain, but I decided right then that I was going to California.

The very next morning, I called my religious superiors in Boston and asked for permission to transfer to the Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley to work with Ochs. After a few questions, they agreed—actually, they were enthusiastic—and asked me to call Berkeley and see if I could be admitted. Things fell into place so quickly and smoothly that I felt the Universe, or the Holy Spirit, was guiding me.

Within 10 days, I was sharing a ride cross-country with a young kid from Brooklyn who was headed towards the Northwest for forestry school. Once in Berkeley, I called Ochs to introduce myself, and then in a completely flat tone (I have no idea why I remember that), he asked, “Why don’t you join the group?” It had never occurred to me, but I’d just driven across the country in a headlong, desperate search to discover something about myself, and I called the number he gave me. Rosalyn Shaffer answered the phone and told me—again, her tone was rather flat—to be at an old fraternity house at 7 PM sharp on Tuesday night.

When I got there, I joined the odd collection of young therapists, grad students, carpenters, journalists, film makers, bearded barefoot hippies, waiting at the door. Some were even smoking marijuana before the session. The doors opened, and we entered a large, threadbare living room. Claudio just said, “Let’s begin with zazen.” And we sat for close to an hour.

I am including as many details as I can remember to flesh out how different this world was for me. Even though Woodstock College was as experimental as the Jesuits could muster post-Vatican II, and even though I had been a student at the Graduate School of Design at Harvard, which was not immune to the countercultural forces of the anti-Vietnam War, San Francisco Summer of Love ethos, this was remarkably different. I sensed that if I stuck with whatever program was proposed, my life would change in ways I could not predict. And that, certainly, I would be confronted with and uncomfortable. I chose to stay.

My experience that evening was not just that California presented a cafeteria of spiritual disciplines, but a veritable smorgasbord! By 10:15, we’d sat zazen, been introduced to dantian breathing by Mr. Chu, a Taoist master from Taiwan, and engaged in Gestalt therapy, first Claudio working with one student and then in “dyads.” We were instructed to meditate for at least 30 minutes in the morning, keep a dream journal, meet with a support cohort of three other group members, and return on Thursday night. Tuesdays and Thursdays were shock points in the Sufi tradition and provided the most opportunity for deep change.

The professional, if unconventional, rhythm of the evening sessions was set. It became comfortable and something that I looked forward to. Long periods of meditation became easier, and I actually did them. I made friends in my small group. The group began to seem less unconventional and more like a group of dedicated young people who were intent on discovering something about themselves. And Rosalyn promised that within a week, we’d be introduced to Bob Hoffman, who would lead us in a first-ever group process of the “Fisher-Hoffman Psychic Therapy.”

The first encounter with Hoffman was certainly bizarre. I remember very clearly that he wore what I knew was an expensive sports coat and tie while we were in jeans and T-shirts. Standing behind Rosalyn, he appeared extremely uncomfortable. When he began to speak, it was soon obvious that he was not educated in any psychological discipline, but he dominated the room, alternatively talking and then yelling in a kind of dumbed-down jargon filled with what became known as ”Hoffmanisms.” The paradoxical definition of “negative love was illogical logic and nonsensical sense,” and if we didn’t understand that, we were just playing dumb out of negative love; if we thought he was too well dressed, it was negative transference and an indication that we didn’t love ourselves. My feelings about his inappropriate dress—worthy only of a racetrack—betrayed far more than “negative love’—the transference had already begun.

I felt trapped, but I had just moved all the way from New York and had nowhere else to turn, so I sat and took notes.

How and why did I get hooked? During the group work with Claudio’s group, in the “prosecution of mother,” I had my first major breakthrough. Claudio had us working in the manner of Perls’s Gestalt Therapy, particularly when we were doing the “mother bitch session.”

We were instructed to touch the core of any latent anger we harbored towards our mothers. Claudio said that even just a second of authentic experience would change our world. So I was in the hot seat, and I tried to express my anger. No one in the group believed me. So I tried again. Again, just surface complaints about a trivial matter. But then something inside me opened. I could use the word snapped. And my anguish and anger exploded. The pitch of my voice broke a glass beside a woman in my support cohort.

