Did you know that the Hajj is not the only annual religious event to draw pilgrims in the millions?
I hadn't thought about this much, until December. The Hajj was much on my mind then, when I opened up the Washington Post and read this article about 5 million Catholics converging on the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City to pay their respects to the Virgin.
I had no idea. I had been thinking of the Hajj as a singular event, unique to Islam in its power to draw literally millions of people into one particular space to pay respects. The Virgin pilgrimage in Mexcio proves the Hajj is not alone -- and when I gave it some thought, I could come up with two more pilgrimages drawing such great numbers of believers: millions of Hindus flocking to bathe in the Ganges on Mauni Amavasya (it'll be next Monday this year), and millions of Shiites making the pilgrimage to Karbala, in Iraq, on Ashura.
Despite the trend of American evangelical mega-churches servicing tens of thousands at a time on Sunday mornings, I could come up with no religious holidays here in the United States with the power to draw a crowd of millions ...
... which brings me to today.
I got up early this morning to join a couple million of my fellow American citizens in marking the ascendancy of Barack Obama to the presidency of the United States -- an event not without its insistent religious overtones, whether it counts as a true pilgrimage or not.
The Obamas, of course, began their day with prayer, as is customary, at St. John's Episcopal Church across the street from the White House. (They worshiped at the 19th Street Baptist Church two days ago, on Sunday.)
I started my day with neither prayer nor church attendance (and I was busy on Sunday with other pursuits besides church).
As it happened, I started my day with a very quick shower, before cooking a breakfast of eggs and tomatoes with a side of veggie sausage for my houseguests. We were 15-strong in my three-bedroom apartment, with my housemates and I providing temporary lodging for pilgrims from Chicago, Brooklyn, and Raleigh-Durham.
At 8:15, I left the house with two of my guests to meet three other friends and move as a unit of six down to take our place on the National Mall. We had aimed for a medium-close vantage point, but after finding checkpoints blocked twice, we eventually settled for a very-far-away vantage point and took up a nice spot near the World War II Memorial, about a mile away from the actual event, but close to a large Jumbotron and loudspeaker.
Nearby stood four religious protestors holding signs.
"The Wages of Sin is Death," read one sign. "Trust Jesus," read another. A third sign quoted a very lengthy passage from 2 Chronicles about nations turning to God to receive blessing, and fourth man held no sign but wore an electric-blue T-shirt stretched tightly over his enormous belly, with a printed message inviting the reader to "Ask me why you're going to Hell."
The fat man and the sign-bearers took turns with a megaphone informing one and all why we are going to Hell -- whether we had asked them about it or not. When the megaphone wasn't being directed toward the crowd to inform us of our sins (focusing on the usual suspects, of course: gays, feminists, abortionists, atheists), it was directed toward the heavens to invoke the wrath of god.
Moments after the blue-shirt man had called on God via megaphone, the second invocation of the day began to be pronounced -- this time from the dais of the inauguration.
As is well-known, Obama chose to invite Pastor Rick Warren, the evangelical preacher famous for his solid support of California's Prop 8 (as well as his self-help book and his mission creep toward more traditionally liberal issues like poverty and AIDS), to offer a prayer to God before his swearing-in.
When Pastor Warren's face appeared on on the Jumbotron, I discovered with surprise that I had to turn my back. I had not planned ahead to do this, but to face the screen, and give him the same attentiveness I had given to Dianne Feinstein or Aretha Franklin or Joe Biden or John Paul Stevens would have felt like an untruth to me.
So, I wheeled silently around and turned my face upwards and saw bare brown branches criss-crossing a perfect blue sky. Nobody else within my view chose to do this, and I avoided looking into their faces, preferring to trace the branches and mull over the content of Warren's prayer. I noticed that others nearby chose also to react to Pastor Warren in various ways, such as cheering when he announced that Jesus had changed his life, or chanting along with the Bible verses.
One of my friends later remarked that she found the invocation to be "ecumenical." (I disagree.) Another stated that Warren had offered up a number of "surprisingly good lines." Fair enough: Warren did offer that his god is "loving to everyone," allowed that the country is not united by "religion" but by "freedom," and called for "civility in our attitudes even when we disagree." Fine. All very nice sentiments.
