New Wine in Pondicherry

Early this morning I read the story of the wedding at Cana during our prayer service in the meditation room at the Sri Aurobindo Ashram's New Guest House, under the watchful eye of large photographs of Aurobindo and his chief disciple, the Mother. It struck me that the new wine created by Jesus from purification water was the wine of divinity, of the Spirit, that Rumi speaks of when he praises the lover who drinks to excess. At first Jesus is reluctant, for he says it is not yet time. But his mother persuades him to help the wedding party when they run out of wine. And it is this gesture of help that moved the presiding priest at Notre Dames de Anges, where we went to the 8:30 "high mass" in English, to speak of the sins of globalization and the needs of the poor.

We leave Pondicherry (or Puducherry as it is now officially called) in an hour for a short drive north back to Mamallapuram to attend the classical dance concert held outdoors next to Arjuna's Penance, the dramatic bas relief of everyday life here that was carved 1300 years ago. After the concert we return to our luxurious hotel in Chennai, the Radha Park Inn, for a final night and day in India before the pilgrims go their separate ways, most home to San Francisco, but me to Thailand and Kay back to Shantivanam. I've just received email from Sr. Barbara and learned that British Airways lost ALL their bags. Sr. Michele's missing bag turned up at the Chennai airport but her new bag with a complete new Indian wardrobe has now gone missing. The security checks get worse and the airline baggage service declines drastically. The Terrorists need not lift a finger to hasten the collapse of Western civilization!

We've had a delightful time in this bastion of French culture, taking walks along leafy tree-lined boulevards (all named "rue" this or that) past elegant villas owned no doubt by retiring French civil servants. The promenande along the waterfront, high enough to escape the 2004 tsunami's force, is lined with pleasure seekers, especially at sunset and dawn. This morning I went out for a walk at 6:30 and encountered hundreds of people at the south end of the promenade doing yoga and other exercises. People walking by greeted the rising sun with a namaste, holding their palms together.

The last two evenings we have banqueted in style, passing up the basic (and cheap) guest house fare for delicious meals in two different rooftop restaurants, Madam Santhe and the Rendezvous. At Satsangha, where we ate an outdoor lunch of omelets and veggies, we perused the "whine menu," and at the Rendezvous last night Sylvia tried a glass of the local white while Jerry, Ziggie and I opted for Fosters (usually its only the local beer, Kingfisher, that is available).

Our guide for Pondicherry, Chitra, met us at the guest house Monday morning. We soon learned that a tour of Auroville, the experimental community started by the Mother in the 1960s, was not going to be possible. The Matrimandir, a space age meditation hall where devotees sit under a huge crystal, was closed for construction and could only be viewed from afar. Residents of this utopian community do not take kindly to tourists, we were told, and that only left the visitor's center. So instead, we spent a fascinating half day in Pondy with Chitra. In addition to history, she told us of her arranged marriage to an Indian now working in the French Navy. As a seventh generation Catholic, she was married in Sacred Heart Church, a large red and white gothic cathedral we visited at the end of the tour. And in a month she will join her husband, who she has seen only a vew times since the July wedding, in France at their home in the Pyranees.

We began our tour with a visit to the paper factory operated by the Aurobindo ashram where we learned that workers made only 35 rupees a day, less than a dollar. "How do they live?" Radha asked our guide. "They have to manage on that," she replied. Then we went to an area of temporary housing erected by the government for fishermen and their families dispossesed by the tsunami. Many of the roofs had holes in them, and we were invited into one by an elderly woman and saw a large picture on the wall. It was of her son and he died in the tsunami, she said, beginning to cry. Penny wants to figure out a way to help these people and we'll see if Catholic Relief Services are involved. They apparently purchased boats to replace the fishing fleet destroyed in Mamallapuram.

The Aurobindo ashram has taken over much of Pondicherry near the ocean and we visited the samadhi of Aurobindo and the Mother, tombs covered with floral arrangements and surrounded by barefoot devotees, kneeling or meditating. From ground zero of the ashram we walked two blocks to the Mamakula Vinayagar Temple dedicated to Ganesha. A large elephant stood by the entrance, blessing worshippers who placed coins in his trunk. The temple contains dozens of friezes on the wall depicting Ganesha in various forms. The streets around the temple were filled with vendors and Chitra helped me to see that the poorest were indeed Dalits, the untouchables, and the disdain of people passing by was apparent. These are the same dark skinned (darker even than the darkest Tamil Nadu Indian) people that Russill and Ash referred to as tribals.

Our tour bus took us to Sacred Heart Church where we got into five pedaled rickshaws for a ride around the perimeter of the city, past the Botanical Gardens and into the narrow and traffic-jammed city streets.
We stopped for a journey through the Goubert Market, past piles of fish, heads of goats, an infinite variety of vegetables and through the flower stalls where garlands were being woven for different celebrations. It was claustrophobic and exhilarting, the most animated and chaotic street market I have ever seen. People were friendly, were constantly saying "hello" and "where you from?", not just to sell us something but because we were genuinely welcome.

I felt while walking down the streets of Pondicherry that this is a place where I might like to spend more time. It's cosmoplitan, but small enough to be manageable. Everywhere are signs saying "Keep Pondicherry Green" and the streets are remarkable clean. There are bookstores and cafes (the cappuccino at Cafe.com I had on the first afternoon was exceptional), and the promenade along the Bay of Bengal brings the familiar smell of salt air. Occasionally we hear the call to prayer from the mosque, as well as the angelus from the three different Catholic churches. I've learned that the black spots we've seen on the cheeks of babies are supposed to ward off evil spirits. And the knit caps that many people are wearing keep them warm during this, the coldest of seasons (which seems quite hot to us). I love the Ganesha temple and the spirituality of Aurobindo devotees is a bit New Agey but nevertheless inspirational. So if I return to India, this might be a good base of operations.

Ascetics at Play

After days (weeks! months!) of cold showers, squat toilets (and no toilet paper), intermittant electricity, and sitting on the floor while eating with fingers (right only, the left hand is a substitute for the above omission), the pilgrims from Sangha Shantivanam arrived by bus in paradise on Wednesday, the Mamalla Beach Resort in Mamallapuram. We were greeted by a herd of porters bearing cups of coffee and tea and (for some mysterious reason) pukka shell necklaces. Asceticism is certainly all right, in its place, but there is nothing like a hot shower and television, even if all it telecasts is Bollywood MTV.

Those pilgrims not on their death beds (like yours truly), had a marvelous time in Tiruvannamalai, guided by the intrepid Michael who was once a monk in Big Sur. He arranged for a tour of the magnificent Arunachelaeswar Temple, pulling strings to allow non-Hindus to make pujas with the priest under the eye of the monkeys who guard the temple. The temple is in the shade of Arunachala, the sacred mountain of Shiva, and the object of Ramana Maharshi's pilgrim when he came to Tiru as a young man. The ashram that grew up after his death in 1950 plays host to thousands of pilgrims, many from western countries, and the sight of light skinned psudeo-sannyasis, gone native and strolling down the street, was a constant amusement to me.

Our group, split between an ashram guest house and the Sheshedri Ashram next door (which received very poor marks from those staying there), ate most of its meals in the large dining room where brahmins served food on banana leaves to hundreds of guests at an assembly line pace. When I was able to eat, I prefered the small "German Bakery" near the guest house where I could drink a lemon juice with ginger and honey and eat a cheese and mushroom omelet for breakfast. The bakery's facilities appeared to be made out of bamboo, and a rare cat could be seen underfoot. In the morning the chef fed a club-footed peacock and said it had been coming for over a year. He had to chase the dogs away from the bird's meal. There was a flock of peacocks in the neighborhood, one of them a relatively rare white one.

Cyprian and Michael made arrangements with J.P., a Lutheran pastor, to hold mass on the front porch of his church a block away. I missed Sunday services and Monday evening, but was well enough to attended Tuesday evening, liberally dosed with the strongest DEET repellant. It only seemed to make the mosquitos more aggressive. Three little girls watched the service and the oldest crossed herself as we did. Both Cyprian and Raniero now celebrate the Eucharist Tamil-style, seated at a small altar and including flowers and fire along with incense. The caterwalling of crows and peacocks, along with the buzzing of skeets, served as a backdrop to our celebration of the Lord's meal. It was quite powerful.

Some of our pilgrims hiked to the top of Arunachala and others visited the caves on her side where Sri Ramana and others have lived. Other pilgrims undertook the several-hour pradakshina (circumambulation) of the mountain, on foot and by three-wheeler. The four days spent in Tiruvannamali provided an illuminating contrast to our time in Shantivanam and added depth to our understanding of spiritual practices from both traditions. The God in Jesus is almost indistinguishable from the God in Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu, and the devotee who worships Krishna is not far from the disciple of Christ.

