Slouching Towards…

slouching towards bethlehem

This week my sense of equilibrium gave way as I read the news of violence from downtown Portland with Left and Right Wing groups clashing together with weapons and angry words. Last week, two men were killed defending a woman in a Hijab from a white supremacist who spoke of his free speech and right to violence–going so far as to say he hoped his victims died. A couple days later, a similar incident occurred on the MAX with another Right Wing individual screaming for his freedom of speech while beating the conductor. People on the train subdued the man and released him to the cops when they arrived. I understand why the Left responded with violence. I understand that the Right believes they are being marginalized while marginalizing people on the Left. People on the Left have legitimate fear because people on the Right do carry out their hatred. I live in that fear on the Southside of Indianapolis where people such as myself can be accosted in Jesus’ name without any consequence. I grew to hate them. I grew to hate Trump. I grew to hate anyone under the name of Christian and/or Republican because that’s who beat me and ostracize me. I roared. I flashed my education. I humiliated them with my scholarship. I felt powerful as I browbeat my oppressors. For the moment, I felt that warm feeling of catharsis sliding down my bones. The feeling was like the bliss of heroin after the asprin drip in the back of the throat had dissipated, but then there was the rush of pain after the come down. Trump was still in control. Straight, white Christians were still in power, and nothing changed. In my mind, I always had Portland. My return to the northwest is in the works. Nothing soon. A few years, maybe. I want to return because I remember the feelings of peace and acceptance. When I read the news all my illusions were exposed as childish fantasies, and I realized I am in the middle of a W.B. Yeats poem.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst   
Are full of passionate intensity.

When Yeats penned these words he saw the effects of World War I. The old ways of God and country  mixed with technology unleashed a cruelty never before imagined by anyone. Machine guns ripped apart bodies on smokey European fields, and soldiers doubled over in a fetal position as they wretched their last breath from mustard gas. There was no glory, there was no honor, and if God were there “he” already skipped town because we were too much to handle. In those dangerous days people thought, from their literal understanding of biblical prophecy, that Jesus’ return was imminent. That he would descend upon his white horse to slay the wicked with the sword pouring out his mouth. For Yeats that would have been a double tragedy. Twenty centuries of Christianity brought about The Great War, and now the image of the problem is the solution? That is too much to handle.

Where was the redemption promised? Where was that abundant life Jesus spoke about to his disciples? Almost a century after Yeats, and I can point out the effects of those promises as executed by the political leaders who look to Jesus as their example. Children deprived of education, the poor deprived of food stamps so they can eat, Flint, MI and the contaminated water, attacking Muslims, attacking immigrants of color, attacking LGBT, attacking transgender, oppressing women, Rich men creating wars so the poor can die to increase their bank accounts, and so on and so forth. There are Christians who will say these leaders who promote such ideas are not real Christians, but these people read from the same bible. Doctrine is not about following the example of Jesus but a healthy mixture of money and charisma. What is sad is these examples aren’t new today, nor were they new a century ago. Yes, right now the end of the world feels imminent because Donald Trump and his colleagues seem hell bent on destroying the world so they can be comfortable in the few years they have remaining, and I hear Christians calling out “Maranatha! Come, Lord Jesus!” The body of Christ here on earth has already done considerable damage. What improvement would the head bring?

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   
The darkness drops again; but now I know   
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Though, I feel the same trepidation as Yeats, I am weary. Violence and insults come from both sides hurled towards the other, and I have done more than my fair share contributing to the violence in the world. I have not shown love, but fear, loathing, condescension, and smugness towards those on the Right. In the beginning I had a good reason. While they felt threatened by my presence and my questions, I never struck them or slandered them while justifying myself with God’s grace. Had they never hit me–figuratively and literally–I would not have felt the desire to retaliate. My response is not on them. I made the choice to sneer and belittle, but they are not completely innocent in the matter. While the Right introduced suffering to me from their words and actions, I exacerbated my suffering and theirs when I responded likewise. Though the Right is motivated by their understanding of Jesus, I take that understanding of Jesus and spit upon their faith as savage and childish. An eye for an eye until the whole world is blind. Looking to myself as one example, I see a similar patterns occurring between the Right and the Left in Portland and the rest of the country. No one group is better than the other no matter how they spin their rhetoric. Both sides perpetuate the violence, and somebody, regardless of who, needs to stop and say, “The violence ends with me.”
Is there something new imminent, or will the coming of Jesus only make matters worse? If that is the case, he can stay in Heaven because whatever this is, that he started, isn’t working. The magi crawled under the bright conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter proclaiming the arrival of the messiah to the people of God in Jerusalem. All of Jerusalem shook with fear, and their nerves were calmed with the blood of children Herod slaughtered to protect his throne. Today we don’t have Herod, we have Trump who has the support of Evangelical leaders, Catholic leaders, and more than half of their respective churches. The religious establishment that killed toddlers for political stability had Moses and The Prophets, but today the religious establishment destroys the innocent in the name of Jesus. Something isn’t working. Is it Jesus, is it the church, or is it both? If, indeed, the end is upon us, I shudder to think what will be born. For the time being each one of us, on both sides of the cultural spectrum, can, at the very least, stop responding with hate. We’re wearing ourselves out slouching towards whatever end awaits us.

