Jew in the Lotus Part 10

But the situation in the Tibetan and Jewish diaspora made for more immediate points of comparison. Like their American Jewish counterparts, Tibetan youth in India primarily attend public schools. Tsepak Rigzin, a translator for the library, told us, "Whether a nation survives depends on how well we preserve our tradition and culture. In Indian schools we are taught Tibetan one period a day for forty-five minutes. We blame the Indian educational system, but we ought to blame ourselves. We are allowed to teach in Tibetan but don't."

In response, several Jewish delegates praised Hebrew and Sunday School programs and offered them as a model. But Rabbi Levitt, a Sunday School princ.i.p.al herself, was less enthusiastic. She thought "part of the reason Jews aren't Jewish anymore has been the supplementary schools."

From my own experience, I wasn't quite as skeptical as Joy. I attended ten years of Sunday School and three or four of afternoon Hebrew school. Although I think I could have been taught better, and learned much more, the religious schooling did succeed in confirming my Jewish ident.i.ty. Especially important was my confirmation cla.s.s, which at a crucial time, ages fifteen and sixteen, planted me squarely within a Jewish social world. Somewhat providentially, I was also exposed in that setting to some truly iconoclastic Jewish intellectuals-one a rabbi without a pulpit who taught us existential philosophy with our Jewish history, and another a poet. Finally, our rabbi, Morris Lieberman-Marc Lieberman's uncle-challenged us to write down our conception of G.o.d. As I recall, my little essay was impudent and atheistic, so I was surprised when Rabbi Lieberman not only congratulated me for my honesty but also suggested I might consider the rabbinate as a vocation.

My experience may have been very unusual. I agree with Joy that too many Jewish kids find their time wasted in religious school. There's a lot of lip service in the Jewish world about the importance of education, but that's not where the money goes. After hours of boredom, week after week, a child could develop a real hatred for religion. Also, in terms of getting the basic tools-reading Hebrew, studying texts, or even learning the prayer service-my Jewish education had failed miserably. And in part to correct this failing, the more recent trend has been toward Jewish day schools. Hebrew literacy requires that kind of commitment.

But after talking to Pemo, Chodron, and Alex Berzin, I was also convinced there was a more fundamental problem: a defensive att.i.tude. Young Jews growing up in America are intellectually curious and they demand a more open-minded approach to spirituality. The questions about G.o.d that Chodron had asked should have been answered-I gathered that instead they were ignored or suppressed.

Later, over dinner, Nathan Katz and others were peppered by the Tibetans with questions about Jewish communal inst.i.tutions, "everything from burial societies to day schools to supplementary schools, the whole gamut, federations, how Jewish federations relate to each other." Nathan preferred this discussion to his encounters in the morning with the Jewish Buddhists and described it to me as "more an ethnic than interreligious dialogue and in that sense more direct and more honest, more concrete."

Paul Mendes-Flohr spoke fondly of his experiences at Camp Ramah, a Conservative summer camp that several of the Jewish delegates had once attended. The Tibetans wanted to learn more. The Jewish group promised to help bring Tibetans to observe a Jewish summer camp. This became one of the more concrete initiatives to emerge from the dialogue. It is remarkable, in fact, how many rabbis and Jewish leaders trace the origin of their commitment to summer camp.

But, in the same discussion, Zalman Schachter grew impatient with the nuts-and-bolts approach. He sensed that the secularized Tibetan intellectuals had turned their backs on the resources of their own tradition. "The Tibetan diaspora has not yet been done as a thought form," he told them. I believe what he meant was that they should use the mental development tools of the Buddhist tradition, such as visualization, to meditate on the exile situation, or as he put it, "use tantra to visualize their diaspora." This sounded a little like Zalman going to some secular Jewish community leaders and telling them they should don tefillin tefillin and daven before deciding how to allocate federation funds. Maybe that isn't a bad idea, but I have a feeling it is unlikely to happen. and daven before deciding how to allocate federation funds. Maybe that isn't a bad idea, but I have a feeling it is unlikely to happen.

Then Zalman scolded the monks as well, advising them to serve as "spiritual uncles" to Tibetan families. He suggested his pet idea of a Pa.s.sover seder as a way of remembering the life of the Buddha. He also proposed that the monks create a new initiation of householders, "Empower them for household puja puja. The question of the householders has to be taken deeply into consideration. You have disenfranchised them."

I wondered if that criticism was fair. Perhaps Zalman was forgetting that there are major householder traditions alive and kicking in Tibetan Buddhism, in sects other than the Dalai Lama's. There are married lamas in the kagyu kagyu lineage-so not all teachers of Tibetan Buddhism are monks. Moreover, the problem may not be as simple as creating new prayers or rituals for the home, or household lineage-so not all teachers of Tibetan Buddhism are monks. Moreover, the problem may not be as simple as creating new prayers or rituals for the home, or household puja puja. The young people in exile, exposed to modern science and secular education, often feel that all religion is superst.i.tion.

I could see Yitz growing increasingly annoyed while Zalman was scolding. Finally he broke in, "We don't want to get a report that you are running for Dalai Lama!" It was the most open moment of tension among the Jews that week.

But Karma Gelek, who represented the official exile government, showed no sign of annoyance. "They are good ideas," he said, "but there is a lack of funds, or there are means but a lack of ideas. There is a brain drain," he added. Some Tibetans had complained to us that their best religious teachers were going to the West and teaching foreigners.

Karma Gelek spoke of a generation gap between those born in Tibet and those born in exile. "It's beautiful in this modern world, they think, so it's easy to forget your history because many people think you are born in this world, one life and that's it. We've been doing this for only thirty years. You are right," he said, addressing Zalman. "The family has a great responsibility. They used to be happy just to send them to any school. Now they ought to think differently. To save our Tibetan freedom by saving our culture. We may have a free Tibet back, but if it's totally different, then I personally would not want it back."