For what it's worth, I think a simple back-turn does represent "civility of attitude even in disagreement," and also I do deeply disagree with Warren's presence as part of the program.
I disagree with Warren's anti-gay attitudes -- no doubt about it -- and found it quite disappointing that after the Election Day combination of the Prop 8 catastrophe with the Obama win, that Obama chose to repeat that unhappy combo on his Inauguration Day.
Yet even more than I disagree with Warren's views on gay relationships, I deeply disagree with such an invocation of god at all at a governmental function.
Warren opened his prayer by calling out to "Almighty God," whom he addressed as "our Father." He suggested that "all nations, all people" will "stand accountable" before his god on a day of judgment. And he closed his prayer by making sure that it was signed, sealed, and delivered in the name of Jesus -- in not one, but four languages -- before quoting the words of Jesus as recorded in the book of Matthew, in the form of the Lord's Prayer.
That's not very ecumenical to me (not all Christians believe in Judgment Day, or stick to the old-school "Father" formulation), and beyond ecumenism it certainly does not take into account the interfaith pluralism that comprises America -- much less acknowledge those of us who follow no religion at all.
Obama, it must be noted, did indeed acknowledge this pluralism in his own speech, when he declared that "We are a nation of Muslims and Christians, Jews and Hindus -- and non-believers." And yet even that, to me, did not go far enough. We are a nation of Buddhists and Taoists and Wiccans and Zoroastrians and practitioners of the spiritual traditions of America's indigenous people -- as well as many variations and combinations of these, and more.
Furthermore, I would remind our wonderful new president that "atheist" is not a bad word. Atheists and agnostics and humanists and secularists and ethical rationalists need not be defined in relative opposition to what he thinks we are not ("believers"), not least because most of us, most likely, believe in quite a lot. (The word "atheist" is helpfully very precise about what it is we do not believe.)
I do happen to believe, like Rick Warren, in civility even in disagreement. I also believe, like Rick Warren, that commitment to freedom is more essential to the preservation of the American union than commitment to religion. And though I do not believe in heaven, I do not begrudge the poetic sentiments behind Warren's suggestion that Dr. King (who did believe in heaven, probably) is looking down with approval from above on today's inauguration; I'd simply express such respect for an ancestor with different language.
In 2013, when Obama is elected to his second term, I would challenge him to remember that he chose three Christians to pray over his first inauguration (Revs. Gene Robinson and Joseph Lowry, in addition to Warren), to the exclusion of literally all other faiths. And I would suggest that if he is comfortable with the invocation of "Y'Shua" at his inauguration, then he should be comfortable with the invocation of Allah, or the Four Corners, or any one in the pantheon of Hindu gods and goddesses: Lakshmi, Saraswati, Brahma, Hanuman, or any of the others.
And if he's not comfortable with those other invocations, then I've no doubt that an upstanding atheist -- perhaps a member of a local Ethical Society -- would be more than happy to oblige him by writing some appropriate remarks that invoke no deity at all, before respectfully making the pilgrimage.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Epiphany: "Manifestation, Journey, Discovery"
The Church of the Epiphany, an Episcopal congregation located two blocks east of the White House, seemed like a good choice for celebrating the Christian holiday of Epiphany, the first explicitly Christian holiday I've blogged here, given the recent conspicuous absence of Christmas.
I visited the gym and the farmers' market in the morning before 11AM services, and planned a movie screening for afterward at a nearby cinema.
Epiphany celebrates the visit of the Magi from the East to worship the infant Jesus, after following his star -- the primary instance I can think of that allows a celestial body to hold sway in Christianity.
The church bells were playing Christmas carols ("Joy to the World," "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear"as I approached on foot, noticing a sign by the door that requested appropriate attire and no sleeping on the pews. An apparently homeless man stood on the front steps, and several more homeless men sat amongst the congregants inside, managing to stand out in an already apparently racially and economically diverse bunch.
I sat on a red, velvetty, padded pew, and failed to cross myself or make any sort of bowing or curtsying motion before sitting down. I always forget which branches of Christianity make such a display customary.
