Dubious mercy

restlessness his life
fighting those who want to help
also calling out

understanding gone
confusion not accepting
isolation trapped

he eats yes and smiles
his suffering decreasing
his disease matured

peace will perhaps come
when it reaches it's true end
destruction of thought

rest will come at last
allowing life to flow by
confusion now gone

dubious mercy
yes but true gift none the less
allowing life's end

until the time comes
allowing deaths deep embrace
to bring fruition

one day perhaps soon
my hands also will be tied
others leading me

at last in the end
all we can do is be kind
empathy the king

Risk not taken means no chance of loss,
Or of gain,
Safe one stays, untouched by life,
No wounds to heal,
Nor growth to attain,
It is pain that propels us not pleasure,
Contentment stagnates,
Struggle causes rebirth,
We must fight out of our shell
Like the young do in their nest,
To help only leads to death,
Our wounds are our glory
Each has their own invisible stigmata.

I often fool myself that I know the human heart, such conceit there is in me,
Deep, dark, filled also with light, perhaps at war, is what is found, when peeked,
Something is coiled deep with my own depths, something I wish was not there,
Still it is, resides, often at rest if not sleeping.........waiting for its call, to uncoil and rampage forth.

How easy is hate to feel, seductive in its reasoning, contempt poured out on the despised,
It hits me suddenly when I am most unaware, slinking up with fangs, long pointed, ready,
Seeking expression from the built up pressure seeking release, so elemental is it, so deep,
Something necessary, how else can evil be fought, yet so easy to misuse, causing pain.

Yes my heart has darkness enough to keep me vigilant, ever watchful for its upsurge,
Irrational often in its core, reptilian it its coldness, wanton it how it wants to express,
Fueled by self contempt, though not its only source, enough to cause havoc on its own.
Lost in the collective it can sink into the mob, religion, tribe, political party, it matters not.

I fall and stagger from the pain it engenders, its fruit poison deadly to taste,
The soul consumed until my humanity is no more, only a ravaging beast hungry,
No conscience, no love, only contempt giving a demonic freedom from restraint,
Heady, self righteous in its heart, sowing pain and destruction for those outside.

My heart is shattered and I fall to my knees, head in hand I cry out to the Lord,
Like a pit bull it has me by the neck, shaking me asunder until I cannot think,
I pray for light, for the infinite to heal me, its presence to heal my consuming darkness,
I wrestle and sink choking in blackness, then light comes and shows me the way.

My struggle is not unique but common to all; the violence is growing in the world.
Commanded to love, for the struggle is intense, the very desire holds one aloft,
Below the black ocean surges hungry for more, yet upheld by grace I moan,
What is to become of us Lord, the violence is growing, hatred the norm or so it seems.

Yet I know there is also love and goodness, unnoticed in its unassuming ways,
The seed is planted in every heart, the antidote to the coiled one within,
True freedom not yet, so conflict within the road traveled, until freedom reached,
Seeing the divine in ones enemy the goal, for God loves dwells within all.

It seems impossible but grace is just that, given when undeserved, healing balm,
Mercy given to those undeserving, a gift, free, who can fathom it at all.
Lip service is given but only clichés, those who speak often just parroting,
Not yet challenged by what lies in wait within, coiled, fangs ready to strike.

True child

the child beautiful
simply by being itself
collected their smiles

dark hair beautiful
brown eyes filled with loving light
grace bestowed on all

freely given smiles
harvested laughter returned
hearts open again

power true is love
drawing forth the inner good
hidden behind fear

often lost with age
the child learns about our life
imprisoned by hurt

the child will return
freedom will blossom again
springtime of the soul

God is a true child
open loving all truly
called to return home

Nothingness is what I at times swim in
Seeking to stay afloat with only void to sustain me
Moments float away and fade like smoke
Is there anything underneath?

Fatigue rises up and claims my limbs
Mind foggy my thoughts slow and shallow
Wanting oblivion for a time
Something deeper than sleep unresting
Blackness without dreams for a time I desire
Will I ever find true rest?

It passes, seconds, moments and hours like these
Like all else it dissipates replaced by something old and worn
Forcing me to take deep root in what encloses the void
From which all experiences flow.

Steady ground buried beneath the darkness
Love and life when feeling is dead
Hope lives where despair also has taken root
So one step I take and then another.

Each moment complete infinity present
Connection stronger than death itself
Beyond knowing we are known
In coldness night embraced by love we are.

I have been reading the last of the Harry Potter books, and I must say it is a great read. For those who do not think that they will be taken over by demonic forces when reading it; to them I highly recommend it, all of the books of course. They are much better than the movies, though they are good also.

Much of the time Harry has no idea what is going on, but he stays on course and in the end comes ahead of the evil forces he is fighting. Of course I have not finished the last book yet, but I have a feeling it will come out good in the end. Not without tragedy of course, and a great deal of suffering.

Like all of our lives I suppose, we each have a path. Often dark and filled with chaos, misunderstood by others, at times rejected. If we do not give in to bitterness, a very great temptation, or anger, or the intense pleasure of revenge, then in the end things have a way of smoothing out, even if we must still carry our burdens.

