gobbledygook /ˈɡɒb(ə)ldɪˌɡuːk/

 “The meaning of life is found in the experience of Being, and the answer of the meaning of life lies in the knowledge of Being.”

With all due respect, Claudio, what does this even mean?

?Are you still looking for an answer to the question about the meaning of life? But we just found that in Being, didn’t we?  ?Or is there a further question about knowing something about Being that arises once you get your answer? I’m confused. English was your second language, and you weren't a philosophe, but really. 

Maybe I’ll ask Monty Python--or just fire the team making your memes. Gobbledygook.

Did I miss Holy Week completely?

Easter was yesterday. Why didn’t it make a dent?

I noticed something that I found quite strange. 

I live in a non-Christian culture. There are Christians in India of course, a sizable minority, but they are not visible. Their priests do not walk the streets of northern India, at least, dressed in distinctive clothing. Their churches are few. Their holidays are official, but crammed in with more than 30 others from Hinduism, Jainism, Sikhism and Islam. I have only a few Indian Christian friends; I do not seek out Christian rituals and communities. I am no longer seduced by the cultural trappings of religious Christianity although I do from time to time feel what I can only describe as nostalgia.

Saturday was a difficult day for my small community. One of the families lost their only son, a bright affable boy of just 19 years. He died on the back of a motorcycle coming home from the local Mela gathering; the driver, another young man, is still in a coma at the public hospital. Together with my friend Kumar, we went to the village ritual that accompanies death. The family was in a state of total shock. The women were gathered on the floor of a dark room with his mother, who sat silent and motionless. When I bowed to the father, the uncle and brother of several of the men who work and do work for me, tears came to my eyes. 

Later at home, I realized that it was Easter in the West. In Europe a well intentioned Pope was doing something and saying something, but it seemed that most people were focused on the senseless barbarism of Putin’s army in Ukraine, actions that cannot in any way be connected to the ethic of Christianity. In America people were arguing, fighting about vegetables, murder and sex, and somehow connecting that with the slogan ”he is risen.” There was a Twitter storm with a clip of some lanky good looking guy proclaiming his faith with a guitar and some terrible hymns to a captive audience of passengers on a plane at 36,000 feet. I wouldn’t have requested a parachute unless it went on the length of the Orthodox mass, but really, his faith has no manners. It just seemed like self-serving arrogance coupled with a strong dose of narcissism.

At this point of my life, I can no longer properly call myself Christian. The stories about Jesus seem to me to be just that, stories that may or may not strike a cord about living a full life with the rest of humanity trying to live their lives as best they can. They spring the myths and rituals of the pagan world in which they were born; perhaps some of those myths provide deep access to the mystery of human life, but for the most part I find them a distraction, even misleading. If push comes to shove, I would have to classify them as the artifacts, the “bricolage” of the predominant mystery cult, the one that won.

In the past, perhaps just a few years ago, when I was living in a more Eurocentric culture, I might have found myself at least paying some attention to the actions of the Pope during Holy Week. There was even a time when I did go to Church on this occasion. But what I noticed this year was barely a blimp on my emotional register, neither positive nor negative (even the singing nun type on the plane merited just a chuckle, no outrage). But I did catch a glimpse of how it is culture, the artifacts of dress and ceremony, the words of religious people, the songs, the conversations of friends and family, that carry and perpetuate what we call religious faith. And I asked myself, without them, what is lost? I was still able to be with a grieving family and share their sorrow. I did not miss Easter or Holy Week.

The First World War was family rivalry. Period.

Sobering thoughts about the sexual scandal of Prince Andrew and the ongoing saga of Harry and Meghan.

The royal families of Europe (and other parts of the world for that matter), their wealth, legacy and unchecked neuroticism, are a curse. And this curse spreads like a virus catching up anyone in an infantile fantasy of real and imagined hurt.

I may be overstating my case just as the creators of “The Crown” have exaggerated and taken liberties with the more salacious peccadillos of the Windsor’s for TV ratings, but I have been watching the oversized, hysterical public reaction to Prince Harry’s exit, and wondering how the second son of a wife who was badly treated by a family intent on portraying a certain image garners so much press. I started following Quora on the royals and was disheartened to see how many royal watchers, both British and American, trashed Meghan and Harry for jumping ship and “disrespecting” HH the Majesty the Queen, as if this was the end of the world. More disconcerting, it’s the same crowd that has adopted the stance of fast-talking Hollywood lawyers when it comes to defending the indefensible Prince Andrew’s pricey payoff to Virginia Guiffre. Let’s be honest--that alone should be enough to end the crown. It really is time to end the culture of rich, powerful men getting away with sexual abuse, but it is not going to happen. The Queen is not the Pope even though she heads an apostolic church of some consequence, but her second son is not a priest and has not taken a vow of celibacy.

The consequences of these petty family squabbles don’t seem as consequential and deadly as the outbreak of WW1 or Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, but we avoid examining them at our peril. I would like to examine how public perception and obsession hold so much sway.