The cavernous space of the sanctuary included a deep, recessed area behind the altar that seemed almost caged. A metal latticework that remained decorated with the wreaths and greenery of Christmas divided the worship space from a recessed area wherein the organist and trumpeter took up residence, and which served as one of two areas for the choir to sing. Over the arch of the cage was a slogan painted in foot-high letters: Blessing and Honor, Glory and Power Be the Lord's Forever.
The side walls bore stained-glass windows, and brown support beams crossed the stained white dome of a ceiling, which was peeling paint and openly crumbling in places.
I saw two people, a man and a woman, scurry down the aisle past me, laughing, each clutching an ornate two-foot-high golden statue of a human figure, their white robes fluttering as they passed.
Soon enough, the service began, with congregants rising to sing "We Three Kings," as a processional entered the sanctuary from the rear, leading the choir throughout the space as we all together sang all five verses of the hymn. Near the front of the processional marched the white-robed man and woman, holding their statues aloft. A third white-robed figure held a third golden man high, along with other marchers who bore banners and candles, and one woman holding a golden book above her head.
The marching of a sacred text around the space (up the center aisle, down the right side, up the center, down the left side, and up the center again) reminded me of the Torah's circumambulation of the congregants in the synagogues I have visited, and I felt myself wishing for a tallis so I could touch its tassels to the Bible being toted around.
It wasn't the only moment that recalled a Jewish service to me. At one point the pastor performed a solo a cappella chant in stitled English that sounded for all the world like a Hebrew blessing to my ears. At communion time, we sang about Jesus as our Passover, in addition to the many times Jesus was invoked (as he always seems to be around Christmas time) as the King of Israel. There was even a public prayer interlude, the most moving moment of the service, which recalled the communal al-chet last fall during Yom Kippur. At the Church of the Epiphany, congregants were allowed and encouraged to lift up public, spoken prayers, signaling that they were finished with the words "Lord, in your mercy," to be followed by the congregants chanting: "Hear our prayer."
This last one seemed especially poignant. The first song of the morning had included the lyric: "They will call you, The City of the Lord, The Zion of the Holy One of Israel/Violence will no more be heard in your land, ruin or destruction within your borders."
The message of the pastor, however, was not so poignant. It seemed unfortunately similar to a budget meeting at the non-profit organization where I work. The Church of the Epiphany was apparently down 170K in contributions as of September, but finished the year a little better (but still behind), around 70K down.
The pastor pointed out that the building needs restoration and the church's programs need funding. He asked everyone to pray about the situation and to fast during the week ahead for guidance about what to do ("We Episcopalians aren't so good with the fasting, but I think that's what we're called to do."). The sermon was literally all about money this week, and the hard times non-profit organizations like churches find themselves in.
For what it's worth, the sermon was effective. I rarely toss in money when I'm visiting a new church, but I tossed in two shiny golden dollars that were in my pocket -- not a lot of money, but I was reminded of the widow woman in the New Testament whose two coins were praised by Jesus as a great gift. I did not, however, choose to participate in Communion, which at this church involved stepping into a side-room for the laying on of hands and anointing with oil following the wafer and the wine.
We finished the service singing "The First Noel," and then we were dismissed with an exhortation: "Let us go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Spirit."
The pastor stood by the door on my way out, and invited me to the Epiphany feast, though I told him I could not stay. I was running late to catch the matinee of Milk.
I visited the gym and the farmers' market in the morning before 11AM services, and planned a movie screening for afterward at a nearby cinema.
Epiphany celebrates the visit of the Magi from the East to worship the infant Jesus, after following his star -- the primary instance I can think of that allows a celestial body to hold sway in Christianity.
The church bells were playing Christmas carols ("Joy to the World," "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear"as I approached on foot, noticing a sign by the door that requested appropriate attire and no sleeping on the pews. An apparently homeless man stood on the front steps, and several more homeless men sat amongst the congregants inside, managing to stand out in an already apparently racially and economically diverse bunch.
