The funeral of Ösel Tendzin. Deliver us from cults.

Originally published Saturday, July 24, 2021

In 1990, Ösel died in San Francisco, where he’d come for treatment of advanced HIV disease. I was living at Hartford Street Zen Center and working as the Director of Maitri AIDS Hospice; I felt it was important that Maitri, a Buddhist program set up to help ease the pain of the AIDS epidemic, should be present for the funeral of an important Buddhist teacher who’d died from the disease. I didn’t realize how deeply I would wade into the murky waters of denial.

Shambhala would conduct the funeral ritual at their center on 16th and Mission. We phoned, asked if we could attend, and were given a time; we put on our rakusus and climbed to the second floor above a Jack in the Box in a pretty marginal neighborhood.

I can’t adequately describe my shock.

It may have been the first Tibetan ritual that I’d attended, but after we’d entered the hall and made our prostrations, there was Ösel’s corpse trussed up in an awkward meditation posture, full regalia barely masking the ropes and poles required to hold it upright. I’d sat with many men who died of AIDS, so it was not that the body itself showed the ravages of the disease. There was no attempt to hide them. It was not that the ritual seemed foreign or exotic. It was, but it was a Tibetan ritual, and I wasn’t expecting a low-church Episcopalian service.

What overwhelmed me was the veneration of a man who had knowingly infected others with AIDS. Shambhala tried to mitigate the damage with a mystical smokescreen. It was rumored that some had spread the lie that the guru’s Vajra powers, bestowed by the lineage, would prevent reinfection or that it was even an opening for the great enlightenment. There was at least one teenage boy involved, a young man whose life would now be cut short. Everyone present, and there were several hundred, knew that their Regent had knowingly infected people with HIV and that their deaths would soon be upon them. It was all supposed to be OK in the great scheme of things. The drums beat, the chanting began. Steve Allen got up and motioned for us to leave. On the way down the stairs, he said, “All that was missing was the bones in their noses.”

We returned to Hartford Street. I was shaken but managed to get up the next morning and care for Bernie, J.D., and the five other men in our care.

I have never picked up “Cutting through Spiritual Materialism” again, brilliant as it is. Nor have I recommended it to anyone, and I never will. I feel that it would be condoning the damage to the precious dharma caused by the actions of these men.

Some people have tried to defend Ösel. One wrote to me and said, “Hindsight is easy.” I lived through that period. I took care of more than 100 men who died of AIDS. My own teacher died. It was a terrible time. Of course, there were mistakes. Of course, it was difficult. Of course, it takes time to sort things out. It took me years.

Steven Butterfield* writes about his interactions with Ösel, wondering why, in an airport lounge, he can’t muster the courage to ask him a question about his HIV disease. He chose to remain silent and go on pretending that their world of limousines, crazy wisdom practice, and unprotected sex could just go on and on. By remaining silent, Butterfield chose to participate in the deception. He was caught in the delusion of adulation. In retrospect, can Butterfield question his belief in guru transmission? He says he can, but I get the distinct feeling that far too many threads still tie him to the myth. But actually, the moment when it might have made a difference has passed, and Butterfield to some degree, shares Mr. Rich’s transgression.

There can be no passing the buck here. We have to name it: arrogance and grave harm. Hindsight may be easy, but murder is still murder. Sexual abuse is still abuse. People say, oh, it was the 80s, things were different. I strongly disagree. We knew that HIV was sexually transmitted in 1983 when the Pasteur Institute in France isolated the virus. Ösel knew that he was positive for the virus and still had unprotected sex with at least one minor. Sorry. Call it what it was.

Searching Google for a picture of Mr. Thomas Rich, I found vajraregent.org. When I entered “AIDS” into the site’s search engine, nothing. But I did find these verses. People are still in deep denial.

This is offered with love, appreciation, and gratitude to Vidyadhara, the Venerable Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, and his Vajra Regent and dharma heir Ösel Tendzin, for the benefit of their present and future disciples, and all beings.

Through hearing, seeing, and contemplating these teachings of the Vidyadhara through his Vajra Regent,

May we realize the essence of transmission from teacher to student.

May we hold precious this seed planting of Vajrayana dharma and Shambhala vision in the West.

Through their gestures and words, may we wake up on the spot.

May we not become confused by spiritual materialism in any form.

Now, practicing moment by moment until the end of this life and beyond, may we free all beings.

And I will add my own petition to this list:

May we work diligently to repair any damage to the transmission of the precious Dharma caused by our heedless actions.

And deliver us from cults.

______________

*Steven Butterfield’s article When the Teacher Fails was published in the May 1989 edition of Shambhala Sun. Ösel Tendzin was still alive, but this was just at the time when the extent of his reckless sexual conduct as a person with HIV/AIDS was coming to light. Butterfield’s article does not address the controversy ripping the fledgling Western Buddhist world apart. 

Is the Catholic Church a sinking ship?