In an article excerpted from her book, “The Rhyme of History, the Lessons of the Great War,” historian Margaret MacMillan points to the ambiguity that still remains after more than 32,000 articles, treatises, and books have been published investigating its causes. Then she mentions Freud’s theory “narcissism of small differences,” Narzissmus der kleinen Differenzen. The thesis, according to his 1930 “Civilization and Its Discontents,” is defined as “communities with adjoining territories and close relationships [being] especially likely to engage in feuds and mutual ridicule because of hypersensitivity to details of differentiation.” A few paragraphs further on he says: “Every time two families become connected by a marriage, each of them thinks itself superior to or of better birth than the other. Of two neighboring towns each is the other’s most jealous rival; every little canton looks down upon the others with contempt.”

Jonathan Swift in his 1792 novel Gulliver's Travels described this phenomenon when writing about how two groups entered into a long and vicious war after they disagreed on which was the best end to break an egg. It may be a stretch to compare the German naval expansion in the early XXth century to counter the British domination of the seas to breaking an egg, but the emotional tone of the the humiliation of Harry and Meghan seems as senseless as the furor over the assassination of two royals in far away Sarajevo. When tied to the world wide emotional reaction to the death of Princess Dianna, the connections become clearer and, I would argue, more troublesome. No one was about to go to war over the cloudy, unnecessary death of the British royal, but her involvement with an Egyptian lover, the rise of anti-Muslim feelings in the UK did have a huge effect on political life in Britain and Brexit. One could argue that there were many other factors involved, and I will not protest. But a surefire way to concoct a recipe for an economic disaster is to mix in a pinch of salacious sex. Too much salt will spoil any good dish.

Archduke Ferdinand was not directly related to the German Kaiser Wilhelm or the Russian Czar Nicholas who were uncles and cousins, but Ferdinand was tight with the Kaiser and when the Serbs got involved, the consequences were catastrophic. 40 million people died in Europe between 1914 and 1918. Spoiled Wilhelm hated Edward for being what he considered a nitwit uncle, but Edward managed to pull his cousin Nicholas into his corner of the family fray. Their narcissism of small differences obscured any real solutions other than wholesale slaughter. They may have spoken different languages when haranguing their subjects but they were all steeped in the same emotional language of pretty jealousy and privilege, and they duped the world into taking sides. The First World War was family rivalry. Period.

Buddhism doesn’t need saints

 And by the way, don’t cry too much over Thích Nhất Hạnh.

Dorothy Day said: "Don't call me a saint, I don't want to be dismissed that easily." Of course Timothy Dolan, the Archbishop of New York, proposed her for canonization as soon as he could. The old left wing Catholic in me finds it ironic that a man who is the complete antithesis of the kind of life Day proposes for a modern Christian calls her Blessed Dorothy. She might accuse him of dampening her radical voice, even silencing the anarchist grandmother who confounded comfortable notions, but I wouldn't hesitate, not even for a nano second.

Pushing for sainthood lets purveyors of religious doublespeak, cults, snake oil and associated pyramid schemes off the hook for their flagrant sins. I will also argue that the whole rigmarole of canonization is just lip service to what Jesus calls Christians to do. We don’t really have to go and take care of lepers. Saint Damien did it. Pray to him that we be spared. Or in the case of the Founder of the Catholic Worker, someone can take care of the castoffs our materialistic culture dumps on the Bowery as long as it’s not me or my kids.

One of the reasons that the leaders of the Protestant Reformation dismissed saints was to end the superstitious practice of encasing some bones in the local cathedral to entice lucrative pilgrim spending as well as defund the Papal ponzi scheme of selling indulgences to cover the extravagant cost of building Saint Peter’s in Rome. Every organized religion needs a building maintenance fund so this might be just have been marketing but it has always felt a bit underhanded to me.

There are some people who want to make Issan Dorsey into a Buddhist saint--gotta have a saint in high heels. Of course we could do worse. 

Before I started work at  Maitri Hospice, the Dalai Lama’s rain-maker, the Yogin Yeshe Dorje visited. He and Issan got on very well, one of those connections. The rainmaker grabbed Issan and said, “You’ve created Buddhist Heaven.” Issan laughed. Later when I asked Issan about the visit, he smiled and said, “He was a very nice man, but he didn’t pay the water bill.”

All that is just a preface to something that has been creeping to the surface as the tributes pour in for Thầy, “The Saint of Mindfulness, Beloved Thích Nhất Hanh,” and I need to say it. Whether he really was a very nice Buddhist dude, or even if he was just an ordinary flawed human like the rest of us, don't for a minute think that the work of being mindful, practicing, looking after our interconnected world can be done by anyone else but us, and that includes all the difficult bits. Don’t waste a lot of tears or weave nostalgic odes about all the really good teachers dying. The Lord Buddha died too, quite a few years back.

We can't allow ourselves to get distracted by any cult of personality. We can't get off the hook no matter how hard, by whatever devious means we try. We have to do the work ourselves.

I began with the caution from Blessed Dorothy Day undermining the whole sanctification scheme, and I will close with a hopeful note from the same complicated woman who lived an exemplary life, "The world will be saved by beauty." Amen.