 

 

Following Jack

Sunday was a lucky day for me. Ronnie and one of our friends spent time at our apartment to have a girl’s day. The original plan was to hang out with another friend, but he was otherwise incapacitated so I opted to go to the north side to Half Price Books to search for my more books by and on Jack Kerouac. There are four Half Price Books in Indianapolis—one on the south side, two on the north side (Castleton and 86th & Ditch), and another in Avon. I prefer the Half Price in Castleton because they have free coffee, and a quality selection of literature and Jazz. What I wanted to do at the bookstore was to sit, drink coffee, read a few books before buying them, and get in a little writing. Unfortunately, Half Price was busy with people lounging at the tables. No bother. There are plenty of coffee shops to go to, one of them a Starbucks one block east of the store. I found Stephen Eddington’s  The Beat Face of God: The Beat Generation Writers as Spiritual Guides and On the Road the original scroll with four essays of brilliant literary criticism. I have a On the Road based on the original scroll, but I had loaned it out to a friend who also enjoys the writings of Kerouac. I texted him to let him know he could keep the book as a gift. I think the 1957 Viking publication of On the Road too tame and did not say what Jack wanted. When Kerouac first wrote the book in 1951, he spent three weeks of all-nighters tapping out his story on a scroll so his thought would not be interrupted by the changing of paper. When told he would have to edit and revise, Kerouac, with his right index finger in the air proclaimed, “This was dictated by the Holy Ghost!” like an Old Testament Prophet. Having read both versions of the story, I am inclined to agree with Kerouac.

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With Eddington’s book, I felt like I hit the literary jackpot because this is the kind of criticism I should have written for my senior thesis on Dharma Bums. While keeping up with my regular academic load, I researched Jack Kerouac, The Beats, the political and religious culture of the United States, and, the protagonist’s, Ray Smith, role as a spiritual wanderer to support my claim that Dharma Bums, though published in 1958, was still relevant to 21st century spiritual seekers. Eddington made the remark that On the Road is the gospel for the modern world, and I agree. For many Christians I know they rely on the four gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, to point them to Jesus. For me my four gospels are, On the Road, Dharma Bums, Desolation Angels, and Big Sur pointing to the wilderness to look for the God who left the churches seeking honest hearts.

For the introduction of Eddington’s work, David Amram, who was a friend of Kerouac, noted how Kerouac was at peace with his Catholic background even though he stopped going to mass at the age of twelve. The reason he stopped had to do with the hypocrisy of the Church, and its control issues. The control wasn’t about the people, though that did play a significant part, but controlling God—going so far as to tame this God into a bland New England boil. I have similar objections with my refusal to go to mass. The doctrine of Republican Christianity has infected the holy faith and tainted the host. Every Mass has become an act of sacrilege. My last Mass was just before the election at St. Jude’s off Thompson & MacFarland where, in a sanctuary packed with white people, the priest roared about the persecution of Christians in this country, and how the laity needed to galvanize and impose their faith on everyone. I was done. The other Catholic Churches I went to in Indy shared similar sentiments, or talked about playing nice with Trump and his supporters. At the moment in the Mass where Christ descends upon the altar becoming the host we Catholics imbibe to be his image to a world searching for peace, he skipped the altar and ran out of the sanctuary.