With an estimated 1.406 billion baptized Catholics worldwide as of 2023, Vatican City is the Pope’s home and the vital center of his spiritual activities and governance. 

Let’s look at the Vatican's books as far as public records allow. 2021 is the last year with figures available. Revenues were €770 million; expenditures were €803 million, which left a deficit of €33 million. By 2023, the deficit had exploded to over €83 million—270% growth. Vatican City employees (again, an ancient figure—4,822 people in 2016) are screaming for a COL adjustment and threats of unionization. Meanwhile, court cases of embezzlement added to the continuing sad tale of clergy sex abuse have reduced revenues.

In short, it's a hot mess, to use a technical term. 135 octogenarians are vying for the honor of inheriting this disaster in the making. What could go wrong? The promise of a smoke signal will tell us who gets the impossible job.

Perhaps the real debate is whether “the old-time Latin religion” has better branding than a more egalitarian version. Maybe they’ll find an ecclesiastical Elon to root out waste and corruption. Perhaps the New Pope will sell it and turn Vatican City into a spiritual Disneyland—an updated version of the Avignon Captivity, and outsource the actual administrative governance to Manila.

U.S. Cardinal Seán P. O’Malley, president of the Pontifical Commission for the Protection of Minors, third from left, attends the Mass on the fifth day of the “novendiali,” nine days of mourning for Pope Francis, in St. Peter’s Basilica at the Vatican April 30, 2025. (CNS photo/Lola Gomez)

PS. Those clown suits are pretty ridiculous. Even a bit frociaggine!

It’s a cult damn it. Nothing more.

“Love your kids more than evolution requires.” --David Brooks

I was just listening to a podcast by Andrew Gold, interviewing Jon Atack (A Piece of Blue Sky), about Charlie Manson and Scientology. Alack describes a cult in its simplest form as a group that reveres a particular leader or doctrine. Bow down and surrender. Isn’t that the first thing you heard after you’d knocked on the door? 

A general rule is that cult leaders are not necessarily brilliant, or enlightened, or even educated. As a matter of fact, very often they are none of the above, but they know how to weave a spell, to hypnotize, to create a myth, and make promises that sell themselves. The best and the worst were con men (or women) with an uncanny ability to mirror our insecurities and then reflect back a crafted solution that paid them, usually more than its real value.

In the late 1960s, particularly in California, a new group of high-flying self-help gurus emerged, promising a level of personal awareness that would free us — if we worked with them. We were told that we’d been programmed by a familiar network of parents, schools, pastors, priests and rabbis, tribal culture, liberal (or conservative) political prejudices, the sexual taboos that hounded us along with innumerable generations before us. The gurus pointed to obvious evidence, and we jumped at a ready solution. We’d all suffered through the deadening post-war social homogenization. We’d all experienced the ever-present threat of nuclear annihilation, driving under our desks since the first grade (I remember these drills today when the threat of armed maniacs in schools is very real and certainly statistically more deadly). The Haight-Ashbury Summer of Love erupted and, I think, clearly demonstrated a deep hunger for relief.

The new age gurus promised that we could be deprogrammed from this hypnotic state. This was an attractive offer. It was universally agreed among my affluent college-educated peers that we were all caught in the thrall of automatic action and reaction. We also felt that our level of discomfort was somehow unfair. It was just hard to name the culprit. We were told that the buck stopped with us, but we had to pinpoint who we were “being” when push came to shove. A friend paid a sizable chunk of money to spend a long, sleepless weekend sitting on the floor of a yoga studio, asking and answering the repeated question “Who are you?” 

We were told that any possible freedom or newly discovered enlightenment would require work. We rolled up our sleeves and opened our wallets, or at least contrived alternative ways to pay for services. There were groups and rivalries. Bob Hoffman badmouthed Werner Erhard. Mainline Gurdjieff groups paid no attention to Claudio Naranjo’s Enneagram. Gurdjieff teachers questioned the credentials of people who set themselves up as doing “The Work.” Oscar Ichazo sued Helen Palmer, and Scientology had a very long list of defectors in the docket, including Werner Erhard’s est. 

The infighting became cannibalistic. Here’s an example--Scientology sued the Cult Awareness Network, which bankrupted them with the massive legal fees required to defend themselves. Scientology, through an agent, then purchased the shell of CAN for the fire-sale price of $25,000 and made it an arm of the Church of Scientology, which became the resource for distraught parents whose children had become Moonies, an Osho Sannyasin--or recruits for Scientology’s Sea Org. And the Scientologists in charge took their jobs very seriously. I was on the phone with them when a concerned family member raised concerns about the “human-development” seminar company I worked for. They knew the precise questions to ask to uncover a cult.

