Simplifying Buddhism

I came across this fun story which attempts to explain Buddhism with a simple parable. Check it out (here).

Whirling Dervishes

We entered a cave and passed through a tunnel that opened into a theater carved from rock. The blistering heat of the day couldn’t reach through tons of insulating rock. We were in Cappadocia, here to see the famous Whirling Dervishes.

I knew little about them, aside from that song “Maria” in The Sound of Music, where singing nuns complain that Maria could throw a whirling dervish out of whirl. I remember wondering what this meant but never bothered to find out. Here I was, forty-seven years later, about to find out.

As the lights darkened I remembered how, as a kid, I’d fling out my arms and spin around as quickly as I could until I was so dizzy I’d collapse on our front lawn. Was that what this was all about? Watching grown men in skirts spin around without getting dizzy?

A voice in broken English admonished us against taking pictures until after the ceremony. I noticed this wasn’t referred to as a show. It all felt rather illicit. I was reminded that the monastic life of the Whirling Dervishes was outlawed in the 1930s by Atatürk, founder of the modern Turkish republic. Atatürk wisely felt that young Turkish men shouldn’t be hidden away in monasteries. He wisely wanted the country to shift its attention from religion to the progressive ways of the West.

A curtain was pulled back and figures emerged in a blade of light, a half dozen cloaked musicians with medieval instruments. Behind them came the Dervishes, dressed in black with the exception of their towering beige camel-hair hats. The music started, reeds, drums and unfamiliar string instruments. It was surprising how these primitive devices could create such a palpitating mood of expectation. The Dervishes bowed to the empty hat on far side of the circular stage, their tall hats (tombstones for the ego) seeming to defy gravity by staying on their heads when touched to the ground. According to our guide, the bow was to honor Mevlânâ, their thirteenth century spiritual leader. Mevlânâ, creator of the Whirling Dervishes, was said to have whirled for two full days. It was his belief that the fundamental condition of existence was to revolve. He knew the world to be made of revolving atoms, knew that blood revolved within the bodies of men and animals and understood the revolving nature of the planets and stars. His achievement was to acknowledge and embrace this feature of existence through an act of homage—whirling.

They looked exposed when they removed their black cloaks, as if the whiteness beneath was not only purity but vulnerability. They lined up and acknowledged each other, and slowly, one by one began to spin, giving the impression of dropping into a fathomless void like falling snowflakes. We sat close enough to feel the uplift of wind from their skirts as they spun in the same direction as the Earth on its axis, one hand pointed upward to receive the blessings of Allah while the other was turned downward to pour Allah’s blessings onto the people. Nothing was kept for themselves.

I finally understood that this was not a performance, it was a ritual, a re-creation of infinity and Creation on a subterranean stage, a thousand year old version of a high energy particle accelerator.

No one has ever been able to point out for me the differences between Allah and God, and I’ve come to assume that, if there are any, they’re insignificant. I can’t claim to know what these Whirling Dervishes believe, what thoughts animate their spirits, but their sincere commitment to Allah and His universe lead me to accept that they’ve achieved a harmony with existence that I can only imagine. I might not understand their beliefs, just as I don’t understand many of the tenets of my own religion, but this manifestation of faith was enough to set me whirling.

The Tempest

This jewel of a painting, glowing like a stained glass window, is more modern than it looks at first glance. We don’t know exactly when it was created (probably around 1508) and we don’t know its real name—The Tempest is a nickname to make it easier to identify. So what makes it so modern?

Giorgione (a nickname meaning Big George) was an astonishingly gifted Venetian painter who died young and left only a handful of paintings. The colors and textures are vivid hallmarks of Venetian painting, but in spite of its brilliance there’s a perplexing riddle at the heart of The Tempest: what the heck does this picture mean? It’s okay to scratch your head while studying it. Art scholars have been doing so since the picture was found in Giorgione’s studio after his untimely death from the plague at thirty-three.

In Giorgione’s day landscape art had yet to be developed, but this landscape is more than just a backdrop for figures. It’s a presence in its own right and will later point the way for future landscape painters. Lightning crackles in a sky choked with menacing clouds, and sultriness oozes from the painting. Gazing at it, I can almost feel my shirt sticking to my back. But the riddle doesn’t come from the steamy landscape; it’s harbored in the figures.

Is this a religious picture? On the right a woman sits, suckling a baby. Instead of looking at her child, she takes in the viewer with a challenging stare. Is this the way most women suckle babies? No. The baby is not on her lap but off to the side, as if Giorgione delighted in exposing her private parts. This has disturbed those who have wanted to interpret this as the Holy Family on the flight to Egypt. Venice was a licentious place, but not even the Venetians would have dared to depict the Mother of God this way. Is she a gypsy, or a prostitute? Is this Adam and Eve with their child Cain? A scene from classical mythology, and if so which one? How could a painter of Giorgione’s caliber have created something so confusing?

