Looking for Faith, a Contrary position

I carefully read Ross Douthat’s New York Times article “Looking for Faith? Here’s a Guide to Choosing a Religion” several times. Though he is sympathetic, Douthat claims he’s not a card-carrying member of Opus Dei, but it seems certain that he is close to the right-wing Catholic apparatchiks who have seized control of the American Judiciary. Looking at his theological position in the article, I find little evidence to shake my conviction that he is an Aristotelian rather than a Christian as I understand the word.

I will frame my argument against him with the same non-denominational slant he espouses. He begins with an evocative description of a second-hand bookstore where long treatises by Dun Scotus were piled on top of Wiccan texts. There was a vegetarian restaurant attached. I lived in Berkeley at about the same time as Douthat was growing up there. I knew those bookstores well. He might have been describing Moe’s or Cody’s; I’ve been trying to remember the vegetarian restaurant. They were like our Dunhuang Caves, and I sympathize with his motivation. I’d just left the Jesuits with certain knowledge that the church to which I’d dedicated myself had no lock on the truth, but “[b]ut it’s harder, in a pluralist society, to pick just one religious option as more likely than all the others to be true.”

I will follow his line of argument. He proposes that all men and women, if they look deeply enough, have a basic need for some experience of transcendence and, thus, the need to rationally choose one of the basic religious formulations floating around in our universe. People are somehow less human if they neglect this basic need. And, not accidentally, he can help.

This is a lousy predicate floating on a raft of unproven assumptions.

Let me flesh out my argument by reframing it in the context of the current Super Bowl hoopla. We could posit that most humans need to get excited, eat hotdogs and cheese wizz, get caught up in a bit of national excitement, and root for a team. The evidence for this position is right in front of us. We might also extrapolate that this need is universal because sporty expressions ripple out into cricket, rugby, and even table tennis. If I can learn the basic rules of American football, turn on the TV, and watch a game, I might also admire some feats of physical prowess. Even if I do not find it very interesting, and I object to the high level of serious bodily risk involved, it could be argued that I have ticked enough boxes to support the claim that there is a basic human need to be “sportive.”

Almost two decades ago, I met an Australian Zen teacher, Susan Murphy, who is also an accomplished filmmaker, TV producer, and writer. It was an upsetting period of my life. I was struggling with my koan practice, and, not unsurprisingly, this was coupled with huge knots in my emotional life. I sat next to her for the final seven-day meditation retreat before she received her authorization to teach independently, a very powerful connection with her both as a Zen teacher and a human being, enough to travel down under for a few months to see if I wanted to uproot myself and figure out a way to live in Australia and work with her. 

She and her partner, David, lived in a Sydney suburb, a small town called Balmain. I jumped on a ferry near the famous opera house, and 15 minutes later, I was helping prepare dinner in their sprawling, comfortable home. 

David is a minister of the Australian Uniting Church and an academic whose specialty is religious cults. I liked him immediately. He was the pastor in Balmain, and his church was a coffee shop near the town center during the week and a congregational meeting hall on Sunday mornings. The arrangement appealed to my Yankee sense of thrift. I discovered that David’s actions were always close to his intentions. I stayed with them for perhaps a week in a small upstairs room until the flat I’d sublet closer to Oxford Street opened up. 

One evening, in a light-hearted conversation while cooking dinner, David asked, “Do you have a team?” I told him that I was not very interested in sports but that in San Francisco, I had followed the 49ers. He was firm, “You gotta have a team, mate.” If this were a condition for friendship, I did some research that evening and decided that I could back the Sydney Swans Australian football club. I liked their name and their logo. David approved of my choice. He thought that, at some point, we could go to a match together. 

