Part 11 (1/2)
I think the Dalai Lama has a similar att.i.tude. The Nechung oracle has always provided good advice, and therefore there is no reason not to consult him.
The kuten kuten listened to Zalman's explanations of the Jewish oracle with a good deal of interest, nodding his large teardrop-shaped head and interjecting 'Ah...ah...ah...' as Alex gave the translation. Having established, however tenuously, an oracular connection, Paul Mendes-Flohr asked Alex gently, ”Would he accept a question from us?” listened to Zalman's explanations of the Jewish oracle with a good deal of interest, nodding his large teardrop-shaped head and interjecting 'Ah...ah...ah...' as Alex gave the translation. Having established, however tenuously, an oracular connection, Paul Mendes-Flohr asked Alex gently, ”Would he accept a question from us?”
”Yes.”
”Should we go by plane or by car?” Yitz Greenberg interjected, and everyone laughed. A long conference between Alex and the kuten kuten followed. ”He says that it's okay to go by car this evening,” Alex reported. ”They will say prayers, ask for the protection of the Protector, you shouldn't worry. With the people here and His Holiness's request for protection, very naturally, there's no problem with traveling this evening.” followed. ”He says that it's okay to go by car this evening,” Alex reported. ”They will say prayers, ask for the protection of the Protector, you shouldn't worry. With the people here and His Holiness's request for protection, very naturally, there's no problem with traveling this evening.”
However, to back that up, the kuten kuten graciously offered us packets of barley seeds-bright orange-in plastic envelopes. The seeds, known as graciously offered us packets of barley seeds-bright orange-in plastic envelopes. The seeds, known as chaynay, had been blessed by Dorje Drakden. They were believed by Buddhists to have magical protective powers, and Nathan Katz took several packets of them for Buddhist temples in Tampa. But I noticed that we all lined up eagerly to accept them. Were we losing our rationalist edge, or were we just afraid? I figured it was a fair trade: we would be giving the Dalai Lama the Torah that had protected us on the way to Dharamsala. So the magical seeds seemed like the best possible subst.i.tute for our trip back.
While we were saying our good-byes and taking pictures, Blu Greenberg took the kuten kuten aside and asked whether one of her sons, a nice Jewish boy over thirty, would get married soon. The oracle a.s.sured her he would. Soon I heard Yitz explain to Nathan Katz with wry casuistry as we walked to the Tibetan Astro-Medical Inst.i.tute, that he was on perfectly good Orthodox ground accepting the blessed seeds, ”As long as I don't think they work.” aside and asked whether one of her sons, a nice Jewish boy over thirty, would get married soon. The oracle a.s.sured her he would. Soon I heard Yitz explain to Nathan Katz with wry casuistry as we walked to the Tibetan Astro-Medical Inst.i.tute, that he was on perfectly good Orthodox ground accepting the blessed seeds, ”As long as I don't think they work.”
He added that ”superst.i.tious practices that belong to other religions are prohibited on the grounds that you are taking the superst.i.tion seriously. But if you don't take it seriously, then it's an act of gracious friends.h.i.+p that he's sharing it. That's my joke.”
”Then it can work,” Nathan said, ”catch-22.”
”Yes, blessings of good people do work, that's my catch. As long as you don't take it seriously, you do take it seriously.”
But Yitz was thinking more seriously about the contact we'd been making that morning with the more exotic aspects of Tibetan Buddhism, trying in his careful way to fit it all into a pattern. He explained to Nathan and me how two very different religions might be compared, especially in regard to the att.i.tude each took toward this world in the light of the ultimate goal of each religion. In short: the tension between everyday life and perfection.
He thought both religions start ”with the equally utopian vision: that we'll overcome all sickness, all suffering, all death, all war-everything will be totally overcome.” (In Judaism, this is the messianic vision; in Buddhism, the promise of nirvana.) ”But,” he went on as we walked down a dusty path, ”in Judaism the process along the way toward that final perfection works with imperfection and partial steps. So you combine the utopian vision with the pragmatic, in an unrelenting work toward perfection. That's tikkun olam tikkun olam [repair of the world]. 'That's the constant process of [repair of the world]. 'That's the constant process of tikkun tikkun. You are as perfectionist as the Buddhists, but you define all the partial steps as having equal dignity” with the larger vision. In Jewish terms, then, the world ”is not illusion, it's not lower, it's the very essence of achievement.” He did not think that Buddhism honored the earthly steps toward perfection, because they viewed the ordinary world, the world of samsara, as naarishkeit naarishkeit [foolishness]. But he acknowledged that ”in all religions you have a spectrum of 'perfection.' What happens is that each religion typically cl.u.s.ters around certain pieces of that spectrum, but it has a range of that spectrum and not infrequently the whole range, though the mainstream will be cl.u.s.tered around a certain place. If you look carefully, you will see that the other religion has the same theme, but it's not a major theme, it's a minor theme. The major theme is in another cl.u.s.ter. If you look even more carefully, if you can step back and see the whole spectrum, they actually have filled in those intermediate links in their minor traditions.” [foolishness]. But he acknowledged that ”in all religions you have a spectrum of 'perfection.' What happens is that each religion typically cl.u.s.ters around certain pieces of that spectrum, but it has a range of that spectrum and not infrequently the whole range, though the mainstream will be cl.u.s.tered around a certain place. If you look carefully, you will see that the other religion has the same theme, but it's not a major theme, it's a minor theme. The major theme is in another cl.u.s.ter. If you look even more carefully, if you can step back and see the whole spectrum, they actually have filled in those intermediate links in their minor traditions.”