Take a look at the dude with the staff in the bottom left corner, smiling at we know not what. Who is he? He doesn’t even look at the mother and child. Does he know they are there? Is he a shepherd? If so what’s he doing in fashionable duds from a Venetian version of the Men’s Wearhouse? Is he a soldier protecting them, or are they hiding from him? We don’t know if he is flesh and blood or the spirit of a protective saint. Maybe he’s a member of a club for unwed men. If so, are the columns behind him signs of his steadfastness or phallic symbols advertising his sexual prowess? Either way, why are these columns broken? X-rays show that the artist had originally painted another nude female here before changing his mind, which could have made this a picture about women on the lam, a Renaissance version of Thelma and Louise.

Artists have always changed their minds, altered and refined their work, but here it seems as if Giorgione had no subject in mind. During the Renaissance, artists were considered mere tradesmen; they painted what they were told to paint; portraits flaunting wealth and status, a crucifixion for a church, the commemoration of a special event. Unlike modern artists, they weren’t free to paint what they pleased. The Tempest was said to have been commissioned by a Venetian nobleman, but who could possibly have commissioned something as vague, as peculiar as this?

This is not for those who shun mysteries, who like things tied and bundled with neat rules and explanations. Giorgione’s painting is like the city that inspired it—Venice, that labyrinthian marvel on the waves, a place of blurry twists and turns forcing you to question what you see. Like Venice itself, this painting floats on a sea of questions and improbabilities.

Giorgione has prepared a visual feast for us but we are expected to bring something to the party, our own interpretation. This is the beginning of something modern. We get to participate in the creative process by deciding for ourselves what this painting means. In the future this concept will be taken for granted, but here in 1508 it’s a steamy little revolution.

Welcome to the feast. What do you think is happening in The Tempest?

Mary's House

Is this really the house where the Mother of God spent Her last years? Like so many things, it all boils down to a matter of faith. Although I work hard to contain my cynicism, faith isn’t my strong suit. But I am painfully sentimental and the story of Jesus is a remarkably good one, as well it should be after thousands of years of embellishment.

You might be surprised to learn that the House of Mary is said to be in Turkey; I know I was. This all began in Germany with the 19th century bedridden nun Anne Catherine Emmerich. She had experienced a number of visions, including the description of a house the Apostle John, to whom Jesus is said to have entrusted His Mother before His crucifixion, had built for Mary. John is known to have traveled to Ephesus in modern day Turkey, where he lived out his life. It is assumed he followed Jesus’ directive and brought Mary along with him. Emmerich’s visions were published in 1852. This excerpt is from Wikipedia:

Mary did not live in Ephesus itself, but in the country near it. Mary's dwelling was on a hill to the left of the road from Jerusalem, some three and half hours from Ephesus. This hill slopes steeply towards Ephesus; the city, as one approaches it from the southeast seems to lie on rising ground.... Narrow paths lead southwards to a hill near the top of which is an uneven plateau, some half hour's journey….

Emmerich also described the details of the house: that it was built with rectangular stones, that the windows were high up near the flat roof and that it consisted of two parts with a hearth at the center of the house. She further described the location of the doors, the shape of the chimney, etc.

The house was discovered in the 19th century by following the descriptions reported

in these visions, and just about every pope since then has made a pilgrimage to the spot and proclaimed it a holy place of veneration. But is it Mary’s house? It dates from the right era, but where’s the proof demanded by Doubting Thomases like me?

So why was I here on this mountain top, staring at something that, for me, carried as much spiritual significance as Disneyland—a place said to have been inhabited by a woman I wasn’t sure existed, who was said to have given birth to a son whose true purpose and identity has caused so much confusion and conflict in the world? I was here because this was the spot that had propelled Mrs. Chatterbox to Turkey, the place she’d wanted to visit most.

I snapped a few pictures of the house, and turned around to look at my wife. She was crying. “Are you alright?” I asked clumsily. I was worried we’d come all this way and she was disappointed, the site not having lived up to her expectations. Had she come to realize that this probably wasn’t the place where the Mother of God had lived out her life?

“I’m okay,” she said, swiping away the tears with the back of her hand.

“It’s a beautiful setting,” I admitted, a theological discussion taking form in my mind. But theology was the last thing on her mind.

“I miss my parents, and CJ,” she said. Mrs. Chatterbox’s folks had passed away a decade earlier, and our son was home, thousands of miles away.

My wife smiled at me, and something ineffable in her eyes made me realize that at the heart of Christianity is a simple concept—family. Maybe Mary of Nazareth didn’t live out Her days here. To my wife this hardly mattered. Countless other mothers had. Beyond the hype surrounding this place there remained a basic truth—this was simply a house, a home where generations of mothers had suffered losses and tragedies just as relevant as the one that, two thousand years ago, set in motion events that would prompt people to board the tour buses racing to this mountain.

Something about this tourist trap made my eyes well up with love for my wife and son, loss for those that I have loved and lost. I took comfort in the breeze that rattled the leaves of the ancient trees surrounding us. Sentimental—absolutely, but I felt a presence. Mary, are you here?

Cynic that I am, for a moment I believed She was.