As for monks acting as spiritual uncles, Karma Gelek sounded defensive. Unlike, say, Catholic monks and nuns, there is very little tradition among Tibetan monks for doing social work. Still, Karma Gelek said, "There are many secular works. Whatever they are doing, it's a personal sacrifice. They could stay in the monastery and have a good life."

I came away with a better sense of the real divisions and tensions in the Tibetan exile community-the pressures the Dalai Lama faces on a day-to-day basis. It was one thing to maintain nonviolent ideals in the abstract, another when dealing with nitty-gritty politics and facing strong discontent. Yitz had raised the question of democratizing and renewing religion with the Dalai Lama, and now I was seeing how difficult that task might be. Many young Tibetans born in exile blamed their plight on the failures of the religious leadership.

The secular Tibetans in exile resemble my parents' generation in America, who grew up during the Depression. Both are children of immigrants, eager to a.s.similate into the prevailing culture. Their values include working hard and making it in the material world. Both generations embraced a modern, scientific worldview, turning away from anything that resembled superst.i.tion. They found their ident.i.ty in the exoteric-politics and ethnicity, not inner religious experience.

For instance, I had occasion after my return from India to meet with a geshe geshe living in Canada, who was sent to establish a Tibetan Buddhist temple there. He told me that most of his students were Westerners, that the local Tibetans were too involved with establishing themselves as immigrants to devote themselves to religion. They mainly came to the temple on special holidays, such as the Buddha's birthday. This reminded me of my parent's generation again: the shuls were full to bursting on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, but empty the rest of the year. living in Canada, who was sent to establish a Tibetan Buddhist temple there. He told me that most of his students were Westerners, that the local Tibetans were too involved with establishing themselves as immigrants to devote themselves to religion. They mainly came to the temple on special holidays, such as the Buddha's birthday. This reminded me of my parent's generation again: the shuls were full to bursting on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, but empty the rest of the year.

Obviously, determinedly secular people are tough to reach in any case. But Zalman was asking Tibetan monks like Karma Gelek and Laktor to shoulder unaccustomed burdens at a time when they worried most about simply preserving the tradition.

Tibetans and Jews, and Hindus and Muslims for that matter, all face similar problems of preserving religious traditions in the contemporary world. The zeal to preserve could lead to conflict with others, to violence and war. That was brought home to us dramatically as soon as our meeting with the Tibetan intellectuals broke up.

Tsangpo, our travel guide, came to us with some bad news. While we'd been in dialogues about pluralism, India had plunged into crisis. A group of Hindu fundamentalists was marching on a mosque in Ayodha, in a bordering state southeast of Dharamsala. The Hindu militants claimed the site as the birthplace of Lord Rama. Rajiv Gandhi had predicted two weeks before our arrival that the issue would bring down the government of Prime Minister V. P. Singh, already under pressure due to the violent demonstrations over his affirmative action scheme. These new demonstrations touched on the fear of religious civil war that has hung over Indian politics since independence in 1947.

The demonstration was scheduled for Tuesday, the same day as our planned departure, and the Indian government planned a curfew and restrictions on travel for that day.

The history of Muslim-Hindu relations is full of both extremes: great mutual tolerance and fanaticism. The very recent development of a militant Hindu fundamentalist movement is especially dismaying, because Hinduism has traditionally been one of the most tolerant of world religions.

For me, the whole situation as we discussed it echoed an incident a few weeks earlier on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. There, in a confrontation between Israeli police and Palestinian demonstrators, nineteen Arabs had been killed. That confrontation began when Palestinian worshipers at the Al-Aqsa mosque showered stones and rocks on Jews praying at the Western Wall below them. That stupidity was met by an overreaction on the part of the Israeli police.

Both Muslims and Jews consider the same site, the Temple Mount, to be sacred ground, just as now Muslims and Hindus were claiming the same temple site in Ayodha. The question is, what role should religion play in such conflicts? It seems to me that very often in Israel, religion exacerbates the conflict on both sides. Yet in the deeper, inner core of Judaism, there is a sweeter wisdom that knows better. For instance, Teddy Kollek, the former mayor of Jerusalem, is fond of citing the Orthodox belief that the Third Temple of Jerusalem is not something that can be built by a contractor. Rather, it floats in heaven and will not descend to earth until G.o.d is good and ready. That wisdom could temper the pa.s.sions that would claim holy ground at the cost of human blood.

But a strong case can also be made that organized religion is the problem, not the solution. That in part was Yitz Greenberg's point, that if religion continues to exacerbate conflict and hatred in the world, then religion itself, in his words, "will go down the tubes, and good riddance."

Just to add a little more complexity to the argument, there is the current impa.s.se between the Tibetans and Chinese. In this case there is currently no common religious ground. Once, long ago, when China was a Buddhist country, the Dalai Lama of Tibet was especially respected by the Chinese emperor, so that their relationship was known as "priest and patron." As a result, Chinese armies did not cross over into Tibet, nor Tibetan armies into China.

But since the Chinese Communist revolution in 1949, all that has gone by the board. The Chinese have completely abrogated seven hundred years of mutual respect by simply annexing Tibet militarily. Attempts at negotiation have proven fruitless. From their MarxistLeninist perspective, the Dalai Lama is a feudal leader and the Chinese are simply bringing progress to a backward, superst.i.tious land. The spiritual riches of Tibet are entirely invisible to them, and their concrete manifestation, including six thousand monasteries, have been reduced to rubble, or used as granaries and stables.

Recently, it is true, the Chinese have begun allowing Tibetans to rebuild a few of the monasteries-but mainly so they can be shown to tourists. The Chinese sell tickets for the visits, as in an amus.e.m.e.nt park, and administer the new monasteries under their department of antiquities. They continue to view Tibetan religion as backward superst.i.tion.