I sat on a red, velvetty, padded pew, and failed to cross myself or make any sort of bowing or curtsying motion before sitting down. I always forget which branches of Christianity make such a display customary.
The cavernous space of the sanctuary included a deep, recessed area behind the altar that seemed almost caged. A metal latticework that remained decorated with the wreaths and greenery of Christmas divided the worship space from a recessed area wherein the organist and trumpeter took up residence, and which served as one of two areas for the choir to sing. Over the arch of the cage was a slogan painted in foot-high letters: Blessing and Honor, Glory and Power Be the Lord's Forever.
The side walls bore stained-glass windows, and brown support beams crossed the stained white dome of a ceiling, which was peeling paint and openly crumbling in places.
I saw two people, a man and a woman, scurry down the aisle past me, laughing, each clutching an ornate two-foot-high golden statue of a human figure, their white robes fluttering as they passed.
Soon enough, the service began, with congregants rising to sing "We Three Kings," as a processional entered the sanctuary from the rear, leading the choir throughout the space as we all together sang all five verses of the hymn. Near the front of the processional marched the white-robed man and woman, holding their statues aloft. A third white-robed figure held a third golden man high, along with other marchers who bore banners and candles, and one woman holding a golden book above her head.
The marching of a sacred text around the space (up the center aisle, down the right side, up the center, down the left side, and up the center again) reminded me of the Torah's circumambulation of the congregants in the synagogues I have visited, and I felt myself wishing for a tallis so I could touch its tassels to the Bible being toted around.
It wasn't the only moment that recalled a Jewish service to me. At one point the pastor performed a solo a cappella chant in stitled English that sounded for all the world like a Hebrew blessing to my ears. At communion time, we sang about Jesus as our Passover, in addition to the many times Jesus was invoked (as he always seems to be around Christmas time) as the King of Israel. There was even a public prayer interlude, the most moving moment of the service, which recalled the communal al-chet last fall during Yom Kippur. At the Church of the Epiphany, congregants were allowed and encouraged to lift up public, spoken prayers, signaling that they were finished with the words "Lord, in your mercy," to be followed by the congregants chanting: "Hear our prayer."
For my sister who's battling colon cancer, Lord in your mercy. Hear our prayer.
For president-elect Barack Obama, and the incoming administration, Lord in your mercy. Hear our prayer.
For our men and women in uniform, Lord in your mercy. Hear our prayer.
For the victims of torture worldwide and for all those involved, Lord in your mercy. Hear our prayer.
For the Israelis and the Palestinians, Lord in your mercy. Hear our prayer.
This last one seemed especially poignant. The first song of the morning had included the lyric: "They will call you, The City of the Lord, The Zion of the Holy One of Israel/Violence will no more be heard in your land, ruin or destruction within your borders."
The message of the pastor, however, was not so poignant. It seemed unfortunately similar to a budget meeting at the non-profit organization where I work. The Church of the Epiphany was apparently down 170K in contributions as of September, but finished the year a little better (but still behind), around 70K down.
The pastor pointed out that the building needs restoration and the church's programs need funding. He asked everyone to pray about the situation and to fast during the week ahead for guidance about what to do ("We Episcopalians aren't so good with the fasting, but I think that's what we're called to do."). The sermon was literally all about money this week, and the hard times non-profit organizations like churches find themselves in.
For what it's worth, the sermon was effective. I rarely toss in money when I'm visiting a new church, but I tossed in two shiny golden dollars that were in my pocket -- not a lot of money, but I was reminded of the widow woman in the New Testament whose two coins were praised by Jesus as a great gift. I did not, however, choose to participate in Communion, which at this church involved stepping into a side-room for the laying on of hands and anointing with oil following the wafer and the wine.
We finished the service singing "The First Noel," and then we were dismissed with an exhortation: "Let us go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Spirit."
The pastor stood by the door on my way out, and invited me to the Epiphany feast, though I told him I could not stay. I was running late to catch the matinee of Milk.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Temple Day: Happy New Year
Because I had read that New Year's Day is associated with a trip to the temple in Buddhism, I had planned on finding a special service in my area for New Year's Day. I did not find a dedicated New Year's service, but attended a regularly scheduled Thursday evening service at a Shambhala Center located about a 30-minute walk from my home.