We said goodbye to Michael and J.P. on Wednesday morning and boarded the large bus that will carry us for six days on the last leg of our journey. Khan from Marvel Tours, a young man with an earring who told Cyprian of his desire "for an American wife," ("Should I keep him away from Barbara and Michele?" he wondered) came to escort us to Kanchipuram, a city of many temples southeast of Chennai. I thought it would be a short two hours, but Khan said the trip would take at least four. "Very bad road," he told me. The problem was construction of dozens of bridges to facilitate irrigation, and every few hundred yards there was a "digression," a detour of such bone-jarring intensity that some of us were seasick from the rolling motion of the bus, an ancient vehicle that was probably new in Gandh's time. While the journey contained some fascinating scenes, particularly the many brick-manufacturing areas, by the time we reached Kanchipuram, a large dusty town, we were exhausted.

We were greeted by Geeta, a tiny woman of indeterminate age (she is "very old," Khan told Cyprian). She walked with a limp and gave orders like a general. Cyprian could not have biryani at the A/C chain restaurant (with a branch in Sunnyvale) where we ate lunch but had to have to talis with everyone else. If there is a Hindu version of a Jewish mother, she would be it. We all loved her instantly and Radha said she learned more from Geeta about Hindu practices than she had in a lifetime of study. Geeta was to be with us for two days, and after filling our bellies with food and lime sodas, we told her to skip the temple tour and take us to the resort.

I developed an "extended" tour last year after participants said the less than two weeks India was not enough. Because I had been to Mamallapuram and Pondicherry with Russill and Asha's group three years ago, I asked the tour company to include an extra five days. Unfortunately, Lewis and his 20-year-old son Emmanuel could not join us for this, and left by car for Chennai from Kanchipuram. Lewis, a skilled accupuncurist and chiropractor, had done wonders for me and left behind a pile of pills; I shall always be grateful. Emannual was a poised and curious young man and fit right in with this group of elders. I think his life will forever be changed by India. Sr. Barbara and Sr. Michele left us after Mamallapuram. On their final night, Michele's passport and a large amount of cash seemingly disappeared. This resulted in prayers and high levels of anxiety on the part of all. But the missing items were found, tucked into the bed covers, and the release of fear and stress was exchilarating.

The Mamalla Beach Resort is similar to the GRT Temple Bay Resort where I stayed three years ago, with a pool, beach area, outdoor dining, and a variety of wildlife, such as white geese and white doves. Their charm was offset by loads of bird poop on every surface. The pool was wonderful and I used it liberally. Others walked the beach into town, carefully navigating the people poop.
Geeta arrived on Thursday morning and gave us a wonderful educational tour of the carvings of Mamallapuram where 7th century artists created masterpieces of bas relief and temple structures out of single giant stones. The tradition continues and today every other resident is carving pieces large and small, religious and pornographic, for the temple and tourist trade. We had a lovely lunch in an upscale hotel and ended our tour at the 8th century Shore Temple, now a national monument and world heritage sight. It's one of the earliest temples constructed in India and is a model for all other temple architecture. It also contains both a reclining Vishnu and a Shiva lingam; all other temples are dedicated to one or the other god, but not both.

I visited in the Shore Temple in January of 2004. Less than a year later the tsunami struck Sri Lanka, Thailand and India, killing thousands. I saw a photo in the newspaper of the Shore Temple surrounded by water. Today it is back to the way I remembered it, with wide grassy grounds. In fact, there has been new construction of walkways and the land all around is a national park. On the day we visited there were large groups of school children in identical uniforms, and various pilgrims, including the omnipresent men in black outfits with beards who are bound for Ayappa. There was also damage from the tsunami at the beach resort but no one there was injuried. Waves dragged a freezer from the kitchen out into the road and overturned a car. Al the first-floor rooms had to be repaired, and the pool looks brand new. Those who walked down the beach reported damage obviously caused by the giant wall of water.

Now we are in Pondicherry, two hours south, and we're staying in the Sri Aurobindo Ashram New Guest House at the south end of town in the French district. More later.

Ramana Maharshi's Eyes

They follow me around the room. It's a very gentle gaze, but it is insistent. The question he encourages me to ask is always the same: "Who am I?" This is the question he asked himself as a 16-year-old boy growing up in south Indian at the turn of the century. He lay down, as if to die, and discovered: "I am not this body, I am not this breath, I am not this thought," and so on. At the end of his questioning he achieved Self-Realization, the knowledge that our self is not the Self, and that the Self within us, the atman, is also Brahman, the divine. Sri Ramana traveled to Tiruvannamalai and lived for more than twenty years in various caves on the side of the holy mountain, Arunachala, which is believed to be a personification of the Lord Shiva. Finally he came down to the site of the present ashram where followers (among them Carl Jung and Abhishiktananda, co-founder of Shantivanam) gathered around him to bask in the radiance of his awakening. After his death in 1950, the modern temple and ashram was constructed that attracts scores of visitors, both westerners and Indians.

Of course I didn't think about all of this as I watched the eyes from the photo on the wall follow me around the room. I was feverish and weak from little food. Shortly after our arrival Saturday night I went to bed and stayed there, buoyed by antibiotics and various Chinese and herbal remedies given me by fellow pilgrims. At times I was quite ready to believe I had pneumonia and would have to be hospitalized. I lay prone in bed, Ramana's kind eyes on me, listening to Frank Sinatra and June Christie and other ancient music on my iPod and read mystery novels (three in the last week). I managed to do a little washing and take a couple of cold showers, and I did go out briefly in the evenings to find something to take with the antibiotics in the morning (bananas, oranges, baked goods). But the tour went on without its fallen tour leader.

Some time last night my health turned a corner and I knew I would be OK. Sr. Michele knocked on my door at 8 and we went to eat breakfast at the little "German bakery" (more like street food in a bamboo tent) next door. Fr. Raniero was there and we sat outside and watched the wildlife. A peacock with a hurt foot came up and was fed by the cook who chased off a scrawny dog looking to share. We spied a fairly well fed gray cat (last night I'd come to get a bowl of vegetable soup, and some ginger-lemon juice with honey, and there was a pitiful looking orange kitten who ran squealing through across the dirt floor). Michele has also been sick and in hibernation. But she too is improved. Raniero, however, sounded all choked up, and Kay came by this computer a few minutes ago with no voice. Lois continues to be ill and Jerry seemed to be in some distress. The pilgrims from Sangha Shantivanam are dropping like flies!

The best laid plans often turn to mush. I wanted this blog to record chronologically our pilgrimage to India and my journey to Thailand and its islands, along with stays in London and Paris at either end. I've kept a handwritten journal, taken photos and made notes for various blog postings but either the internet connection was absent (Shantivanam is rather remote) or I was ill. So what follows will be bits and pieces. For example, did you know that you can dedicate your hair to God? The family above were happy to have their photo taken at the Sri Ranganathaswamy Temple in Trichy, a huge temple dedicated to Vishnu (it's either that or Shiva), where the father and his girls had shaved their heads and given the hair to the brahmins as a puja (sacrifice). The barber covered their heads with sandlewood to sanctify and heal any small cuts.

Last Wenesday we took several buses from Shantivanam to Trichy an hour away to see the sights. Besides the large temple, one of the biggest in India, our excellent guide, Mr. Sikar, took us to a collection of open-air temples on the banks of the River Cauvery, one of the few sacred rivers of India (the ashram was an hour's drive upstream). It was kind of like a Hindu flea market. There people honored the memories of their ancestors (one family had been going annually for 27 years), made pujas with the priests for various kinds of good fortune (like this pair), to bless gifts (a cow stood by with her calf surrounded by the owners while the priest chanted), and to bathe (always fully clothed) in the sacred waters. The ashes from cremations were also put into the water there. We were amazed at how willing how everyone was to be photographed by a bunch of tourists who stood out like visitors from Mars.

Back at the Shantivanam Ashram, the primary goal of the pilgrimage, we took part for six days in the daily round of namajappas (chanting the name of Jesus at 5:30 AM and 9:00 PM), prayers and mass, and ate all meals on the floor with our hands an amazing assortment of food made solely with rice and vegetables. Fr. Joseph Wong, formerly from Big Sur and now living at Camaldolese headquarters in Italy was there, and on his final day he sang for us the Ave Marie in Chinese. We walked across the lane to visit Mary Louise's Ananda Ashram which she started at the direction of Fr. Bede Griffiths back in the 1970s to house women before they were permitted at Shantivanam (times have now changed). Her place was a source of peace and solitude, not to mention tea and cookies for us all. Clearly Fr. Cyprian holds a special place in her heart and she treated all of his group as her children. In an upstairs room, where Abhishiktananda's body lay after it was transfered to Shantivanam from the north to be buried by the chapel with Bede and the other founder, Jules Monchanan, we meditated with the spirit of Fr. Bede's predecessor. We also visited the rather modern Formation House another short walk away where candidates for the brotherhood and priesthood are housed and trained. But the place is mostly empty at the moment.

We met a couple of times with Cyprian as a group and we also attended Brother Martin's provocative afternoon lectures (he's "way far out," one pilgrim observed). Martin's books are filled with typos and almost unreadable but I've been listening to his ideas for a long time now and I like the tone of ecumenism and liberation they provide. Perhaps I'll say more about his ideas later. And in the morning and afternoons all the guests gathered at the tea circle to chat and gossip. I met visitors from Sweden, Germany, France, Sri Lanka, Italy and England, and I may have missed a few.

