This is Iran's Selma

Today, June 24, 2009, the Iranian regime has shown its utter contempt for democratic values and the free speech rights of their people. There was a time that a nation run by religious hooligans and corrupt politicans could have simply shut down the media and done whatever it wanted without fear of the brutality seeping outside the country, but the Iranian tyrants have miscalculated the free flow of information in the twenty-first century. In a live CNN report via cell phone by a young woman in Tehran, the world learned that black clad Iranian security police waded into the crowd of peaceful demonstrators and beat, clubbed and shot them. There are reports of people being shoved off bridges and security police "chopping people like meat" with axes, blood everywhere.

What immediately comes to mind is the Civil Rights movement in the USA and the "Bloody Sunday" incident at Selma, Alabama, on March 7, 1965. Non-violent demonstrators planned to march from Selma to the State Capitol at Montgomery. They made it only as far as the Edmund Pettus Bridge, where the Dallas County Sheriff 's Department and Alabama Stae Troopers awaited them on horseback and in military formations. "In the presence of the news media, the lawmen attacked the peaceful deomonstrators with billy clubs, tear gas, and bull whips. Brutal televised images of the attack, which presented people with horrifying images of marchers left bloodied and severely injured, roused support for the U.S. civil rights movement." One woman, Amelia Boynton, was beaten and gassed almost to death in full light of the national news agencies.[1]

The horrific images shocked the nation and deeply embarrassed the people of the South. It was the beginning of the end to officially sanctioned segregation of public facilities and a great step forward toward America truly becoming one nation, under God.

Whereas the majority of Southern whites watched in horror at this violation of their Christian values, members of radical groups such as the KKK saw the protestors as agents of the devil, deserving what they got. It is important to note that the KKK considers itself a Christian organization, hence the burning cross as their symbol. Martin Luther King, Jr., was a Christian minister, but his take on the faith of Jesus was infinitely distant from the hatemongering racicism that brought violence to the demonstrators on Bloody Sunday.

Iran is another case. The lunatics are in charge of the asylum; those who profess to be the leaders of Islam are standing behind the hand of state power in its suppression of the rights of free people. Peaceful protest is met with brutality, and that violence is seen as the will of God. Shame on the religious leaders who pervert Islam into a religion of hate and fear. You are the KKK in a turban, and you have no more right to speak for Islam than the Imperial Wizard of the Klan can speak for Jesus Christ.

Fortunately, everyone in Tehran seems to have a cell phone with a camera, and the world knows what is going on in the streets. Everywhere from the Russian arctic to Tierra Del Fuego in Argentina, people are hunched over computer screens reading translated versions of the news about the beastiality of the Iranian regime. Pictures have been released to the world. This is their Selma. God is Great, indeed.
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[1] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selma_to_Montgomery_marches
(accessed 06-24-09)

Walking with Iran, Celebrating the Tiger Gods

President Barack Obama has begun to turn the ship of state from its collision course with the Islamic world. Only a wise student of history with self-confident moral courage could do what the President is attempting to do. He has ended an era of confrontation and posturing and begun the process of educating America about its new leadership role in a post-modern world.

What many Americans and Iranians share in common is ignorance about socio-cultural factors that drive us. Metaphysical nuances aside, everyone is born in a world he or she did not create. The culture we have is the culture we learned as infants. For breakfast today, you probably did not sit in a lotus position eating rice and coriander sauce with your fingers. If you've been following my Sri Lankan Journal (blogs below), you may recall that's the way they greet the morning. If a child is born in Idaho, she is statistically unlikely to be raised a Hindu. Move the birth site to Mumbai, and the numbers reverse themselves. All the evil-doers in the American slave era were conveniently born in the Old South, while my Civil War era Yankee ancestors stood for God, country, and freedom. Moving to Georgia, I got a much different picture of the War of Northern Aggression. It was a hopeless but noble stuggle for independence against a powerful, tyrannical central government that wanted to control and tax the good people of Dixie until our way of life was gone with the wind...

We need to grow up and realize that there are no tiger gods where there are no tigers. Christianity is not the one true faith; neither is Islam. The American way of life, which was good enough for Superman, may not work for people from other lands. The point is, people must be able to choose how they want to organize their societies, and we cannot go around the globe trying to make everyone into suburbanized white Protestants. There are some common causes about which humanity seems unified: Children should be safe and educated; women and men should experience some degree of equality (although the jury is stuill out on what that means); humans should not own, kill or mistreat other humans; public policy must not be motivated by hatred toward any group; and the best way to solve problem is through dialogue and reconciliation, not force of arms.

When did we we adopt this John Wayne foreign policy that characterized the Bush Administration? Was it all about 9-11? Hardly. The advice we Baby Boomers got from the moguls of popular culture was, “Don’t get mad, get even.” Two decades of theatergoers cheered the five-part Death Wish movies (1974-94), when an avenging Charles Bronson killed a series of bad men for the best of reasons. Perhaps we inherited this trait from the movie stars our parents had adored, heroes who met the bad guys in the street at high noon and gunned them down.

John Wayne, whose action-movie career spanned generations, was one of my boyhood favorites, too. Although he had an appealing personality both in film and real life, the Duke’s onscreen characters displayed a consistently violent behavioral repertoire, offering neither empathy for human frailties nor reconciliation with one’s enemies.