The temperature had plunged below freezing that evening in Washington, DC, but still about 25 people showed up to practice Shambhala meditation and participate in a short discussion about Buddhism.
Located on the second floor of a building overlooking a glass-roofed entrance to a DC Metro station, the Center sits in a row of storefronts and restaurants on a very busy street. A visitor accesses the Center up a metal side staircase, and by knocking on a locked door protected with a passcode-style alarm system. A grey-haired and bespectacled man in a blue sport coat, tie, and grey slacks opened the door for me, and I stepped into a lobby furnished with upholstered chairs and straight-back chairs and a black bench-like sofa. The man asked me if I was new, and then told me where I could place my coat (in a closet that he called a cupboard) and that visitors should participate in a short training session before joining the entire group for meditation.
I placed my coat and backpack and shoes in the cupboard (failing to notice the dedicated shoe cubbies) and joined two other newcomers in the training room, located directly off the lobby. The small room held a table with glass bowls and candles and was decorated with tapestries and flags. Eight low cushions sat on mats, arranged in two rows, facing one more cushion/mat combo sitting at the front.
Susan, the leader, joined the three of us, and began to explain three basic principles of Shambhala meditation: the posture, the gaze and breathing, and the labeling of thinking. She explained that we should sit with straight backs on the cushion, cross-legged with our feet on the mat. Our hands should sit flat on our thighs, not too far forward on our knees, and not folded into shapes. We should train our gaze on the floor four to six feet ahead of us: any shorter distance might tend toward drowsiness, any further might open our peripheral vision to greater distractions. Whenever we find ourselves entertaining a thought or idea or emotion ("a thought with energy behind it") in our brains, Susan told us, we should label that occurrence as "thinking," and put it out of our minds, returning our awareness to our breath. She explained that Shambhala meditation should provide "abiding" peace, which was a word I heard several times at the Center.
We practiced for several minutes. With my four-to-six-foot gaze falling at the edge of Susan's mat, I tried hard not to notice her sitting cross-legged at the top of my field of vision. Susan wore her thick grey hair pulled back above her ears, which were studded with tiny turquoise earrings. She wore a purple turtleneck and padded vest with jeans, thick socks, and a pendant. Her face was pale, wrinkled, and (it must be said) appeared to radiate kindness.
When we finished our practicing, Susan led the three-newcomers back through the lobby and down a hall to the "main shrine." Before opening one of the two double doors, Susan explained that there should be space for us, but if not, she would retrieve new cushions. Entering, the two other newcomers found spaces near the door, while Susan pointed toward a front-corner cushion for me by a window out onto the very busy street.
From my perch to the front and the side, I had no opportunity to observe my fellow participants, which kept me much more focused on my gaze, and less visually distracted. Noises and lights outside the window, coughs and fidgets throughout the room, and the racing thoughts in my own head turned out to be my primary distractions, though my eyes occasionally also tried to trace the altar at the front of the room to record its components (flags, a gold folding-fan on a stand, two photographs of Asian men).
A meditation leader sat at the other end of the altar from me, facing the participants, with a clock on one side of her and a bowl with mallet on the other side. At the end of 45 minutes, she struck the bowl with the mallet to signal the end of our meditation, and released us to go drink tea in the lobby.
Often, the worship services I have attended will offer a social hour with light refreshments following the worship. The United Church offered a kaffeeklatch with the visiting Rita Horstmann, as did the Unitarian Church for the visiting Princeton professor who preached from a children's book. The synagogue I visited during Sukkot offered kiddush in the sukkah after the service. Time and again I have thought that I need to attend these informal gatherings, and time and again I have succombed to the temptation to flee, rather than overcome my shyness and make conversation in a room full of strangers. The Dumb Feast of the Dead at Samhain was a blessing. I was required to remain silent as we ate our meal.
The Shambhala Center short-circuited my normal flight-response by placing the social period between the meditation and discussion. The Center also comforted me in my decision to stay by limiting the chatting over tea to 15 minutes, rather than something open-ended.