Aside from my recent enforced absence, I've been learning to be a tour leader: on the job training. I quickly discovered not to promise too much. When I promised opportunities to shop, find an ATM, and get on the internet during our tour of Trichy, my failure to deliver immediately brought complaints. And when I tried to get one bill which we could split at the restaurant, chaos resulted. So I called a meeting and said: my primary job is to supervise transportation, accomodation and tour guides. For anything else you're on your own (with my help and advice). I also asked people to pay for meals separately from now on. So far so good. And plans continue to change. Two of our pilgrims fell ill before departure and cancelled. Swami decided to stay at Shantivanam rather than continue. Valerie and Raniero are returning to Shantivanam tomorrow.

I don't have any good photos of kolams, but above you can see the colorful piles of rice flour for sale to make them at a store in Kulitalai, the closest town to Shantivanam. When we arrived New Year's Eve there were beautiful colored designs on the fresh-swept dirt in front of the chapel, and one of the guests was holding a flashlight to help the Indian woman create it (but I know that they can be done in the dark by experts). Our guide, Mr. Sikar, who lives in Thanjivur, told me that his wife spends an hour drawing a kolam outside their door every morning, and often he helps her (mostly they're women's work). They are created to welcome God daily into the household. Most are made just with white flour, but the colored ones for special occasions are spectacular.

At the door to my room in the ashram guest house, there is a quotation from Ramana Maharshi:

"Cast off the notion, 'This vile flesh am I,' and seek the ceaseless bliss of
Self. To seek the Self while cherishing this perishing flesh is like trying
to cross a stream by clinging to a crocodile."

That's enough bits and pieces for now. Namaste.

Brief Note from Tiruvannamalai

It's been a long time between blog posts. I got on a computer briefly in Trichy during our tour of the large town in the southern half of Tamil Nadu, India, but only was able to check my email. I've much to say about our six wonderful days at Shantivanam Ashram but not now, when I'm still feverish from a bronchial infection and waiting (hoping, praying) for the antibiotic I've been taking to kick in. Today was a day of rest, while the rest of our group celebrated mass with Fr. Cyprian at a nearby Lutheran church (ecumenism at its best), hiked up the holy mountain Arunachala to visit the caves in which Ramana Maharshi lived become coming down to let them ashram here be founded arounded his self-realized presence. This evening they're at a concert Cyprian is giving at a hotel down the road. I am sorry to miss it.

We arrived in Tiruvannamali late yesterday afternoon after a 6.5 hour journey in two buses from Shantivanam, stopping off half-way for a lunch of talis at a truck stop restaurant. Our travel agency was unable to book us all into an ashram guest house, so half the group had rooms next door at Sheshedri Ashram. Getting everyone into their rooms along with their bags from our buses was too much for my system which had been struggling with chest congestion along with night sweats and a fever for severl times. I felt my temperature sore. But all was well (except from some at Sheshedri who decided their rooms were "filthy" and opted for accomodation at the above mentioned Lutheran church two blocks away. The rest, I suppose, were grinning and bearing it. I was chagrined.

I took a single room in the asram guest house several blocks away. I couldn't have found better place to be sick. It had almot all the comforts of home: an indoor toilet and shower (cold), two plugs for charging my iPod and camera battery, adequate lighting that did not frequently flicker off as it did at Shantivanam. I added to the recovery mix the antibiotic given me by Dr. Jerry, a jar of Excedrin given to me by Fr. Raniero, biscuits contributed my Lewis, and a good mystery, Sue Grafton's S is for Silence. For soothing entertainment I listened to my jazz vocals selection on the iPod. My room was at the back and there was almost total silence, even though I was relative near the frantic and almost manic energy of the Sri Ramanasramam neighborhood where you can find almost naked sadhus, beggars, businesses catering to westerners, and even not one but two German bakeries. My only food today was a rock-hard cinnamon roll bought last night from one of them and the biscuits contributed by Lewis.

I'm not the only pilgrim that has fallen ill. Sr. Michele, all the way from St. Gertrude's Monastery in Cottonwood, Idaho, is suffering much the same as I in the room below me. We are both taking the same antibiotic and I promised to get her a sweet roll from the bakery next door for her to take with her pills tomorrow morning. I have little appetite but I should find something to eat. More presing is somethng to read. I finished Grafton's book and now I'm counting on the bookstore across from the ashram entrance around the corner. In Bangkok there were lots of places selling used mysteries left behind by tourists and backpackers.

I've taken lots of photos but haven't the energy to try and load somthing from this country where the USB port is not in evidence. I also want to write about our stay at Shantivanam. Swami Sivarupananda decided to stay there until her flight on the 16th. Valerie will leave with Raniero on Wednesday to return to Shantivanam while we continue on to Kanchipuram, Mamallapuram and Pondicherry. They will also rejoin us on the 16th.

So our little band of pilgrims gradually shrinks. Did this happen when people sent out for Canterbury in the Middle Ages, or Santiago de Compostela in Spain? I told everyone early on, from the wealth of my experience as a two-time pilgrim to India that, while we make the same journey, everyone's pilgrimage is different, depending on what they encounter. Mine has something to do with dealing with sickness, not my favorite task. It occured to me that everyone (but Lois who came to Shantivanam two years ago) is on a voyage of discovery while mine is a voyge of remembering. Everywhere we're going I've been before (except for the riverside collection of mini-temples and priests cross from Trichy that I hope to write about in a later post. This journey has not been very "spiritual" for me, but it has caused me to rexamine what I mean by that word, and what the way to God might mean for my life.

I can see that this post is not very brief. But then I have hardly spoken to anyone for an entire day.

I'll be back.

In the Footsteps of Saint Thomas

Our pilgrimage in India began Saturday with a tour of sites in Chennai (formerly Madras) associated with the apostle Thomas (the doubter, and legendary writer of the Gospel of Thomas). Local tradition says that Thomas came to India in 52 AD, first to the Malabar coast of Kerala and then on to Tamil Nadu to the east. When the Portuguese arrived in the late 15th century, they discovered Christians in Kerala who venerated St. Thomas. Legend says that Thomas was persecuted for preaching the gospel and hid in a cave. He was captured and taken to a nearby hill where he was killed in about 72 AD by the lance of a soldier of the local king. His body was buried in the city and a basilica was constructed on the spot.

First our large white tour bus took the 14 of us up Saint Thomas Mount where a church dedicated to Our Lady of Expectations was built in 1523 by the Portuguese. (Real pilgrims walk up the path to the top but we're still getting used to our roles.) Pope John Paul II came in the 1980s and preached to a throng of Christians gathered around the hillside. The view of Chennai, a city now of six million, was spectacular. Besides the chapel, the summit contains a large banyan tree, some kitschy religous art, and a store selling religious articles. There has been much construction and reconstruction since my last visit two and a half years ago, and there is now a beautiful side chapel for the adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, dedicated several months ago, but it was locked. The chapel is small and contained a number of Indians visiting and worship. Behind the altar is a cross carved in stone by the Apostle Thomas, and we have seen it reproduced everywhere. It is said to have "bled" during the 16th and 17th centuries. There is also a painting of the Madonna and child, reportedly by St. Luke, which Thomas brought with in to India.

From Saint Thomas Mount, we traveled past the "Prayer Park" down the hill to another smaller hill which is called the Little Mount, and there we visited the cave where the Saint hid from his pursuers. There is even his palm print on the ceiling, and nearby a miraculous well and another bleeding carved cross, according to the nearly toothless attendant who was happy to relate the legends to an audience of pilgrims from America. A large church has been built over the cave and it was filled with Christmas decorations, a large creche and tree.

Our final stop in the footsteps of Saint Thomas was the basilica, San Thome, in the Mylapore superb of south Chennai, not far from the beach where the tsunami of 2004 killed several hundred poor Indians in this area. When I was last here, the large church was under construction, but I was allowed to descend the steps below the altar to see where the saint was buried. But now, after much construction and reconstruction, the church is a gothic masterpiece (where are the Indian architects who can adapt religious buildings to their culture?) and there is a new modern, marbeled entrance to the tomb from the back with a small chapel underground where people prayed in front of the tomb of the saint. There was also a relic, a bone from the Apostle's remains, in a reliquary (just as there was in the chapel on Saint Thomas Mount also). I recalled all the other chapels in which I had prayed at the tomb of saints, in Italy, Mexico, Guatemala and in Vietnam. A sign advertises that there are only two other basilicas built over the tombs of apostles: St. Peter's in Rome, Santiago de Compostela in Spain built over the tomb of St. James. We wandered around the large grounds where there was much activity. The church was filled with tourists and the faithful. Construction was going on next door, and I watched a woman in a sari pile nine bricks on her head and carry them into the building, again and again. Men in dhotis, folded to look like shorts, bent rebar. A group of children came by our bus and enthusiastically posed for photos. A woman proudly displayed her newly christianed baby while a nun smiled.