On Sunday morning, I went down into the coffee house to help rearrange the furniture for the religious service. I was to be directed by a young Iranian immigrant who was in charge as much as anyone was in charge. He was extremely handsome. I suspected he was gay. He was clearly a newcomer to Christian worship, and his participation was as serious as it was studious. Over the next three months in Australia, I met at least a dozen other young gay Iranians. One cut my hair. He confirmed that there was a kind of underground railroad for gay men in danger of being executed in Iran. Australian denominations were allowed to sponsor men and women who faced persecution in their homelands. I am unsure of the exact way that gay men found welcoming congregations in Australia, but if they were able to book a flight out of Teheran and had the name and number of a sympathetic pastor when they landed, they would not be returned to the hangman’s noose. This checked one huge essential box of my subjective qualifiers for transcendental experience.

Over the next month, through Susan, David, and a Catholic religious who’d converted to Thai Buddhism and taken the Precepts, Bante Tejadhammo, I discovered a strong network of active Buddhists, all the flavors with lots of cross-cover, robust practices, and a very open and supportive gay sangha. I was asked to give a dharma talk about how Issan founded Maitri for a huge (to my mind) group of Zen practitioners at “The Buddhist Library” in Camperdown. That led to another talk for Bante’s group at the Sangha Lodge in another low-key Sydney suburb. The topic of hospice seemed to generate a lot of interest and enthusiasm, the kind that was looking for a project, and it was an overflow crowd. As I recall, there were well over a hundred people in attendance, including many ethnic Thai, Cambodian, and Vietnamese families, along with many gay men. Something that I’d never experienced in California.

Over the next few weeks, I met with several individuals and small groups who’d developed work proposals for hospice care. One man, an architect, had drawn detailed plans for a residential community in a remote location for individuals who were seeking a conscious death. Others were more community-based care closer to home. All the plans were, to my mind, feasible with the right financial support. Everyone who came to see me was aware of this and looking for that extra push to help them realize their dreams. At this point, I began to realize that I did not have connections to the Australian resources that were required, but on a more fundamental level, I had worked with Issan founding Maitri but did not have his skill in guiding another’s practice when it came to living and dying, totally present and serving others. 

Sydney was also interesting as a thriving international hub of gay culture. I liked Oxford Street and the clubs, though there was a preponderance of very ordinary drag. The shows were not Priscilla, Queen of the Desert--more like Madge Makes Coffee with Complaints. I knew that there had to be a more intellectual and cultured gay life, but that would take time to discover. I developed a brief romantic fling with the lead singer in an ambient techno band that had just released a CD that shot up to number one in the local club scene. I had a few lovely, intimate experiences. Gay life seemed to be filled with rich possibilities. 

Back in San Francisco, my internet sleuthing uncovered an organization called the Sydney Gay Buddhist Sangha. I was on the steering committee of a San Francisco that shared the name. We met weekly on Sunday afternoons at the Hartford Street Zendo. I made contact with the Sydney group. There was a membership list, but it seemed to have faded due to a lack of leadership and a regular place to sit. Here was my chance to see if it were possible to develop a practice group closer to the heart of gay life rather than on the University of Sydney campus. At Hartford Street, the gay community welcomed straight friends. In Sydney, it was the other way around. This was perfectly OK, of course, but I wondered if there was a segment of interested gay people who might feel more included if the meditation hall were closer to the gay ghetto.

David told me that my team, the Sydney Swans, rented rooms to outside groups in their downtown clubhouse, a few steps from Kings Cross and Darlinghurst, Sydney’s Castro district. 

I forget who made the initial contact, but yes, they had a room for rent at a reasonable price and would be delighted to host a Sydney gay meditation group. They also invited us into the club's dining room for a buffet meal afterward for a nominal fee. They would be grateful if they had some idea how many would be eating. I didn’t press for vegetarian options. During the simple negotiations, I tried to imagine the San Francisco Giants opening their downtown headquarters to a gay meditation group. Even though English was a common language, I realized I was light years, or Kalpas, away from my cultural home.

I ran a small announcement in the local gay rag. We began our group there once a week, with about 10 people sitting. It was very egalitarian, without a dharma talk. Instead, I had some basic meditation instruction and time for sharing after two periods. I found one of the participants particularly annoying, so I considered it a win.

