We arrived at the Dalai Lama’s complex early in the morning as the sun was still waking up. We went through the vigilant security, which reminded us that not all were as loving toward the Dalai Lama as he was toward them. I had decided to see the pat down, not unlike those we are often subjected to at airports, as a brief massage rather than as an intrusion of my personal space or as an accusation of my potential danger. I was already learning how much one’s perspective shaped one’s reality.
We crossed the brief distance to the Dalai Lama’s private residence. We were later told that some of the people who had worked with the Dalai Lama for thirty years had never been inside. This was his retreat, one of the few places where this very public man could experience solitude, and it was a great privilege to be welcomed into his inner sanctum.
From the outside, the Dalai Lama’s home is a yellow-painted concrete structure with a green roof, like so many in Dharamsala. The double doors and walls have plenty of glass to let in the high altitude light. On the roof is a balcony where the Dalai Lama can take a morning constitutional and look out at his beloved greenhouse filled with purple, pink, and white delphiniums and marigolds, bursting like tiny suns. Beyond he can see a panoramic vista down to the lush green Indian plains, and in the other direction the towering glacial Dhauladhar Mountains cloaked in white snow year-round. While far less grand than the Potala of his youth, his residence has a modest elegance and warmth that the endless thousand-room palace, with its empty, ghost-haunted rooms, must have lacked.
• • •
We followed the Dalai Lama and the Archbishop into the house as the now-brightening light streamed in through the glass window panels. The curtains were held back with ties, and the ceiling was painted black and red. The hallway was hung with brightly colored thangkas, and the hall was narrowed by bookshelves piled high with golden-spined sacred texts.
“Now this is my—how do you say—living room, a prayer room,” the Dalai Lama explained. It seemed fitting that his living room was his prayer room, since so much of his life is spent in prayer and meditation. As we entered the room we saw a large, glassed-in altar with a statue of a somewhat emaciated Buddha. Along the sides of the case were traditional Tibetan sacred texts, which looked like rectangular blocks. This altar was similar to a breakfront in a Western home that might be filled with silver or porcelain objects. On a ledge was a tablet displaying the face of a clock, which chimed out the hours.
As we entered the room, we saw a much larger altar, which was also encased in glass. “Now, this statue,” the Dalai Lama said, introducing the Archbishop to the standing Buddha at the center, “is from the seventh century. Am I right?” the Dalai Lama asked, turning to Jinpa.
“Right, seventh century,” Jinpa confirmed.
“He was a member of the monastery where this statue once stood,” the Dalai Lama said, pointing to Jinpa. Known as “Kyirong Jowo,” literally the brother from Kyirong, this statue of the Buddha is revered as one of the most precious religious treasures of the Tibetan people. It was clothed in a traditional Tibetan robe and crowned with a golden, jeweled coronet. It was surrounded by dozens of smaller statues of the Buddha and other sacred figures and was framed by white and purple orchids. The statue was beautifully carved sandalwood, and its face was painted gold. The eyes were wide-set, the eyebrows thin, the lips curving, the whole face serene. The statue’s right hand was extended, palm up, in a gentle gesture of welcome, acceptance, and generosity.
“Wonderful,” the Archbishop said.
“Originally, there were two similar statues, both carved from the same single piece of sandalwood. And since the time of the 5th Dalai Lama, one was housed in the Potala Palace,” the Dalai Lama explained. The Great Fifth, as he is often called, lived in the seventeenth century and united central Tibet, ending its many civil wars. He is the Charlemagne of Tibet—well, maybe the Charlemagne and the pope combined. “While one statue was in the Potala,” he said, “this statue was in western Tibet. They were like two brothers, twins. So eventually when the Chinese army destroyed the Potala, that one was killed.” It might have been a misspoken word, but his personification of the statue and its death did seem quite poignant. “Then the monks in western Tibet smuggled this one out of Tibet and into India. So then there was a question of whether it should go with the monks of that monastery to south India, where they were resettled, or stay here with me. I made some investigations in the mysterious way—divinations—which I think you also have in African culture. So then this statue, how do you say?”