I have been in a state of dissonance ever since I walked away from Mass, and I’ve been fighting that tension at every turn. I exacerbated this internal struggle when I threw out everything connected to Christianity, including God, but I am no more at peace than when I sat in the pews encumbered by robed Trump acolytes. The reality is, and I am loathe to say it, is I am still very much a Catholic who cares deeply about the image and message of Jesus, the Blessed Mother, and Holy Mother Church. Kerouac didn’t waste his energy bashing the negative behavior of The Church, but sought God’s face in everyday life while wandering. Perhaps, I should as well. Like Kerouac, and many others who were of similar mind, I am a displaced Christian. Alan Watts in his essay “Beat Zen, Square Zen, and Zen,” talked about these Christians who desire to be like Jesus but lack the tools and examples in a Christianity whose adherents make the company man with the grey flannel suit synonymous with being a good Christian. That spirituality chews life into a gnarled mush spitting it on the ground. Where is that abundant life that Jesus talked about in The Gospel according to St. John? That life is overshadowed by waving American flags and hate pouring out from red clean shaven faces like sweat on the pulpit. It’s one thing to acknowledge this lack of life, but it is quite another thing to remain in the pew with constant complaints. The better option is to get up and leave the building, and finding God for yourself. Waiting for Godot in the church is an act of futility because “he” will not set foot in a church anymore. God can be found in the homeless face, the child’s laughter, the open flower, and the transparent artist. God is found on the road with a rucksack strapped to “his back” looking for anyone who wants to meet “him” in spirit and in truth.

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The way Kerouac came to peace with his own faith background was through the teachings of the Buddha which he came across by accident. One of his favorite American writers was Henry David Thoreau who daily read the Bhagavad Gita, the holy scriptures of Hinduism, and the basis for Thoreau’s writing. Kerouac wanted to tap into the same spirit as Thoreau, but instead found the Buddha. Kerouac’s discovery of The Buddha was serendipitous and answered the questions of his sensitive heart through the four noble truths, and the first noble truth, “All life is suffering,” spoke to him. Kerouac wanted to know more so he devoted three years to studying Buddhism. That research produced his book, Wake Up: The Life of The Buddha, and his posthumous work, Some of the Dharma. From his first four published novels, I can only speculate that Kerouac was influenced by The Dhammapada, the collected sayings of The Buddha. In this Buddhist text, The Buddha says, “’He abused me, he beat me, he defeated me, he robbed me,’ in those who harbor such thoughts hatred will never cease. ‘He abused me, he beat me, he defeated me, he robbed me,’ in those who do not harbor such thoughts hatred will cease.(3-4)” Kerouac does not mention his disdain for the poor practices of The Church, but remains Catholic while looking for God outside of The Church. He forgave everybody while walking down his road.

The Beat to Keep

I decided to take a different approach to my writing in this post. Normally when I write, I like to put on some Jazz from the 1940s and 1950s. Cats like, Parker, Monk, Davis, and Coltrane who tore apart this material realm because their bodies were cramped. They needed to breathe. Playing their music helps me to tap into their spirit so I can ride upon their coat tails into the heavenly realm. Like Jean Valjean who saw the abbess kneel at her window for her nightly prayers. He knelt too hoping God would hear him in her shadow. Today’s musical choice came from the Jazzual Suspects song. Some acid jazz with Kerouac doing his spoken word–his voice popping like Charlie bopped.

This is another one that Steve Allen and Jack Kerouac did. Allen played his jazz piano while Kerouac rapped.

Listen to these at your leisure. They’re worth the time spent, but the reason I posted these two links is to give you, the reader, a sense of rhythm to what I have written. It pops and bops with a form of blues and hip hop like the smoke of incense rising to the feet of God. I also applied Kerouac’s approach to writing: first thought best thought–but I did some editing. Enjoy.

 