Life is like that, a mystery I feel.......the" why's" pile up, with often no answer, yet perhaps the answerer is in the simple living. Like the old saying says, "life is a mystery to be lived, not a puzzle to be figured out.

crystal glass alone
table cloth beneath spread out
filled with light glowing

light flowing outward
or light coming from within
its beauty the same

the light shines on all
allowing beauty to be
all equal before it's glow

truth born it's genius
all exposed mercy not there
flaws shown no regard.

light harsh or loving
treated with justice severe
none spared scrutiny

crystal glass alone
imperfections all to see
mercy shows itself

freely is given
received in turn when needed
round and round we go

Seeing

In the 70's for a while, I got involved in macramé. I remember one day being in a store and seeing a knotted creation hanging on a wall. I was intrigued by the knotting, got a book on the subject, which I spent some time studying. The knotting was easy, and it seemed to give full sway to creativity, so I decided to give it a whirl. I did a few flat pieces to get comfortable with the knotting, very simply really, mathematical actually. I would just make it up as I went and came up with some interesting pieces. Then I tried to do free hanging macramé. I would start with one piece of rope and then build off of it, developing different layers of knotted areas. Then I did bottles for a while, and after about three years stopped. I remember one elderly lady wanting me to do three bottles for her. So I did them, and made some very intricate designs with three colors for each bottle. She insisted on paying for them, so I charged a price, a small one, and delighted she took them, it made me happy that someone enjoyed what I had done.

One of the benefits I discovered after I started macramé was my newly developed appreciation of simple lines. Branches with their curving shapes against the sky, the lines in buildings, and cracks in sidewalks became an unending source of delight for me; they became beautiful where before I did not notice them at all. This has stayed with me, so my interested in knots led me into a whole different world, one in which I saw a bit more broadly.

Lately, a very good friend of my visited me, her name is Kathy and her husbands name is Bill. They are both one of the most interesting couples one would ever want to meet. Bill is one of those very intelligent gents who has an interest in everything, good at it all, happy, gentle, and with a very strong healthy ego, so that working for his wife does not bother him. Yes a very strong intelligent man indeed. I have a deep intuition that he is highly developed spiritually as well.

Cathy is what is called a rain maker. She is a little older than me, yet looks 20 years younger, happy, busy, and wherever she goes there is creativity and energy and yes her famous ice tea that she loves to make. For the past few years she has developed an interest in origami or paper art. On her visit before last she made me a origami box which was very beautiful and I keep it on a shelf, where I on occasion take it down and study it, yes a very beautiful. She was here a few weeks ago and we again talked about paper art, and she showed me some tricks of the trade, also some of the small pieces she made while there. Her grand children also made a few pieces and gave them too me, so they are next to my box. As she was taking out the special colorful paper it occurred to me that after this day I will never look at paper quite the same again. Not just something for writing, but also something to make art out of. Just a few folds and there you have it. A box, rabbit, frog, or perhaps something made up on ones own. So Cathy the rain maker introduced me into a wider world.

I am now trying my hand at haiku and it to is opening up new views of the world for me. I am not yet that good at it, but even if I never get to be a master, it is none the less making me appreciate how full each moment is. A work of art just waiting to be discovered and painted out in just a few words, the whole world is a studio for me, for us all actually, all is needed is to look. The flow is still there, time has not changed, but the moment, each moment, has a depth to it that was not present before I tried out haiku. Perhaps one of the benefits for me getting older is that I am more open to just looking, being, and perhaps expressing.

Music, dance, reading, art and crafts, the love of nature, each of these are doorways into a larger reality. I hope and pray that I never lose my desire to learn more, so that the world will get not only bigger but deeper.

The gift

Three friends at a table
Sharing a meal,
Wine,
Sushi,
Jasmine tea,
Other dishes giving pleasure,
Yet,
Nothing compared to the laughter,
Love,
The delight they all took in each other.
Friendship the healing ointment,
A gift bestowed,
A present received,
A grace we lavish on one another,
Common yes,
Each unique giving the gift
Without price,
Of seeing and being seen.

Caress

Branches spread upward
Wind caressing the leaves
They danced.

Tears flowed salty,
Lips no longer compressed,
Wailing heard by all
When news came.

Hair flowing loosely down
Flawless skin daring touch
I walked away afraid

Large cup

The large cup on its matching saucer,
Waited,
Its white emptiness expectant,
Desiring to be filled,
To accomplish what it was made for.

Black liquid
Bitter to the taste,
Passively received,
An offering for the one it served.

Emptied,
It was set aside, again.
Only its whiteness remained,
Cleaned;
Longing again to be filled.

Undone

One man one women,
Just another day for both,
Unknown to each other,
Just another lonely day,
Then one look,
A smile,
Both became undone.

His eyes

He looked up
Despair filled his eyes,
I smiled,
Saddened,
Touched his shoulder gently,
Continued on my journey.

Finally

Dark clouds rolled gently in,
Winds gathered strength,
Heat retreated,
Thirsty ground drank deeply
When the rains finally came.

Salon is a great Magazine with many interesting articles.  Below is one on a Saint from India.  It is honest and for those interested in other belief systems you might find this interesting.  For other, since it is 7 pages long you may want to delete it.....though it is a good read.
 
Peace
Mark
 
 
 
 


 
 
 