He spoke in Tibetan to Jinpa, who then translated: “The divination revealed that the statue preferred to stay with the one who is more famous.”
Everyone laughed.
“Now I’ll tell you a secret thing, something quite unique. Each morning, you see, I pray to this statue. Then I see his facial expression changing.” The Dalai Lama had a mischievous look, and it was hard to know whether he was pulling the Archbishop’s leg.
“Really?” the Archbishop said, trying not to sound too incredulous. The Dalai Lama rocked his head from side to side as if to say, Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. Then the Archbishop asked, “Does it smile?”
“Yes, it is smiling like you, really,” the Dalai Lama said as he leaned in and touched foreheads with the Archbishop. Then, wagging a finger at him, he added quickly, “Oh, but not like your eyes, so big and round.” The Dalai Lama’s eyes went wide with an expression that could be surprise, fear, or anger. “Okay, now our session.”
But as he walked to his chair he stopped at another altar in the center of the room. On the round table was a very lifelike crucifix, carved out of white marble, with black nails sticking out of the palms of the hands. There was also a statue of the Madonna. “Now this is a black Madonna from Mexico.” The statue was of Mary wearing a golden robe and crown and holding a golden orb of the world. On her lap was a small baby Jesus.
“Mary is the symbol of love,” the Dalai Lama said, gesturing at the statue with the same open palm of the sandalwood Buddha. “It’s wonderful.”
There was also a deep blue globe nested in a golden stand, a sacred symbol perhaps of another kind, and a tangible reminder of the Buddhist understanding of interdependence. The Dalai Lama’s prayer practice and concern, like the Archbishop’s, enveloped the whole world.
The Dalai Lama showed the Archbishop over to a heavily cushioned beige chair with a high-winged back. The Archbishop wore a navy blue Tibetan shirt with the button in the corner, near the shoulder, which made the shirt seem like a pouch into which he had been snugly fit. A skilled tailor, Lama Tenzin’s father had specially made it for him as a gift. The Archbishop sat down, his small frame practically disappearing into the large chair.
The rest of us began to sit down on the floor, and the Dalai Lama asked whether we wanted chairs, but we said we were quite happy.
“Originally I also used to sit on the floor,” the Dalai Lama said. “But I started to have this problem with my knees. So now I prefer like this.” He gestured to a wide chair draped in a red velvety fabric. He pulled his robes up a little and sat down. Behind him a yellow, red, and green thangka hung on the wall. In front of him was a low wooden table with a stack of Buddhist texts, shaped like horizontal literary blocks. Two long thin lamps, sentinels on either side of the table, likely lit the table and the long Tibetan scriptures in the early mornings when the Dalai Lama began his practice. A pot of pink tulips and a gold-colored bowl for ceremonial rice throwing added some color. Finally, two slender tablets also stood on the crowded table, one to display the weather and the other to listen to BBC News.
“Because of our program, today I started my meditation at 2:30.”
“Hmm,” the Archbishop said, perhaps still marveling at this very early rising.
“Then, as usual, shower and then continue with my meditation practice. Now, you feel okay? Temperature is okay?” The Dalai Lama was extending his hands with concern.
The Archbishop smiled and gave him the thumbs-up. “Thank you,” the Archbishop said as they settled in beside each other.
“This part is a clear light of death meditation,” the Dalai Lama said, as if he were about to lead us into a meditation focusing on the breath and not the wasting away of our bodily form. “We are training our mind by going through quite a detailed process for what we will experience at the time of death.”
“Mmhmm,” the Archbishop said with wide eyes, as if he had just been invited to warm up for the spiritual Olympics with a short marathon.