So on the one side there is a powerful empire with a purely materialistic ideology backed by an overwhelming military force, and on the other is the Dalai Lama, primarily relying on his spiritual principles and the support he can gain from international public opinion.

I think it is a difficult question whether the Dalai Lama's religious vision is truly adequate to the moment of history he finds himself in. If, for instance, one imagines that in 1947-when Israel was attacked by six Arab armies-that the young state had been led by a mystically minded rabbi, instead of a pragmatic secularist like David Ben-Gurion, the outcome might have been less favorable.

An interesting aside is that David Ben-Gurion studied Buddhism seriously. In 1961, during a visit to Burma, the Israeli leader spent two days in conversation with Burmese monks, and told a biographer that he "got some new insights in talks with U Nu, prime minister of Burma at that time, a scholarly and devout follower of Buddhist moral teachings." Elie Wiesel pa.s.sed on to me further details, which he had on good authority. Ben-Gurion peppered U Nu with questions. Finally the Burmese leader said, "There is a man in Ceylon who is a great teacher, and he can answer your questions."

"What language will we speak?" Ben-Gurion asked.

"What else?" U Nu replied, "Yiddish."

It seems the guru in question was a Jew who had studied Buddhism in Sri Lanka. It's possible he was Nyanoponika Thera, a German Jewish refugee and author who is considered one of the most erudite monks in the Theravadan tradition-yet another major JUBU.

So maybe in exchange with Ben-Gurion, it might be a good idea for the Dalai Lama to study a little Zionism. It's not that I doubted the profundity of Tibetan Buddhism, or its deep consolations for the Dalai Lama's religious followers. Even having lost their land, their temples, and their monasteries, a thorough understanding that the nature of things is impermanence provides them with a powerful acceptance. Yes, Karma Gelek had told us with some pride at a dinner held the night after we'd arrived, "We have been able to reestablish two hundred monasteries in India, Nepal, and Bhutan, and because of the success of establishing monasteries, we don't worry about the disappearance of our culture from the surface of the earth." This intrigued Blu Greenberg, because it seemed to imply that the new could subst.i.tute for the old. She asked if the Tibetans had a concept of "holy s.p.a.ce, sanctified s.p.a.ce," like Jerusalem for the Jews or Rome for the Catholics.

To Karma Gelek, "holy s.p.a.ces are symbols rather than the essence. We don't believe," he said, "in untransportable holy s.p.a.ce."

Karma Gelek said the Dalai Lama had once told a refugee community that "you don't have to worry if everything is destroyed in Tibet-such as thangka thangka paintings or statues of the Buddha-because if a person treasures the real holy thing in himself, he can reproduce the spiritual objects because they come from the spirit within the person." paintings or statues of the Buddha-because if a person treasures the real holy thing in himself, he can reproduce the spiritual objects because they come from the spirit within the person."

This is very beautiful, but I can see where younger militants, such as Lhasang Tsering, might find this approach counterproductive, if the goal is to get back the actual land of Tibet. It's not the kind of religious philosophy that would encourage people to fight for their homeland.

This philosophy would seem to work against a Tibetan Zionism. Karma Gelek indicated that if people fail to stay with the essence of their religion, and instead cling to an exoteric ident.i.ty, or if people mix up their religion with politics, they are themselves the greatest enemies to the survival of the inner meaning of their faith.

Jews have faced such choices again and again in their history, and I don't think there's any single lesson to draw. In the debate between pure idealism and impure action, sometimes the Maccabees have won, and sometimes the hasids hasids or saints. For centuries in Europe accommodation and humility, and a focus on community spiritual life, helped Jews survive. Today the dominant reaction to the Holocaust has been that Jews must fight, must use violence, if necessary, to ensure survival. And now many thoughtful Israelis, such as Paul Mendes-Flohr, worry very much about the effect on young people raised in a life of constant conflict. But only a handful, and they would be considered marginal, would be willing to entrust the fate of Israel solely to G.o.d's hands. or saints. For centuries in Europe accommodation and humility, and a focus on community spiritual life, helped Jews survive. Today the dominant reaction to the Holocaust has been that Jews must fight, must use violence, if necessary, to ensure survival. And now many thoughtful Israelis, such as Paul Mendes-Flohr, worry very much about the effect on young people raised in a life of constant conflict. But only a handful, and they would be considered marginal, would be willing to entrust the fate of Israel solely to G.o.d's hands.

As to our own more immediate fate, Tsangpo, our travel guide, helped us discuss travel alternatives. The railroad was out, too many terrorist attacks. As foreigners, we would be obvious targets. We might be stranded in Dharamsala for a week or so, unless we chartered a plane. Michael Sautman promised to look into it.

Nathan Katz found the political chaos astounding. This was not the India he knew and cherished. He felt there was "a vastly higher level of confrontation and violence, misery. It's a much angrier place than it was twenty years ago, much less charming, much uglier, much more crowded and, paradoxically, less poor."

For that evening, the Tibetans had invited us to dinner and a show in McLeod Ganj. Most declined, already exhausted by the intensity of the past twenty-four hours, but I was game. The buffet-style meal was served outdoors in a long tent. In chilly mountain air, I was able to sample delicacies like hard-boiled eggs cooked in pastry and Kentucky fried yak, as well as my favorite, mo-mos mo-mos-Tibetan kreplach. Then, in a rather rough-hewn auditorium, I saw native Tibetan dances and music-very loud in the horn and cymbals department-with colorful red fringe hats, dragon costumes, and lots of stomping boots. The racket temporarily blasted away all worries and fears.

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 28, TIBETAN CHILDREN'S VILLAGE After Sunday morning prayer and breakfast, we learned from Michael Sautman that a charter plane would not work out. We would leave Dharamsala Monday evening, right after our session with the Dalai Lama, and drive all night, hoping to slip into Delhi ahead of the curfew declared for Tuesday at 7 A.M. A.M.