Now, I started to realize what David meant. I’d arrived at making some choices about my spiritual life, but not with Douthat’s Neoplatonic model. Instead, I was living my life and letting the traces of my choices leave a clue about its direction. I realized living in Australia would be too expensive, so I had to return to San Francisco.  However, I had learned that I needed a team. It is not an easy path. Although the alternatives seem more straightforward intellectually, they lead to a straight-jacketed position. Thank you, David.

Omnibus Est Stupri Aliquem--”Everybody was fucking somebody.”

This is dangerous territory. I could be vague and write about the people I want to talk about as if they were hypothetical and their stories anecdotal, but the damage was real and needs to be discussed. I use only Initials when I do not have solid evidence and the men or women are still alive. Believe whatever you want. You get to decide if you will remain in a world of denial and protect whatever you feel needs protecting. Guru types acting badly are precisely that. Even if I’ve made an error and the few I allude to are as clean as the morning dew, there is a long line of those who fill the bill and then some.

Yesterday, I uncovered some slight nostalgia for the New Age California of the last half of the last century, the last of the last. After all, we all learned so much, didn’t we? I’ve talked at length about Bob Hoffman’s sexual and emotional abuse and its lingering effects. I woke up trying to tell myself that perhaps it wasn’t that bad. After all, I knew at least two other young men who were the object of his aggressive, entitled, and uninvited sexual advances. Why should I think I’m special? Besides, I had a life-changing personal breakthrough, so perhaps I ought to change my tune and be grateful.

Then, a rush of other sexual misconduct started like a tidal wave: Everybody was fucking somebody.

It was common knowledge that Claudio Naranjo was fucking KS, but also RS and a few other young women in the groups. He loved the Enneagram, sex, and drugs in no particular order. One woman who lived in his harem had a psychotic break and died in a car crash, but that didn’t stop his behavior. He didn’t even introduce a word of caution. According to this wild, wide-eyed version of the “Work,” there was something to be learned from all our interactions.

Several priests were involved, and they were not celibate--at least for some period of time. They were middle-aged men acting like teenagers. One exclaimed that the vow of chastity was like closing off Soldiers Field. The gay priest came after me, but I wasn’t having it. I’d taken a leave of absence and was having sex, but not with men who’d pledged religious vows.

Joe Scerbo and another friend, an older woman I loved very much but who has cut off communication because of my insistence on talking about things she thinks should be secret, organized a weekend of tantric massage. There was only a hair’s breadth between what transpired and a full-on orgy. It had almost nothing to do with meditation and everything to do with getting naked in a large group with lots of scented oil. A cute guy there from Ichazo’s Arica Training confirmed that those groups, too, were sexually permissive. It was, in his view, part and parcel of being sexually liberated and doing esoteric work.

KS tried to establish an independent “Work” group but lost her license to practice psychotherapy in California when she recommended the services of David (pronounced Da’vid), a Chilean seer who read either your palm or your skull. I forget the particulars, but his blowjobs were legendary. One man who followed KS out of California, I will not use any initials because his crime was so heinous, molested his teenage daughter. Yeah, “everybody was fucking somebody,” but then there are sexual crimes that scream to high heaven.

In these circles, Mr. G. was a mythological figure. You said his name in a hushed voice and bowed your head. We were told he was a trickster whose sexuality was part of his repertoire of teaching tools. Of course, there is only anecdotal information, but that was enough to create a kind of blanket permission for anyone taking up the “trickster” methodology to fuck whomever they wanted, and I say that’s what they wanted, not Liberation. Of course, I, too, only have anecdotal evidence, but I’m not fucking students.

Swami Muktananda, the guru’s guru, had multiple sexual relations with young, underaged women, even girls (I didn’t say dozens because even he probably lost count). No one disputes that, but the other gurus defended him! Naranjo said Muktananda was not a lecher, but he could not break the public perception of the Brahmacharya, so he had to keep his sex life secret. No, Claudio, he was a lecher. Luckily, he preferred caucasian to Indian women and avoided a raft of other cultural taboos. The only question I have is what kind of legal mechanism his successor’s lawyers set up to avoid legal claims bankrupting Yoga Siddi Dam.