“According to Buddhist Vajrayana psychology, there are different levels of consciousness,” the Dalai Lama said, referring to the esoteric Buddhist tradition, which aims to help the practitioner discover ultimate truth. “There’s a dissolution that occurs as the grosser levels of our bodily and mental states come to an end, and when more and more subtle levels become manifest. Then at the innermost or most subtle level, this state of clear light arises at the moment of dying. Not death. Dying. Physical feeling completely ceases. Breathing ceases. Heart ceases, it’s no longer beating. Brain also ceases its functioning. Still subtle, very subtle levels of consciousness remain, getting ready for another destination of life.”
The consciousness at the moment of death that the Dalai Lama was describing is free of duality and content and abides in the form of pure luminosity. (In a popular Hollywood comedy, Caddyshack, there is a scene where Bill Murray’s character, Carl, describes a tall tale about carrying golf clubs for the 12th Dalai Lama on a glacier. Carl asked for a tip after the game, and the Dalai Lama is said to have responded, “Oh, there won’t be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness.” Perhaps the screenwriters were onto something and knew about the clear light of death meditation.)
“So, in Buddhist thought,” the Dalai Lama explained, “we speak of death, intermediate state, and rebirth. In my case, I undertake this kind of meditation five times in a day, so on a daily basis, I kind of go through death and rebirth—five times I leave and five times I come back. So I suppose,” said the Dalai Lama, “when I actually die, I should be well prepared!” With these words, his twinkling eyes and mischievous smile became thoughtful and tender. “But I don’t know. When actual death comes, I hope I will have the ability to apply this practice effectively. I don’t know. So I need your prayers.”
“The Chinese say you will not decide who your reincarnation will be,” the Archbishop said, returning to a source of humor throughout the week. For the Archbishop, one did not want to miss the opportunity to link prayer to politics and meditation to activism—or a good joke. Certainly the declaration that the Chinese government (which does not sanction or accept religion) would choose the next reincarnation of the Dalai Lama was fodder for another good laugh.
“I prefer, after my death,” the Dalai Lama said with a laugh, “that you search for my reincarnation, that you carry the investigation rather than an antireligious, atheistic, Communist government.”
“Yes,” the Archbishop said after a pause, perhaps wondering how he would carry on the investigation to find the next Dalai Lama.
“I usually say—” the Dalai Lama continued, “half-joking, half-serious—first Chinese Communist Party should accept the theory of rebirth, then they should recognize Chairman Mao Tse Tung’s reincarnation, then Deng Xiaoping’s reincarnation, then they have a right to be involved with the Dalai Lama’s reincarnation.”
“Yes,” the Archbishop mused. “I was very interested because they claim to be atheists and all of that, but they say they will decide whether you are going to be reincarnated. That is quite something.” The Archbishop was chuckling and shaking his head at the absurdity of the Chinese government trying to restrict the Dalai Lama’s movements even in the next life.
Then words fell away, dialogue and jokes settled into quiet contemplation.
The Dalai Lama took off his glasses. His beautiful face was so familiar and yet suddenly quite different. His face looked long and oval, from his wide balding scalp, over his triangular eyebrows and slightly opened eyes, to his straight, broad nose, and peaked cheeks that looked chiseled now and weathered like the cliff face of a Himalayan summit, then to his straight and pursed lips, and ending with his soft, rounded chin. He looked down, as if the shades of his mind had been drawn, and now he was concerned only with the inward journey.
The Dalai Lama scratched his temple, and I felt relieved that he was not some austere ascetic who would deny his itches and aches. He wrapped his cloak more tightly around his shoulders and settled into quiet, his hands resting in his lap.
At first my mind started racing, and I was having a hard time staying focused, thinking about the questions I would ask, the video camera that was filming, the other people in the room, and if everything was as it should be and everyone had what they needed. Then as I watched the Dalai Lama’s face, my own mirror neuron system seemed to resonate with the mind-state that I was witnessing. Mirror neurons allow us to imitate others and experience their internal states, and therefore may play an important role in empathy. I started to experience a tingling in my forehead and then a sharpening of focus as various parts of my brain started to quiet and calm, as if the activity began to center on what spiritual adepts have called the third eye, or what neuroscientists call the middle prefrontal cortex.