Amma's cosmic squeeze

My journey into the arms of Amma the hugging saint reminded me that humans are far more than neurologically programmed DNA machines. By Erik Davis
Jul. 19, 2007 | The Mata Amritanandamayi Center is a cluster of gardens, ponds and institutional buildings nestled in the dry and rolling hills of Castro Valley, a rural area that lies about an hour east of San Francisco. For most of the year, it serves as the sleepy North American outpost for the empire of good works that surround the superstar Indian guru it's named after, who is best known as Amma. But twice a year, the Mother herself sweeps through, and the place is transformed. For a couple of weeks, thousands of devotees come to sing and meditate and stand in Disneyland-worthy lines to receive Amma's signature blessing: a great big bear hug.
I show up a little after noon, and Amma has already been at it for hours. Scores of devotees wait in line, while hundreds more mill about the center's large meeting hall. Charitable booths lie on one side of the space, with a well-stuffed shop of clothes, books and geegaws on the other. Roughly two-thirds of the folks are white, with the rest largely South Asian; like Amma, most are wearing white. The hugging saint herself, a full-bodied woman as brown as the Virgin of Guadalupe, is plopped down in a comfy, low-key thronelike thing at the foot of the large stage that lies at the far end of the hall. Amma is embracing her flock, many of whom believe that she is literally a goddess.
Years of spiritual tourism have taught me that the magic often lies with the devotees rather than the object of devotion, and the scene before me is deeply charming -- the spiritual equivalent of comfort food, like a sweet rice pudding scented with rose water. The endless flow of huggees are first asked to kneel, remove any glasses, and mop up their sweaty brows with a Kleenex before being guided into the enveloping embrace of the Mother. After half a minute or so, the devotees are plucked out of Amma's arms, and the guru hands them flower petals, sacred ashes or maybe a foil-wrapped Hershey's kiss.
While I am waiting for an audience with Amma herself, I speak with Swami Dayamrita, the orange-robed manager of the Castro Valley ashram. We stand crammed together just to the side of Amma's nest. A sober, no-nonsense fellow, Dayamrita hails from the southern Indian state of Kerala, where Amma was born to a Dalit fisherman's family in 1954 and where her principal Indian ashram now lies. Kerala is a traditional center of tantra and goddess worship, but it is also a progressive and well-educated state with a strong, if waning, left-wing culture. As a young man, Dayamrita was an atheist and a filmmaker, and he decided to shoot a damning exposé about his region's most famous god-person.
While following Amma about he witnessed an event that has since become central to Amma lore. When her village ashram was just starting out, a local leper came in for a hug. Amma embraced him and, in her mad compassion, licked his sores and sucked the pus out of his wounds, which she then covered with sacred ash. "That changed my whole life," the swami says. "Poor or sick, it doesn't matter, she embraces them. Shingles, chicken pox, infectious diseases -- she does not get them. Only love is exchanged."
Dayamrita gets a call on his cell and departs. Then another fellow in orange robes squeezes through, his hippie glasses and windblown black hair calling to mind a mid-'70s Jerry Garcia. He is Swami Amritaswarupananda Puri, aka "Big Swami," Amma's most senior disciple and her main translator, and he collects my questions with an amusingly world-weary, businesslike air.
I ask Amma what she's doing with all this hugging stuff. Big Swami puts the question into Malayalam for his guru, who is in the midst of double-hugging two Indian teens wearing Izod shirts. Amma launches into her response immediately, with twinkling eyes and a toothy, infectious smile. As she speaks I realize that, Kali or not, she is definitely a firecracker.
"What's happening here cannot be described," she says. "It is true communion, pure love that flows, flows like a river. It is pure subjective experience. It's like somebody trying to explain about drumming. You cannot explain with words. In order to really understand, you have to play a drum or listen to it. It's a direct experience, a real meeting between hearts. It's like looking in a mirror and cleaning your face."
The guru-speak continues. "I'm trying to awaken true motherhood in people, in men and women, because that is lacking in today's world. Today there are two types of poverty. The first is a lack of basic necessities. The second is a lack of love and compassion. As far as I am concerned, the second is more important because if there is love and compassion then the first kind can be taken care of."
Though she'll play the role of the divine Goddess, Amma's own vibe is informal, earthy and rather spunky. The shoulders on her plain white sari are smudged with the sweat and tears of thousands of strangers, but she seems completely comfortable soaking up the effluence of emotions and desires swimming her way.
"Today people are willing to die for religion, but no one lives in the central truth of religion," she goes on. "Religion is just the outer shell. The fruit is spirituality. People look at the outer shell and don't realize the spiritual essence. Spirituality is not different from a worldly life. Spirituality shows how to lead a happy life in the world, to minimize problems and maximize happiness. It is like an instruction manual. What is wrong if you get more happiness from spirituality than worldly pleasures?"
It's a great question, one that today's increasingly arrogant atheists have yet to answer. If humans are nothing more than neurologically programmed DNA machines, why not run sacred applications that bring happiness and meaning and active compassion? I start to ask another question, but Big Swami is through. "OK, that's all," he says and departs.
Then it's my turn for some subjective experience. I'm a Californian, so I'm down with hugs, but it is rare to meet a master. As a VIP for the day, I get an E ticket that enables me to skip the hours-long line. I feel kind of lame about taking cuts, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the wait, as is so often the case in this world of desire, amplifies the fun. But there I am, a minute later, headlocked by a perfumed lady who maybe, just maybe, is the mother of the universe.
She rubs my back with her hand as she mumbles into my right ear, a string of syllables I first take to be some esoteric mantra but that gradually reveal themselves to be the homeliest of addresses: "Darling, darling, darling, darling..." I receive no shivering blasts of shakti, the feminine energy cultivated by yogis and sought by devotees. But a warm, childlike nostalgia seeps into my heart, and I have some vague sense of being in the middle of the ocean at night. Then I'm back in the light of the day with a smiling Indian lady handing me a chocolate. I almost immediately reach for my pad to take notes, but Rob Sidon, Amma's press person, sees me and suggests I "turn off my computer." So I do.
- - - - - - - - - - - -