A goodly number of young radicals in our generation adopted the modus operandi of the crusading hero by deciding that bringing down the system would transform the world. Beyond ordinary drop-out, get-high hippies, we produced the Black Panther Party, Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), Weather Underground Organization, and the Youth International Party (Yippies). These and other groups advocated everything from forming anti-establishment communal refuges to a total revolution and seizing the reins of government. There was a lot of shouting at the meetings, mostly directed against the Vietnam War in general and the Johnson administration in particular. Since a fair number of the anti-war disturbances occurred on University campuses, there was also a significant amount of railing against the educational establishment. Some of the furor escalated because the Establishment—our parents of the WWII generation—responded with slap-down disciplinary measures when their Boomer children protested against the icons of the elder generation, i.e., down with the schools, the military, the government, and conventional morality.

In the 1970 protest comedy Getting Straight, Elliot Gould plays a Vietnam veteran who returns to college for his master’s degree and gets swept up into the culture of chaos developing on American campuses. Near the end of the film, Gould’s character meets with campus administrators during a student riot. They observe a young man rampaging through the halls, breaking things. Gould accuses the faculty “adults” of transforming this student from a peaceful kid, who previously only wanted to get laid, into a raving lunatic who now wants to kill.

It is an overstatement, of course, and inappropriately dismisses the responsibility of the rioters for their behavior, but Gould’s veteran has a point. When people feel they have no recourse to achieve worthwhile goals by peaceful ends, they will often resort to violence, sometimes violence which is haphazard and heartbreaking. That is why the sex-driven young man in Getting Straight became a violent protestor. That is also why the 9-11 terrorists flew their planes into buildings full of people whom they did not know, praying "God is Great!" before they died.

It is long past due that an American leader should understand the complex forces which motivate godly people to do ungodly deeds. It is not simply about good and evil; that was the chief error in the thinking of the previous administration. In American history, good people owned slaves, who were good people themselves; good people fire-bombed the cities of Germany and dropped two nukes on Japan; good people protested the Vietnam War, while other good people marched off to fight it, obeying their country's call. All people are basically good, but in the long and bloody history of the world circumstances have often impelled us to do ungodly things for the highest reasons.

Someone has to blow the whistle and say, "Enough!" It's time for humanity to grow up. I am encouraged that America has finally elected someone who understands the nuances of the real world. It's long overdue that a grown-up should lead us, even a young one. Hold your breath; the ship is turning, slowly but steadily, away from the rocks of ethnocentrism to a new consciosuness of the connectional nature of human life in the post-modern world. I pray he succeds, for the good of all humanity.

Sri Lankan Journal - Entry #10 - Final Pages

(With gratitude that you are still reading this Theo-Blog and apologies for the three month hiatus since Entry #9...I'll try to be more attentive now that my doctoral program is complete. To start at the beginning of this Sri Lankan Journal, scroll down to Entry #1.)

"Morning has broken..." .
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After the book launch, Bhante and I rode back through the dark but still bustling city. He asked the driver to stop and allow me time to run into a Chinese restaurant for take-out. Bhante does not eat dinner; apparently Buddhist monks eat only breakfast and lunch.

The restaurant could have been in Lee's Summit, Missouri. It sported the same el cheapo red lanterns with dangling red tassels and Wal-Mart watercolors of rugged mountains overlooking a river dotted with crescent shaped boats. I thought, Well, why not? Everything is made in China these days..

I expected takeout to come in the typical waxed-cardboard goldfish box with wire handle, but it arrived in a shoebox lined with thin plastic wrap.

Bhante dropped me at my apartment(picture, below left) outside the Buddhist Peace Center and I climb the flight of stairs to my buggy borrowed domain. I slipped under the mosquito net to eat my dinner, while infiltrating insects did likewise. Tomorrow I will get a fresh bottle of repellant and spend more hours on the beach.

This is a new kind of spiritual retreat. I begin every day sitting up in bed under the mosquito netting. I stretch, yawn, scratch a little, then sing "Morning Has Broken" and read the Daily Word. God and I are in constant dialogue in my head. Uh, sure. I know it's dualistic--God is inside, not out there. Ya-da, ya-da... Sue me. I am happily talking to God, who must be both "out there" and "in here" or the whole thing is a fraud. Besides, I need someone who speaks English. More later. .

FRIDAY 02-27-09

OK, I bailed on the adjunct-ashram-sans-window-screens and moved to the Mount Royal Hotel for the last three days here. It is located at the beach near the restaurant I've been attending with some regularity. Mt. Royal isn't classy--think of an aging Holiday Inn somewhere in Florida--but it's air conditioned, clean, and quite comfortable (see picture). The hotel is big, weather-beaten, and fairly inexpensive ($55 US for B&B). It wasn't the Sri Lankan humidity or heat that drove me from the free rent apartment overlooking Bhante's hide-away meditation center. I can get by nicely with electric fans and cold beer. It was--you guessed it--the mosquitos. Since visiting Sri Lanka I have become aware that a vast number of humans are exposed to the bites of blood-sucking insects every night of their lives. Many residences here have no window screens, yet they have lattice work and air vents permanently open to the occasional gust of cool air and the regular influx of mosquitos. Fortunately, some of the locals seem to be immune; Bhante gets bitten now that he's a non-resident most of the year, but the ladies who serve his meals out of doors under an open pavillion (see picture, right) seldom get bites, or so they told me.