One teacher in the broad Hoffman group was credibly accused of sexual misconduct with an employee’s teenage daughter. A teacher from the UK described it as “getting his jollies.” The very Brit description confirms that his conduct was known, not taken seriously, and the subsequent shuffling of responsibilities was seen as shielding the Institute from liability. Why didn’t someone call it out, have him removed, or shut down the operation? One word: power. Money and greed played a role, but the winner was pre-ordained.

I know that HK was fucking at least one woman in our work group. I stood beside him when he invited her to his bed after the meeting ended. Although it was the woman who approached him for sex, he was still her teacher, and, following even loose interpretations of the ethics of student-teacher sexual relations, this was way out of bounds. I could barely believe my ears. HK went so far as to suggest that so and so in the group sleep with so and so but stop sleeping with so and so. He tried to set me up to sleep with one of several women in the group, but at that point, I decided that I’d had enough.

A high-level Scientology auditor didn't even pause before she stuck her tongue down my throat after attending a Dianetics lecture in Palo Alto. When I told her her advances were unwelcome, she told me that being gay could be handled in a few auditing sessions and offered me a cut-rate. The ride back to San Francisco was icy. I’ve never been good at small talk after rejecting a sexual advance. Looking back, “What the fuck did you think you were doing?” might have been appropriate.

Two of the Zen groups I sat with had teachers who slept with students. I told myself that these were adults making decisions about their own lives. I sat meditation with two of the men (they were all men) whose behavior became controversial. In both cases, I learned an enormous amount. In one case, it became challenging. This teacher practiced a kind of serial monogamy, and I wanted to maintain relationships with his former wives or girlfriends.

The case of Richard Baker is more complex. He was not the teacher. Suzuki Roshi was. Baker Roshi and his wife in the 60s could be best described as swingers. I’m sure that Baker and Suzuki Roshi talked about this aspect of his life, and you can also be sure that I have absolutely no idea about the content of those discussions. It was after Suzuki’s death that the accusations mounted, forcing him to resign, but at that point, it all seems to me to be an internal power struggle for control of Zen Center’s assets and not the conversation “Omnibus est stupri aliquem” I’m talking about.

Did we have a part in it? Of course. At 80 years old, what amazes me is that we were so reckless with our emotional lives, and some of our teachers threw any reasonable guidelines in the gutter. Not every case was rape, but hormones ruled the day. In Zen, the Path of Liberation is sometimes called the Path of Intimacy, and sexuality is key. Its fabric is complex and sacred, but in the last half of the half, most of us, students and teachers, treated it with little care and even less self-awareness.

Our greed caused great damage. We didn’t want to leave the Summer of Love behind and feel left out. You didn’t have to be a hippie to flaunt the sexual mores of our parents' generation and many more preceding theirs. We thought that we had opened the secret gate to the mystery of sex! There were soft angelic voices in the air as one SAT member wandered across Cuernavaca searching for her lost diaphragm so that the Aztec god of love might descend. Oh, the fucking arrogance is astounding. Like those priests magically or mystically released from their vows, we’d regressed to pubescent insanity.

Later, out of the wreckage, carefully worded policy statements about sexual conduct have been crafted by a cadre of experts called into service; there are policies and procedures for dealing with accusations of sexual harassment. Sister Mary Ignatius could not have engineered a safer place to do the difficult work of deep introspection, but it is a bloodless hellhole of denial and repression. We constructed in less than a generation what occupied the Catholic Church for millennia.

At least part of the fault here, and I do consider it a fault, is the model of “enlightenment” or awakening or finding the way--it requires submission, but the who, what, and where are left to “one who knows” to use a phrase popular with the followers of Mr. G. And for most people that still means someone wearing a funny hat spouting nonsense and then inviting you to his bed.

Is there another way? I certainly hope so, but it will take time, care, and respect to emerge. Until then, to paraphrase another biblical maxim, “By their sins, you shall know them.”