So, I visited the restroom while the tea line was still long, and browsed the pamphlets in the hallway, collecting some of them and placing them in my backpack. Then I prepared myself a cup of green tea and noticed that there was only one chair (straight-backed) left in the circle of those seated in the lobby. The two other newcomers (twentysomethings) sat on the black sofa and made small talk with an energetic short-haired older woman in a pink sweater. Others stood in small clumps. Feeling shy to take the last chair, I stood off to the side by myself.
Susan came by and asked me how I liked the meditation. "Oh, good, fine," I said, and she said, "good," in reply, and moved along.
I stood and sipped my tea.
One of the other newcomers slipped away from his female companion on the black bench and started in my direction on his way to the restroom. He paused to ask me the same question Susan had, and we spoke for a few minutes about the near-impossibility of stilling the racing thoughts in your head. While he was in the restroom, I checked the clock. It had been 20 minutes, so the discussion group was late in forming. I stood and sipped my tea some more, but feeling the awkwardness of the solo social situation in a room filled with strangers, I stepped to the cupboard to retrieve my belongings -- and that's when I heard someone strike a gong. The discussion group would begin in the main shrine.
I walked back down the hallway to the double-doored room where the two newcomers (Ethan and Katie) sat on cushions in circle, along with Larry, a plump, bespectacled, wild-haired, scruffy, middle-aged white man in a yellow and brown pullover made of hemp or some other rough-looking fabric. Larry and I introduced ourselves to each other, as I perched on a cushion, in my grey pin-striped slacks and and thick dark-grey turtleneck. We waited as eight more experienced Shambhala practitioners joined us, forming a gender-balanced group of twelve.
Thursday nights typically are a book-discussion night, Larry explained, but with many regular attendees out of town for the holidays, tonight would be an open discussion.
The session began with a question about how to explain Shambhala to an outsider. Larry fielded this and other questions largely by himself, while also opening the circle for others to chime in their ideas, primarily yielding to the men on his left and his right: a ginger-haired older man in glasses with floppy bangs, and an eloquent-though-slurring older man with a halting manner who explained to the group that he is recovering from a stroke.
Shambhala, the group seemed to agree, can be very difficult to explain to an outsider, because it can be thought of simply as the meditation itself, accessible to people of any religion or no religion at all;, or it can be the Shambhala branch of Buddhism (contained within Tibetan Buddhism, a mahayana tradition); or it can refer to the mythical ("though some don't think of it as mythical") kingdom of Shambhala, an enlightened society, the vision of which inspired Chögyam Trungpa to begin teaching Shambhala meditation in the first place, many years ago.
There was much discussion of Chögyam Trungpa and his vision, as well as the vision of his son, Sakyong Mipham, a teacher and the current leader of Shambhala Buddhism, who, Larry said, had traveled to Washington to bless the Shambhala Center when it was founded. The two photographs on the altar, it turned out, depicted Chögyam Trungpa and Sakyong Mipham.
Of all the comments elicited during the discussion, four stood out to me:
1) "Buddhism is not a democracy" -- Uttered by Larry, this comment came after several rounds of questioning came back around to center on the supremacy of a teacher's word, and to the importance of a teacher-student relationship in starting down the Shambhala path. The Shambhala Center offers an entrance for the Shambhala path, with structured classes and teachings in addition to the public meditation sessions and talks. The classes charge a fee, and the materials are restricted ("you won't find these available on Amazon, or whatever") so that a student's introduction to Shambhala can be properly mediated.
2) "This discipline gives us a common language to talk about spirituality, so that if I say I feel like an outrageous garuda today, you know what I'm talking about" -- Again uttered by Larry, he gestured to a wall-hanging nearby featuring the "Four Dignities," mythical animals used as symbols in Tibetan Buddhism of various aspects of the Bodhisattva attitude (tiger, lion, garuda, dragon).
3) "I know I need to quiet my mind." -- This statement was uttered by no fewer than four participants, and seemed generally agreed by all in the circle.
4) "Be kind." -- This was Larry's answer when asked if there was a single ethical principle that he would consider the greatest in Shambhala. The men on his right and left both simultaneously re-worded his answer into: "compassion."