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I am at my beachfront bistro now, watching a red-orange sunset over the Indian Ocean (picture, above). Sea breezes blow pleasantly from the direction of the setting sun. Young Sri Lankans are playing in the shallows near the shore, bobbing on the same plastic surfboards you could see on any beach in the USA. Behind me, landward, a train roars past not fifty feet from this table. The rush of metal on rails vibrates the warm, packed sand beneath my bare feet. To add to the surreal quality of this early evening by the Indian Ocean, my beacfront bistro just flicked on its string of colored lights overhead and switched on the music. Late disco tune, don't recognize the group. I keep an eye peeled for John Travolta to dance past in a white suit.

Back at the ashram, Bhante is attending a Buddhist flower-offering ceremony. I was invited, but just could not bear three more hours in the twilight with the mosquitos. Instead, I opted for a brief, self-directed meditation exercise on my balcony overlooking the moon-washed Indian Ocean, then retreated indoors for air conditioning, BBC news, and a cold bottle of Lion Lager. What a planet.

SATURDAY 02-28-09
I am flying home tonight. This has been an amazing week. If you had asked me to list the places I wanted to visit before I die, Sri Lanka would not have made the cut. But I am infinitely glad to have come here, to meet these gentle people who drive like a cross between Mother Theresa and a kamikaze pilot, who meditate and work on inner peace while fighting a civil war against insurrectionists, and who honor spiritual traditions East and West. I meant it when I said that Christians have a lot to learn from our Buddhist brothers and sisters, and I chief among the students. To me, their committement to compasion and inner peace sounds like Jesus on a good day. May we one day come together with all people as children of the One Presence/One Power, and recognize our Unity regardless of the belief system by which the several tribes of humanity have clothed the Christ-Buddha within.

Morning Has Broken, indeed.

Sri Lankan Journal - Entry 9

(To start at the beginning, scroll down to Entry #1.)


I am at the book launching event. (Picture, right, taken as I write.) Today we mark the publication of Bhante's two books--Lessons of the Lotus and Poems of Awakening--in three new editions representing the official languages of Sri Lanka: English, Sinhala, and Tamil. (Today's program is conducted in entirely English--thank you, God.)

How do I describe the scene in a way you will be here with me and believe what is happening? The program is taking place on the second floor of a large public auditorium complex in downtown Colombo. Bhante's people have gathered in ascending, semi-circular rows like UN delegates. The first two rows are clergy. There are Buddhist monks in robes of safron, yellow-orange, dull red, russet, yellow, and another color I call, for lack of another term, spicy brown mustard (picture, right). The colors, I am told, represent various schools of Buddhist thought, followers of this or that teacher, roughly comparable to monastic orders in Roman Catholicism. There are also Hindu priests and Muslims and a Christian or two, plus a lot of non-clergy--men in long-sleeved white shirts or short-sleeved sports shirts, women Sri Lankan native in saris and western clothes. This is a large gathering, and I am honored to be Bhante's special guest from America.

I sit at the head table on the platform beside the man of the hour, the Venerable Yatirawana Wimala Thero. I am confused. Is that Bhante's actual name--Yatirawana Wimala? The monk to my right confirms it, explaining Thero means elder, and Bhante is a term like Father or Reverend in the Christian West. All Sri Lankan monks are Bhante's. What a shock! I always thought "Bhante" was the first name of my friend. Well, title or not, he's still Bhante Wimala to me. After all, it's how he introduces himself. I think he uses his title as a first name in the West because Bhante rolls off the American tongue a lot easier than Yatirawana. .

The monk (to my right in the first picture, above) has an interesting life story. His full designation in the printed program is the Venerable Olande Ananda Nayka Thero. If I spoke Sinhala I might have noticed his name, Olande, is a form of Hollander, which means a person from the Netherlands. He is a Westerner whose spiritual journey followed several paths that eventually led him to Sri Lanka, where he become a Buddhist monk. Olande Ananda is fluent in the local langauge and speaks perfect English. When he led the meditation, I thought for a moment I was in a Unity church. He told me with a sly smile that they promoted him to "Nayaka Thero" on the program, which means "chief elder" even though he's just a plain ol' Thero.

There was a deligtful opening ceremony with Sri Lanka girls doing a traditional dance, followed by the head table and other major delegates getting up to light candles. (See right and below.)

When the program speakers begin, I am surprised to learn than not only am here to introduce Bhante but my position is listed as "Chair" of the session and guest of honor at this august gathering. TV cameras point at us, photographers snap their flashes. And the whole thing is being simultaneously translated in Sinhala and Tamil. Yikes! This is a media event, and I'm the main guest of honor. .

Why didn't I lose twenty pounds before coming here??.

Now it's my turn to speak. I look out across a sea of faces--Buddhist monks, Hindu priests, Muslim leaders, plus an assembled representation of the Sri Lankan intelligentsia, people with PhD' s and MD's and LLD's--and I think, "Okay, Reverend Smartass, what do you preach to this crowd?!" ..

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Suddenly, I feel like Dorothy's little man behind the curtain, and I want to click my heels and say, "There's no place like home..."

But my task saves me. I am here to introduce my friend and co-worker in spiritual awareness. I begin speaking....