With that settled, Paul Mendes-Flohr, representing the newly formed Israeli-Tibetan Friendship Society, and Yitz and Blu Greenberg, who serve on the board of the American Jewish World Service, an international relief agency, met with some Tibetan government officials to discuss how Israelis could a.s.sist the Tibetans. One possibility was sending Israeli technicians to help the Tibetans set up a cheese-making business. In a nation that reveres the cow, this technology was not highly developed, and the Tibetans might find a niche among hotels and restaurants that catered to foreigners. The strangeness and specificity of such a connection delighted me. The Tibetans, like the Jews, are able entrepreneurs. Apparently, for instance, because of the rug trade, the Tibetans have become the wealthiest people in Nepal. Some have joked that they are the Jews of the East.

After lunch we drove beyond McLeod Ganj to the Tibetan Children's Village, a large orphanage complex with a school and a handicrafts center. For many years the orphanage had been run under the watchful eye of the Dalai Lama's younger sister, Jetsun Pema. The kids live in crowded conditions, in small cottages sponsored by various international relief agencies. The Catholic charities have been especially helpful. Each cottage houses twenty or more kids supervised by a Tibetan couple. We toured a group nursery for infants and toddlers, and Blu Greenberg, a Jewish mother to the core, fussed that all the children were not washing their hands after going to the bathroom.

But though the conditions were crowded and difficult and the Tibetans could certainly use more help, the children I saw were bright and cheerful. I'd brought a Polaroid camera and took several pictures of smiling groups in front of their cottages, which I gave to them for keepsakes. Especially in the early years of exile, many of the adults got sick due to the harsh conditions of life in India. Yet even thirty years later, a new generation of refugees continues to make its way to Dharamsala. Sometimes Tibetan mothers will make the arduous trip out of faith, to leave some of their children to be raised under the guidance of His Holiness. Some children make the trip themselves. I met a young man of sixteen working in the shipping department of the handicrafts center at TCV. As he wrapped a handmade Tibetan carpet in paper and tied it up, he told me of his journey by foot at the age of twelve over the Himalayas and into India. He had left with the blessing of his family. He told me he preferred life here in the orphanage under the care of the Dalai Lama to living under the Chinese. He hoped eventually to go on to college.

His cheerfulness, and the rather matter-of-fact way he related what must have been an incredibly arduous and dangerous journey, reminded me of my father's father-who as a young man left the Russian Pale for America.

That evening we were entertained by a show in the orphanage's auditorium. The pageantry combined East and West-a group of sixyear-olds sang a patriotic song at the end of which a banner bearing an image of the Dalai Lama was unfurled and confetti was thrown. An adolescent girl gave an impressive recitation of a Gilbert and Sullivan number. The children at TCV study in Tibetan for grades one through five and then switch to English for secondary education, in order to prepare themselves for Indian society. There are no Tibetan universities in exile.

These young Tibetans face a formidable challenge, and for Jews, a familiar one: mastering Western culture while staying in touch with their traditional religious roots. That is why, in a nutsh.e.l.l, I think transmitting Tibetan Buddhism to this new generation will be difficult.

Yet leaving the village that evening, I felt more hopeful than I had all day. The tremendous energy, intelligence, and enthusiasm of these children was inspiring. For the near future, survival will continue to be the first priority. But those children are the hope of Tibet in exile, and feeling their energy gave me reason to hope too.

14.

An Interview with the Oracle.

MONDAY, OCTOBER 29, LIBRARY OF TIBETAN WORKS AND ARCHIVES-NECHUNG ORACLE.

I've always been intrigued by the oracle of Delphi, which plays such an important role in the myth of Oedipus and in the life story of Socrates. Though Delphi is in ruins and the oracle is no more, I like the idea of a terminal where messages can be received from realms beyond this one, a cosmic telephone.

Throughout the ancient world, oracles were a rather ordinary feature of most cults. Ancient Israel had an oracular tradition, too, a.s.sociated with the functions of the high priest. The ancient oracles are no more, but the Tibetans have preserved the inst.i.tution for the past thirteen hundred years. The Nechung is perhaps the world's last official state oracle.

In his recent autobiography, the Dalai Lama explains that "it has been traditional for the Dalai Lama and the Government to consult Nechung during the New Year festivals. I myself have dealings with him several times a year. This may sound far-fetched to twentieth-century Western readers. Even some Tibetans, mostly those who consider themselves progressive, have misgivings about my continued use of this ancient method of intelligence gathering. But I do so for the simple reason that as I look back over the many occasions when I have asked questions of the oracle, on each one of them time has proved that his answer was correct." The Dalai Lama describes the deities of the oracle as his upper house, while the Kas.h.a.g Kas.h.a.g, or exile cabinet, is his lower house. He likes to consult both for important government decisions. And, in fact, the oracle played a role in his decision to flee Tibet in 1959.

If Sat.u.r.day afternoon and Sunday had been devoted to the pragmatics of exile-summer camp and children's schools and cheese making-our last morning in Dharamsala before meeting with the Dalai Lama was an intense reminder of all that is most exotic in Tibetan culture. Keeping in mind Nathan Katz's definition of history as what we choose choose to remember, we would soon remember the magical side of our own religion. In visiting a temple, a monastery, a library of ancient books-and, above all, in talking to the medium of an oracle-one had the sense of a living reality that contemporary Judaism has long repressed, the way a certain smell has the power to stir a memory from long ago. to remember, we would soon remember the magical side of our own religion. In visiting a temple, a monastery, a library of ancient books-and, above all, in talking to the medium of an oracle-one had the sense of a living reality that contemporary Judaism has long repressed, the way a certain smell has the power to stir a memory from long ago.