I could no longer pretend that I was somehow spared the anguish of a domineering parent. And with that realization, the intricate spiritual world of this young Jesuit seeker that I’d constructed as a defense began to look like a sham, and 10 years of rigorous disciplined religious life began to crumble.

At about the same time, it became clear that Hoffman was frustrated with the pace of the process and the depth of Claudio’s exploration. He felt that a person just had to “open up” to the emotions he or she had denied or repressed. Claudio’s work with Perls and his own psychological training, I think, opened the emotional world for exploration, but Hoffman was not interested in anything more than the psychic and emotional motivation for adopting the negative behaviors of a parent or parent surrogate. He’d worked with people in his one-on-one process in a matter of 4 or 5 weeks. The SAT Process had been going on for 3 months, and we hadn’t even finished the prosecution of the mother. He announced that he would end the SAT Process after the "defense of mother." He would do his own group process and set a rapid, regimented pace for the work.

Hoffman approached me as he was finishing up the FHPT with the SAT Group and told me he felt I should join his pilot Process at Tolman Hall. He said that he sensed that I would go on to lead groups and that I should definitely train under Dr. Ernie Pecci, whose PSI Institute would be taking over the Process.

About 50 people gathered in late January of ‘73 for Hoffman’s first Process. We met on Monday nights, and had until Wednesday to complete the work assignment. We got our written work to Hoffman, and he gave us taped feedback the following Monday.

Late one Wednesday afternoon I hand delivered my emotional autobiography with father to Hoffman on 15th Street. It was past 5, and the receptionist had left. Hoffman was sitting at his desk in a cramped office, with his feet on the desk. I stood at the open door.

He told me to hand him my work, and he began to read it right on the spot. He would read a paragraph, comment on the emotional tone, and then try to make some connection between the specific circumstances I’d described and what he called the negative emotional patterns and character traits that I’d adopted from my father in an attempt to bargain for his love.

He read through to an incident I wrote about my father resetting the stone wall on the back of our lot. As he was moving the stones into a wheelbarrow, he uncovered the nest of a woodchuck who’d built her nest in a cranny between the rocks. As she was ferociously defending her cubs, my father killed her and her cubs with his shovel. As I remembered it, he began to beat her viciously. Her screams were chilling.

Hoffman began by complimenting the emotional tone of my writing. But then he began to raise his voice. First, he said that obviously my Dad was a homosexual, and then, “You’re also gay too, aren’t you?” I countered with a question about how he could deduce that my dad was gay based on his bludgeoning a woodchuck? His voice became louder and louder. He was now almost screaming—obviously, my father was a sadist. What? Then he repeated his question: “You’re gay? Don’t play games with me. I know these things.” I admitted that, of course, I had gay feelings, but I was unsure if I was gay. By now, he was shouting loudly: “Don’t play games with me.” I had heard that Hoffman often attacked clients—he claimed that he was breaking us down in order to build us up—but I could barely believe it.

=Of course, he was right that I was in nearly complete denial about my homosexuality, but I am certain that he didn’t deduce this from any incident I related in the negative father autobiography. Many of the other things that he said or implied about my father were entirely off base and not even worthy of the weirdest pop psychology.

When I described this incident to my therapist, his response was: When you stayed, he knew he had you.

By the first or second week of May, we’d finished the Process. My parents had planned to come to California in late May, and we would drive back east together. There was a kind of ritual for completing your emotional divorce from your parents—after you’d gotten your parents' full attention, you just said “I love you,” and kissed them. My parents thought it very strange, but I always followed instructions as closely as possible.

However, the trip soon turned into a total nightmare. When I was staying at the Jesuit residence at Brophy Prep in Phoenix, my mother found the diary that I’d kept during the past year in Berkeley, and read it from beginning to end. She always felt that she had complete authority in my life, so of course, she was entitled to access my private life. And this was just confirmation that no matter how complete or thorough my personal work, I could not change my parents.