."We gather here today to celebrate the publication of two important books in Sinhalese, Tamil and English. But we really didn't assemble in this lovely place just to attend a book launching. We gather in Sri Lanka's capital city to honor the work of a citizen of the world, the Venerable Bhante Wimala. It is because of this gentle, intelligent, compassionate man that I flew halfway around the globe--that many of us traveled great distances. We come from cities and villages across the earth where Bhante Wimala has walked and taught..." .

I tell them Bhante is like pure gold, that's why his presence is valued in any culture or country. Recalling his visit to Unity Institute, I describe how Bhante spoke on compassion and gave my students a new definition for selfless love that they continued to discuss for months. I tell them how he showed us the wisdom of peace without glossing over the need for justice amid the danger and sufferings of the contemporary world. Then I say something that generates a few faint smiles on the supremely unperterbed faces in the first two rows:

"I only know one Buddhist monk personally, but if all Buddhists are like Bhante Wimala then I think we Christians have a lot to learn from you."

I sit, but there is no applause. Did I bomb? But wait a minute--there has been no applause yet, not even for the teenage girl dancers or the flute soloist. There will be none this afternoon. Bhante Olande tells me silent appreciation is typical and considered a show of respect and decorum. .

Bhante rises to speak; I take notes. He speaks for about thirty minutes on "Inner Peace and Outer Peace." His lesson/sermon could have been delivered from the pulpit of any Unity church in the world. Inner peace is how you feel toward yourself; outer peace is how you feel toward others. Bhante says every thought has power. Positive thoughts bring comfort; when you feel kindness and compassion those feelings are beneficial to the person experiencing them, the body aqnd mind are in fulfillment. However, negative thoughts bring discomfort. When you are angry or fearful, look at your mind and body--it will be tense, anxious, and stressful. "It hurts top be angry," he says. "It ghurts to hate people. It even hurts to dislike people." Having a good reason to be angry or hateful doesn't exempt you from the consequences of it. Holding onto negative emotions causes you to suffer. Outer peace will be established only when people release the need to hate or even dislike others. "Peace in the world will come when people realize the nature of their own suffering and free the mind from negative thoughts."

He finishes speaking, and I resist the temptation to jump up and shout, "Amen!"

Bhante is presented with the first copies of his new translation editions, and he turns to make presentations to all his major guests. The paparazzi swoop in to snap wildly, TV cameras roll. And I'm the first major guest!

After much more of the above, plus "Sacred Flute Music" and brief speeches by dignataries from several major groups, the assembly concludes with the singing of the Sri Lankan National Anthem. An interesting cultural phenomenon took place. The monks kept their seats, but everyone else in the audience rose. Those of us at the head table also stood for the anthem, except for the monk from Holland. Olande Ananda told me later that he had followed the lead of the clergy in the audience, then he noticed Bhante Wimala was standing. Bhante himself said he got up reflexively with the head table, like people do in America, then realized he was the only cleric (besides me) who was standing. "But then, I couldn't sit down," he said. That would have been awkward.

There was a lot of milling around with photographers and newspeople interviewing this cleric or that, and everyone wanted to get on camera with Bhante. I'm certain he was on the Evening News. After the official picture-taking, I asked for a few shots of the colorful costumes and weaseled my way into photo-op's with a few high-placed Buddhist clergy. At least they were venerated quite highly by the others. And some of the lovely saris on camera, too. (See below.)

This was a day...and now I am seriously hungry. And Bhante doesn't eat dinner!

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(More later, including a stop for Chinese take-out.)

Sri Lankan Journal - Entry #8

(Note: Scroll down for earlier entries.)
Today is Tuesday, 24 February 2009, and I opted for the car trip to the city of Kandy in the hills about four hours from Colombo. This area is Bhante Wimala's birthplace, a vast sweep of mountain valleys robed in the many shades of green you find in the tropics. Coconut palms spread their green fingers everywhere, and beside them I saw towering trees which resemble species which in the USA are kept as itty-bitty houseplants, like Joseph's Coat (below). I had one on my office window at Unity Institute, but it died in the Missouri winter.
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I saw monkeys along the roadway, fighting over some trash. Not a very common site--monks, yes. Not monkeys. As we passed the lake in Kandy I couldn't resist snapping the silhouette of a monk by the water (below).

Sometimes they walk in two's, or line up in single file processions with adults guiding elementary school age boys to or from the local monks' training school. The boys wear the same red or orange robes and sport the same shaved heads. (Are they monkettes?)

I also saw kids marching to public schools, uniformly in white, often moving in protective columns with their classmates. The air is thick with curry and jasmine and diesel exhaust. There are billboards written in Sinhala script, curly-Q letters in a row, like someone spilled a box of Cherrios' across the page.

The smiling people in the streets are dark brown, some very dark, Asian dark chocolates. The smiling people on the billboards--obviously Sri Lankans or Indians--are uniformly lighter, like CNN reporters.

Women in bright saris flow past our car, dark jewels wrapped in gossamer red, yellow, tangerine, spring green.

We arrive at the hotel (left) and I step backward in time to a colonial world like British India. Bell hops in white and "Yes, sir!" and too many servants, suggesting low salaries for eager natives. Decadent, air conditioned, exploitation. God help me, I loved it. I slept, ate, watched CNN and BBC World News. NO mosquitos. Yes, central air. And more of that delightful Sri Lankan brew, Lion Lager. By dinner that night I discover that I am a colonist at heart. The locals smile and pocket my money. Who's exploiting whom? I haven't a clue.