This kind of feeding frenzy spread like wildfire in dry grass. Not only were our leaders fighting amongst themselves, with lawsuits and unbecoming slander and innuendo, but we took on each other with a righteous, determined vengeance to do the hard work of Ego Reduction. If we were not aware of our patterns of programmed behaviors, rackets, bank, negative behaviors, without lapsing into passive-aggressive behavior ourselves, how could we root them out? Like good soldiers in the war against the dark side, we ganged up on each other, all with some expression of gratitude or at least lack of complaint. In retrospect, our behavior was more like gang bangers than seekers after truth or truth warriors. It also served a dual purpose. It deflected attention from the leaders who were more like tribal Neanderthals with automatic weapons than compassionate, enlightened beings acting for the deepest good of all humankind. 

I knew one of these gurus for almost 30 years. It was an on-again,off-again acquaintance. Bob Hoffman was a very difficult man, most likely suffering from a narcissistic personality disorder. I cannot say that he was dumber than a stump. I don’t know his IQ, though I do know that he dropped out of school in about the 6th or 7th grade and never received a GED. For the almost 30 years I knew him, he never finished a book though he did try several times. He opened E.M. Forster’s “Maurice” when he heard that it was his gay novel, but he never finished it. He told me that the storyline was too bleak. He also tried Christopher Isherwood’s “A Single Man," but lost interest when he realized Isherwood was not Danielle Steel. He asked me to fill him in on the end of the story. He was disappointed. He loved a happy ending. 

Hoffman channeled the Quadrinity Process from his spirit guide, his psychotherapist, Siegfried Fisher. Because it came from “the other side” Hoffman claimed the highest level of validity. He would stand in front of a group and ramble. I never saw him go into anything like a trance. Most times, the sessions were recorded and Hoffman had them transcribed, edited, and cleaned up by a small group of people who had had, admittedly, some rather remarkable personal experiences following this otherworldly methodology. Because Hoffman tried to hide that he had actually been Fisher’s patient, the whole tale became twisted with lies and information that was “somewhat less than factual,” and it became ripe ground for manipulation.

When I read some well-thought-out passage online attributed to Hoffman, I know that it was obviously written by a ghost. Hoffman liked it short, dirty, and crude. His teaching style was in-your-face aggressive. On a scale of professional to barbarian, he was unapologetically barbarian. He “broke you down to build you up,” and you had to be grateful for his gifts of wisdom. You did things his way, or you’d be shut out. Some of the people who succeeded him will boast they never stooped to or countenanced his crude confrontation, that they told him so to his face, brave souls. They stretch the truth. Every one of them would have to admit to strained working relationships. At some point, everyone close to him just blocked his ranting, and as long as he got paid, he learned to live with it. 

But the adjustments, the edits, the lies are necessary. Hoffman is still the guru face of the Process that bears his name. It is a cult. Is there something more? Is there anything that can be saved from this river of teaching? I will also tackle the question of whether the Western adaptation of Buddhism loses something by closely identifying with the Self-Help Industry. Stay tuned.

 

Rato Khyongla Rinpoche died this morning.

24 May 2022 

Dharamsala, HP, India

Khyongla Rato Rinpoche died this morning in McLeod Ganj. He was probably 101 years old. The registry of births in Tibet was not very precise when he was born, but who’s counting? My landlord, Hari Singh, who has been his driver at least since the onset of COVID, just texted me.

Hari called Rato “The Holy One” out of his deep respect and love. I called him “Chuck Rinpoche.” 

Perhaps 8 months ago, Hari asked if his wife could use my kitchen to cook a meal for the Rinpoche. He’d made a special request to eat some of Reshma’s home-style cooking. The flat was also easier for Rato to negotiate, and the seating was more comfortable. I said, of course. We all had greeting scarfs, and Hari lit a smudge pot smoke offering on the steps. At about 1 PM, we welcomed Geshe Nicky Vreeland, followed by Rato, helped by his attendant Norbu. 

The food was terrific—lamb curry, North Indian style. Watching Rato, Nicky, and Norbu eat with such gusto amazed me. Reshma carefully prepared the Rinpoche’s dish with rice, smaller pieces of mutton, and lots of gravy. 

My friend Alex Kype was also there. He’d warned me to be on my best behavior. The Rinpoche was high up the ladder of Buddhist royalty. I sat next to Rato, and Nicky was to his left. Rato's voice was barely audible, but Nicky repeated his words. In the course of the conversion, Rato told a story about when he went to New York City in 1968 to found the Tibet Center. He found a small apartment midtown, but he had no money. So he went to work as a stock boy in B. Altman at their Midtown flagship store, Fifth Avenue and 34th Street. No one could pronounce his name, so he told them to call him Chuck. He started laughing at the memory. I jumped in and asked if I could call him Chuck Rinpoche. He laughed more. 

Rato’s scholarship and dedication to the Way were remarkable and revered over several incarnations, but he’ll always be just Chuck Rinpoche to me. 

Thank you for your visit. We were honored.

Lama Zopa Rinpoche visiting Khyongla Rato Rinpoche. New York, USA, August 2016. Photo by Ven. Losang Sherab.

*This is an interesting factoid. “Chuck” probably earned minimum wage in '68, which was $1.60 per hour (equivalent to $12.47 in 2021).