When I got in the car with them the next morning, my mother was cold and angry. She announced that we would be driving non-stop back to Connecticut, where I would be put under the care of a competent therapist who’d straighten me out. My dad was completely silent. I was in shock.

The drive across country was almost unbearable, the interaction with my parents varying from loud anger with my mother to complete disgust with my father’s silence. We arrived at their home, and I left to see my superiors in Boston. They supported me—after all, I was a 30-year-old man, and had not hidden anything from them. But the situation was very uncomfortable. My already strained relationship with my parents entered what would become the new normal for the next 20 years—alternating icy communication interspersed with attempts to restore some civility. It would not change much until each of them approached death.

I have to be careful about the timeline here. I returned to California and the JSTB in early August, and with my superiors' permission, I took a leave of absence to pray about leaving the Society. I moved to a cottage on Alcatraz Avenue with fellow SAT member Hal Slate, who was also gay. It was just two blocks away from the White Horse, the only gay bar in Berkeley, and I began the process of coming out.

We had completed the 13-week Process in mid-May. In early September, Hoffman began showing up at the White Horse. He’d show up around 9 o’clock, leaning awkwardly against the elbow bar and trying to look off into some distant corner of the universe.

He said that he just normally stopped by on his way home. But in reality, he was just there to track my movements, and to make himself known—he later told me that he never went to gay bars because being recognized there might negatively affect his work. His behavior can only be described as stalking. It had been less than 4 months after I’d finished the FHPT when he nervously gave me his “private” phone number and asked if he could call me.

All this occurred at the beginning of the Fall semester at JSTB. I recall one conversation with Hoffman at the White Horse in particular, which helps me date his pursuit of me. He mentioned almost in passing, and as I look back, perhaps as a way of excusing or justifying his behavior, that although the usual period for a therapist seeing a patient was 6 months after the professional relationship had ended, he thought that I had so completely and lovingly divorced myself from my parents, and that perhaps the usual 6 months could be compressed.

I also told him about my mother reading my diary and learning about the raw emotional side of the Process. He assured me half-heartedly that if I just kept loving them unconditionally, all would work out eventually. I believed him. I didn’t realize the depth of my transference—I had to believe him.

Finally, I agreed to go out to dinner with him. He thought it was a date. I thought it was dinner with a friend. I can’t in any way recreate the events or the conversation that ended with him returning to my apartment, and me finding myself naked in bed with a man I did not find at all attractive. But as with many sexual predators, Hoffman’s ability to read his victims, what he would describe as his “psychic powers,” lent itself to skillful manipulation. And of course, after working with me on an intimate level for almost a year, he had a real window into my psychology that was far more accurate than his psychic reading.

I will not go into any detail about the extremely awkward interaction, except to say that after a lot of “why don’t we try this?” and “do you like that?” he rolled me over and satisfied himself. Every time I think about this, I ask myself why I didn’t say, “This isn’t working. Why don’t you put on your clothes and leave?” But I just kept my mouth shut and endured him trying to apologize for physically hurting me.

I made it very clear that there was never going to be another date, but of course, we would remain friends. And so I was introduced to his circle of gay friends and his rather secretive network of successful gay men who worked in the predominantly straight world, lived a middle-class lifestyle, and tried to pass as straight. There were dinner parties and seats at the opera, and lots of campy talk. Looking back, I was pretty uncomfortable with the whole scene, though I did like some of his friends, and some not at all. Still, as a member of a minority, the unstated rule is that you accept everyone.

I did not like some of the sexual banter, or, as happened several times, being passed around as the new kid in town, and expected to sleep with his friends. Of course, you did it if you were not some kind of prude, and as Hoffman loved to point out, my mother was a puritanical prude, so just stop imitating her.