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As a group the Sri Lankans are the kindest, most polite people I have yet encountered. And the friendliness comes without a fee or a hint of resentment. In plenty of places I have visited, you get the superficial smile that has to do with the dollars you're about to spend. I never had that feeling while in Sri Lanka. These people are just....nice. I left my notebook with all these notes and my passport in a shuttle car. The driver circled back to the hotel and brought my prescious, rubber-band-wrapped package directly to the desk, where I was checking in. And he steadfastly refused a "thank-you" tip. What a nice bunch of people! Again, I think Buddhism has a lot to do with it. Funny how I had to travel to the other side of the earth to find a nation of people who live by the "do-unto-others" principles of Jesus Christ.

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My feet are badly swollen, at least twice their normal size. My sneakers are loose and baggy, thank heavens, and I loosen the laces even more. Bhante had said it happens to him whenever he flies long distances like this. I prop my feet up and spend a glorious, mosquito-free evening with air conditioning and cold drinks and English TV. There's a sermon somewhere in this one-day excusion, but I'll figure that out later.

Sri Lankan Journal - Entry #7

Riding in a three-wheeled, motorized Sri Lankan taxi is an adventure. You get the strong impression that these sturdy little omnipresent carriages are the evolutinary offshoot of the Asian rikisha. Let me tell you a few examples of life in the wild streets of Colombo.

The vehicle has open sides, a canvas top and a rear bench seat. The passenger space offers just enough room for two adults (or one portly American packing a bag of souvenirs), although the rather diminuitive locals tend to make the smallish seat stretch to family size in some mystical way. The drivers are uniformly well-tempered but opportunistic, always trying to charge the ignorant tourist twice the going rate paid by Sri Lankan natives. I was politely told by my hosts that the "bargain fare," which I had vigorously negotiated from a smiling young man who spoke no English (see picture, above), was nothing short of total surrender to economic terrorism.

The vehicle itself is basically a motorcycle with a three-wheel frame straddled by a metal-and-canvas carriage. The driver literally has no steering wheel but operates with handlebars (see picture, left). Some of them start with pull-cords like lawn mowers.

.Driving in the wildly pulsating traffic flow is an activity which requires almost a hive mind--like a friendlier version of Star Trek's Borg--among motorists and cyclists. The rules seem to be, "Honk once to say you're cutting in, two or three times to warn people not to do the same to you, and yeild if they get in their front tires ahead of yours." I am convinced that my wife, Carol-Jean, who winces when red lights flash on a vehicle 100 yards ahead, would be unable to travel more than a block or two before leaping from the taxi in mortal terror. Even Bhante, who teaches meditation and faced the aftermath of the Tsunami, says that when he returns here after a long absence he must use all his Buddhist-monk skills to stay cool in the fray. "I just have to keep out of it, let the driver handle the traffic."

For all the frantic activity, there are actually very few accidents and even fewer injuries, partly because the stop-and-go traffic flow seldom allows vehicles to get up enough speed for serious crashes. But I think Buddhism plays an important role in the non-lethal traffic mêlée, too. Unlike in America and Europe, drivers here work together to avoid crashes. Consequently, a taxi driver is perfectly confident that the truck down the street, slicing across traffic lanes with reckless impunity, will be out of the way when his beep-beeping three-wheeler shoots by. Still, there are moments I'll never forget, like the time my taxi did a hard right turn across four lanes of traffic to execute a U-turn at rush hour. I looked out the open side door; we were perpendicular to the street with busses, small trucks, and Toyotas flying right into us. Of course, all four lanes did their toot-toot and yeilded politely. If this had been Manhattan or Paris, CJ would be planting flowers over me today...

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Then there was the time my cabbie bummed 100 Sri Lankan Rupees (about 69 cents) to buy gas. He had to push the three-wheeler up to the pump. (I thought about getting out to walk, but I was paying for the ride.) Later, when we stopped at one of those ubiquitous police checkpoints, a polite guy in uniform with a loaded automatic weapon slung over his arm gestured for my driver to move forward. The driver had shut off the engine, so he got out and rolled us forward to the designated spot to save gas. I remember thinking how my cheapskate, Pennsylvania Dutch grandmother would have totally approved his frugality.

.Another driver ran out of gas while shuttling me back from the beach. He pulled over, hopped out, and fished a 2-liter plastic bottle from under his seat. He disappeared around back, then returned with it half-empty. The taxi coughed to life, and I said, "You know, guy, you're basically driving a motor vehicle with a Molotov cocktail between your legs?" He smiled and nodded, not understanding a word, and plunged back into the buzzing boulevard. I wanted to point out that a half-empty bottle of gasoline is even more dangerous due to the fumes in the empty space, but that would have been an equally futile English babbling to a Sinhala -speaking cabbie.