The beat. The beat to keep. The beat upon my head. Angry blows syncopating an ancient family rhythm in Jesus’ name. Their symbol is the cross, and I carry their salvation in a defunct olfactory system and a bent ring finger. What do you do? What would you do? You’re thirteen. At home you are burned by your father’s PTSD. Sexual abuse and physical abuse he won’t mention for another twenty-three years. On his death bed. Making peace with everyone before he faces God. Next door. The other side of the double where your great grandmother and great aunt lives. Where they degrade your lack of masculinity. They tell you real men have beards. Real men drink their whisky straight. Real men only do single malt from the highlands. They don’t do that to your great uncles. They don’t do that to your brother. They do it to you because you’re a “little light in the loafers.” You’re a fairy. You’re a faggot. You’re a little girl who shamefully stole a penis, and degrading masculinity with your offensive feminine nature. You’re a boy. Act like it. You go to school, and hear all your male classmates talk about that weekend’s football game, basketball game, or baseball game depending on the time of year. You don’t care about sports, but you’re told only a real man likes sports. All you want to do is read your books, and write your poetry to The Clash or Run DMC. You’re 6”4, and your intellect and interests are an insult to the jocks who envy your size, but spit upon you wasting what you’re given. You were never asked for your body type. You don’t control the genetics you’re given, but you’re dismissed as another queer whose presence questions their manhood. Work is no different. You are put aside because you don’t connect. Some of the people look out for you, but you’re a burden. You’re a little girl, and you’re not allowed to mourn for your friend who committed suicide two days before. He hung himself with a friend’s scarf. We’re all stunned, but you can’t cry without being reminded how you’re  supposed to act. You overcompensate and try to flirt with girls to appear straight, but you’re more comfortable with your male friends. You have an ease of intimacy with them, but you don’t know why. Closeness is something that can’t be felt, and you don’t understand what these feelings are until you’re forty-two sitting on a bench with your wife people watching, and you notice a tall man, lean, trim. V-shape torso, clean shaven, and running. You get a tingle, and you risk telling her. She already knew. She’s always known. Yes, you’re bi, you’re in a relationship with a woman, but you’re attracted more to men. She helps and protects. She holds your hand in areas where white Christians believe it’s their duty to beat and kill those who deviate in Old Testament commands, though their faith is based on New Testament expositions. They think they offer a service to God every time they starve a poor person, kill a person of color, kill a Muslim, or kill a homosexual. Constant fear. Constant tension and crying out for Christ’s return. You may not be welcomed, but at least these assholes won’t be here.

The tension is only made worse when Christian leaders condone Christian violence. “It’s the slow work of God. It’s the grace of God. You had it coming. You frustrate him with your questions and lifestyle. You need to move on. You’re no longer welcomed at our church.” Then they lie to your friends and say you left of your own free will. Lies and dismissals are the norm. You know it because it’s not the first time this happened. Nor the second, the third, fourth, or fifth time. You lost track after all your fingers and toes. You remember another distinct time when you were thirteen. The youth leader at the church. She knew your father beat you. She knew the treatment you received from your great grandmother and great aunt. She knows you were a mistake, and that your mom blames you for trapping her in such a desolate life. You’ve had enough of her attitude towards you, and you tell her to get stuffed. In the dimly lit sanctuary, on top of the stage, the light glows around her, and the cross hovers over her, “With a mouth like that you deserve every bruise and broken bone your father gives you.” The cross is empty. There is no Jesus. There is no God. They won’t defend you, but they protect people like her. With their silence they have rejected you and take her side. You have no place of comfort. The lord is not your shepherd, “he” is their shepherd, and the sooner you disappear to another part of the world, or burn in hell, the sooner they can get back to their unquestioned lives where everything is nice, straight, and white. What of it? Who cares? If God hates you and prefers people like her, then so what? Move on. Enjoy your life. Love and kiss who you want. But you can’t. You’ve read the bible cover to cover how many times? You lost count after twenty, but you never forgot about Jesus. The Jesus you read about in the gospels sounds like a guy who would hang out with you. Give you a drink, give you a hug, and wants nothing in return. You understand, through scholarship, how people assumed he was God in the flesh. If that is so, then you have no problems believing this god would like you. He spent time drinking and eating with whores, hustlers, rough men, thieves, murderers, and skeptics. He chastised the religious elite who dismissed them because they spoke for God, but God gave them the finger, and they killed that God. That God came back three days still calling for the weary and disenfranchised whistling through the holes in his hands. It’s the trumpet sound. You have a place, and those people who beat you and your friends with the cross will have to answer for the blasphemy. After the exhale, the heart is shriveled, dried, and cracked, and you pray after Jesus is done chastising your abusers he has time to heal you. You want that rest and abundant life he promised, and hope you too can be included in the promise. You too can be saved. Maybe, but you wait nonetheless.