Hoffman and I continued to see one another very occasionally for the rest of his life. I’d have to call it a strained “on again, off again” friendship. When he came back from Brazil just after he completed the sale of his “intellectual property” to the new US owners, and was diagnosed with liver cancer, I stepped up and offered to be his live-in caregiver. So I both saw him in his last few months of life and did some small service in helping him repair several friendships that were important to him. But I didn’t stay until the end.

Finally last May I was just tired of telling myself that it was all OK, just a sexual relationship in early gay life that didn’t work, and I should just get over it. Hoffman was a man with whom I’d entrusted my emotional well-being during an extremely difficult period, and he betrayed that trust. The scars of that betrayal have been deep and long-lasting. I can only imagine what it might have been like to deal with coming out in the hands of an ethical therapist, but I can count the real cost of dealing with an unethical and selfish one: thousands of dollars in therapy, numberless hours in 12-Step recovery meetings, the inability to feel any real emotional connection without drugs or alcohol, the pain of feeling that I could never measure up to a satisfying real relationship with another man.

And I’m calling this #gaymetoo because there are still numerous incidents of older gay men taking advantage of younger, vulnerable men. Is this a result of the repression and unhappiness that many gay men, and I presume lesbians and bisexuals too, of my generation experienced, or will this exploitation always be with us? Looking at the #metoo movement, there seems to be evidence that power, money, position, and religion are fertile breeding grounds for sexual exploitation and manipulation.

____________________

Here are the pieces that I've written about Hoffman. Although I have tried to be objective, it is impossible to take a disinterested position with regard to the Process. Hoffman sexually abused me about 6 months after I finished my first process.

The Ontological Odd Couple, and the Origins of the Fisher-Hoffman Psychic Therapy
#GayMeToo
The Sad Demise of Bob Hoffman
This Victim Refuses Silence
A Very Personal Question: Can I Forgive Bob Hoffman?
Forgive and Forget? Impossible. An inquiry into Victimization.
"Bob Hoffman was a criminal. Simple."
New Age Miracle or Fraud
Why Do Cults Need to Rewrite History?
Science vs. Spooks
Jonestown and our Deliverance from Cults


© Kenneth Ireland, 2019

Issan said, "I have things to do."

Originally posted April 23, 2010

Photo: ©Rick Gerharter

One night during Winter sesshin, John Tarrant opened the floor for questions and comments. He began by saying that the real point of all our meditation practice was finding a place of freedom, no, I misspoke, it is not a place, not some approximation or substitute that might be available when we experience a lesser degree of the suffering that goes hand in hand with life. The point of our practice was really FREEDOM.

For some reason, or maybe none, memories about Issan had been surfacing during my meditation. In Issan’s life, the fact that he loved was no secret and no one doubted its depth. Even though he was an open book, some aspects of his love few people could understand. Those memories formed a kind of backdrop for my work on “Little Jade.” In the koan, a noble lady utters the name of her servant just so that her secret lover can hear her voice.

I had a friend who had been recently diagnosed with advanced colon cancer. He asked his doctor if he could postpone the only treatment they recommended, a resection followed by chemo. He said, “I have things to do.” Yes, we all have things to do, and taking care of them is exactly the crux of the matter. I am caught so often between what I really have to do and what responsibilities are just manufactured. Where in between is there any space for freedom?

The last ten days before Issan died were such a powerful experience that I've spent almost 20 years digesting the gift that he gave me and many of his friends. With the words "I have things to do" that week sprang to life again, and I reconnected with my friend and teacher and to that brief moment of his life in a way I had not experienced or understood before.

I am trusting that I can write the story with enough clarity to allow the freedom of the moment to shine through the jumble of my words.

Issan had an appointment with his oncologist. It was to be the last time he left Hartford Street, but if we knew it, no one said it. He was quite weak. His skin was bleached, working hard to cover his bones. He was a sick man—he knew that. We all did. Steve Allen and Shunko Jamvold helped him into the beat up car that had become the hospice taxi, and off they went to General Hospital.