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They seem to adjust their flying chariots instinctively, like Chewbacca doing maintenance on the Millenium Falcon. And after about a week of riding in these ground-level starships, I finally get it. The drivers in Sri Lanka have had 2,500 years of Buddhism. They operate from a fundamentally polite, do-no-harm ethos which is not shared in the West. Even the best American drivers carry a sense of democratic justice to the highways: All people are obligated to respect the civil and property rights of others, to include the right of way. The Sri Lankans seem to operate under a different social contract: Why cause a crash, when it's all about your ego? The drivers here are simultaneously aggressive and defensive. They hurl themselves into traffic flows that scare the bejesus out of me, yet everyone knows the objective is to get there as quickly as safety will allow. So, if the guy gets his front wheel(s) ahead of you, you give way. Beep-beep, just as a reminder, but let him in. I have been a passenger in vehicles which pass uphill on a wide, blind curve. Two lane roads become four-lane as traffic shifts to avoid certain death.

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I remarked to an Indian friend of Bhante's, with whom I was sharing a ride in a hotel van, "The locals here seem to think lines painted on the road are merely suggestions." He said that India was worse, that there literally are no side mirrors on Indian vehicles because they've all been whacked off by close encounters in the street. And he agreed the difference here was kindness on the part of the drivers. I have never seen aggressive kindness before, but here is is, alive and well in the roadways of Sri Lanka.

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These reflections are jotted as I'm headed to Kandy, in the mountains about 4 hours from here, with Bhante's Indian friends. My friend the monk has sent me up here to get behind an air conditioned, mosquito-proof barrier for at least one night. More later from that location. Bhante's look launch is tomorrow, so I'll be coming back quickly...

Sri Lankan Journal - Entry #6

The pina colada was awful, but the tuna steak was excellent. Char-grilled and basted in a rich oinion sauce and served with crisp french fries and a small dish of teriyaki dipping sauce. I heeded the guidebook warnings about Third World eating and avoided the fresh greens garnishing the plate. Even if raw veggies themselves are okay, food preparers often wash salad makings in the local, contaminated water. Everybody here drinks cold H2O in two-liter bottles (see picture, previous blog). I also discovered the joys of a local beer called Lion Lager. Had one cold bottle late in the afternoon, then on the way home I stopped at a grocery store to stock up on cheese, bread, and a few liters of the Lion. Now this is getting to be my kind of spiritual retreat...

Spent the evening reading Deepak Chopra's book Buddha: A Story of Enlightenment. It's an historical novel and quite entertaining, but I'm thinking the Buddhists would likely be a little scandalized at the way young Siddartha is portrayed. Some good information mixed with historical fiction, nevertheless. I did not know Buddha's father had been such a warrior king, and that his goal for his son was to be ruler of the known world. How odd, the way one's aspirations for beloved children may come true in a manner wholly unpredictable to the parents. Good read.

I also spent a little time playing video games on my laptop, which adapts quite well to the 220 volt current here. Strange how playing a game I enjoyed back home gives me a feeling of comfort in this interesting yet profoundly diffferent land. For a quick instant my mind flashes on the irony--finding comfort by shooting cyber bad guys with a Buddhist peace center down the block.

Pushba and Karona came by to show me how to hook up the anti-mosquito incense dispenser. It seemed to help a little; I had fewer bug bites next morning. I ate a late breakfast at 7:30 AM local--God knows what time my body thinks it is. Bhante says I can stay in the Colombo area or go inland to Kandy, the second largest Sri Lankan city, located four hours away in the mountains. He emphasizes that the Tanmil Tigers have their stronghold far from that city, so the trip will be perfectly safe. He suggests I take another day to walk the beach and meditate first. He also recommends I buy some sunscreen, politely not mentioning my beet-red face from yesterday's exposure to the tropical sun.

I paused a little while to meditate in the lovely gardens of the Vishva, then ventured forth on foot to purchase a hat and sunscreen, after which I'll head to the beach. Deepak and Buddha are my companions. Tuna steak lunch awaits me. Three-wheel taxi rides will get me there. Little did I know what a wild street experience that would be...

More later.

Sri Lankan Journal - Entry #5

[To begin reading from the first entry, scroll down.]

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Table by the sea at La Voile Blanche, my favorite local hangout. .

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If you look closely, at the bottom of the photo (left) you'll see the notebook from which these journal entries are being transcribed.

.The picture below is the Mount Lavinia Hotel.

.Bhante's driver, Sadath, took me to the fancy and expensive Mount Lavinia Hotel, originally built for the governor in the old days of British colonial rule. I checked it out and discovered it was sprawling, western, pricey, and crowded with European tourists. They charged money to access the beach, and you get a free day pass if you buy the Sunday brunch. It was Sunday, but I wasn't hungry yet. So, I found the lounge and ordered coffee from a bartender in white, then reclined in air conditioned comfort to sip strong java and the ocean below (see picture, above). After about an hour of Western decadence, I decided this was way too far the other direction, so I conned the bellhop into snagging a local three-wheel taxi and we putt-putted away toward the real beach where the locals hang out.

.The beach below and to the north of the fortress resort was full of locals--dark bodies playing in the gentle surf. I walked abouty 45 minutes past fishing boats and lingering tsunami damage. I took off my sandals and went ankle-deep wading along the crest of the incoming tide, then came back to a beachfront bar and grill called La Voile Blanche (pictured above). I am writing this now from the table in the picture while sipping on a pina colada (it's past noon!) and watching the locals play in the surf. Lunch later, probably a tuna steak with onion sauce and french fries. I wonder if I'll get a K-F-S or eat by hand? More later...