Daniel Siegel had explained to me that the neural integration created by this crucial area of the brain links many disparate areas and is the locus of everything from emotional regulation to morality. Meditation, he and other scientists have proposed, helps with these processes. He explained that the integrative fibers of the discerning middle prefrontal cortex seem to reach out and soothe the more reactive emotional structures of the brain. We inherited the reactivity of this part of our brain, and particularly the sensitive amygdala, from our skittish fight-or-flight ancestors. Yet so much of the inner journey means freeing ourselves from this evolutionary response so that we do not flip our lid or lose our higher reasoning when facing stressful situations.
The real secret of freedom may simply be extending this brief space between stimulus and response. Meditation seems to elongate this pause and help expand our ability to choose our response. For example, can we expand the momentary pause between our spouse’s annoyed words and our angry or hurt reaction? Can we change the channel on the mental broadcasting system from self-righteous indignation—how dare she or he speak to me like that—to compassionate understanding—she or he must be very tired. I will never forget seeing the Archbishop do exactly this—pause and choose his response—during a pointed challenge I had made some years ago.
We had been engaged in two full, exhausting days of interviews, hoping to create a legacy project around his pioneering work with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa. We were many hours into the dialogue with a film crew, and he was visibly tired and frankly a little cranky. It was not easy work to try to describe systematically the process of truth, forgiveness, and reconciliation that he had used so effectively but often instinctively to heal his country.
At one particularly tense moment I had asked him about his decision to return to South Africa from England, an event that had profound implications for the anti-apartheid movement and the freeing of his country but also had quite painful consequences for his wife, Leah, and their children. Not only were they leaving a country where they were free and equal citizens to return to an oppressive and racist society, but also they were choosing to break up their family as well. The apartheid government had created Bantu education for blacks and other nonwhites, an educational system that had the specific goal of educating its students for menial jobs. It was the purposeful mental subjugation of generations of students. This would never be tolerable for the Archbishop and Leah, and they knew they would need to send their children away to a boarding school in Swaziland.
This had been one of the most difficult moments in their marriage, and it had almost broken them. Certainly it had caused Leah enormous pain. After saying that few marital disputes are vindicated by history, I asked the Archbishop if he had ever apologized to Leah for the pain his decision had caused. He defended his decision, with the true righteousness of the cause and perhaps a little of the entitlement of a man of his generation. I pushed him hard about why he had not apologized for the anguish it had caused Leah, even if the decision had been the right one.
As my verbal assault became more pointed and challenging, I saw his head draw back in reaction and perhaps some defensiveness. Most of us might have argued more adamantly or attacked back in such a disagreement, but it was as if I could see the Archbishop—in a split-second pause—collect his consciousness, reflect on his options, and choose his response, one that was thoughtful and engaged rather than reactive and rejecting. It was one of the most profound examples of what a prayerful and meditative life can give us—that pause, the freedom to respond instead of react. A few weeks later he wrote to me that he had discussed the experience with Leah and had apologized. She told him that she had forgiven him long ago. Marriages, even the best ones—perhaps especially the best ones—are an ongoing process of spoken and unspoken forgiveness.
• • •
The Archbishop cradled his right hand in his left. He hung his head in concentration. The goal was meditation, but I’ve never been quite sure where meditation ends and prayer begins, or where prayer ends and meditation begins. I have heard it said that prayer is when we speak to God, and meditation is when God answers. Whether it is God answering or some wiser part of our own intelligence, I am not sure it mattered to me, as I was just trying to quiet the inner noise and listen through the thick and enveloping silence.
After the Dalai Lama ended the meditation, it was the Archbishop’s turn to share his spiritual practice. The Archbishop begins his day with prayer and meditation in the small closet-sized upstairs chapel in his home in Cape Town. Before becoming the archbishop of Cape Town, he and his family lived in Soweto, the former black township outside of Johannesburg that was so central to the antiapartheid struggle and the site of the Soweto Uprising. There he had a slightly larger semidetached chapel with a stained glass window and actual pews. It was a lovely cloistered space, and we had spent some beautiful moments of quiet together in there. It felt like being in the spiritual headquarters of the anti-apartheid struggle, where the Archbishop had turned to God so many times in anguish and uncertainty and found direction.