Ordo Amoris

This is not the first time I’ve been disappointed in our roman catholic shadow government. I’m starting to feel the ghosts of Pius 12 playing footsie with Mussolini and Hitler, but perhaps my paranoia is winning the day. It is still unnerving to watch this unfold. 

JD Vance told us to Google it. I share this much with our Catholic VP—I often use Google while constructing theological arguments. What shows up in my search for “Ordo Amoris” does not go back to the sayings of Jesus but originates with Augustine, another convert from some weird Gnosticism almost 400 years after the life and death of Lord Jesus and, I might add, a favorite of Opus Dei. 

So, let’s take care of the biblical sources right away. JD’s “family and friends first” is on shaky ground. I’m not saying the scripture has nothing to say about your mother, but you should not elevate those conversations to prayers to the Blessed Virgin. Three passages will cover my argument. 

Matthew 12:47-50: “47 Someone told him, ‘Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.’ 48 He replied to him, ‘Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?’ 49 Pointing to his disciples, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers. 50 For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.’”

John 15:12–13: “12 My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. 13 Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

And then, of course, Luke 25-37, the story of the Good Samaritan. I’ll only quote Luke’s rhetorical question: 36 “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” 37 The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.” Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

Obviously, Jesus was not as narrow-minded as JD. Or perhaps I should say, “properly ordered.” Loving your parents, especially your mother, is high on the list of virtues to be emulated. Even the Dalai Lama tells his followers to love the world like your mother. But add a Latin formulation from Agustine to Aquinas, and ordo amoris has the ring of natural theology if not the Revealed Word of God. 

But I have trouble with it. It is called natural theology because it states that the order of the world as we find it should be respected because it provides a broad outline of what God intended for the world. But Natural Theology, at least as far I recall, was a relatively confined discipline, covering the “Just War Theology” and a list of sexual disorders that included contraception, sexual attraction, and the proper positions for sexual intercourse. Of course, there were other applications, but this is where the rubber met the road in my Jesuit theology: justification of the war in Vietnam, condemning the sexual revolution, and the “gay Kabal.”

But here is where I can legitimately put on both what remains of my Ratio Studiorum (should I tell JD to Google it?) and my Buddhist robes: Compassion is not a zero-sum game. Vance wants to use lofty-sounding Latin to justify draconian budget cuts that mostly affect poor immigrants and people of color because he can then say that Catholic teaching justifies budget cuts. The order of the universe tells us to take care of our own first. I will not comment on the finite limits of the possible US debt obligation, but this is not a conversation about compassion or the proper order of love. It is bookkeeping, and paying the bill is included. Luke’s tale is explicit. After the Samaritan cared for the man: “35 The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’ 

Father Ignatius also teaches us that Love is expressed in actions, not words. Compassion is the supreme virtue in most Buddhist sects, and I suspect in most interpretations of the teaching of the Lord, though the language is slightly different. I usually try not to give spiritual advice online, but this is a no-brainer: JD, talk to your priest or spiritual director. You are doing something wrong if your compassion is not growing and expanding, including more while excluding none. Change your life, and don’t take the advice of your bookkeeper or the tax collector as the word of God. 

I found this article by Frederick Bauerschmidt and Maureen Sweeney in The Church Life Journal helpful. They are a couple. Maureen is an immigration attorney, and Frederick is a theologian.

https://churchlifejournal.nd.edu/articles/ordo-amoris-wisely-extending-love/

Words Shape Our World: Why It's Time to Rethink the Language of Partnership

 by  Akash Maharaj

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I returned to this article today by my friend Akash Mahataj. I thought I should repost it.

Most people don’t think twice about the words they use, but the truth is, words shape our world. They're not just descriptors. They’re creators. When someone says, “You’re hired” or “You’re fired,” they’re not just describing a situation—they’re creating a new reality. The phrase “I now pronounce you husband and wife” doesn’t reflect a relationship—it forms one. That’s how powerful language is. Even in the Bible, it says, "In the beginning was the Word." The very foundation of creation starts with language. Words are that powerful.