Sri Lanka Journal - Entry #4

[Note: To begin this series with Entry #1, scroll down.]
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I looked around the small room and decided I could do this, so I unfurled the mosquito net and started unpacking my belongings. Various members of the Vishva staff shuffled in and out, bringing me a floor fan and a plug-in mosquito repellant device (I kid you not). Then Bhante appeared and announced that they arranged a bigger place for me. They saw I was a misfit for the smallish bed and room, although I was willing to be a trooper in Buddha's army and stay the course. Bhante reported that the Director of Vishva Niketan whom I had just met--a lovely lady with salt-and-pepper hair and a warm smile--graciously offered a second floor apartment in a gated courtyard building just outside the center. (See photo.)


Also without screens or a/c, but lots more room. I dutifully sprayed mosquito repellant on my extremities and crawled under the net, tucking it down under the matress on all sides. The mosquitoes however were not impressed by these defensive tactics and had a good night of munching on my ankles, wrists, and arms. They seem to prefer limbs, like I was a Christian appetizer before going out on the town for a Buddhist main course. I actually rested very well bug bites notwithstanding, probably because of the tube of anti-itch cream I kept inside the netting tent. And that was my Saturday, which because of the weird science of time zone travel (and spending 28+ hours in the air) actually began at Thursday morning 02-19, half a world away, when I left KCMO for the first leg of my journey.

Sunday, February 22, was my first full day in Sri Lanka. Bhante invited me to breakfast with him. He eats breakfast and lunch but not supper, which apparently is typical for monks. Sometimes he will take a little soup in the evening. Also, according to Sri Lankan Buddhist tradition, monks eat first while others wait, sometimes watching like adoring fans. It's actually quite polite, a sign of respect for the office of clergy, but I don't think our congregations would go for it. In fact, some ministers make sure their people eat first before they sit to join them at church functions, although I've never gone hungry at a Unity potluck. Bhante actually broke tradition and ate with me, even though I was perfectly willing to abide by their customs.

Not surprisingly, breakfast was nothing like American style eating. Well, there was bread and butter. The main foods were two kinds of rice spaghetti with spicy lentil chili poured over it. Very tasty. Also garbanzo beans and sliced fruit. Bhante ate Sri Lankan style with his fingers; I asked for a spoon. Seating at meals is quite different, too. Think of an open-sided pavilion—like the kind you’d find covering a picnic area at a public park in the US—only there are no tables. Along the half-wall sides is a concrete bench about a yard deep. You perch on the bench and eat with the food beside you. (See picture, above.) I achieved my customary ½ lotus, which delighted the staff. I actually stayed in that Asian pretzel configuration for a good five minutes before dangling my feet (bare, or course).

We ate and chatted. Bhante introduced the two servers, delightful women. Their names are Pushba (on left in picture, her name means flower) and Karona (right, meaning compassion). Pushba and Karona were laypeople, not Buddhist nuns. They were ordinary, early middle aged women with extraordinary smiles, and everything they did overflowed with friendliness. That is ordinary here, too. I remember thinking, “If the Sri Lankans I’ve met so far are typical, this has got to be the kindest, most gracious nation on earth.” And I would leave the country ten days later with that belief still in place. I met Buddhist and Christian Sri Lankans. I saw Muslim women in the marketplace with their distinctive head scarves--only they were colorful here, reds and yellows and bright green head coverings, not just the black veils of Arab Islam. And I also saw Indian Hindus and mainland Chinese and Japanese, Koreans, and European expatriots--it reminded me of California.

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California...That reminded me: What I really needed was a spiritual lift. So, with Bhante's prompting, I left the Retreat Center for the day and headed for the beach.

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More to follow...

Sri Lanka Journal - Entry #3

[Note: To begin this series with Entry #1, scroll down.]

It is Saturday and the plane is 30 minutes from landing at Colombo. This flight began like the other marathon--several minutes of seat-shuffling--but this aircraft has more leg room and so I get a better night's rest.

And now I am here. Bhante (see photo) met me outside the terminal, which is clean, air conditioned, and 1st world. His driver (see photo) Sadath was orbiting the terminal and came quickly when Bhante summoned him by cell phone.

Colombo, the Sri Lankan capital city, is Asian-metro with a touch of Mexico-style poverty. Lots of open-front workshops with sparks from men grinding metals and sidewalk sales nooks stuffed with small items, soft drinks and lotions and packets of dry noodles, like a Sri Lankan version of a convenience store. The streets teemed with motor bikes and Toyotas, plus swarms of 3-wheeled cars that seemed to constitute the local taxi corps.

We made a few business stops as Bhante organized his event for next Wednesday, February 25. One stop was the HQ of the Sri Lankan National Lottery Board, where I met Ashok Witharana, whose title is "Additional General Manager." (See photo.) The AGM is a big supporter of Bhante and it was obvious from the deference he showed that my friend the monk was indeed, as his official title indicates, "venerable." The Lottery Board is housed in a concrete edifice that looks like an old government building anywhere in the world, except it sits with its back to the beach and the blue-green Indian Ocean. I got my first glimpse of this new ocean (for me) out of the windows of Ashok's second-floor office. He exchanged a few pleasantries with Bhante, then a young Sri Lankan girl and her family shuffled in to meet the Venerable guest. (Bhante, of course, not me.) They were Buddhists, so one-by-one they snuck in a full bow to the floor to touch Bhante's sandals, a gesture of ultimate respect.