I remembered that during Zalman's presentation on the four worlds and reincarnation, Yitz had interjected the term ”minority view” to describe-and downplay-the importance of these kabbalistic traditions. I suppose, broadly, what he meant was that although both Tibetan Buddhism and Judaism share beliefs in reincarnation, or angels/devas, these are major beliefs in Tibetan Buddhism and minor ones in Judaism.
Nathan Katz responded to Yitz's ideas enthusiastically. ”Exactly, exactly. I was telling Chodron, both Judaism and Mahayana Buddhism are religions of transformation. Our transformation is dominantly of the world, but to transform the world means to transform ourselves too. Whereas their transformation is primarily of themselves, and by so doing they transform the world. And they do overlap.”
”And if you look more carefully,” Yitz suggested, ”when the world is transformed it paves the way for the kind of spiritual perfection they are talking about anyway. So it's really not separable, and if you really are reaching out for that kind of spiritual transformation, it would be of this world as well.”
In Yitz's wide view, the difference is finally, then, a matter of emphasis, of foreground and background. For Judaism the transformation is focused much more on ”this world,” but the aim is universal spiritual perfection. In Mahayana Buddhism, one begins with personal spiritual transformation with the hope of going on to transform this world.
Yitz's scheme also suggested to me another comparison: Judaism appears to be a very rationalistic religion, and Tibetan Buddhism much more mystical. Why is it that again and again in our history, the rational side of the Jewish mind has triumphed? Is Judaism inherently more rationalistic, or is our current view of the Jewish spectrum distorted by the last two centuries of Jewish experience, in which we have tried to a.s.similate to modern and Gentile expectations?
Just after World War I, when the great scholar Gershom Scholem began his studies of kabbalah, there was almost no one in the field. German-Jewish scholars.h.i.+p stressed the rational heritage of Judaism and dismissed Hasidism, kabbalah, and mysticism as superst.i.tion and nonsense.
Despite that rationalist climate, one that persists in many Jewish religious circles today, Scholem succeeded, almost single-handedly, in establis.h.i.+ng kabbalah as an essential subject of Jewish scholars.h.i.+p. At the end of his career, he reflected on the impulses that drove his research. He explained that the questions that motivated him in 1917 were these: ”Does halakhic Judaism have enough potency to survive? Is halakhah halakhah really possible without a mystical foundation?” Scholem felt he was trying to ”arrive at an understanding of what kept Judaism alive.” really possible without a mystical foundation?” Scholem felt he was trying to ”arrive at an understanding of what kept Judaism alive.”
He clearly felt that mysticism was an essential element of the Jewish spectrum. And now, through our visits with the oracle and the library, we could see and feel how preserving and transmitting their own esoteric tradition has been key to Tibetan exile survival, too.
I was also tasting, a little ruefully, some of the magic Judaism had lost. It was obvious, from the way we all lined up for the magical barley seeds, the chaynay chaynay, that Jews really enjoy the sense of play and wonder in religious life, which the Tibetans have preserved in great richness.
There has to be a way for Judaism to find the right emphasis between logic and mysticism, without one suppressing the other. I know that as we made our way back to Delhi, I would be very Jewish and thisworldly, but I would also carry my magical seeds, my chaynay chaynay, in my pocket, hoping they would keep us safe.
15.
Secret Doors.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 29, THEKCHEN CHOELING.
Our last hours with the Dalai Lama were very rich. Doors were opened and secrets exchanged with an ease, frankness, and humor that came as one product of our week's immersion in a living Buddhist community. We had reached the stage Rabbi Jonathan Omer-Man had imagined upon leaving Delhi. He had quoted to several of us a Buddhist text stating that in pure dialogue you and I would become we and us. That had sounded purely visionary then. But when, during a brief press conference at the start of the session, Shoshana Edelberg from National Public Radio asked the Dalai Lama, ”Why have you invited these Jews to Dharamsala?” he didn't hesitate, but laughed and said, ”Because we are both chosen people.”