Two hours later, maybe it was as long as three, they returned. I opened the front door and was shocked. Issan looked ghost-like. The pain on his face brought tears to my eyes. He couldn't even look at me. He clutched onto the banister for dear life, while Shunko lifted him from step to step.

They reached the top, and I heard the door of his room close. I turned to Steve, who was standing with me at the bottom of the steps, and asked, “What happened?”

Steve recounted the doctor’s visit in a very flat voice. I am almost certain I recall all the details of the story, though I know that Steve’s emotions and mine certainly color what I will say.
Issan was scheduled to have an MRI. They had waited for a long time for the doctor to arrive. Steve described Issan as smiling as he was placed on the moving platform, and the machine’s loud clacking began. Steve stood next to the doctor as they watched the images flash on a screen. Cancerous areas appeared as a soft glow, and Steve said Issan looked like a Christmas tree—every part of his body lit up.

The test ended. Steve, Shuko and Issan went into a private room with the doctor. He said to Issan, “You’re dying.” Issan tried to smile and said, “Of course, I know I’m dying, but I have things to do. It will take at least a month. I have to give Steve transmission, I have to ordain David and Harper.” I could almost hear his voice trailing off. The doctor looked at him and said (it is not difficult to imagine the tone of his voice. This kind of message can only be delivered with love), “No, Issan, I don’t think you quite understood me, you’re dying now.”

Steve described Issan’s response as a simple matter-of-fact question: “How long do I have?” The doctor told him that he could die at any time, or he might last a week, even ten days on the outside.

Issan thanked the doctor for all that he'd done. An automatic “Oh, thank you” never came from Issan’s mouth, and certainly not in this situation—they both knew that it would be their last meeting.

That doctor was the first of a long line of people who would say good-bye—and thank you.

As Steve spoke, I understood the anguish that I saw in Issan’s face. The stage had been set for the last moments in his life. He was a Buddhist priest, an abbot, a roshi, a gay man, loved by hundreds of people. And I’d seen an entirely human being, clutching onto the banister as he struggled to get up the stairs.

I usually dropped into Issan’s room before the 6 PM meditation to see if he needed anything. Steve and Shunko had been taking shifts to be with him all the time, so perhaps Steve had asked me to check in that night so that he could get ready for meditation.

I knocked and heard Issan’s telephone voice. That man loved the phone! I opened the door, and he pointed to the chair next to him. He was talking with his teacher, Richard Baker. “Oh, roshi, you can’t get out of here before the 10th? That is too bad. The doctor told me just this afternoon that I won't last that long. Yes, I'll miss you too. I do love you. Yes, goodbye for now. I'll call again or have Steve call if I have no energy."

Here was a different man than the one who only a half hour earlier had been clutching the banister. And it was absolutely the same man, but with a brightness in his voice that shocked me—if I said surprised, it would be far too mild to register the degree of the transformation that I felt.



I can’t remember exactly what Issan said next, but after only a few minutes, I had clear instructions to make sure that everyone coming to say goodbye would feel welcomed.

He told me how much he liked my fresh tomato marinara sauce, and that it would be a good dish to serve because he couldn’t know how many people would stop by. There would be hundreds, actually, and although he didn’t have the energy to see them all, they still came.

He also asked me to please do whatever Steve or Shunko asked of me. It was clear that Issan, through Steve, would orchestrate his last days, hours, and moments to accomplish as much as humanly possible of what was on his plate, and whatever that was would be exactly enough.

He was dead 10 days later. He took full advantage of the outside limit promised by the doctor. Richard Baker came to San Francisco to be with his student and dharma heir before he died.

Richard told Issan how much he wished that he could change places with him. Issan laughed, “Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance.”


To read more reflections about the life of Issan, see some photographs, read his dharma talks, go to my Record of Issan page.

Calling Out the Archbishop

If I were Obama, this is how I'd answer you, Eminenza Revma, but as President, I couldn’t be this snarky. Thankfully, I’m not Obama. I'm just a gay man and a citizen of these United States. Once upon a time I was also a Catholic and a Jesuit. 