Pererin Pt. 2

dharma bum

 

Millennials are insulted because they are considered lazy with an overwhelming sense of entitlement. The irony of this derision is that it’s mostly said by my generation, Generation X with added knocks from the Baby Boomers. In the 1990’s, those who belonged to Generation X were considered shiftless and lazy without the consideration of the culture, and the new issues we were facing. I will not be so presumptuous as to speak on behalf of my generation, but I will speak for myself and how I viewed the world as part of Generation X. The Baby Boomers who dismissed us as a generation of slackers were, thirty years prior to us, living in communes, living on the road, smoking and snorting whatever they could find, and living on their terms. Why? In the 1950’s Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac wrote of their reaction towards the newly created military industrial complex in “Howl” and On the Road. American culture had adopted the need for conformity and becoming the company man for the sake of building up the machine that was otherwise anti-humane—either to the people in its own borders or outside its borders. There was no life and no equality, and the American Church accepted the complex, and distorted the image of Jesus with Dale Carnegie, Norman Vincent Peale, and Bishop Fulton Sheen. Ginsberg and Kerouac traveled the world to find the piece that had been discarded—the piece that could make them whole. For Kerouac and many others in The Beat Generation that missing piece was Jesus. Jesus had left the building in a hurry lest he be crucified again by the people who worshipped him.

Many of the Baby Boomers took Kerouac to heart, and translated his words into their story of racism, sexism, freedom, and Viet Nam. The religious and political system was not working and the Hippies sought alternative expressions of spirituality through religions such as Hinduism and Buddhism; and through their spiritual practice formed their own community. By the 1980’s, though, these same Hippies became clean cut and donned the three piece suit to involve themselves in Corporate America—some went so far as to reshape Christianity in the corporate image and created megachurches. My parents were not middle class even though they were part of the Baby Boomer Generation, but their outlook was somewhat liberal. They imposed Christianity on my brother and me because of the guilt trip my great-grandmother put on my mother. A bible had been thrown at me to figure out the religion, and I liked the bible just fine, but I loathed the preaching. The pastor would speak of Jesus’ message as revolutionary, but would equate following Jesus with voting Republican and being a “good, American citizen.” What’s revolutionary about that? When I turned sixteen, I was told to get a job to pay for the rest of my high school education, and I saw the same structure in the workplace as I saw in church. I was disgusted, but I wasn’t the only one. Many people my age had the same reactions to culture and religion, and I, like them, went our own way to form our own communities.

Here we are twenty years later and we Gen Xers are middle aged, and many people I know—not all—have went the way of their predecessors finding their way back into the corporate world of work and religion. To an extent, I do not fault the people I know who returned to such a destructive culture. They were motivated by fear, uncertainty, and the prospect of instability because they married, divorced, had kids, and watched their parents die. I went through some of these things myself, but I didn’t have kids; however, I’m not returning nor will I return to that way of life. Yes, losing parents, relationships, and having kids is scary—I think a person foolish if they weren’t fearful of such things in their life. What I find equally foolish is returning to the corporate world with a corporate religion to medicate the pain of real life when those things are the cause of suffering; and expecting their kids, The Millennials, to join them in their way of life is simple desperation. Choosing to reject the corporate life for a simpler life with love and community is a criticism on those who have retreated; and one they cannot ignore. We all must live with our choices, but to force others to make a similar choice so we don’t feel alone in our consequences is childish. This sentiment, I think, is something Jack Kerouac touched upon in the second part of Dharma Bums.

 

 

The Sangha

 

What I find ironic about this childishness is Kerouac’s character, Ray Smith, is dismissed as naïve because he chooses to live as a bum out of his rucksack—hopping on trains while blessing the people he meets on his journey. Smith found himself as part of a community with the San Francisco poetry crowd, partying, drinking wine, discussing poetry and the Dharma, and learning how to climb a mountain. Kerouac illustrates the insanity of those who condemn Smith for his life choice in the sudden suicide of Rosie Buchannan. Rosie seemed to have suffered a psychotic break, and wrote down all the names in their little community—along with their “sins”—, including Smith’s, flushed them down the toilet, and taken out by a man from the sanitation department after the paper clogged the toilet. She believed the man to be a cop, and attempted suicide by slashing her wrists with a dull knife. Smith had to watch her while his friend Cody went out, and Rosie begins to tell Smith that he and all the other “religious squares” they know are going to be hauled off by the government. Smith put aside Rosie’s excited rambling by telling her it was all in her head; but she ignored him. Smith thinks to himself, “I had the feeling I always got when I tried to explain the Dharma to people…they never listened, they always wanted me to listen to them, they knew, I didn’t know anything, I was just a dumb young, kid and impractical fool who didn’t understand the serious significance of this very important, very real world.” Rosie’s second suicide attempt was successful after she went to the roof and broke the glass on the skylight so she could slash her wrists with the shards. A neighbor saw what she was doing and called the cops to protect her, but when they went after her, Rosie threw herself off the roof. A befuddled Smith remarks, “Was I talking so dumb after all? Are my ideas about what to do so silly and stupid and childlike? Isn’t this the time now to start following what I know to be true?” The old way wasn’t working and ended in death, but in the mysterious presence of the Dharma there was a chance at life.