Our day ended with a Eucharist in a small private dining room off the "Cafe in the Park" restaurant in our hotel. Father Raneiro, prior of New Camaldoli in Big Sur, told us that the Gospel readings spoke of arrivals which coincided with our arrival in India on a momentous voyage of pilgrimage. We prayed our familiar words of liturgy in a strange land. Afterwards we sat together for dinner, sampling a variety of local delicacies, veg and non-veg. The dessert selection was to dream of!

Most of us our continuing to adjust to the new time zone, our bodies still partly back in London or California. Swami Sivarupananda from Grass Valley was to arrive last night, and hopefuly Sr. Michele's luggage which was left behind in London by British Airways. The baggage snafu took several hours to unravel early Saturday morning and we did not return to the hotel from the airport until nearly 4 in the morning. Because of the lack of sleep, we cancelled mass in the morning and the full tour of Chennai and opted for the half-day tour of sites important to the memory of Saint Thomas.

A few moments stand out. During our long wait at the airport for the plane to arrive with the bulk of pilgrims, a man asked us to take pictures of his son when he came through the gate. He had been studying in Maryland and had not been back home for several years. When he arrived and we took photos of him being greeted by his parents, their joy was unmistakable. They were incredibly grateful. And by the steps to the cave of Saint Thomas at the Little Mount, we watched a group of boys playing a cricket-like game with a tennis ball and a pile of stones. They ran and jumped and screamed and were ever so happy to have their photographs taken. Playfulness seems to survive despite poverty. Our bus passed through areas where pigs and goats roamed the streets and women in bright saris stood by communal wells with colorfully-colored buckets. We saw a young girl dancing for joy to some inner song down a dirt street. The vitality of life is almost overwhelming in India.

This morning we depart for the south. First we will attend morning mass at the San Thome Basilica, and then we will drive down to Shantivanam where a New Year's Eve mass will be held at midnight. Father Cyprian emails that he is waiting eagerly for our visit.

Computers will probably be hard to find in the rural area surrounding Shantivanam, so it will be a few days before I can resume this blog. In the meantime, Happy New Year to all my faithful readers!!

Mother India

The view from the window of my third floor room at the Radha Park Inn in Chennai is a typical cityscape in this capital of Tamil Nadu in southeastern India, the country's fourth largest city. Yellow and black three-wheeled autorickshaws, many buses full of travelers, motor-driven and pedaled two-wheeled vehicles, often with three or four people onboard, or a large load of cargo, a few cars and many trucks. And most of all, people. The sides of the street are crowded with walkers and those waiting or talking. India is an overwhelming collage of people.

I arrived from London via Mumbai yesterday. The flight on Jet Airways, India's newest air carrier, was smooth. The in-flight entertainment system, now tailored to each passage, is state of the art. We were given eye shades, socks to wear during the flight, and a small tooth-brushing set, as well as a comfy blanket and pillow. The food was great, and included wine and after dinner mints. When we touched down in Mumbai it was 89 degrees and sunny, a welcome change from London. In Mumbai I needed to pass through customs and take a bus to the domestic terminal. We passed a city of shacks where hundreds, perhaps thousands, lived under the path of landing airplanes. While waiting three hours for my plane to Chennai, I managed to talk my way into a private club and spoke there with an English woman and her Aussie friend who upon discovering that their plane to Varanasi had been cancelled, booked another for Jaipur in Rajasthan. They were flexible travelers, after my own heart.

In Chennai I was met by Mr. Ganesh (an auspicious name!) from Marvel Tours who took me to the modern luxury hotel on the ring road some six kilometers from downtown Chennai. We discussed arrangements for the upcoming tour and later I explored the delicious dinner buffet in the hotel restaurant, sampling a wide range of Indian foods. This morning I met Kay for breakfast. She had arrived the night before on a flight from San Francisco via Hong Kong and Singapore, but was wide awake. She has kindly offered to help me plan the tipping which, given the number of bus drivers and their assistants, hotel and restaurant managers, and guides who will serve us, is no small feat. This afternoon we are going to the central train station to get tickets for Kay's return to Shantivanam after our tour. Last year I learned that western tourists get special treatment and I know where to find the ticket office.

Returning to India is a joyous event. I feel somewhat at home, all of the sights and sounds and smells seem familiar. I say this while realizing that I have not yet stepped foot outside. In the car from the airport and in this remote hotel (the windows are sealed in my room and the air conditioning is artifically cool) I was cocooned from reality. Now it's time to go out and test the waters.

Miss Potter's Rabbit

I can't think of a better movie to see during my visit to London this Christmas week than "Miss Potter," the new biopic starring Renee Zellweger as Beatrix Potter, the artist and author who drew and wrote about Peter Rabbit. Much of it takes place in Victorian London, and when when the cameras go out of town it is to the gorgeous Lake District where Miss Potter was responsible for buying and preserving from development more than 4,000 acres of farm land. My father read Peter Rabbit to me and I had many of the books written and illustrated by Miss Potter when I was a child. The film, directed by Chris Noonan, his first since "Babe" in 1995, and written by Tony-winning musical director ("Fosse") Richard Maltby Jr., is being released this month here and in the U.S. for Oscar consideration, but it's no winner. Zellweger's Potter is a bit daffy (though I love her, she has the annoying habit of constantly pursing her lips), the occasional animation is cute, and the romance with her book publisher played by Ewan McGregor is heart-warming. But it's only a nice film, a family film, a travelogue for England, and not a work of cinematic art.

On my last day in England, we met Helen's friend Daniel for breakfast at the Hampstead Tea House, which is run by a Russian whose ears perked up when I told him Santa Cruz could use an olde tea room. And then we took buses from Highgate into the center of London(there is nothing like the view from the top of a red double decker bus, even on an overcast day). Our goal was Trafalgar Square which is graced by a giant Christmas Tree and and the recently installed giant statue of a pregnant woman with no arms (a Thalidamide child, I assumed), put there by the mayor to illustrate the "potential for humanity." I was told it was quite controversial, but I liked it. From there we considered the Impressionist exhibit at the nearby National Gallery and then opted for the Hockney show at the Tate Portrait Gallery around the corner.

I was amazed by the variety of styles in "David Hockney Portraits: Life Love Art," and the mediums in which he has worked. It begins with `conventional portraits of his family when the artist was in his teens. His "Mum" is featured in work throughout the show, along with his many lovers and friends in various art and cultural words (include Andy Warhol, and, surprisingly, Lawrence Weshler who was a graduate of UC Santa Cruz before going to write at The New Yorker). I particularly liked his giant figure portraits which looked like human still lifes, often with a vase of flowers and a glass-topped table. And I loved his drawings, particularly in pen and ink. Finally, I found the photo collages fascinating and worthy of his great influence, Picasso (one drawing pictures Hockney with his mentor, whom he never met).

There is a slight red tinge at the edge of the horizon which might indicate that the sun is eventually coming out. But I doubt if it will before I leave. It's time to repack my suitcase for warmer climes and leave behind the scarf, fur hat and gloves, the sweater and warm socks for my return here in February when I plan to zip over to Paris on the EuroStar for two days. I'm going to the airport in sandals, taking the gamble that the streets will not be full of slushy snow when I walk back up Darmouth Hill to Helen's house some six weeks from now.

Bonnie, the beautiful long-haired cat of Helen's house mate Amy, has graduated from hissing to meowing at me. That's progress. Grace lets me scratch her back but not her ears. And Helen lets me do the washing up, something few guests before me have been permitted. I can find my way around London on the buses and tube trains, and I know how to count out change in pounds and pence. Every now and then a memory from my life here forty years ago comes back like a distant relative, and I remember "Swinging London" of the 1960s. The other day I was singing Petulah Clark's "Downtown," a hit of the period, and a young pop singer came on TV singing the same song. She hadn't even bothered to change the arrangement much, give it a hip hop or reggae tinge. Helen and I reminisce about Los Angeles in the early 1960s and the friends, music business and Subud people we knew in common. All I need to feel truly at home now is a rocking chair.

Tomorrow India.

Not for Boxing

Today is Boxing Day, a uniquely British holiday, and I'm washing up the dishes from yesterday's feast. While fisticuffs are not encouraged, Boxing Day can be a time for various sporting events, post-Christmas entertainment, and sales in the stores where yesterday's gift is sold at cut-rate prices.

There are various theories for how the holiday originated, but most involve boxes full of presents or money to the servants and those in occupations that required working on Christmas day. Some people here leave envelopes of money for the postmen and the trades people, and others small presents.

My hostess Helen and I are planning to visit an outdoor festival in Hyde Park today if we can find out more information than the little I learned from spying a poster on Highgate Hill yesterday. We might also take in a movie. I've learned from my travels that one does not have to give up one's addiction to movies, in whatever country one may be found. Last week we went to the Odeon in Camden Town and saw "Pan's Labyrinth," an excellent mixture of fantasy and drama from Mexican director Guillermo de Toro. It explored the difficulties of adolescence through the eyes of a 12-year-old girl dealing with good and evil during the Spanish Civil War. Helen has already vetoed "Perfume: the Story of a Murderer," the new film about an 18th century killer with a keen sense of smell. One of the big news stories here, in addition to the aftermath of the poisoning of a KGB agent, has been the murder of five prostitutes in Suffolk by what the scandal papers are calling the new Jack the Ripper. Someone is now in custody and sex workers are breathing easier. But who wants to see a film about it?