The temperature had plunged below freezing that evening in Washington, DC, but still about 25 people showed up to practice Shambhala meditation and participate in a short discussion about Buddhism.
Located on the second floor of a building overlooking a glass-roofed entrance to a DC Metro station, the Center sits in a row of storefronts and restaurants on a very busy street. A visitor accesses the Center up a metal side staircase, and by knocking on a locked door protected with a passcode-style alarm system. A grey-haired and bespectacled man in a blue sport coat, tie, and grey slacks opened the door for me, and I stepped into a lobby furnished with upholstered chairs and straight-back chairs and a black bench-like sofa. The man asked me if I was new, and then told me where I could place my coat (in a closet that he called a cupboard) and that visitors should participate in a short training session before joining the entire group for meditation.
I placed my coat and backpack and shoes in the cupboard (failing to notice the dedicated shoe cubbies) and joined two other newcomers in the training room, located directly off the lobby. The small room held a table with glass bowls and candles and was decorated with tapestries and flags. Eight low cushions sat on mats, arranged in two rows, facing one more cushion/mat combo sitting at the front.
Susan, the leader, joined the three of us, and began to explain three basic principles of Shambhala meditation: the posture, the gaze and breathing, and the labeling of thinking. She explained that we should sit with straight backs on the cushion, cross-legged with our feet on the mat. Our hands should sit flat on our thighs, not too far forward on our knees, and not folded into shapes. We should train our gaze on the floor four to six feet ahead of us: any shorter distance might tend toward drowsiness, any further might open our peripheral vision to greater distractions. Whenever we find ourselves entertaining a thought or idea or emotion ("a thought with energy behind it") in our brains, Susan told us, we should label that occurrence as "thinking," and put it out of our minds, returning our awareness to our breath. She explained that Shambhala meditation should provide "abiding" peace, which was a word I heard several times at the Center.
We practiced for several minutes. With my four-to-six-foot gaze falling at the edge of Susan's mat, I tried hard not to notice her sitting cross-legged at the top of my field of vision. Susan wore her thick grey hair pulled back above her ears, which were studded with tiny turquoise earrings. She wore a purple turtleneck and padded vest with jeans, thick socks, and a pendant. Her face was pale, wrinkled, and (it must be said) appeared to radiate kindness.
When we finished our practicing, Susan led the three-newcomers back through the lobby and down a hall to the "main shrine." Before opening one of the two double doors, Susan explained that there should be space for us, but if not, she would retrieve new cushions. Entering, the two other newcomers found spaces near the door, while Susan pointed toward a front-corner cushion for me by a window out onto the very busy street.
From my perch to the front and the side, I had no opportunity to observe my fellow participants, which kept me much more focused on my gaze, and less visually distracted. Noises and lights outside the window, coughs and fidgets throughout the room, and the racing thoughts in my own head turned out to be my primary distractions, though my eyes occasionally also tried to trace the altar at the front of the room to record its components (flags, a gold folding-fan on a stand, two photographs of Asian men).
A meditation leader sat at the other end of the altar from me, facing the participants, with a clock on one side of her and a bowl with mallet on the other side. At the end of 45 minutes, she struck the bowl with the mallet to signal the end of our meditation, and released us to go drink tea in the lobby.
Often, the worship services I have attended will offer a social hour with light refreshments following the worship. The United Church offered a kaffeeklatch with the visiting Rita Horstmann, as did the Unitarian Church for the visiting Princeton professor who preached from a children's book. The synagogue I visited during Sukkot offered kiddush in the sukkah after the service. Time and again I have thought that I need to attend these informal gatherings, and time and again I have succombed to the temptation to flee, rather than overcome my shyness and make conversation in a room full of strangers. The Dumb Feast of the Dead at Samhain was a blessing. I was required to remain silent as we ate our meal.
The Shambhala Center short-circuited my normal flight-response by placing the social period between the meditation and discussion. The Center also comforted me in my decision to stay by limiting the chatting over tea to 15 minutes, rather than something open-ended.