The little girl was about eight or nine, dark eyed and keely intelligent. She had just earned a Lottery Board scholarship to help her family pay for expenses as she continued her education in private school. Her speciality, I learned, was English, and she brightened when I spoke directly to her in my American accent and thanked her for studying my native language.

.After another winding trek through Colombo's maddening traffic, we arrived at the Vishva Niketan Center (see photo), which is a smaller, Sri Lankan version of California's Asilomar. Lovely tropical grounds, scents of incense and curry in the distance, and no air conditioning or screens on the windows. You get a mosquito net and a fan.

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More later...

Sri Lanka Journal - Entry #2

[Note: To begin this series with Entry #1, scroll down.]

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The flight from LAX to London Heathrow was a little like taking your honeymoon in hell: the company was nice, but the accomodations were excruciating. Nature and my healthy appetite have conspired to give me the kind of body that is expressly not built for extended airline travel: very long legs and a wide waist. When the nice flight attendant tried to provide alternative seating for me, it was a choice between mismatches. I could sit in an exit aisle, which offered extra leg room but had rigid arm rests—the kind that can’t fold-up—which did not allow my wide hips to exploit the roomy advantage of a vacant seat beside me. Or, I could opt for a row with tuck-away arm rests but cramped leg room; if the passenger ahead tried to recline, I could tuck my feet under the seat and have his headrest in my lap, or just sit straight up and prevent the other seat from reclining, my knees tight against the seat in front.

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Thanks to the incredible kindness and patience of the Virgin Atlantic crew (and a light load of passengers), I literally went back and forth among four different locations before settling on the lesser of multiple evils.

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The overnight flight was basically sleepless, and now I'm sitting in a pub at London's Heathrow Airport, nibbling a sandwich and chips (french fries). While eating, I watch BBC television. And now there is “breaking news” flashing CNN-style across the bottom of the screen: The Tamil Tigers, a Sri Lankan terrorist militia, have staged an air attack on the capital city, Colombo. At least 38 people have been wounded. The airport is closed. Power is off in the city. I look down at my boarding pass, and it reads London - Colombo. This just keeps getting better and better…

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I did some quick online research at an Internet kiosk and learned that the Tamil Tigers are a terrorist organization, and the attack was an amateur-hour operation with a couple of light airplanes. Then I called my wife, Carol-Jean, in Kansas City to reassure her that I wasn't flying into a combat zone. She listened quietly and then told me about the sudden death of a Unity Institute student, Jim Pearce. He had come through cancer surgery with flying colors. Everything looked clear and bright. Then he died. I was shocked. And suddenly my complaints about discomfort and potential dangers on this trip seemed petty and petulant. I asked CJ to convey my deep sense of loss at Jim's memorial service. I realize again how good it is to have a partner like her.

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I am on the Sri Lankan Airlines flight now, half-listening as the pre-takeoff video tells me how to unbuckle a seat belt and where the life vests are stowed. I'm a theologian, but have no cosmic answer about Jim's death. Life happens. Then it ends. We respond with faith. He was a really good guy. Would that people will say likewise when our time comes.

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More later.

Sri Lanka Journal - Entry #1

[The following posts were written as they happened.]
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I must be crazy. At sixty-two years old, I’m on my way to the other side of the earth, to a third world country with an active civil war, and all that “Prayer for Protection” stuff notwithstanding, I’m a little frightened. Not so much because of the physical danger--my rational mind knows the safety level of this trip is roughly comparable to spending the week in a major US city--but because I will be off balance over there, living with locals in a culture I do not yet understand. True confession time: I am a European-American, through and through. Sure, I love to study world cultures and have a special warm spot for Buddhism, but I am not harboring any illusions about being comfortable in all parts of the world. It is one thing to have an intellectual and spiritual affinity for people of other lands, but to actually spend time there at the native level--eating all kinds of foods, living under all kinds of conditions—raises multi-culturalism to a whole other order of magnitude.

Actually, I'm not a total stranger to the far side of the world. Three of my six children were born in Germany; I lived in Korea for 15 months and in Vietnam for a year. But when I have gone overseas in the past it was as a soldier, moving within a military subculture which kept me safe inside an American bubble and took care of my daily needs. All I had to do was relax, do my job, and "the system" took care of me.

Now, I travel alone, and I don't even have control over the itinerary. I am a leaf on the wind. At my age, that is not a comforting image. So, yes. I am a little frightened tonight as I await the boarding call for the flight to London and thence to Sri Lanka.

Today’s Daily Word was written for me: .

“My prayers reach out, near and far, to bless my loved ones. I look at the first glimmer of the moon in the evening sky and know that it is the same celestial object that shines in the evening sky above my loved ones. And I may be thinking particularly of one who is a world away, saying good morning to the rising sun as I am saying good evening to the setting sun. Still, I know in my heart that we are in one world and one in Spirit. Wherever we are, the Christ in me greets the Christ in my loved ones. We share a spiritual connection that neither space nor time can interfere with. I imagine my prayers taking wing, reaching out to bless those I love.I pray, affirming always that we are aware of our oneness in Spirit, and that each one is safe and healthy, happy and fulfilled.” ..............................................(Daily Word, 02-19-09) .

Wow. More later. Probably with red wine over the Canadian arctic.