Innocuous and intimate, the hug is a brilliant gesture for a reputed saint to make -- a cosmic download about compassion and connection delivered in a package that's about as challenging and exotic as a Hershey's kiss. Amma is not the only one to have embraced the activist power of the hug -- last year, Juan Mann's "Free Hugs" campaign rode the viral spread of a YouTube video into the hearts of millions, while peace organizers recently staged a "Jerusalem Hug" that surrounded the walls of the benighted old city with thousands of people holding hands.
But Amma hugs on a truly global scale, exhibiting a spiritual athleticism that boggles the mind. As the loudspeakers that surround the main meeting hall of the M.A. Center are happy to announce, Amma has hugged more than 26 million people. During her massive 50th birthday celebration in 2003, which was inaugurated by the Indian President Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, Amma cranked through a stadium full of devotees for 21 hours straight while a scoreboard racked up numbers well into the five figures.
Though all this can be seen as some kind of bizarre mass performance art, Amma's trademark gesture is also a brilliant and quietly subversive transformation of traditional South Asian worship. Hindus, and especially followers of the devotional path of bhakti, have long placed a special emphasis on being in the physical presence of holy beings, whether living saints or revered icons or sacred mountains and rivers. This practice of presence is called "darshan," and is usually considered a visual or visionary experience (the word means "sight"). But after having a number of powerful goddess visions of her own in the 1970s, a young Amma broke the fourth wall of darshan and started physically embracing those who came to her for succor, spiritual or otherwise.
In India, where traditional mores limit physical contact between women and strangers, Amma's embrace also announced a liberating and almost feminist activism. As well it should. Amma's mission, the Mata Amritanandamayi Math, is now one of India's major humanitarian non-governmental organizations. In the late 1990s, the Math was already the second largest Indian recipient of foreign contributions, totaling $11 million, and her organization has grown dramatically since then. Though its books are closed, materials provided by the Math trumpet scores of large and successful feats, including mass housing projects, disaster relief, food programs, schools, a university and hospitals, one of which is the best research hospital in southern India. The Math contributed $46 million to souls weathering the after-effects of the Southeast Asian tsunami, while the American M.A. Center gave a million bucks to the Bush-Clinton Katrina Fund. While the university and hospital services are not generally free, and the extent of good works may certainly be exaggerated, Amma's mission has developed the international reputation of actually delivering the goods, and tons of folks have had their lives materially transformed by the organization.
Of course, with abundance comes power, and power means politics. Amma's flock certainly includes individuals and organizations associated with right-wing Hindu nationalism, or Hindutva. Many Hindutva ministers of state are Amma devotees, including former Prime Minister Atal Behari Vajpayee, and her ranks swell with members of the RSS and VHP, nationalist organizations that have been accused of, among other things, helping foment the bloody Gujarat riots in 2002. These are complex issues, of course, and Amma is the very opposite of fascist demagogue. But many of the liberal Westerners lining up for their hug have no understanding of how their guru plays in reactionary or "fundamentalist" circles in a modern India with a large Muslim population. And the global managers of her brand are perfectly happy to keep it that way.
And Amma is a brand; her organization has a cute registered trademark, good P.R., a snappy slogan ("Embrace the world"), a TV station and an ad campaign that recently plastered the Mother's mug on billboards and buses across the world. The video shown before her evening gathering at the M.A. Center was essentially an infomercial, though its sentiment was no more manipulative than your average junk letter from the Sierra Club or Amnesty International. What's amazing, however, is that this juggernaut is sustained by Amma's own personal example of ceaseless and exhausting activity; even cynics cannot doubt her industry. Eating and resting little, giving out thousands of hugs a day for most of the year, Amma is moving at a supernatural pace.
Amma's example also creates a culture of self-abnegating service, as followers are encouraged not only to hand over cash, but to sacrifice themselves on the altar of volunteer labor. This is great news for the NGO's bean counters, but not always so great for the young devotees who are offering "seva," or service. One ex-devotee, who is wary enough of the organization that she asked me to simply call her Lakshmi, describes the Amma scene as a competitive, back-biting and self-righteous culture where volunteers are encouraged to work beyond the point of exhaustion in order to please Mother. "There is a very strong focus on selfless service," she wrote in an e-mail. "However, much of the 'selfless service' in the West involves assisting people who have enough money to pay for retreats so that there is no paid labor during these programs." Lakshmi left the organization partly because she "realized that seva might be short for slave labor."
Another reason that Lakshmi and others have soured on the Amma scene is the growing materialism that feeds the empire. A good quarter of the meditation hall at the M.A. Center, for example, was given over to the Amma Shop, where volunteers in bright orange safety vests oversee a brisk trade in books, mugs, jewelry, clothes, calendars, decals, CDs, unguents, oils and Ayurvedic medicines. Photography and videotaping are forbidden in the hall, but devotees can buy DVDs and photographs of Amma; in some she looks like Queen Latifah. Many objects are advertised as having been blessed -- touched -- by Amma; I heard one story of a woman who offered a priceless heirloom to Amma, only to see it reappear hours later in the shop. But the most incredible commodity fetishes are the handmade Amma dolls, which were being lugged around by a surprisingly large number of adult women in the hall. These cute and pudgy figures fetched a decent price -- $180 for the Cabbage Patch-size ones -- and they could be accessorized with colorful silk outfits (blessed by Amma, natch) associated with Durga, Kali and other goddesses.
As a fan of alt-dolls and vinyl figures, I'd have to say the Amma dolls are pretty cool. But for some observers of the spiritual scene, they incarnate nothing so much as spiritual infantilism. Jody Radzik, a 48-year-old graphic designer who writes the muckraking and funny Guruphiliac blog, calls Amma a "space mommy," which he defines as a guru who fulfills "the function of a cosmic parent for insecure, self-loathing devotees." A "spiritually informed skeptic," Radzik nonetheless considers himself a devotee of Kali and a follower of Vedanta, the non-dualist summa of Hindu thought. "Vivekananda described Vedanta very simply. Everyone is God. That means that a single person can't be more god than any other person. Gurus like Amma pay lip service to the Vedanta while also presenting themselves as special beings who wield magic powers because of their divinity. But self-realization is the opposite of magic -- it's the most mundane thing in their world. It's always right there right on the end of your nose. These gurus have people looking everywhere but the tip of their nose."
Amma herself seems to wear her robes lightly; she is a cheery woman of little education who makes no divine claims and carries an air of good-humored humility. But the lore that surrounds her -- much of which derives directly from her tight-knit group of core disciples -- is redolent with the miraculous. Many devotees, East and West, believe that Amma's divine shakti can give them children, or fix their marriages, or make them money. One of the first Amma videos that comes up on YouTube shows a reenactment of a young Amma miraculously transforming water into pudding. No one less than Big Swami narrates the clip.
The guru game has many levels. Devotion to divine beings can certainly generate something like miracles in people's hearts and lives -- even if that devotion is nothing more than a placebo effect conjured through a kind of sacred theater. To do their job, gurus must take on all manner of popular projections, but the great teachers also create situations that open up to deeper truths. "Amma's ability to meet people exactly where they're at is actually a profound statement of nondualism," says Greg Wendt, a longtime devotee who lives in a plush Hindufied bachelor pad in Santa Monica, Calif. "It's really the long view of recognizing people's journey, and not trying to give people the whole enchilada all the time. Amma has said on a number of occasions, 'Why teach people Vedanta when all they want is something to eat?'"
Wendt was initially turned off by people "mommy-izing" Amma, but he has since come around. "The whole guru yoga thing is to meditate on the form of your teacher. That's a core teaching of tantric Buddhism and tantric Hinduism." From that perspective, Wendt says, even the dolls make sense. "If Amma's really embodying that path, then she's not going to stop people from their bhakti ways. There's a doll there, and you can buy it if you want. She doesn't care."
As a successful investment advisor specializing in sustainable and socially responsible capitalism, Wendt has no problems with Amma's marketing and fundraising machine. Wendt was staying at the Math in Kerala when the tsunami destroyed scores of fishing villages nearby, and he worked on the temporary structures while Amma went toe-to-toe with local officials jockeying for part of the disaster relief pie. Wendt has also been around big-time guru scenes that were far more rapacious. "I don't even notice that Amma is asking for money," he says. "But her flow is far more abundant. She's taking money from crazy housewives and giving it to widows and disaster victims in India. These Westerners are actually having dramatic benefits in their lives, and they in turn are actually housing and feeding the people in India who need it. What a great compassionate way to take from the rich and give to the poor. Even if it were shallow and false, it's still beautiful."
- - - - - - - - - - - -