Philosophers like John Searle and Fernando Flores got it. They understood that words aren’t just passive tools we use to describe the world—they actively create the world. When we speak, we’re doing more than talking. We’re building the future with every sentence.

Now, think about the language we use at work. Specifically, in recruitment and professional services—a world I know well. Words like “human resources” are a relic of an industrial past, where people were seen as cogs in a machine. “Head-hunting”? Even worse. That language reflects a transactional, outdated way of thinking about talent. It doesn’t just describe how we treat people; it informs how we treat them.

What if we changed that? What if the words we used matched the future we want to build? We don’t need "resources." We need talent, creativity, and energy. We don’t "hunt heads." We build teams. This isn’t just semantics—it’s how we shift the narrative, the culture, the work we do.

And speaking of shifting narratives, it’s time to rethink how professional services and managed service providers are viewed. “Suppliers.” Really? That word reduces us to a one-sided transaction, where companies receive and service providers deliver. But the best partnerships aren’t built on transactions—they’re built on collaboration. Service companies should be seen as partners—invested in your success, not just delivering a service. It’s a relationship that goes both ways, where both parties grow together.

But here’s the kicker—changing our language isn’t hard. It’s a choice. It’s about being intentional. When we start using words that reflect respect, possibility, and collaboration, we stop thinking about people as resources and start thinking about them as partners. It shifts the conversation from what we can get to what we can create together. And that small change in language? It leads to a big change in culture.

So, what does this mean for you? It means you can start today. Pay attention to the words you’re using. Are they shaping the future you want, or are they holding you back in an outdated mindset? The power to change the way your organization thinks, hires, and grows is already in your hands—or rather, in your words. And once you start using them with intention, the impact will be impossible to ignore.

“Don't Just Give Up!”

 Should You Just Give Up?

Sisyphus couldn’t stop pushing his boulder—but you can.

By Joshua Rothman

https://www.newyorker.com/culture/open-questions/should-you-just-give-up

Far be it from me to enter into a debate with an astounding self-help writer. He writes for the New Yorker, so God help me, but I will call him out. Joshua Rothman seems to indicate in his latest article, “Should You Just Give Up?” that sometimes--actually, as a general rule--we should scale back our dreams to land them within the parameters of reasonable or “doable” and thus escape being disappointed or disillusioned. We’d be happier campers. 

Who am I to argue with a man with such august credentials? I am an 80-year-old failure who has faced at least an equal share of unhappiness as most living, breathing humans, but since I entered religious life as a Jesuit when I was 23 after an Ivy League education with its promise of a cushy life with lots of cash and prizes, I have never given up on my dreams. They have, of course, changed and morphed, but they are still as strong a motivating factor as they were on August 15th, 1966. What is most important, however, is that at 80, I am still living my dreams. Life is challenging, exciting, and new if I’m not careful, although when I get up from more frequent naps, I find myself remembering people and events decades old with clarity and sometimes even wonder. But the most frequent emotion is a deep feeling of gratitude. 

However, when Rothman dug up some anecdotal evidence from Kennet Roshi, I dug in my heels. He cites another self-help writer, Oliver Burkeman, who advocates “imperfectionism.”  Burkeman invokes the British Zen master Houn Jiyu-Kennett, who, instead of lightening the burden she placed on her students, made it “so heavy that he or she would put it down.” Once her charges saw their situations as “totally irredeemable,” they gave themselves “permission to stop struggling.” Burkeman counsels: “Instead of setting out to become a master meditator—and buying the requisite books, candles, cushion, and app—you should simply try meditating for five minutes today, and see what happens.”