A very pleasant smell, in fact, sifted through the courtyard of the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, where an old peasant woman, in the traditional chuba chuba, stood before a fire and heaped branches of pine needles upon it in some private devotion. (As I traveled up and down the narrow roads of Dharamsala, I often met groups of refugees, usually older people, dressed in traditional chubas chubas, though a few details were distinctly Western, such as one older gentleman whirling a prayer wheel and wearing a Nike baseball cap and sneakers.) Quietly sitting under a street lamp, a monk in maroon robes studied a text and nodded as he read, deep in thought. He could have been a Jerusalem shopkeeper, studying a daf daf [page] of Talmud between customers. It reminded me that Dharamsala, as the home of the Dalai Lama, is a place of pilgrimage, a holy city. Yitz Greenberg had compared it to Yavneh, where the rabbis of the Roman era regrouped. But that morning as we entered the courtyard of the library, I thought more of Safed, the town in northern Israel where the great kabbalists of the Sephardic world took retreat after the expulsion from Spain. Safed is also on a mountain, a town of synagogues and prayer and study, and once the home of the great kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria, the master who infused the mainstream of Judaism with a mystical spirit. [page] of Talmud between customers. It reminded me that Dharamsala, as the home of the Dalai Lama, is a place of pilgrimage, a holy city. Yitz Greenberg had compared it to Yavneh, where the rabbis of the Roman era regrouped. But that morning as we entered the courtyard of the library, I thought more of Safed, the town in northern Israel where the great kabbalists of the Sephardic world took retreat after the expulsion from Spain. Safed is also on a mountain, a town of synagogues and prayer and study, and once the home of the great kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria, the master who infused the mainstream of Judaism with a mystical spirit.

I could almost imagine this old woman wearing a shawl and lighting Sabbath candles instead of pine branches. I tried to catch her eye, but she was intent on the fire. The blue smoke rose with a sweet smell, curling up into the mountain air. With her heavily lined face and intense devotion, she seemed an icon of the past.

We were met in the library by an icon of the present, a young a.s.sistant director in a sports jacket who guided us through an exhibit of religious artifacts: precious thangkas thangkas, beautiful gold-painted Buddhas with eleven heads facing in all directions. It was all art to us, but folded rupee notes and flowers left at various shrines reminded us that for the Buddhists this was not only a museum but a holy place of veneration as well.

Alex Berzin had joined us to serve as translator, and because we'd come to know him, our detailed questions about the Tibetan artifacts started going to him instead of to our official guide. The young Tibetan grew furious and said sharply, "Since you have him to answer, you don't need me" and turned on his heels. We were taken aback, but Alex simply paused and then continued to answer our questions.

Blu Greenberg told me later she thought the anger was healthy. "As a group the Buddhists are exceptionally low-anger people. But I was really happy for that little flash in the museum. That was a bit of normalcy that I'm sure exists under other layers, a normalcy of anger and pique. My reading of history and human nature, there's gotta be some anger. All love without any relief-although that's a very strange way to say it-is not realistic."

I suppose it depends on what you meant by realistic. Blu evidently saw anger as a natural emotion that ought not be suppressed. Tibetan Buddhism proposes that anger is a defilement and that what we in the West call "love" is the real nature of the mind. In that sense, love is realistic-not anger. Judaism traditionally does make more allowances for anger than Mahayana Buddhism. Still it's interesting to compare Maimonides, the great Jewish medieval thinker, to Shantideva, an eighth-century Hindu formulator of Mahayana who is revered by the Tibetans.

Shantideva, in his Guide to the Bodhisattva's Way of Life Guide to the Bodhisattva's Way of Life, writes, "Whatever wholesome deeds, such as venerating the Buddhas, and generosity / That have been ama.s.sed over a thousand aeons / Will all be de stroyed in one moment of anger." Maimonides in his Mishneh Torah Mishneh Torah writes, "The ancient sages said, 'He who is angry-it is the same as if he worshiped idols.' They also said, 'One who yields to anger-if he is a sage, his wisdom departs from him; if he is a prophet, his prophetic gift departs from him.' Those of an irate disposition-their life is not worth living." writes, "The ancient sages said, 'He who is angry-it is the same as if he worshiped idols.' They also said, 'One who yields to anger-if he is a sage, his wisdom departs from him; if he is a prophet, his prophetic gift departs from him.' Those of an irate disposition-their life is not worth living."

What had prompted the short outburst from the guide in the first place was Zalman Schachter's questions about a five-foot-high wooden model displayed in a gla.s.s case. Painstakingly constructed in the nearby craft workshops, this model was a three-dimensional version of the more familiar diagram, or mandala, used in Tibetan Buddhist meditation practices. The mandala, or "circle" in Sanskrit, is used to focus the mind and to visualize Buddhist deities and doctrines. Some mandalas represent in visual form the layout of the universe and the human position within it. For instance, a very familiar mandala represents the wheel of samsara, the cycle of events that lead to rebirth. In general, a mandala is a reality map, a visualization of the universe. The kabbalistic equivalent would be the four worlds Zalman had presented and the sefirot sefirot that form their substructure. that form their substructure.

But if the more familiar two-dimensional mandalas are a map or blueprint of consciousness, this remarkable model in the museum was a very elaborate three-dimensional representation in the form of a temple. Courtyards surround a palace whose inner room contains a throne where the deity is imagined as sitting. In general practice the meditator, by focusing on a two-dimensional mandala, would be able to create this three-dimensional temple in his or her own imagination and walk through it. As Alex Berzin explained it, I could imagine the concentration and focus that would come from the visualization practice. For a thousand years, Tibetans have been perfecting such mental discipline, which in the West belongs mostly to the ancient world, such as the memory theaters of the Greek and Roman orators. Tibetan scholar and translator Robert Thurman, who would join us that afternoon, would characterize the Tibetan monasteries as "factories of consciousness."