The chosen people may be a red flag for some of the Jewish Buddhists I spoke to, but not for the Dalai Lama, who explained that the Tibetans also considered themselves chosen by Avalokiteshvara, the Buddha of Compa.s.sion. Then he grew reflective and answered seriously and with some feeling, ”When we became refugees we knew our struggle was not easy, would take a long time, if not generations. Then we very often referred to the Jewish people. Through so many cen turies, so many hards.h.i.+ps, they never lost their culture and their faith. As a result, when other external conditions became ripe, they were ready to build their nation. So there are many things to learn from our Jewish brothers and sisters.” I found this a very moving statement.
At this session, the Jewish sisters in the group, Blu Greenberg and Rabbi Joy Levitt, would explain the survival secrets of the synagogue and home. But I had a question about survival, too, which I put to the Dalai Lama just before Shoshana's.
”Your Holiness, all week long we've been meditating on the connection between the history of the Tibetan and Jewish peoples. With each of its crises, the Jewish people responded with spiritual crises and spiritual renewal. How has Tibetan Buddhism responded to its current national crisis, in particular, in relation to the concept of karma? What is national karma or group karma?”
I still had misgivings after my discussion Friday night with Geshe Sonam. I had been shocked, a little outraged, by what I'd heard about the Buddhist view of the Holocaust. I could not accept that the suffering of the Jews was somehow a result of their previous actions. Wasn't the knowledge of shared victimization the source of Jewish identification with the Tibetans? Weren't we fellow victims, fellow innocent innocent victims? Yet I gathered from Geshe Sonam's response that in Buddhism, the whole notion of an innocent victim carried little weight in a.s.sessing how one responded to tragic circ.u.mstances. victims? Yet I gathered from Geshe Sonam's response that in Buddhism, the whole notion of an innocent victim carried little weight in a.s.sessing how one responded to tragic circ.u.mstances.
So. Two peoples had gone through an a.n.a.logous experience of destruction. The Jewish people had responded by becoming more militant, more aggressive, by armoring themselves psychologically and in Israel, militarily. Survival had become a key issue for Jews everywhere. In my view, a reflex of responding decisively to enemies had become part of the contemporary Jewish character.
He listened carefully to my lengthy question and, after a pause to absorb it, p.r.o.nounced it ”quite complicated,” which brought down the house. Then he responded.
”Buddhism gives us a different att.i.tude toward one's own enemy,” he said, ”since we believe a negative experience is due mainly to our own previous life, or the early part of this life's action. Due to that, unfortunate results happen. So therefore the so-called enemy, or the external factor, is something secondary. The main force is one's own, either the collective karma or individual karma. That is really helpful in the sense that it induces us never to feel negatively toward the external factor. Because negative things happen due to our own action, therefore, we have the potential to change that. Why not create a new action and it will bring positive results? So that I think is something relevant in our case.”
That he calmly referred to the Chinese who had murdered his people and forced him out of his country as ”the external factor” was breathtaking.
I understood one benefit of the Dalai Lama's thinking; namely, that by such clarity and lack of hatred toward the ”so-called enemy,” one could overcome any sense of despair and hopelessness. That was vital. Also, one could think more clearly and take more effective action when one is not burning with hatred and pain.
I wondered how the Dalai Lama's answer would apply to the current situation in the Middle East. One of the agonies of the conflict between Israelis and Palestinians has been the sense of ent.i.tlement that both groups derive from their history. Each side can claim with justice a history of victimhood and pain, and each side tends to blame the other for its misfortunes. So long as each side considers itself an injured party, there seems no way out of the impa.s.se. Past grievances will justify continual mistrust and a sense on each side of righteous indignation. When, three years later, I saw Yasir Arafat and Yitzhak Rabin shake hands on the White House lawn, I remembered the Dalai Lama's response. It seems that through sheer exhaustion and disgust with the continual violence, important political elements on both sides have come to conclusions very similar to the Dalai Lama's viewpoint. I was moved when the old soldier, Rabin, called for an end to conflict. ”We who come from a land where parents bury their children, we who have fought against you, the Palestinians-we say to you in a loud and clear voice: Enough of blood and tears. Enough!”
Still, letting go of self-righteousness is a very hard process, for Israelis and Palestinians, and for Jews, Muslims, and Christians in general. We are all caught up in the notion of justifiable violence-it is built into our political thinking and our law. In the West there is such a thing as righteous indignation and justifiable homicide. I gathered that these would be foreign concepts in Buddhist thought.
Jews in particular have always felt strongly about righting wrongs, whatever the cost. Deuteronomy warns us, ”Justice, justice thou shalt pursue.” It does not say being angry will damage you. And that sense of justifiable anger often filters down to everyday life, to the way we as Jews interact with one another, in our communities and families. Here Blu's comment about our angry Tibetan tour guide-that such anger is ”realistic”-found its context.