I am at least 25,000 hours beyond the meditation time I might have logged using his five-minute rule. I also know the first person in the US that Kennet authorized to teach. We talk at least twice a week. Just standing in those qualifications, I want to ask Mr. Burkeman who the fuck he thinks he is to be telling people to give up on the dream of becoming Zen Masters so that they can settle into some kind of semi-pleasurable mediocrity? We need more Zen masters. You have examined the state of our world and noticing that innumerable unhappy people have given up their dreams, your best advice is just to wake up and do a long, fact-driven pro and con list to settle on some achievable goals. Then you cite all the psychologists you’ve delved into in your 20-year writing career and find evidence that people have been pie in the sky and perhaps just getting real and seeing what they can reasonably do is the best way out. After all, Jung told us just to do what’s at hand. 

I’m not giving some blanket advice that talking to someone with perspective is not valuable or that when pursuing some quixotic project, talking to a lawyer or accountant is a bad idea; far from it. Perhaps Burkeman is drawing the wrong conclusions from his Kennet anecdote. Maybe it was not to give up at all, but rather to see the situation for what it was, head-on, with no illusions, and then change your approach and give up a strategy that is not working. Yes, of course, stop struggling, but that is not advice to give up. It just means to stop struggling and perhaps stop daydreaming. Go deeper into your dream and discover what it tells you. I am also sure Kennet said to wake up, but certainly, she did not counsel anyone to shut down their dreams.

Maha Kumba Mela as Sacrament

Religion defines a sacrament as a religious ceremony or ritual that imparts divine blessing. They are both a sign or symbol of a spiritual reality and that reality itself. The efficacy of the intervention from above usually depends on inner qualities, the depth of faith in the believer, his or her devotion, and the level of commitment, for example, the depth of the penance or suffering displayed in the ritual.

The Baltimore Catechism defines sacraments as outward signs that represent inward grace and have the power to produce it in the soul.

What’s important here is that it is the religion itself spelling out its terms, descriptors of its tools, as well as their uses and intended results. From the viewpoint of the historian of religion, it’s just some data for analysis. My intention is clear: I am trying to be as objective as possible. This is more evident when we look at various cultural expressions side by side for comparison.

The Sadhguru and every other baba will tell us that the Maha Kumba Mela is a massive public display of devotion with an equally powerful inward reality that is a vehicle of God’s grace and that even Westerners can benefit. “I do yoga, man, so let’s do this maha mela thing.” My YouTube feed is making it a numbers game. !4 million participants will yield more blessings than 1.4. They are playing the game of the relative power of a cult or belief system. Join the club.

I’ve spent more time in India than most Westerners who are not scholars, Hindu converts, or wanna-be Saddhus. Even if I were younger, I would never subject myself to the Kumba Mela. Woodstock was what? Half a million. Burning Man, 70,000. How many at Lourdes, even on a yearly basis? Three to four million. Due to the alignment of the celestial bodies this year, 15 million people are expected to attend the Kumba Mela over the next 45 days. All huddled on an open, muddy plane with minimal sanitation facilities and accommodations. But that is a description of my culture shock. The fault is in the observer.

My first year in India, in 2010, we traveled from the northernmost part of India to Delhi to catch our plane to the US on or about July 15th. We had been up in Leh-Ladakh to avoid the heavy rains marking the beginning of monsoon. We came down the Manali Highway on the east side of the lower Himalayan range, traveling over the highest passes (at the time) for conventional vehicles, Tanglang La, at about 18,000 feet. Then we drove over the famous Rohtang Pass to Manali and Shimla before we dropped down into Haridwar, which, at 1000 feet above sea level, sits at the head of the Ganges as it begins its descent to the Bay of Bengal. We’d planned a ceremonial dip in the sacred waters. Even at its head, with all the new water from the melted snow, the river was so filthy, I wouldn’t even stick my toe in it, much less swim, particularly when I saw half-burnt human bodies floating downstream among floral garlands.

As we were checking out of our guest house, we began to notice large groups, gangs of young guys, a few younger saddhus, plus a few women, very few, walking on the road with large buckets of water. Though there was no dress code, they all seemed to be attempts at something vaguely like the saddhus' orange loincloth. Headbands de rigeur. Each band or gang had a large image of Shiv or some other deity they were carrying or pulling. There was equal chanting and boom boxes. The smell of marijuana was so strong that we were getting high in a sealed vehicle.