Every guru needs his or her rock stars, and Amma seems to attract guitar gods. The first that came to my attention is J Mascis, the guitarist and singer for Dinosaur Jr., the awesome indie-rock band from the 1980s and '90s that recently completed a reunion tour. Despite his long hair and transcendent slashing solos, the younger Mascis was the polar opposite of the starry-eyed peak experience junkies that fell for Eastern gurus during the golden age of rock. I profiled him a couple of times, and the impression I had already gleaned from his songs -- that he was a mopey and kind of disconnected guy -- seemed right on the money. This was no bliss bunny.
Last year, around the time that his album with the Black Sabbath-style hard-rock band Witch came out, Mascis released "J + Friends Sing + Chant for AMMA." An excellent collection of American neo-kirtans, the record blends Mascis' whiney indie drawl with dholek and Sanskrit and the occasional monster lead. Unlike the neo-kirtans you might hear in yoga class -- those slick call-and-response hymns to Krishna with the funky bass lines and electronic twaddle -- Mascis' god songs sound like the yearning product of, well, a mopey and kind of disconnected guy, "nursing wounds that never end." I hear you, J: Sometimes only a space momma will do.
Amma's other fret-board devotee also happens to be the most remarkable person I met during my long day at the M.A. Center. Jason Becker is, or was, what they call a shredder -- a master of technically ferocious superfast neoclassical heavy metal guitar. As a young player, Becker had the honor of replacing Steve Vai in David Lee Roth's band. But Becker soon came down with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis -- aka Lou Gehrig's disease -- and his sweep-picking days were done. These days his body is a withered husk strapped down, gaunt head and all, to an elaborate reclined wheelchair replete with tubes and respirators. The 37-year-old Becker cannot speak, but converses using a system of eye movements developed by his father and interpreted by his helper Marilyn, who, like him, is robed in white.
Becker has been following Amma for years, and stickers of her cover the contraption, which is scattered with sacred ash. "She's always new and inspiring," he explains. "Love never gets boring." Becker mentions Amma on his CDs (he continues to compose by computer), and occasionally metal-heads show up at Amma gatherings, curious to check out the guru of their guru. Becker's forthcoming collection will feature an Indian-inspired tune with Sanskrit and Mayalam lyrics, as well as shred guitar supplied by Joe Satriani.
We chat for a spell about God and guitars, and I cannot relate the peace and impish friendliness that came through this man, who was essentially confined, like all of us, I suppose, to a corpse. I ask him what the best thing was about getting the disease. "That's easy," he says. "I got to know God closer, and I got to meet Amma." He pauses. "I guess I might also be more mature too, but Marilyn would probably disagree." He laughed with his eyes.
I am reminded of those laughing eyes a few hours later, when Amma once again takes the stage. The curtains part, and she is sitting in an elaborate throne beneath a parasol bedecked with flowers. The plain white sari is gone, replaced with crimson robes, carnations and a crown. This is Devi Bhava, a popular ceremony where Amma visibly performs the presence of the Goddess. The devotees are lined up to the sides of the stage, the front lines of a battalion of devotees whose assault on this plump fisherwoman would last all night. As they surge toward Amma, her face blooms into a radiant, unrestrained glee, and for a spell she looks much less like a cosmic matriarch than a great big kid.

-- By Erik Davis

The Cross or the Sword?