I don’t know you; I might even like you given the right social setting, church or meditation hall, provided you didn’t insist on being right. No, I’m just saying that. I’m certain that you wouldn’t give me the time of day, and I certainly wouldn't kiss your ring. But I’ll still try not to insist on that position and get all self-righteous.

January 31, 2012

Dear Most Reverend Eminence Archbishop Dolan, 

Sorry that I couldn’t find the time to get back to you and answer your provocative questions before now. As you’ve probably watched the green backs in the collection basket dwindle, you can be sympathetic. I’ve got real money problems to deal with too. Don't we all.

I hate to be so upfront, but the tone of your letter was more than a bit defensive--when you weren’t being mildly hostile, I felt you ramping up to outright antagonistic

. 

I can sympathize with you—really. It sucks to have your authority blasted by people who can buy TV time, or even own stations and networks, but such is life in a democratic society. When you were elected, if my statisticians are correct, you received 128 votes against your opponent’s 111 on the third ballot. I wish I only had 239 bishops to deal with. But you guys, and you are still all guys right? are making a real stab at democracy, so I applaud even small steps. It’s a major shift from the days when you could handle the opposition by sending them all to Hell, or burn them. I can’t just allow those who disagree with equality in marriage to break away and start their own religion. We already fought a civil war.  I know you had the Reformation, a war without as much blood, but still a war of words and ideology.

Don't take this as a low blow, but I have to point out that one of your complaints, that the government’s stance on contraceptive devices and the use of condoms to prevent HIV goes against what you preach, would definitely not stand if put to a vote of the faithful. It doesn’t take a statistician to see that they’ve voted with their penises, if not their feet. That dwindling collection plate will eventually catch up with you.

Sometimes leadership is a hard road. And I'm not trying to strike a note of reconciliation to get the sympathy vote. I am obliged to make room for all points of view. My oath of office forces me to leave the eternal questions to my private time, or when I leave office, though my opponents are using them right now to weaken whatever authority I have left as president. I can only hope that your comment about creating a constitutional crisis was just an observation--that there was no threat implied in your language--I wouldn’t want to alert Homeland Security.

I recall that you call upon a Higher Power, or perhaps that is reserved to the Most Holy Father some of the times when he opens his mouth. I’ve tried the Higher Power thing too in some of my speeches, but my opponents have a real knack for that sort of thing. I feel at a disadvantage. 

There was one statement that really caught my attention: “If the label of ‘bigot’ sticks to us—especially in court—because of our teaching on marriage, we’ll have church-state conflicts for years to come as a result." Apparently you think that this is a solid argument because you repeat it: "It is especially wrong and unfair to equate opposition to redefining marriage with either intentional or willfully ignorant racial discrimination, as your Administration insists on doing.”

Ok, let’s get real. You can hold any position you want, but the courts seem to be beginning to recognize that all men and women have a right to marry, regardless of sexual orientation, and the majority of the citizens of this country seem to be coming to the same conclusion. Everything changes, opinions change, and the teaching of your church on some matters has changed.

I mean really changed. Your church has been around for a long time and your memory shouldn’t be so short. Slavery is mentioned in both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament. Sometimes it’s about regulations for slave owners and sometimes it’s used as a metaphor. I’ll let scholars fight about the exact meaning. However, it has not escaped my notice that St. Augustine taught that slavery was part of the natural harmony of the universe, and that at least one early synod (Gangra 340 CE) condemned abolitionists. As late as the 15th century popes owned slaves as well as accepted human beings as presents and gave them to friends in high places. That means that for about three quarters of the history of Christianity, slavery was accepted with hardly a second thought at the highest levels of your religious institution. I don’t need either the courts or innuendo to point out that you were on the wrong side of history on that one. If those attitudes existed today, you'd be loudly condemned outright. It might be considered “bias and prejudice.”

You are the spiritual shepherd of many Catholics, but you can’t dictate their votes really, can you? 

Love to welcome you to the right side of this battle. It’ll be lots of fun.

With all due respect,

Barack