The very Jewish secret of survival we'd brought to the Dalai Lama-memory-meant that Jews survived by keeping alive the joys, but also the enmities of the past. In fact two of our most joyous holidays, Pa.s.sover and Purim, dwell on the triumph over our enemies. Other holidays mourn the losses and defeats in our past. In particular, the memory of the Holocaust, and the long history of European persecutions that preceded it, still conditions the way Jews respond to present conflicts. So it was plausible to many Jews when Menachem Begin compared Arafat to Hitler, a comparison that had nothing to recommend it in regard to historical clarity, or certainly in regard to improving the situation.
There is a Buddhist teaching that being angry at an enemy is like stabbing yourself through the stomach to hurt someone standing behind you with the tip of your sword. (And I had to consider that maybe Buddha had discovered here the origin of ulcers.) I thought back to the Frankfurt airport, to my feelings of anger at hearing German voices or just being on that soil. This was not clarity or wisdom-this was walking through a nightmare of my own projections, the ghosts of an experience I'd never had. When I mentioned those feelings to Zalman Schachter he had told me, ”If you want to stay in prison all your life, become a jailer. Being vindictive, being angry at somebody, saying I'll never forgive that person-so the people who say I'll never forgive the Germans are still in a concentration camp.”
Jews as a group, to a large extent, have been in a concentration camp for fifty years. Zalman had agreed, ”Many many Jews haven't been able to make their way out of it. I want to say a lot of times, they aren't there. It's just that it's a cover, such an easy cover for everything you don't want to do. 'What? After the Holocaust-you want me to keep the Shabbos?-Where was G.o.d da da da...' You can shoot down any serious challenge to your personal life with that terrible, terrible thing.”
Anger over the Holocaust has paralyzed many Jews spiritually and emotionally, and as I learned more about the motivations for Jews leaving the tradition, I became increasingly aware of the high price that anger exacted.
On the other hand, especially after seeing the real conflict in the Tibetan exile community over how to handle the Chinese, I wasn't so sure that the Dalai Lama's position was, to use Blu's word again, realistic. So there was much to think about. Is Jewish anger, however damaging in some respects, essential to Jewish survival? Or will a Judaism that continues, in some ways, to dwell on and even nourish a sense of anger over past injustices prove to be an increasingly burdensome heritage to pa.s.s on to our children as we enter the twenty-first century?
Before the session was through we would get some illuminating answers from the delegates, and from the Dalai Lama himself. But first we came to satisfy the Dalai Lama's ”very personal curiosity-to learn more about the inner experiences” of Jewish people. As he said that, he twisted his wrist, as if turning a doork.n.o.b.
The Dalai Lama's strong interest in the Jewish esoteric at the first session had already opened doors-and eyes-among the Jewish delegates. Moshe Waldoks thanked him for that. ”You created a group of Jews that otherwise would never have gotten together and made our outlook broader and warmer.” Moshe himself-through his prayers and humor-had done a lot to make that happen.
Moshe spoke about the four levels of interpretation-the Dalai Lama remarked that there were four as well in Buddhist tantric teachings. The first three were the literal, implicative, and midras.h.i.+c; the fourth, and deepest, level is called secret. In Hebrew they are pshat, remez, drash pshat, remez, drash, and sod sod-the first letters spell pardes pardes, or paradise. For Jews, the journey to paradise is a journey of interpretation.
It is said in the Zohar Zohar that every new interpretation of Torah creates a new heaven. I had actually come to appreciate that saying in a very personal way during our stay in Dharamsala. All the days and nights we'd spent together studying the Torah and bringing out new meanings that fit our situation had created a new reality, a new heaven for me. that every new interpretation of Torah creates a new heaven. I had actually come to appreciate that saying in a very personal way during our stay in Dharamsala. All the days and nights we'd spent together studying the Torah and bringing out new meanings that fit our situation had created a new reality, a new heaven for me.
I recalled Zalman's comparing the Dalai Lama to Melchizedek. And I remembered another drash drash he'd done during the Shabbat weekend in London that had opened me up to the Torah in a new way. he'd done during the Shabbat weekend in London that had opened me up to the Torah in a new way.
That Sat.u.r.day afternoon, about twenty of us sat around in our stocking feet in the living room of a London town home, where a Torah lay lovingly wrapped in a tallis. We had read the story of Noah. I wanted to know how G.o.d could have made such a botch of things that he had to wipe out his creation with a flood. Zalman answered with a midrash on the phrase of Abraham's, ”G.o.d of my youth.” It so happens the Hebrew can also be read, ”G.o.d in his youth.”