Gregory Boyd's radical approach to faith and politics has taken him where few American pastors have dared to go-and he's got the empty pews to prove it.
By Carla Barnhill

Gregory Boyd Photo Credit: Marcia Erickson

Pastor Gregory Boyd isn't afraid to voice his convictions, even when he knows it will make him unpopular. You might not agree with him, but you feel compelled to hear him out. Take, for example, his latest book, The Myth of a Christian Nation: How the Quest for Political Power Is Destroying the Church (Zondervan). In it, he lays out a vision for life in the kingdom of God that is not only compelling, but quite controversial.

The book is based on a set of sermons Boyd presented to his 5,000-member congregation at Woodland Hills Church in St. Paul, Minnesota, in the fall of 2004. In the months leading up to that year's presidential election, Boyd became increasingly uncomfortable with the pressure he felt to use the pulpit and his pastoral position to steer his congregation in the "right" (i.e., Republican) direction. "It wasn't overt pressure," says Boyd, "but more of a constant urging to get out a specific message. I'd get mailings from different groups, hear it on Christian radio, get the nudge from colleagues and parishioners. I came to the conclusion that I needed to clearly articulate something I'd been thinking about for years: How the kingdom of God is radically different from the kingdom of the world."

The Challenge
So Boyd began a sermon series called "The Cross and the Sword." In it, he encouraged his parishioners to look beyond labels like "Democrat" or "Republican" or even "American" and instead consider what it means to be a follower of Jesus in today's world. Over the course of four weeks, Boyd suggested a radically different way of thinking about issues like political power, war, military service, and government. Boyd's message was that we are to be people of a kingdom where power looks like servanthood, not force, where peace triumphs over might.

On paper, most of us would agree with Boyd's belief that we are to be people of peace. But this view is hard to hold on to when we try to translate it into action. In this age of terrorism, war, and daily violence, it feels necessary to fight back. In a country where we face increased crime, debates about abortion, and the issues surrounding homosexuality, it feels right to stand up against those who promote a lazy moral code.

In The Myth of a Christian Nation, however, Boyd asks us to consider the radical life of Christ and the kingdom He ushered in through His life, death, and resurrection. "The kingdom of God looks and acts like Jesus Christ," he explains. "It looks and acts like Calvary. It looks and acts like God's eternal, triune love. It consists of people graciously embracing others and sacrificing themselves in service to others, whether they be friends or 'enemies.' It consists of people trusting the power of self-sacrificial love to change people's hearts, rather than acquiring power to control people's behavior."

	"So many of us think the church needs to run the nation, but the church just needs to be the church." -Gregory Boyd

The Fallout
While Boyd believed this was a message God had put on his heart, it wasn't received as positively as he had hoped. Though many church members appreciated his radical message, many others didn't. He was called everything from unpatriotic to heretical. Over the next few months, 20 percent of his congregation-some 1,000 people-left Woodland Hills.

Boyd says, "I knew there would be rumblings, but to be honest, I was a bit disappointed by how much of a stir it caused. I think I assumed my congregation was significantly different from churches that buy in to various political agendas, where people don't want to hear disparate ideas. Looking back, I think this was arrogance on my part. I had misread who we were and how far people were willing to go with me."

In the face of this gradual attrition, Boyd's board remained supportive. Still, there was a steep price for the church. The loss of so many people meant the entire budget had to be reworked. As a result, seven staff positions were cut. And, of course, there was the emotional and spiritual fallout.

Still, nearly two years later, Boyd knows he made the only decision he could make. "As a church we have always said that God calls us to plant and to water, but that God alone is responsible for the increase. We should never adjust our message because it might not be popular. Jesus preached and people left (John 6:66). He wasn't shooting for the lowest common denominator to make sure He attracted people. He counted the cost of saying what He needed to say. Over and over, we see Jesus laying His cards on the table, even if it made some people angry. It grieved Jesus, but He never compromised for the sake of a crowd."

Asking the Big Questions
Knowing that Boyd is not afraid to stand apart from the crowd, it's no surprise his journey toward a life of faith took some unusual turns. He grew up Catholic, but by the time he was a teenager, he'd given up on church, started taking drugs, and dabbled in Eastern religions. By his junior year in high school, Boyd was essentially checked out of school, out of religion, out of life.

But then something changed. "I remember we were discussing the play Our Town in my humanities class. Something about the discussion caught my attention, and I-quite uncharacteristically-began to passionately participate. After class, my teacher pulled me aside and said, 'Greg, you're a philosopher. You have a knack for seeing things other kids don't see.' She was the first teacher to ever to affirm my potential-and it changed my life. She pointed me toward some philosophy books and I found out I wasn't the only one thinking about the weird things I always thought about. I started reading Kierkegaard and other philosophers asking the big questions about life and meaning and existence.

"I came to know Christ soon after this, but it only took one semester in college as a philosophy major to destroy my newfound faith. I went back to being an atheist. But this time, I was a miserable atheist because I knew there was something else. Eventually, by God's grace, I pieced my faith back together."

That journey showed Boyd that, for him, there are very few definitive answers. "I am too aware of life's complexity and ambiguity," he says, "so I've never been comfortable with the idea that Christianity is a package deal where we have to have everything figured out. For me, that perspective doesn't give God a chance to change me, to move me to new places."

One of the "new places" he's gone came in 2005 when Boyd voluntarily stepped away from the pulpit for two months. "I've had a covenant with the congregation that I would always be honest with them. Over a period of time, I completely bottomed out. I just didn't feel like I had anything to say to the church." So one Sunday, he stood before the congregation and told them as much.

"Whenever you're the leader of a group, there's a pressure to conform. Over a period of time, the group doesn't want you to change, but you do change. You need to step out of the stream every now and then to know what's real in your life, to know what's true. You have to get rid of all the ulterior motives. I honestly didn't know if I was going to come back."

But he did come back, and he remains committed to following the Holy Spirit, even to uncomfortable places.