I've spent considerable time in front of a television set, my hostess's entertainment of choice, and I have not yet figured out how it works. There are both analog and digital channels, and various "free view" offerings for those not paying extra. It seems as if BBC has four channels and ITV, the commercial network, has two, but more can be received on the digital side. In addition there are numerous radio channels, all received by antenna rather than cable, and both TV and radio are interactive, allowing the viewer/listener to make selections and talk back. Helen also has a DVD recorder and can record one channel while watching another. But the digital channels come in clear while the analog ones are blurry. We watched the Queen's Christmas day message on a blurry one and I could barely make out her face. I thought it was Helen Mirren. Her message was an encouragement of multiculturalism (Muslims and Hindus were shown celebrating their holidays) , education and inter-generational communication (the Queen is now over 80). Helen recorded the "alternative Queen" message by a Muslim woman and we will watch it today.

I've also failed to understand Helen's explanations about the mobile phone service which seems to be much more technologically advanced than what we have in the States (but then I don't own a "real" cell phone, so what do I know?). Helen and her friends send text messages back and forth since they are cheaper than calls, and the phones can even turn code into simulated voice messages, with sometimes humorous results. The phone numbering system seems a bit bewildering to me. I tried to call London from Oxford but only made a mess of it. I feel like a barbarian visiting the civilized west, and much in awe of flush toilets.

Good news from California. A new bishop has been chosen to replace the retiring Sylvester Ryan in the Catholic diocese of Monterey. He is Richard J. Garcia, the auxiliary bishop of Sacramento, and he will be installed in a colorful ceremony in Monterey on January 30. I am very sorry I will miss it. When we learned that Ryan was retiring at the mandatory age of 75, some of us involved in peace and social justice work were most concerned that we might get saddled with a conservative bishop. Rome is known to do such things. Garcia was mentioned as the best possible person who could be chosen for a diocese that has a large Spanish-speaking population. He will be one of only 25 Hispanic bishops in the U.S. While his parents were born in Mexico, Garcia was born and raised in San Francisco. For a diocese in which immigration (and raids by the INS in the dark of night) is a crucial issue, Garcia is a Godsend. Good things do sometimes happen.

News tidbits: The Druids got to Stonehenge a day early this year. They thought the winter solstice was on Dec. 21, but it did not arrive until a day later. Johnny Depp will play Freddy Mercury, the charasmatic lead singer of Queen who died of AIDs. While Mercury was openly gay, he kept his Indian ancestry a secret. Brits are worried about Bulgaria and Romania joining the European Union shortly, for it will mean an influx of immigrants in search of jobs from those poorer countries. Many of the clerks and waitpersons I've encountered here have had Eastern European accents.

The mp3 player and the cell phone are ubiquitous in London (and probably now all of the world). On the underground over half the people are listening or talking to someone not present. Is conversation going to become a lost art?

Today is the seventh straight day of overcast skies. While I initially thought that might indicate the possibility of snow and a white Christmas, the temperature remains a free degrees above freezing, just enough to be uncomfortable, but not cold enough to bring the white stuff. London is clearly not a prime vacation spot for the winter holidays. Unless you like indoor entertainment.

Tomorrow I fly to India. One of our pilgrims, who had earlier cancelled because her employer wouldn't give her the time off, let me know on Saturday that she could come after all. As the travel agents had left for the four-day Christmas holiday, this posed a challenge. Thankfully, it has been met and Shelli will be on her way tomorrow as well, when the group from California flies out of San Francisco. I am traveling Jet Airways, an India-owned company, and though I was advised to confirm my reservation 72 hours before departure, that has been so far impossible. The confirmation phone number has packed up and gone on holiday as well. My plane stops in Bombay (or Mumbai as it is now called) for a three-hour layover, but I doubt that the airport lounge will give me much of the flavor of this city. I will arrive in Chennai (formerly Madras) on Thursday evening, a day before our pilgrims descend on the subcontinent. In India I expect to find the sun and the stars once again.

God is With Us

Last night at the packed Christmas eve service in Holy Joe's, the local Catholic church in Highgate, London, we sang "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel." Taking its cue from Isaiah, the son of God is here called Emmanuel rather than Jesus. Emmanuel means "God with us." And last night I truly understood that the divine had taken up residence within humanity. We are not mere matter in motion, lumps of accidental meat, but rather sparks of the divine light, the Master of the Universe having taken human form.

Christ is born of a young girl who willingly placed her fate in God's hand, and a human father descended from kings. They were denied a place at the table and forced to spend a night in a stable surrounded by the animals. Does this not also enoble all of creation as well? Shepherds on the nearby hills were greeted by an angel who brought tidings of "great joy." And what greater joy, to know that this life we live is not meaningless, is not simply the result of random atoms interacting, but contains a great purpose, to realize the divine, the Buddha-nature, the will of Allah within.

The birth of Jesus is a message to all that we are divine, sons and daughters of God, filled with the Holy Spirit that was given to us at the crucifixtion of Christ. We are in Christ and he is in us and we are all in God. And the good news, the Gospel, is that God, as the Qur'an says, is closer to us than our jugular vein. God, Christ, the Spirit is in the cave of our hearts, and can be heard not in a whirlwind but in a still small voice.

This was what came to me in London on a cool and foggy Christmas Eve, as we sang "hark the herald angels sing, glory to the new-born king." God is with us. Not confined to the heavens, not restricted to words in a religious text, not solely emboddied in a man or woman, or an avatar, but in each one of us. Christmas comes again to remind us to look, listen, and feel.

A Foggy Christmas Eve

Seasons greetings from London.

It's foggy and cold here, so much that the planes have been grounded and travelers, along with gift packages, are stranded. When I traveled by train to Harrow last Wednesday the frost on the ground was so thick that it looked like snow. But the sun still comes out for several hours a day, weakly.

It's Christmas Eve and I returned a little while ago from watching the ice skaters outdoors on Hampstead Heath. It's the thing to do when the air is nippy and Santa is on his way. While decorating the tree, my hostess Helen and I watched a wonderful documentary about the most popular Christmas song ever in England, The Pogues' "Fairy Tale in New York." Now I can't get it out of my head. It's not exactly the Bing Crosby kind of song, but if you like drunk Irish punk music, it will make you weep. In an hour I'll walk up Highgate Hill to Holy Joe's (St. Joseph's Church) for Christmas caroling and midnight mass. Hopefully the fog will stay wet rather than icy.

Traveling to London from San Francisco on a British Airways non-stop flight was a breeze. I even got to see the new Pedro Almodovar film, "Volver," on the in-flight entertainment program which had yet to open in Santa Cruz. Penelope Cruz and her co-stars are magnificent, and the film, ostensibly about ghosts who "return," is filled with delightful twists and turns. As with most of his work, it's a woman's film and the men come out looking pretty bad. We men have much penance to pay for our sins.

My first shock at Heathrow was to learn that the dollar continues it's slide against the pound. A week ago the dollars was $1.95 to the pound, and by the time I had arrived it was $2.11. Everything is consequently expensive. The small Christmas tree I bought was the equivalent of $60, and dinner the other night at Chez Rouge in Hampstead, with Helen's friends Arnold Brown (a well-known British comic) and his gardener-artist wife Liz, and their friend Jane who has performed at Edinburgh in a one-woman show, was about the same, for each of us.

On Saturday I took the train ($36 for a round-trip, an hour's ride each way) to Oxford, where my host was Professor Noel King's oldest son Francis. He met me at the station with his 5-year-old son Harry and we toured the town, stopping at first at St. Peter's, the college where both Noel and Francis got their degrees. Francis is an administrator for the oldest Anglican church in Oxford and he took me up in the church tower (he wrote the tourist bochure) where we had a terrific 360-degree view of the ancient university city. It would have been better without the fog, of course. After peeking through the doors of several colleges into the quadrangles where students would gather were it not the Christmas holiday, we repaired to the Turf Tavern for a pint, a watering hole that still boasts that Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor were their most famous customers. The beer was good. Later, Francis walked me back through the misty fields behind Christchurch College to his house near the canal, and I was treated to a wonderful lunch by his wife Catherine, joined her mother Jillian and boyfriend Ewan, and Richard from Toronto, a former Rhodes scholar (Catherine workes at Rhodes House where the famous scholarships are administered). And of course young Beatrice, Harry's slightly older sister. Oh yes, and Francis showed me where Bill Clinton, perhaps the most famous Rhodes scholar, lived while studying at Oxford. And he was rumored to be a patron of Turf's, where smoked marijuana but did not inhale.