To Zalman Schachter the 3-D mandala recalled the lost art of merkavah merkavah meditation, of "descending to the chariot" -the earliest technique of Jewish meditation we know anything about. Unfortunately, we don't know enough. It was believed to have been practiced by some rabbinic sages in the circle of Yochanan ben Zakkai, and later by the second-century sage and martyr Rabbi Akiva. The practice was based on a study of the Book of Ezekiel, a topic generally known as meditation, of "descending to the chariot" -the earliest technique of Jewish meditation we know anything about. Unfortunately, we don't know enough. It was believed to have been practiced by some rabbinic sages in the circle of Yochanan ben Zakkai, and later by the second-century sage and martyr Rabbi Akiva. The practice was based on a study of the Book of Ezekiel, a topic generally known as maaseh merkavah maaseh merkavah or "the work of the chariot." The text of Ezekiel was interpreted so as to provide instructions for others to have the same visionary experience as the prophet. The Talmud tells us that Yochanan ben Zakkai was asked to give a teaching on the or "the work of the chariot." The text of Ezekiel was interpreted so as to provide instructions for others to have the same visionary experience as the prophet. The Talmud tells us that Yochanan ben Zakkai was asked to give a teaching on the maaseh merkavah maaseh merkavah and that he complied. Unfortunately, the teaching was not recorded. In fact such teaching was severely restricted. But apparently, through intense visualization and the repet.i.tion of Hebrew mantras, the meditator journeyed to heaven and G.o.d's throne-and received visions and revelations. Only fragments and traces of the technique are left, such as an intriguing warning in the Talmud, "When you come to the stones of pure marble, say not Water Water" (Babylonian Talmud Hagiga 14B). Gershom Scholem had interpreted this to mean that when traveling to the throne, one would eventually arrive at a place of glittering tiles, and that if one made the mistake of saying the wrong pa.s.sword-Water, Water-one would be flung from the heavens back down to earth. Indeed, the entire trip to the higher realms was fraught with danger, such as encounters with guardian demons. So much so that the abiding att.i.tude in the Talmud was negative toward such meditation, as most often leading the meditator to apostasy, madness, and death-an att.i.tude that still strongly marks the mainstream Jewish view of the esoteric. and that he complied. Unfortunately, the teaching was not recorded. In fact such teaching was severely restricted. But apparently, through intense visualization and the repet.i.tion of Hebrew mantras, the meditator journeyed to heaven and G.o.d's throne-and received visions and revelations. Only fragments and traces of the technique are left, such as an intriguing warning in the Talmud, "When you come to the stones of pure marble, say not Water Water" (Babylonian Talmud Hagiga 14B). Gershom Scholem had interpreted this to mean that when traveling to the throne, one would eventually arrive at a place of glittering tiles, and that if one made the mistake of saying the wrong pa.s.sword-Water, Water-one would be flung from the heavens back down to earth. Indeed, the entire trip to the higher realms was fraught with danger, such as encounters with guardian demons. So much so that the abiding att.i.tude in the Talmud was negative toward such meditation, as most often leading the meditator to apostasy, madness, and death-an att.i.tude that still strongly marks the mainstream Jewish view of the esoteric.

But Zalman Schachter, an experienced Jewish meditator, was not afraid to speculate. He hoped a group of highly trained tantric meditators would collaborate with their Jewish counterparts in spiritual archaeology. The Tibetans, based on their own tradition, could help make sense of the sc.r.a.ps and fragments of the merkavah merkavah tradition that remain. tradition that remain.

In Jewish life today, the mystical is either ignored or consigned to a distant superst.i.tious past. And there is, at least popularly, a strongly felt dichotomy between what is considered the rational or reasonable aspects of religion and the mystical. This reflects the generally materialistic and scientistic worldview in the West.

As a result we tend to read our Jewish history as though the great rabbinic sages were pure rationalists, or dry legalists. While the rabbinic sages were cautious about esoteric experiences, that very caution shows they evidently viewed merkavah merkavah meditation as a very powerful, even if possibly dangerous, practice. The same Rabbi Akiva who was a great second-century Tanna, or codifier, of Talmud was also a pract.i.tioner of meditation as a very powerful, even if possibly dangerous, practice. The same Rabbi Akiva who was a great second-century Tanna, or codifier, of Talmud was also a pract.i.tioner of merkavah merkavah meditation. The two activities were intrinsic to each other because the rabbinic sages drew on their visionary experiences to interpret Torah. meditation. The two activities were intrinsic to each other because the rabbinic sages drew on their visionary experiences to interpret Torah.

Likewise, Rabbi Isaac Luria of sixteenth-century Safed, is considered by Orthodox Jews to be both a great Talmudic authority and a great kabbalist. So was another member of his circle, Rabbi Joseph Karo. He is known primarily today as the compiler of the Shulkhan Arukh Shulkhan Arukh (The set table)-the everyday practical handbook of Jewish law for the Orthodox. But this same Joseph Karo had regular communications with a (The set table)-the everyday practical handbook of Jewish law for the Orthodox. But this same Joseph Karo had regular communications with a maggid maggid, or heavenly spirit, who produced automatic speech that came out of Karo's mouth. In other words, Joseph Karo was, in effect, both a codifier of Jewish law and an oracular medium-like the Tibetan monk we were going to visit later that morning. All of this history shows that the present gulf between rational and mystical, or between legalistic and magical, has not always been a feature of Jewish life. It is rather an artifact of an extreme rationalism.

These days, most of the research in Dharamsala involves preserving and translating texts, and this is where the Tibetan exile most resembles the activities of the sopherim sopherim, the scribes of the Jewish elite during the Babylonian exile. Jews like Alex Berzin and Ruth Sonam find this activity very congenial. They are among about a hundred resident scholars working at the library, which contains more than forty thousand original Tibetan books. The library has also published more than two hundred volumes of Tibetan works translated into English.