Kingdom Vision
Boyd readily admits the message of The Myth of a Christian Nation is a tricky one to deliver in today's polarized political culture. "It seems that many American Christians think it's their job to come up with the Christian way of resolving political issues," he says. "So many of us think the church needs to run the nation, but the church just needs to be the church. Our only job is to be Jesus to the world. I want people to get a vision for the beauty of the unique kingdom of God. I believe the clearer you see the kingdom, the less trust you put in politics."

The solution, says Boyd, is for us to recapture the mind and heart of Christ, and to move "beyond the stalemates and tit-for-tat conflicts that characterize the kingdom of the world."

He says, "The picture I get of God's kingdom is of people-tax collectors, prostitutes, fishermen-following Jesus. If we understood that our one job is to replicate the outrageous humility of Calvary, I think we'd begin to see the world in a different way. Instead of other people being our enemies, we would see them as the very people we are called to serve."

Boyd believes the unity of Christ's body should be strong enough to encompass the differences we often deal with as Christians. "I know I have to be open and humble to correction," he adds. "I know I have to be willing to take objections seriously and prayerfully consider the validity of what I say. But I also know that it is better for me to lose my position or my popularity than to ignore God's leading. We are only free if Christ alone is our life."

Spoken

The word was spoken
In pain the words uttered
Fueled by anger
The bow let and it flew.
Target found embedded
What was once was is now no more
Chasm deep where once there was none
Only mercy the cure.

Memories

One thing everyone has in common is memories, lots of them. Some events from the past are pleasant, others on the other hand can be horrible, and perhaps the majorities are a mixed bag. I find it interesting how at times a memory will suddenly float up from some dark chamber of my unconscious and present itself. I often have no idea why, perhaps there is no real reason, though I think otherwise. Even if I don't always understand, which is a very common state for me to be in; I still like to ponder their content. I have a suspicion that others may know more than me when I share them, why they have come to the surface, but will not always share their insights with me. Perhaps for good reason, who knows? I think one reason, and obvious I imagine to most people, is that I have not yet dealt properly with the event; in other words I still have unfinished business to attend to.

So let us together travel into the past, way back; 45 years to be exact. I gasp just thinking that I have memories that old, for inside I still feel quite young. Well how I feel, and how old I am, probably have no real bearing anyway. It is perhaps because I am still very immature in many ways, which has kept me from actually bearing the weight of my age, perhaps it is an advantage to be that way. So it is 1961 and I am still 13 and it was the last year that I would attend any kind of summer activities that where made available to the youth at that time; most probably to simply keep us out of trouble. I only took one course that year; ball room dancing. I was a good dancer and decided to give it a whirl, though I doubted that I would finish it, simply too much to do otherwise during summer vacation.

If my memory serves me right there were 17 students present, nine girls and eight boys. The teacher got my attention at the get go. It was a very pleasant surprise to see that our instructor was a very beautiful women, about 35 years old who was going to turn our two left feet, into an actual team of one left and one right, at least as far as dancing goes.
She had very light skin, green eyes, and red hair that seemed to go towards burgundy, so yes, she was very beautiful, a classic. She was engaging, almost loving in how she related to all of us, and she was also a very good teacher. I have always been good at dancing, and took instinctively to the role of leader when doing the waltz. I did it without thinking, though it seemed others had to learn it. It is really very simple; all you do is place the hand in the lower back area and simply gently put pressure to allow your partner to know which way you were going to dance. Others for some reason found this to be mysterious. Well I was good at one thing at least.

The teacher's name was Ann, and she would dance with me much of the time, for which I felt very lucky. I like the other boys in the class was infatuated with her. She took all this with good humor, so we all had a great deal of fun with her while the class was in progress. It was amazing to dance with her. She was short, so I could easily lead her, it was like we moved as one, quite an experience for one my age, and I think she could be one of the reasons I got addicted so much to dancing when I was young.

The class only lasted for two weeks and the day came when it was over. I had mixed feelings, but I guess over all I was glad that I could now do other things with my time. Like swim in Gatun lake, spend time in the Jungle, movies etc. Sometimes when she saw me she would come over and see how I was doing. She always seemed to be genuinely interested in what I was about, and listened to my thoughts, which I found unusual from an adult. The last time I saw her, she seemed different, sad, but she pretended to be happy, and being so young I did not know how to broach what I was experiencing with her. I doubt it would have any good anyway; I was after all only 13, who looked 11.

Three days after our last meeting I got word that she drove out to one of the beaches seldom frequented with crowds, at night, put down a blanket, took out a bottle of sleeping pills, took them and laid down and died. I remember the moment when I heard it, I froze, and suddenly memories of her came barreling up. I would see her laughing, or dancing with me or with one of the other boys, having fun, seeming to enjoy life. Then my last memory of her being sad, but was not mature enough to say anything, of course it would have done no good. I guess there were no adults around to help her.

I would at night before I slept think of what it must have been like for her. The pain that would drive such a beautiful women to do such a tragic act, to die in such darkness and loneliness, to actually want to die, to end her life, to take her light out of this world, a place where she did make a difference. I heard rumors of the whys of it all, but I don't take rumors seriously anyway. I would often think about her off and on for a few years and then they stopped, until recently when they surfaced.

It is amazing how much we can hide from others, giving them no clue to what is actually going on inside. The hopelessness, the despair, covered over with a smile, refusing to let anyone else in to help, until it gets so bad that death seems a good alternative. Perhaps suicides want to simply cease, to not exist, to rest. I hope better for her, perhaps she wanted more life, and the life she lived was too painful and constricting for her to cope. In any case suicide is not an act made by a person who is sane and who can think rationally. It points to being overwhelmed and not having a way out that I feel often leads to this kind of tragedy.