I purchased an Oyster card at Heathrow for travel on the tubes and buses while I'm here now and in February. It allows you to pay as you go, with special low rates, but I spent 15 pounds on trips during my first two days. The London underground is the most expensive in the world, and its different travel zones make it difficult to compute fares. But the trains are frequent and directions easy to understand.

Since I was last in London a year and a half ago, and did the major tourist sites and nostalgic revists (I lived in London from 1964-66) then, this time I've stayed close to my home away from home in Highgate not far from the cemetery where Marx, George Sand and other worthies are buried, with a couple of trips into the city to visit the large Barbican cultural center with its art galleries and theaters, and to take a look at the controversial new British Library building next to the gloriously baroque St. Pancras train station. I found the red brick building modern and bare, but quite spacious and beautiful.

During my trip to Harrow where I visited Shawn Hendrick, the travel agent for Indus Tours who has been arranging the visit of our group from Sangha Shantivanam to ashrams in India, I walked up the hill to Harrow school and past the venerable buildings (Harrow and Eton are considered the top preparatory schools in England) to "The Gerards," a house my family and I rented in 1972 for a month. It's a three-storey Victorian mansion with large trees in front and back, and God knows what possessed us to think we could afford it. At the end of the month the promised job in the British record business failed to materialize and we were forced to sneak away on Christmas Eve without paying the next month's rent in order to catch a flight back to Southern California. But my eldest son remembers the house and so I sought it out to take photographs for him. I remember little. Who can retain memories from almost 35 years back?

May everyone reading these words have a merry and warm Christmas, wherever you may be!

Death of a Music Man

Ahmet Ertegun, co-founder of Atlantic Records, died Thursday. Although he was 83, he died not from old age but from an injury suffered when he fell at a Rolling Stones concert in October. Guest of honor at the concert was Bill Clinton who was celebrating his 60th birthday. Ahmet always traveled in the best circles.

I worked for Atlantic Records in the early 1970s as their west coast publicity man. But my experience with Atlantic goes back to the 1950s when I listened to 45s and 78 rpm records with their distinctive red and black, and yellow and black, labels: Ray Charles, the Clovers, Arthetha Franklin, Big Joe Turner. Ahmet, together with his partners, producer Jerry Wexler and engineer Tom Dowd, were legends to me, and I felt honored to meet and work with them.

Ahmet and his brother Nesuhi, who was in charge of the jazz side of the label, producing everyone from John Coltrane to the Modern Jazz Quartet, were sons of the Turkish ambassador to the U.S. and grew up in Washington, DC, where they frequented jazz and blues clubs in the black ghetto when they were teenagers. Atlantic was started with a loan from their dentist and they recorded musicians in their business office after hours, pushing the desks back and bringing in a tape recorder to improvise a studio. In the 1960s, Ahmet recorded Sonny and Cher on his Atco subsidiary and signed British artists like Cream with Eric Clapton, the Bee Gees, and Led Zeppelin. The Rolling Stones made some of their classic recordings for Atlantic, and Ahmet helped put together Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.

I remember driving around LA with Ahmet in a rented convertible, dropping in on musicians who had a song or a tape they wanted the man to hear. Always impeccably dressed, he was almost bald, wore a goatee, and his voice had a high nasal rasp that was unforgettable; it was less of a Turkish accent then a ghetto whine, and he spoke like a hipster. Ahmet cultivated "ears" and I was proud to be one of them, although I never discovered anyone that he signed. Peter Tork in his post-Monkees days was a non-starter. I tried and failed to get him to hear Holly Near, and when I sent a tape of Barry Mannilow's first record to New York it was rejected by an underling who said he was "not hip enough" for Atlantic Records. Mannilow had been Bette Midler's accompanist and she, making a name for himself in the New York bath houses, had been our most hip acquisition. Ahmet signed Judy Mayhan, a California singer with an angelic voice whom I worked hard to promote. She didn't make it but her backup band did. Led by Lowell George, they called themselves Little Feat. But they were signed by Warner Brothers, not Atlantic. I took Lowell to a wild birthday party for Led Zeppelin's drummer John Bonham, and I remember him cringing in the corner when Zeppelin's road manager Richard Cole started throwing guests into the pool, including me and George Harrison. Ah, the daze!

In 1973, Atlantic celebrated it's 25th anniversary by flying the entire company to Paris for a birthday celebration. Ahmet and Nesuhi were the hosts. Stéphane Grappelli played dinner music. I stayed up on speed for three days and went to visit Jim Morrison's untended grave at the Pére Lachaise cemetery with Ian Dove from Billboard Magazine. I got to know Wexler better during my five years, off and on, with Atlantic, and I was in awe of the talents of Dowd, a pioneer with four-track (and more) recording, whose career is profiled in a wonderful documentary, "Tom Dowd and the Language of Music." He could hear sounds from musical instruments beyond the range of human ears and blend them together beautifully.

The Erteguns, Wexler and Dowd sold out to the corporate giants long ago, but kept their hands in. Wexler, a homegrown intellectual who began as a writer and made his reputation with Aretha, lives in Florida and the last I heard he was still talking about music if not recording it. When I heard of Ahmet's death and the circumstances, all I could think of was: Way to go! I hope the Stones were playing one of their hits when he fell.

For more about Ahmet, read the New York Times story here.

And the Oscar for Best Actor Goes to...

Richard Griffiths.

Who?

I didn't know either until yesterday when I saw "The History Boys," a magnificent film which comes a very close second to "Little Miss Sunshine" as my pick for best movie of 2006.

Griffiths, however, is even better than the film. In the role of Hector, the obese, eccentric and poetic teacher at a British boys school in the 1980s, he inspires, provokes and appalls. The fact that he is a closet homosexual and likes to occasionally grope his pupils is more of a character flaw than a moral one. They, and the audience, will forgive him his failings because of his ability to teach and interpret history for them in passionate and surprising ways. Quoting A.E. Houseman, Hector declares -- between a musical hall song by one student and an imaginary scenario between several students in a house of prostitution to practice French -- that "all human knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use." Hector is the teacher I once wanted to be, and a better version of the one Robin Williams attempted to portray in "Dead Poets Society." Griffiths fills this role of a lifetime with witticisms, mannerisms and expressions that both repulse and delight, and he shambles down the halls of the school in a body that would make Charles Laughton and Orson Welles seem puny.

Hector's foil is the younger Irwin (played by Stephen Campbell Moore). Both teachers are preparing the students for the Oxford/Cambridge entrance exam in history. Irwin tells them that history nowadays "is not a matter of conviction. It's a performance. It's entertainment." And truth "is no more at issue in an examination than thirst at a wine-tasting or fashion at a striptease." For Hector, however, history matters. He loves the subjunctive view in which the "events" of history can be seen from multiple perspectives. But his is not a superficial look at life, however, but one that engages it head on, while the more youthful Irwin cooly pontificates from his ivory tower (another closet homosexual). It is Hector's personal style of teaching, which uses popular culture as an entrance to timeless truths, that Irwin and the headmaster (a militaristic twit played by Clive Merrison) want to show as out of fashion. But it is the history boys that ultimately benefit from it.

Any film that can features quotations, several of them, from the writings of my favorite philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein, is unparalleled. Responsible for that, and dialogue that is intelligent, funny and stimulating (all that the same time!) is the well-known British author and playwright, Alan Bennett. "The History Boys" was a smash hit in London and on Brodway and won a record number of Tony awards this year. The original cast comes to the screen directed by Nicholas Hytner who also crafted the stage version.

While the actors playing the boys all do a superb job, the other role of note in the film is that of Dorothy Lintott, an older woman history teacher with a deep voice and a well-worn face (played wonderfully by Frances de la Tour). At one point, exasperated by her colleagues, she tells the students that history "is a commentary on the various and continuing incapabilities of men. History is women following behind with the bucket."

Griffiths might be best known as the unpleasant Uncle Vernon in the Harry Potter films. He is so dominant in "The History Boys" that I can't imagine missing him in other films. If there is any justice in Hollywood, he should be up on that stage on Academy Awards night receiving his Oscar.

Early Stocking Stuffers

Cleaning off my desk, in preparation for two months abroad, I find a pile of magazines, clippings and printouts that contain fodder for irate thought, the juice that fuels this blog.

The Christmas buying frenzy is in full bloom several blocks away. When I was resting in the bossom of a family, I was a pushover for the whole romantic story, and could be seen wearing a Santa Claus hat the entire month of December. I loved reading "The Night Before Christmas" to all of my kids, just as my dad did for me and my brother. But over the years I became disenchanted with the routine of it, with the emphasis on commerce, and I gave up giving gifts and sending cards as a kind of ascetical practice. I meditate now on Christmas as allegory and symbol, as a sign of the birth of the divine on earth, in each of us. But occasionally I catch a glimpse of a Christmas tree or lights out of the corner of my eye, and the memories are overwhelming.