We visited a small office-a treasure house of rare Tibetan ma.n.u.scripts, many carefully smuggled out of Tibet over the past thirty years and now lovingly preserved and studied by the scholars and monks. The Tibetan ma.n.u.scripts, written on oblong parchment or palm leaves and wrapped in bright orange cloths, resemble loaves of bread on the shelves. An old monk showed us a precious ma.n.u.script from the eleventh century, its black parchment inscribed with alternating lines of gold and silver ink. Zalman Schachter noted that, as on Hebrew scrolls, very delicate guidelines were traced for the letters. The Jews and Tibetans share a reverence for the ancient written word. Nathan Katz pointed out that, just as Jews distinguish between Torah and Talmud, the Tibetans wrapped those sutras taken as the authentic word of the Buddha in orange cloth, and the commentaries in yellow cloth. Marc Lieberman, a distinguished eye surgeon when not shepherding Jews through the lands of the Buddha, reminded us that the words sutra sutra and and sutures sutures have the same root. The sutras are "threads" of discourse. have the same root. The sutras are "threads" of discourse.

In the session held in New Jersey, the Dalai Lama had examined the Torah scroll very closely, remarking on how it was sewn together. The traditional Tibetan Buddhist book is a pile of palm leaves laid flat one on top of the other and tied in a loose bundle. These days, the texts are printed on slabs of orange paper-I'd bought one as a souvenir near Thekchen Choeling.

The Nechung monastery is a short walk away and before meeting with the kuten kuten, the monk who currently serves as the medium of the Nechung oracle, we made a brief tour of the monastery temple, where young monks were busy practicing their rituals. The fruity aroma of Tibetan incense thickened the air and the young monks sat in facing rows in lotus positions, reciting in unison from a text in their laps, the whole time banging on drums and cymbals and blasting away on the thugchen thugchen, or long horns, which had the deep resonance of tugboats in mourning. I heard in them the continuous blast of the shofar on a Rosh Hashana morning-a mighty and extended tekiah gedolah tekiah gedolah-and the purpose was somehow the same, a spiritual wake-up call. At one level it worked: the young monks, coc.o.o.ned in that sound, ignored us completely as we threaded through the shrine, examining the colorful b.u.t.ter sculptures of Buddhas and saints and miniature temples, beneath which heaps of bananas and other fruit were presented as offerings. (Later the young monks could eat them for lunch.) In an adjacent shrine room we saw the fierce protector deities in all their multiskulled wrath, eyeb.a.l.l.s bulging with the fierce rage of cutting through illusion with the diamond edge of the truth. I saw as well the sacred yabyum statuette, the union of Wisdom and Method represented daringly as s.e.xual intercourse between a fierce deity and a lithe dakini dakini, or G.o.ddess. It was hard to conceive what this might mean to a celibate monk, that the very highest mysteries of his religion would be portrayed in such a way. It struck me at first as outrageous and fantastic, but then I tried the trick of translating myself into a Tibetan and walking through the great churches and cathedrals of the West. There I would encounter, as the most common sacred symbol to meditate upon, the wounded and tortured body of a dying Jew. Was that any less strange? Having stabilized my thought with this mental exercise, my deepest layer remained strongly anti-idolatrous. To me, no image at all seems best. One of the holiest places I have ever been to is the Al Aqsa mosque on the Jerusalem Temple Mount-a very large temple completely devoid of symbols and representations.

We marched back through the temple, past the young chanting monks. They were mostly impa.s.sive, maybe bored, and reminded me of nothing so much as myself at the same age, getting through a late afternoon in Hebrew school.

The kuten kuten was a different matter. He sat at the head of a conference table and received us with grace and aplomb, though with a certain reserve around the eyes that made it believable that he was occupied by other spirits and deities from time to time. was a different matter. He sat at the head of a conference table and received us with grace and aplomb, though with a certain reserve around the eyes that made it believable that he was occupied by other spirits and deities from time to time. Kuten Kuten means "physical basis"-his body is on sacred occasions the home of Dorje Drakden, a protector divinity of the Dalai Lama. means "physical basis"-his body is on sacred occasions the home of Dorje Drakden, a protector divinity of the Dalai Lama.

Yet that morning he was our genial host, serving us sugar cookies and tea in large white cups and politely answering our questions. I sensed, too, the somewhat uneasy position he held-in some ways one of immense authority-as an advisor to the Dalai Lama, and yet also a simple monk in the Nechung monastery, under the watchful eye of his abbot, an older man who sometimes answered on the monk's behalf.

The kuten kuten explained that he had met with other Buddhists, with Hindus, Christians, and Muslims, but we were the first Jewish group to visit him and that we were very welcome. We got down to bra.s.s tacks quickly, and his answers were equally direct. Being possessed by a dragon-headed deity was simply a reality, like the tea in our cups. explained that he had met with other Buddhists, with Hindus, Christians, and Muslims, but we were the first Jewish group to visit him and that we were very welcome. We got down to bra.s.s tacks quickly, and his answers were equally direct. Being possessed by a dragon-headed deity was simply a reality, like the tea in our cups.

Alex, serving as translater, told us that "the previous medium of the oracle pa.s.sed away in 1984 and for three years there was no medium. Everybody was saying many prayers for the oracle to manifest. So prayers were said by His Holiness and people here and in various monasteries. Then in 1987 just automatically the oracle went into him."

Moshe Waldoks wanted more details. Alex continued to translate: "It was March 31, 1987, the second day of a Tibetan month, a special day each year when the abbots come together from Drepung monastery. There's always a special request for the oracle to appear on that day. All the abbots had come together, and as one of the monks here he was at the ceremony as well. Then, just all of a sudden, he had a very strong, electrical-like feeling within him. He pa.s.sed out, had no consciousness. The oracle was speaking through him."