Perhaps I loved her more than I thought, and have not mourned her death properly, I still don't know, perhaps there is no meaning for this memory at all, though I give it some importance. She saw me and the other students and treated us with respect and love, which is something, something indeed. So I will pray for her, since I think there is still a connection. Perhaps I will meet her one day and have the first dance, a waltz, where we can dance as one, were I can finally asked her ‘the question', from one adult to another.

Unfolding

It is hard at times to understand what makes others tick, so alien we can be to one another. So much alike, yet vast differences can lead to times when building bridges is almost impossible. Simple gestures, carefully chosen words, even smiles, can be interrupted in ways not dreamed of. I have had this experience a couple of times in my life when this has happened. There can be a great deal of frustration from both sides. The only road to peace is to simply accept the impasse, and hopefully understanding will emerge slowly over time.

I remember one day at the airport in Atlanta. It was a Sunday evening, one of the busiest days for travel, so the baggage area was packed. While waiting for my friend to arrive, I noticed a group of people from somewhere in Africa. They where dressed in clothes very different from what I have ever seen, even the colors seemed somewhat out of place, beautiful but yes, alien. They were a family, a large one waiting for their luggage. As I looked at them, I wondered if it would be possible to go over and communicate with them. Apart from a language difference, from a cursory impression, the culture that they came from would be something unknown to me. What would we talk about? Would simple cultural gestures be misinterpreted? Of course in the end I did not approach them. Perhaps if I did I would have been surprised, but fear kept me away. I felt sad about that, seeing others that I might not be able to communicate with on any meaningful level. Though in doing this I am labeling again, yet another barrier, self imposed keeping contact to a minimum. We do after all live in a world of boxes, past experienced stored allowing us to place those we met in one box or another, and yes I have a box marked ‘alien'. This problem is present in one degree on another with everyone, well perhaps with most, hence the often experienced loneliness which is the lot of most of us.

Of course the opposite is also possible. Meeting someone when communication almost seems to be instantaneous, effortless, a real joy; yet even that more often than not is an illusion. No, commutation is something that has to be worked at, and from the way the world seems to run, it happens very seldom. Perhaps heaven is a place where explaining oneself become something of the past. To be truly seen would probably be a freeing experience, then all presentations of self would just drop away, we could just be. I wonder what it would be like not to have to label and categories others. Or what it would be like to actually experience that myself, being seen without a label being pasted on to me. Something most probably impossible, at least in this life....... without them, labels again, the other would be just to ‘new' or ‘other' to have any kind of meaningful exchange. So boxes help, as long as the tops are not put on too tightly. People have a way of breaking out of boxes, another messy fact of life; pesky critters, people. I suppose the best that can done is to simply allow the unfolding to occur with a certain amount of acceptance and yes expectation.

Our calling

We pray together not apart,
Before God we are one,
"When I was hungry, you fed me".
Judging others, it is ourselves we show contempt towards,
Trapped in a world of mirrors we cannot escape.
Separation is not possible,
The web that binds us is eternal unbreakable.

Those we hate is where Christ is found,
The undeserving those we should help,
Giving love without recompense is our path,
Our calling,
What should be striven for,
Failure a spur to keep on the way.

All other loves are good,
Or not,
Yet they are part of who we are,
Often erecting barriers towards others,
Outsiders.

For the rich it is the poor,
The poor it is the rich, who are shown contempt.
Blacks on white,
White on blacks,
Male on female,
Female on male,
An endless heartbreaking list.
Plenty of hate to go around
The flip side of the same coin,
Love and hate.
Indifference is something different,
Probably worse.

We are bound by either hate or love,
Tightly bound by constraints,
One choking out life,
Spreading misery and hatred,
The other life giving,
Expansive,
Embracing all.

One is all to natural,
The other offered to all hearts open to the other,
It is in showing love and compassion
That the earth stops and watches,
Feeling the healing if only for a while
Before new wounds are open by the all too traveled path.

Christ fastened to the cross is each of our souls,
What is done to us,
Our own acts of self destructive actions,
Once called sin,
No matter the name the fruits the same.
So with Christ we are bound,
His blood heals our wounds,
For he forgave those who tortured and killed,
Yes even the one who betrayed,
Those also who ran away into mercies embrace.

I still have not learned,
My failures binding me ever deeper
To my brothers and sisters,
Yet more to the mercy and love of Christ.

Pious crap (through true none the less)

There is so much pious crap out there,
Sayings said so often that they are emptied of meaning,
Void's mouthing nonsense,
Perhaps boring others to death,
Contempt flowing from familiarity.

The golden rule beat to a pulp by mindless parroting.
Treat others the way you want to be treated,
Blah, Blah, Blah,
Means nothing unless you really know how you want to be treated!
To treat others that way self knowledge is needed,
Taking the sentimental bull away,
Leaving only the hard road to death of self concrete.

Love of neighbor?
Love of self?
Hmmmmmmmmmm
Must be rare considering the way others are treated,
Hatred of self,
More widespread than understood,
Others reflections can give a glimpse
Perhaps more than desired
Leading to distain and perhaps fear of others,
Doorways of our own deep hidden hell
Sugar coated in shallowness,
Vapid smiles and hugs meaning nothing,
A show for others,
A form of hiding the isolation within.

The death comes in embracing the darkness within,
Trusting in a mercy, truly terrible, in its beyond human intensity,
A love stronger than death,
Or better yet,
Deeper and more powerful
Than the inner bull shit that can fill us,
Because to see ourselves as God sees us
Perhaps would lead to despair
Instead of the love we are upheld by.

Stripped of all pretensions peace is achieved
Resting in the bottomless love present in all,
Incomprehensible(?)
Yes
However true all the same.