We began the trip from Haridwar to New Delhi. It usually takes about four and a half hours, but it would take 12. At some places on the road, the procession was so slow-moving that our driver tried some shortcuts in vain. The dense procession clogged the new double-lane highway. I have no way of estimating, but I suspect at least 50,000, perhaps more than 100,000 pilgrims, were walking barefoot the 233 km from Mother Ganga's source to Delhi and then onto small villages, carrying holy water for the new year’s rituals. That is just one day’s count. The “carrying” would go on for at least a fortnight.

It was a ritual not widely publicized outside India. We asked what it was, but Ashish may have poorly understood the Hindi, or it was untranslatable. Later, we discovered that these crews are called “the carriers.” Indeed, any village Shiv temple worth its salt had to organize a team. Baba-ji would lose face if he didn’t get a few buckets of holy water from the onset of the monsoon.

It was a cross between rite of passage and village custom that goes back many generations if not millennia. With a few exceptions, the single middle-aged man or the small group of women, it was a young men's game, but unlike Woodstock, there was no sex; the sporty groups in orange gym shorts were moving quickly and carrying their shrines, the new-age rockers with loud boom boxes had rented and decorated a truck; farm boys were dragging their altars with tractors, another hip crowd had streamers and sequins, there were the kids whose guru came from the strict observance, flowers, and incense combined with traditional religious songs, and as I mentioned, they were all barefoot.

The Sadhguru will explain the myth on TV, but, like the Mormon Prophet, he won’t dirty his crisp white uniform. His net worth is also 50 million USD. The average income of the carriers I observed was probably pretty standard--under 5,000 USD yearly. But everyone has their job and their pay scale.

All the local temples along the route, and there were more than several hundred--the route was more than 150 miles, had pales of rice and dahl, drinks, ice packs, and some essential medical attention, all organized by the Hindu equivalent of the lady's Marian devotion group; they’d corralled their husbands into lending a hand. That was recognizable and quite lovely. It was almost as if the culture was ensuring that a new supply from the headwater made its way back to the village temples for the cultic rituals.

At one petrol station, we found a Hindu entrepreneur with a water purification system on the back of his truck. He was selling purified holy water in recycled two-liter plastic containers. Ashish bought some for his super pious mother. The hard truth is that Mother Ganga is a sewer. This was in 2010, and in the fourteen years since then, the Modi government has poured billions into cleaning up the water. They have tried to stop or curtail the dumping of raw sewage directly into the river, the runoff from the Muslim tanneries and cloth dying factories, and the effluent waste products from chemical manufacture. However, these efforts have been going on in earnest since at least 1984, and they are still trying to measure the results. The sacrament's efficacy does not extend to measurable reductions in pollutants, at least not yet, though there are some reports of improvement from the government. My experience in Haridwar, Varanasi, and Calcutta tells me there is a vast gap between what is reported and reality. My motto in India is: “Never drink the water. Pray and filter. Always.”

Now for the hard part. It is impossible to gauge any realization experiences, blessings, or other events we might attribute to divine intervention. I’m not saying that they don’t exist, but all we have is anecdotal evidence of deliverance or inward change. There is probably enough evidence that some people who undertake experiences out of the ordinary experience some inner change, some more than others, some beneficial, and some quite the opposite. But these experiences remain in the realm of religion and mysticism.

The devotees at the Maha Mela may have life-changing experiences. In fact, it is probable that some do, especially if they were doing penance for some infarction, real or imagined, but it is impossible to attribute a direct cause-and-effect relationship. It takes a leap of faith. Is it like a Catholic First Communion? That is a definite no.

We reached Delhi with enough time for Ashish’s ritual leave-taking as well as a nasty fight with our Sikh diver about the tip he had expected after driving us over treacherous roads for almost a month. Ashish invented some complaints that disqualified Govinda. I complained to Ashish that he was being unfair, but it would take me 10 years to realize Ashish’s Indian American arrogance.