Zalman asked, "Is it one ent.i.ty that comes through or different kinds of ent.i.ties using him as a voice?"

"Actually the oracle is a set of five figures, the heads of the five Buddha families, and this group of figures has one figure within them which is the collection of the essence of them, and this is the main oracle that speaks through him."

Marc Lieberman asked if the oracle spoke in a special language. It was explained that "in older times the oracle mostly spoke in very elegant poetry. These days, he speaks more in a colloquial language."

With all that traffic coming through his body, I wondered what the physical effects were. I'd read descriptions of the moment of possession from the Dalai Lama's recent autobiography. "The kuten kuten's face transforms...puffing up to give him an altogether strange appearance, with bulging eyes and swollen cheeks. His breathing begins to shorten and he starts to hiss violently. Then, momentarily, his respiration stops. At this point the helmet is tied in place with a knot so tight that it would undoubtedly strangle the kuten kuten if something very real were not happening." He leaps about, grabbing a ritual sword, bowing to the Dalai Lama until his heavy helmet touches the ground, then springs back up. "The volcanic energy of the deity can barely be contained within the earthly frailty of the if something very real were not happening." He leaps about, grabbing a ritual sword, bowing to the Dalai Lama until his heavy helmet touches the ground, then springs back up. "The volcanic energy of the deity can barely be contained within the earthly frailty of the kuten kuten, who moves and gestures as if his body were made of rubber and driven by a coiled spring of enormous power."

The oracle is questioned and, as surprising as it may seem, the replies are "rarely vague." But as soon as Dorje Drakden has finished speaking, the kuten kuten collapses into a "rigid and lifeless form." collapses into a "rigid and lifeless form."

I wondered if the physical effects of such trance states were longlasting (because to me the kuten kuten appeared somewhat haggard for his age). Alex translated his answer, "Physically it's very strenuous. Before the oracle enters into him, he feels a great deal of painful energy in his body, then he has no memory at all. When he's finished, he pa.s.ses out and after that for several hours he has a great deal of pain in the chest." appeared somewhat haggard for his age). Alex translated his answer, "Physically it's very strenuous. Before the oracle enters into him, he feels a great deal of painful energy in his body, then he has no memory at all. When he's finished, he pa.s.ses out and after that for several hours he has a great deal of pain in the chest."

To Zalman Schachter this called to mind the prophet Daniel, And I Daniel alone saw the vision...and there remained no strength in me; for my comeliness was turned in me into corruption...when I heard the voice of his words, then was I fallen into a deep sleep on my face, with my face toward the ground.

In his written report on the dialogue, Zalman would even suggest that we look into how to train a Jewish oracle. For now, he explained to the kuten kuten that he had his counterpart in the high priest. that he had his counterpart in the high priest.

"In our tradition at one time the high priest would wear a breastplate. On it were twelve stones and in the stones the letters of the alphabet were engraved. When we had a question, not for private individuals, but for the welfare of the nation, under certain circ.u.mstances we asked the oracle and received an answer."

Precisely how the Jewish oracle worked is a matter of some question among rabbis and scholars. The first-century C.E. C.E. Jewish historian Josephus, writing in his Jewish historian Josephus, writing in his Antiquities of the Jews Antiquities of the Jews, explained that "by those twelve stones which the high priest bare on his breast...inserted into his breastplate," G.o.d would declare beforehand when the Jews "should be victorious in battle: for so great a splendour shone forth from them before the army began to march, that all the people were sensible of G.o.d's being present for their a.s.sistance.... Now this breastplate, and this sardonyx, left off shining two hundred years before I composed this book...."

In Talmudic accounts, the jewels on the breastplate are inscribed with the names of the tribes, and through a light shining on them, various combinations of letters are projected and combined. But also a.s.sociated with the breastpiece are the urim urim and and thummim thummim-the mysterious Hebrew words inscribed today on the seal of Yale University and mentioned in Exodus 28:15-30 and Leviticus 8:8. According to scholars, the urim urim and and thummim thummim were lots-possibly marked sticks or stones-that were held in a pouch behind the breastpiece. Yes or no questions were answered by pulling out the objects- were lots-possibly marked sticks or stones-that were held in a pouch behind the breastpiece. Yes or no questions were answered by pulling out the objects-urim for no, for no, thummim thummim for yes. for yes.

All of this oracular technology, as Josephus remarks, was lost a long time ago-the last biblical mention of consultation of the oracle is at the time of King David. The oracular role pa.s.sed on to the prophets of Israel. And when the line of the prophets died out, visions and revelations came through the rabbis, through merkavah merkavah meditation and other meditative practices. meditation and other meditative practices.

The biblical references to the oracle are brief. When Joshua succeeds Moses, he is instructed to "stand before Eleazar the priest, who shall inquire for him by the judgment of the Urim before the Lord" (Num. 27:21). The last reference is 1 Samuel 23:9. David consults Abiathar the priest and receives helpful intelligence about an upcoming battle with King Saul.

Similarly, the Dalai Lama has received specific political intelligence and practical advice from the Nechung oracle. Two years before the Chinese invasion, the oracle warned that in 1950, the Year of the Iron Tiger, Tibet would face great danger. Later, Dorje Drakden, the oracular spirit, advised the Dalai Lama to go to India in 1956 and make his first contacts with Nehru, which proved to be an important political move. And in 1958 the oracle is said to have prophesied the Dalai Lama's flight: "In this great river where there is no ford, I, Spirit, have the method to place a wooden boat."

Neither biblical nor rabbinic Judaism ever denied the existence of oracles, prophecies, dream visions, or other communications. Rather, the rabbis applied a rather practical test for authenticity. A prophet is only real if his prophecies come true.