The good Bishop John Shelby Spong has punctured many of the myths about Christmas in a column on beliefnet, "A Religious Santa Claus Tale." All we know of the first Christmas comes from the books of Matthew and Luke. Did you know there are no camels in the story (sorry about that, wise men) and also no animals in a stable surrounding the crib or manger (which IS mentioned)? While Mary is supposedly a "virgin" (a mistranslation, some would say), the ancestors of Jesus are traced through Joseph who comes from the family of David. The Gospel of John refers to Jesus twice as "the son of Joseph." But the Gospel of Mark (as well as the apostle Paul) tells no birth story and what is said about Mary and the family of Jesus is not flattering. All of this only puts our memories in perspective. It does not wash away the simple beauty of the Christmas story.

My favorite Catholic theologian, Rosemary Radford Ruether, spoke on abortion and war to a Pax Christi conference and the talk, "'Consistent Life Ethic' is Inconsistent," was published in the Nov. 17 National Catholic Reporter. It's a breath of fresh air. She points out that Catholic ethics is absolutist when considering the rights of the fetus and relative when speaking about the rights of the born. Because of its stand on birth control, Catholicism "both forbids abortion under any circumstances and is a major cause of producing the situations that cause it." Ruether is concerned about the Church's less than rigorous stand on war, environmental destruction, and lack of access of clean water, education and health care by the world's poor. "Catholicism speaks softly and carries no stick when it comes to untimely and unjust death after birth...Putting the ethics of life before birth and life after birth more in sync with each other would help overcome the credibility gap from which Catholic teachings on ethics now suffer." Ruether disagrees with the Church that life begins at conception (why are there no funerals for miscarriages, I wonder) but laments abortions occuring after five months pregnancy. She argues that women often have little power to resist pregnancy and advocates that women's moral agency be recognized by Catholicism.

Now that Bush Senior's panel of experts has both condemned the war in Iraq but cautioned a go-slow approach (who wants to be the last soldier to die in this lost cause?), there are some impassioned and ironic columns on the report's import by our most excellent commentators. I can recommend Frank Rich's column in the Dec. 10th New York Times, "The Sunshine Boys Can't Save Iraq," and Patrick Cockburn's piece in the London Independent on Dec. 13, “The Americans don't see how unwelcome they are, or that Iraq is now beyond repair; The main purpose of Bush invading Iraq was to retain power at home.” Also excellent on this tragic topic is Mark Morford's column Dec. 13 in the San Francisco Chronicle, "Our Path to ‘Victory’ Ends in Defeat." El Presidente Bush, of course, is threatening to ignore the report, or at least postpone a decision on any changes until he leaves office two years from now. The howling for his blood, however, grows louder, and defections mount from even his own party. Will Karl Rove be forced to commit hari kari? Seriously, though, we must demand that George W. Bush be accountable for the crimes committed in his name, for the slaughter and the torture and the abrogation of human rights. The buck stops at his desk in the Oval Office.

I've written before about the reasonable letter that Iran's President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad sent to Bush which was ridiculed by administration spokesmen and largely ignored by the media. Ahmadinejad, who has a doctorate and was a professor before entering political life, wrote another letter on Nov. 29, this time to "Noble Americans." I found it quite enlightening and persuasive. He writes about Palestine, Iraq and the torture and mistreatment of prisoners, as well as recent elections, and even refers to Cindy Sheehan, though not by name. He criticizes the US administration, not the American people, for crimes perpetrated in their name. Ahmadinejad is obviously a thoughtful and intelligent man, and I think we should not only listen to what he has to say, but talk to him and others in Iran's government. There will be no settlement in the Middle East, in Israel/Palestine or Iraq, without the help of Iran and Syria (which was recommended by the panel of experts).

There is no better moderate spokesman on Israel's behalf than Rabbi Michael Lerner, editor of Tikkun. The journal of Jewish thought will publish an interview with former President Jimmy Carter in its January issue and Lerner wrote a letter of praise, "Thank You, Jimmy Carter!," on Dec. 6 which was reprinted by Common Dreams. Carter's new book, Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid, has been slammed by the powerful Jewish lobby which has successfully prevented any U.S. government since Carter's from a sane policy on the Israel question. Lerner takes a middle road, but supports Carter, "who is speaking the truth as he knows it, and doing a great service to the Jews." Unfortunately, according to Lerner, "this peace is impeded by the powerful voices of AIPAC and the mainstream of the organized Jewish community, who manage to terrify even the most liberal elected officials into blind support of whatever policy the current government of Israel advocates." Rosemary Radford Ruether gave a talk at UC Santa Cruz some years ago in which she argued that the struggles in the Mideast were over land, not religion. Amos Oz in a recent book, How to Cure a Fanatic, says much the same thing. Carter, in his book, says that the Jewish policies toward Muslims is not the result of racism but rather "the desire of a minority of Israelis to occupy, confiscate and colonize Palestinian land." Acceptance of this would change the face of diplomacy in the Middle East. Unfortunately, Nancy Pelosi, the new leader in the House for the Democratic Party, is an unqualified supporter of Israel.

Alexander Cockburn, Patrick's brother, is not hopeful. In his Dec. 18 column in The Nation, "Gaza and Darfur," Cockburn compares the two crisis regions and seems to liken Darfur to the poster animal of the environmental movement, the baby seals. "Darfur is primarily a 'feel good' subject for people here who want to agonize publicly about injustices in the world but who don't really want to do anything about them," Cockburn writes. Darfur is not a U.S. problem, there is no political risk in sounding righteous about genocide there, and it's "also very photogenic." Gaza is very different. "It is Israel, America's prime ally in the Middle East, that is on a day-to-day basis, with America's full support, inflicting appalling brutalities on a civilian population. " Cockburn points to the "activite complicity" of the U.S. in permitting "terrible crimes wrought by Israel, as it methodically lays waste a society of 1.4 million Palestinians." Compared to this, Darfar is a distraction.

Since I wrote on Mel Gibson the other day and his slasher flick which slanders the Mayan people, I've read an excellent perspective from Earl Shorris in the Dec. 18 issue of The Nation on this topic, "Mel and the Maya." Read the article, but avoid the film.

And finally, I want to recommend an interesting interpretation of America's history and failed promise by Andrew Bacevich in the Dec. 1 issue of Commonweal. Bacevich, a professor at Boston University, writes on "Twilight of the Republic? Seeds of Decline, Path to Renewal," arguing that "our corrupt age requires a new reformation." A decline in the march of progress, from the Empire of Production to the Empire of Consumption, from a "war on terror" that is just the latest phase in an expansionist project that is now three centuries old, however, is not a bad thing. Bacevich believes that we should "give up once and for all any pretensions about an 'indispensable nation' summoned to excercise 'benign global hegemony' in the midst of a uniquely opportune 'unipolar moment'." As a consequence of a new reformation, America might one day actually live up to its professed ideals. He's a bit dogmatic about America's "cultural assault on the world," a favorite position of the Christian and Islamic conservatives, but a prophetic read nonetheless.

"¡Viva la Virgen!"

The cry went up from the crowd of Latinos at the pre-dawn mass in Holy Cross Church this morning on the Feast Day of Our Lady of Guadalupe. "¡Viva la Virgen!" The hall was filled with families who braved a heavy downpour of rain, many small children dressed in Mexican costumes and young women with ribbons in their braids. The mass was preceded by Las Mañanitas, songs to the Virgen led by a mariachi trio, followed by the Rosary, all in Spanish. A large copy of the original painting of Guadalupe on the inside of Juan Diego's tilma or cloak was hanging to the right of the altar, surrounded by dozens and dozens of roses in every color. Many people knelt down before the icon during the service. Afterwards, a reception was held in the church hall and hot chocolate was served, along with Mexican sweet breads.

Octavio Paz, Mexico's Nobel laureat for literature, has written that "the Mexican people, after more than two centuries of experiments, have faith only in the Virgin of Guadalupe and the National Lottery." When I traveled in Mexico two years ago, I encountered two icons everywhere I went, that of Guadalupe and that of painter Frida Kahlo. Discovering that I had a five-hour layover at the airport in Mexico City, I thought long and hard about where I would go, either to Kahlo's Blue House in Coyoacan to the south, or to the Basilica de Guadelupe in the north of the city where the original image hangs on the wall behind the altar. I chose the latter. The streets were filled with pilgrims, and in the wide plaza many of them were on their knees. The Basilica that Sunday morning was packed to overflowing, and I walked around the side to a door where pilgrims and tourists interested in viewing the picture could enter. We were carried quickly by the icon on two moving walk-ways, but many remained standing at either side, staring up at the Virgin with tears in their eyes. I was overwhelmed by the power and respect the Virgin of Guadalupe has in the popular religious imagination.

Last week I went to see "Guadalupe," a new film by Santiago Parra, an Ecuadorian who lives in Barcelona. The story includes a Jewish businessman who is also a Guadalupaño, a devotee of the Virgen, and a Muslim researcher who reveals information about the history of Guadalupe as he writes a TV script. Contemporary events are interspersed with scenes of Juan Diego's vision of the Virgin in 1531 on the hill of Tepeyac outside of Mexico City and Miguel Sanchez who first wrote down the story in 1648. Juan Diego, who was canonized a saint by Pope John Paul II in 2002, speaks in the film the native language Nahuatl. Parra said he got this idea from Mel Gibson whose actors spoke Aramaic in "The Passion of the Christ." Asked for proof of his vision by the Spanish bishop, Fray Juan de Zumárraga, Juan Diego follows Mary's directions to a field of roses where he picks an armful, wrapping the blooms in his cloak ,and delivers them to the bishop. Inside of his cloak, as the roses (this was in December when there were no such flowers in Mexico City) tumbled out was the image which now hangs in the Basilica.