So, I visited the restroom while the tea line was still long, and browsed the pamphlets in the hallway, collecting some of them and placing them in my backpack. Then I prepared myself a cup of green tea and noticed that there was only one chair (straight-backed) left in the circle of those seated in the lobby. The two other newcomers (twentysomethings) sat on the black sofa and made small talk with an energetic short-haired older woman in a pink sweater. Others stood in small clumps. Feeling shy to take the last chair, I stood off to the side by myself.
Susan came by and asked me how I liked the meditation. "Oh, good, fine," I said, and she said, "good," in reply, and moved along.
I stood and sipped my tea.
One of the other newcomers slipped away from his female companion on the black bench and started in my direction on his way to the restroom. He paused to ask me the same question Susan had, and we spoke for a few minutes about the near-impossibility of stilling the racing thoughts in your head. While he was in the restroom, I checked the clock. It had been 20 minutes, so the discussion group was late in forming. I stood and sipped my tea some more, but feeling the awkwardness of the solo social situation in a room filled with strangers, I stepped to the cupboard to retrieve my belongings -- and that's when I heard someone strike a gong. The discussion group would begin in the main shrine.
I walked back down the hallway to the double-doored room where the two newcomers (Ethan and Katie) sat on cushions in circle, along with Larry, a plump, bespectacled, wild-haired, scruffy, middle-aged white man in a yellow and brown pullover made of hemp or some other rough-looking fabric. Larry and I introduced ourselves to each other, as I perched on a cushion, in my grey pin-striped slacks and and thick dark-grey turtleneck. We waited as eight more experienced Shambhala practitioners joined us, forming a gender-balanced group of twelve.
Thursday nights typically are a book-discussion night, Larry explained, but with many regular attendees out of town for the holidays, tonight would be an open discussion.
The session began with a question about how to explain Shambhala to an outsider. Larry fielded this and other questions largely by himself, while also opening the circle for others to chime in their ideas, primarily yielding to the men on his left and his right: a ginger-haired older man in glasses with floppy bangs, and an eloquent-though-slurring older man with a halting manner who explained to the group that he is recovering from a stroke.
Shambhala, the group seemed to agree, can be very difficult to explain to an outsider, because it can be thought of simply as the meditation itself, accessible to people of any religion or no religion at all;, or it can be the Shambhala branch of Buddhism (contained within Tibetan Buddhism, a mahayana tradition); or it can refer to the mythical ("though some don't think of it as mythical") kingdom of Shambhala, an enlightened society, the vision of which inspired Chögyam Trungpa to begin teaching Shambhala meditation in the first place, many years ago.
There was much discussion of Chögyam Trungpa and his vision, as well as the vision of his son, Sakyong Mipham, a teacher and the current leader of Shambhala Buddhism, who, Larry said, had traveled to Washington to bless the Shambhala Center when it was founded. The two photographs on the altar, it turned out, depicted Chögyam Trungpa and Sakyong Mipham.
Of all the comments elicited during the discussion, four stood out to me:
1) "Buddhism is not a democracy" -- Uttered by Larry, this comment came after several rounds of questioning came back around to center on the supremacy of a teacher's word, and to the importance of a teacher-student relationship in starting down the Shambhala path. The Shambhala Center offers an entrance for the Shambhala path, with structured classes and teachings in addition to the public meditation sessions and talks. The classes charge a fee, and the materials are restricted ("you won't find these available on Amazon, or whatever") so that a student's introduction to Shambhala can be properly mediated.
2) "This discipline gives us a common language to talk about spirituality, so that if I say I feel like an outrageous garuda today, you know what I'm talking about" -- Again uttered by Larry, he gestured to a wall-hanging nearby featuring the "Four Dignities," mythical animals used as symbols in Tibetan Buddhism of various aspects of the Bodhisattva attitude (tiger, lion, garuda, dragon).
3) "I know I need to quiet my mind." -- This statement was uttered by no fewer than four participants, and seemed generally agreed by all in the circle.
4) "Be kind." -- This was Larry's answer when asked if there was a single ethical principle that he would consider the greatest in Shambhala. The men on his right and left both simultaneously re-worded his answer into: "compassion."
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