Before meeting up with Cody and Rosie, Smith was already in the process of buying necessary items for his trip across America to spend Christmas with his mother, sister, and brother in law in South Carolina. After Rosie’s death, Smith starts his journey east, and is picked up by a truck driver, Beaudry, from Ohio. Originally, Beaudry agreed to take Smith as far as Tucson so he wouldn’t lose his job for picking up a hitchhiker; but he changed his mind after Smith cooked steaks for them and cleaned the dishes, and decided to take Smith further east to Ohio. While they talk over their meal, Beaudry asked where Smith learned to survive as a hobo, and how to cook saying, “And you know I say funny but there’s sumpthin so durned sensible about ‘em. Here I am killin myself  drivin this rig back and forth from Ohio to L.A. and I make more money than you ever had in your whole life as a hobo, but you’re the one who enjoys life and not only that but you do it without workin’ or a whole lot of money. Now who’s smart, you or me?” Smith made no judgment about Beaudry, or the life he had chosen, but he had sympathy for the man who bought many things with his money and didn’t have the time to enjoy them. Smith did not think himself better than Beaudry, but viewed him as a great man who had befriended him.

Once Smith arrived to his sister’s home, he lived a simple hermit lifestyle by sleeping out on the enclosed porch in a sleeping bag, and going out in the middle of the night to a solitary place to meditate. The quiet beauty of his spiritual practice brought him to the conclusion that “One man practicing kindness in the wilderness is worth all the temples this world pulls.” What did the churches, priests, and dogmas do for Smith other than twist the image of Jesus into the American company man with a grey flannel suit, and watered him down with practicality. Smith saw the difference between Jesus and the church through the eyes of his own Buddhism regarding “Augustine as a spade and Francis my idiot brother.” In the dark hours of Christmas Eve, Smith watches the midnight mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York, and reads the words of St. Paul while sitting by a warm stove, “Let him become a fool, that he may remain wise…already are ye filled, already are ye become rich.” Smith’s affirmation becomes a source of contention between him, his sister, and his brother in law over their dog, Bob. Smith would unchain Bob so he would have company during his mediation. Smith’s brother in law has money invested in Bob and doesn’t want to lose him. Smith argues, “How would you like to be tied to a chain and cry all day like the dog?” They don’t listen, and his sister said she did not care. Besides ignoring Smith, the two of them wondered why he wasted his time with the Buddha when he should come back to the religion of his family. Why would he associate with a religion that condoned the mistreatment of people and animals that are fellow creatures of God?

This disconnect between religion and the God who inspired said religion is why people like Ray Smith seek out alternative practices to be true to themselves and to their environment. Many people like Smith’s family confuse Buddhism for a religion and, depending on who ask in the different Buddhist branches, it is a religion; but the Zen Buddhism practiced by Smith and those in his generation deconstructs Buddhism from its pomp and circumstance to get to the core of the Buddha’s teachings. The teachings themselves are a science of the mind, rather than a religion, and allow people to grow into a better whatever they may be through focusing on the breath. For Smith, Zen gave his spirituality a substance his Catholicism could never give because it was too concerned with conforming itself to the image of the American machine. When people like Smith want to increase in love, charity, and gratitude they will gravitate towards a practice that cultivates those virtues. By doing so a community is formed around them, but not in the sense of belonging to a specific group of people who share a common goal. The community is one based on interconnectedness because they are something in common with all sentient beings: they are alive, they want to be happy, and they want to be free of suffering. Even in solitude we are connected, and every small act kindness we do is an improvement in the world around us. Ray Smith ceased to be a Buddhist and a Christian, and became Buddha-like and Christ-like.