Now I am challenged by the idea of miracles, and although I am impressed by the impassioned popularity of the Virgin of Guadalupe throughout the Spanish-speaking world, I find it difficult to believe that God sent the mother of Christ to the indigenous people of New Spain at precisely the time when Spanish priests were attempting with Bible and sword to convert the Aztec people to Christianity. The many injustices of this mass conversion of the "pagans" are well known to anyone who has read the writings of Bartolome De Las Casas. But the interesting thing about Guadalupe is that she empowered the conquered people to claim Jesus, or at least his mother, as their own. She is seen as the "first mestiza" and the "first Mexican," the progenitor of a new race of people blended together from European and Indian in a way that never occured in the more racist America to the north. Guadalupe's image was held aloft by Mexican revolutionaries, from Hidalgo and Morelos to Bolivar and Zapata, to unite the country. Writer Judy King has said, "The Virgin of Guadalupe is the rubber band that binds this disparate nation into a whole." A Jesuit has written, "We say that we are more Guadalupaños than Mexicans. We say that because our Lady Guadalupe is our symbol, our identity."

But is this symbol real? Did Juan Diego (if he ever existed at all) really have a vision of the Virgin Mary and did her picture appear miraculously in his clock? The writer and filmaker of "Guadalupe" marshal all the evidence of the side of belief. They admit that her name is probably from the Arabic and that there is a Virgin of Guadalupe in Spain. But they cite a Nobel prize winner in chemistry who said in the 1930s that the fabric of the cloak was not from a known mineral, vegetable, or animal source. Claims have been made about the eyes of the Virgin in the image which are said to contain images of witnesses present when the cloak was shown to the Bishop. How could such a fragile material survive for over 500 years without any apparent deterioration?

No counter arguments are given in the film, but there are many. The hill of Tepeyac was the site of the home of an indigenous goddess named Tonantzin. Most mysterious is the 117-year gap between Juan Diego's vision and the first written report (an earlier document has been declared a blatant forgery). An art restoration expert in 2002 found there was nothing unusual about the cloth or paint used for the picture, and another researcher claimed he could identify at least three distinct layers in the painting, one of which was signed and dated. The original showed striking similarities to the Spanish version, and the fabric was composed of hemp and linen, not agave fibers as has been believed. But most telling, to me, is that Bishop Zumárraga's memoirs contain no mention of Juan Diego, although he did write: "The Redeemer of the world doesn't want any more miracles, because they are no longer necessary."

So, what if Juan Diego's vision of the Virgin of Guadalupe is a fabrication? What if it was intended to coopt the power of the indigenous goddess Tonantzin in order to win converts for Christianity, and
what if it was used for political purposes on the part of homegrown revolutionaries to unite citizens of the newly created nation of Mexico. And today, the Virgin of Guadalupe provides a center and a home for strangers in a strange land, undocumented immigrants in the United States who are trying to maintain their identity under the threat of persecution and deportation? There is historical truth, which tells us what "really" happened, and there is religious truth, which gives our lives meaning. If you were suffering and were looking for salvation, which would you choose?

Mel's Anti-War Slasher Film

No, I didn't go to see "Apocalypto," the third film in Mel Gibson's "bucket o' blood" trilogy this past weekend. For the past month I have been watching the previews for this film about the last violent days of the Mayan civilization, before the Spanish Christians arrived with sword and Bible to finish the cruel Indians off, and I was almost seduced into seeing it. You will not be surprised to hear "Apocalypto" was the box office champ, pulling in gross ticket sales of over $14 million. But this was far short of the more than $80 million Gibson earned on the first weekend of "The Passion of the Christ." Both films, along with his "Braveheart," are reputed to the most bloody and violent films ever made. This may perhaps say more about the film-going public than it does about Mel Gibson.

I have been enjoying the reviews, though. My favorite so far was written by Mick LaSalle in the San Francisco Chronicle. He's concerned about Mel.

It would be inappropriate and probably inaccurate for any critic to pronounce on the mental health of a filmmaker based on his movie. Yet no description of "Apocalypto" can even begin, much less be complete, without noting -- say in a colloquial, nonclinical, anecdotal sort of way -- that it seems like something made by a crazy person. It's unrelenting, a succession of blood-soaked disaster, an artfully designed parade of cruelty that would make the Marquis de Sade get up and say, "Enough already."

LaSalle adds an "Advisory": "This film contains nudity, decapitations, forced sex, throat cuttings, arrows in the neck, arrows through the mouth and a scene in which a jaguar bites into a man's head. Sensitive viewers may find some of this disturbing." Indeed! The reviewer for the Charlotte (N.C.) Observer, Lawrence Toppman, was no less subtle:

The film is a middle finger thrust at everyone who said the violence in "Braveheart" and "The Passion of the Christ" was too extreme. It's "Braveheart" without historical significance and "Passion" without spirituality, though it dabbles in both, and it represents as brazen an act of career suicide as I can recall from a star director. If he were a first-timer, he'd never work again.

I didn't see POTC (as the insiders call it) either. As far as I'm concerned, the message Jesus brought was about love, not blood, torture and cruelty.

So what's up with Mel? He is reputedly a talented and skilled filmmaker, and not a bad actor, if you like the characters he's played in the Mad Max and Lethel Weapon series of films. His regressive Catholic views are well known and he got in trouble recently for making anti-semetic remarks while being arrested for drunk driving. He may be an Australian, but he's also a good old boy, and apparently the conservatives in this country have seen him as one of their own. LaSalle, in his blog, wrote that his critical review of "Apocalypto" is being criticized from the right by people who seem to think that Gibson is standing up to the liberals in Hollywood by making a film they wouldn't like. "I think there are a lot of people," LaSalle wrote, "who see in Gibson someone they respect for one reason: They think Gibson is as stupid as they are. And they want to believe that being stupid is no obstacle in the pursuit of a successful life."

The film could be seen as a conservative critique of modern culture because it is about the decline and fall of a corrupt and cruel society (one that lacks American family values). It begins with a quote from pop philosopher Will Durant: "A great civilization is not conquered from without until it has destroyed itself from within." But the early publicity for "Apocalypto" hinted that it was somehow an anti-war movie, even though the actor had been a supporter of President Bush in the past. Last September, Gibson took a print of his movie to a science fiction and horror film festival in Austin. There for reporters he drew parallels between the Mayan civilization on the brink of collapse and America's present situation. "What's human sacrifice," he asked, "if not sending guys off to Iraq for no reason?"

Whoa, Mel! The next time you're in Santa Cruz, will you stop by the anti-war demonstration at the Town Clock and shake our hands, like the anti-war politician Dennis Kucinich did a few weeks ago? Now I get it, your movie is really an allegory, and the Mayan tribes slaughtering each other are stand-ins for the Sunnis and the Shias in Iraq. But wait a minute. Who are the Spaniards meant to symbolize? They come into the Americas with horses, guns, steel helmets, and disease germs, and proceed to pacify (i.e. kill off) all the warring tribes, the Mayans as well as the Aztecs and the Incas. Are they supposed to be us? If so, then Iraq is a crusade, right, for justice, Christ, and western superiority? But then...

Toppman, in the Observer, wonders:

Is he saying these Mayans are like Americans today, fighting amongst themselves while a terrorist threat masses beyond our borders? That's an interesting idea, though it makes the Spaniards -- who brought over the Christianity that Gibson fervently espouses -- into terrorists.

What worries me more than filmmakers like Gibson who are raising the slasher film to high art is the audience for this stuff. I remember when my two older boys were teenagers and they talked me into taking them to a midnight screening of "Dawn of the Dead," an early vampire slasher classic. I was horrified and appalled, while they, along with the rest of the young audience, found the blood and gore screamingly funny. Slasher films have come a long way since then (LaSalle called POTC "the Jesus chainsaw massacre"), and they seem to be more popular than ever. We're awash in blood and circuses on the screen and the barbarians are in the lobby.

It might be that horror and slasher films are the modern day equivalent of ghost stories, and that we laugh at them to asuage our fears and ease our anxieties about the terrors of everyday life (accidents, disease, mental illness like maybe Mel's). Rudolf Otto wrote about this in The Idea of the Holy. Ghost stories give us some inkling of the awesomeness of the divine. On the other hand, films like POTC, "Braveheart" and "Apocalypto" might numb us to the cruelties so prevalent in the world despite the march of technological progress. I know the link between pretend violence on the screen and real violence is not yet proven, but what are we teaching our children? On the other hand, why is it that any kind of bloody cruelty can be shown on the screen while our media routinely censors the photos and videos coming out of the Middle East? Why is fake slaughter more acceptable than the real thing?