As the Archbishop and Mpho got the bread and wine ready, the Dalai Lama said, “A Buddhist monk does not take wine or any alcohol—in principle, that is. But today, with you, I will take a little.” He added, “Don’t worry, you can rest assured, I will not be drunk.”
“I still won’t let you drink and drive,” the Archbishop replied.
“This is the first time we get to pray together,” the Dalai Lama said. “One Buddhist, one Christian, brothers. I mentioned to you that since 1975 I have been making pilgrimages to different religious traditions. Sometimes it takes a major disaster for followers of all different faiths to come together and see that we are the same, human brothers and sisters. I consider what we are doing today to be part of the same kind of pilgrimage. When I look at this statue of Jesus Christ, I am really moved. I think this teacher has brought immense inspiration to millions of people. Now it is time for your meditation.”
The Archbishop and Mpho handed out the small prayer booklets and led the Eucharist, also called Holy Communion. This rite is considered to be a reenactment of the Last Supper, which was a celebration of the Jewish Passover meal. Jesus is believed to have said that his followers should eat the bread and drink the wine as a remembrance of him, and for many Christians the bread is transformed into Christ’s body and the wine into his blood. The Eucharist celebrates Jesus’s sacrifice of himself. I had joined the Archbishop for Eucharist many times, usually as the only Jew, a point that the Archbishop enjoyed pointing out, often adding that I was there to make sure the Eucharist was “kosher.” As a non-Christian, I did not actually receive Communion, so it was a surprise to see the Archbishop and the Dalai Lama break convention in both of their traditions.
Many Christian denominations forbid those who are not Christians, or even other Christians who are not of their specific denomination (those with whom they are not in full communion), from sharing in the Eucharist. In other words, like so many religious traditions it defines who is part of the group and who is not. This is one of the greatest challenges that humanity faces: removing the barriers between who we see as “us” and who we see as “other.” The latest brain scan research suggests that we have a rather binary understanding of self and other and that our empathy circuits do not activate unless we see the other person as part of our own group. So many wars have been fought and so much injustice has been perpetrated because we’ve banished others from our group and therefore our circle of concern. I remember the Archbishop starkly pointing out this fact during the Iraq War, when the tallies of American and Iraqi casualties were reported and valued differently by the media in the United States. In the Archbishop’s tally these were all God’s children, indivisible and valued equally.
The Archbishop and the Dalai Lama are truly two of the most inclusive religious figures in the world, and throughout the week the theme underlying their teachings was about transcending our narrow definitions and finding love and compassion for all of humanity. The sharing of traditions that we were engaged in that morning was a reminder to put aside our own narrow beliefs of self and other, ours and theirs, Christian and Buddhist, Hindu and Jew, believer and atheist. In the land of Gandhi that we were in, I thought of his totemic words when asked if he was a Hindu: “Yes I am. I am also a Christian, a Muslim, a Buddhist, and a Jew.” We were looking for human truth, and we would drink from the cup of wisdom from whatever source it came.
“Is it English?” the Dalai Lama asked as he took the booklet.
“It’s English, yes. Do you want to read in Xhosa?” the Archbishop said, referring to his African mother tongue, clicking as he said the word.
“That one I don’t know.”
“For your sake we will use English.”
“Thank you, thank you,” the Dalai Lama said.
“But the language of heaven is Xhosa. When you get up there, they are going to have to find a translator for you.”
“There is a connection,” the Dalai Lama said. “You see, historians say that the first human beings came from Africa—our real ancestors. So God’s creation began in Africa.”
“Not very far from my home,” the Archbishop replied, “the site that they say is the Cradle of Humankind. So although you look like you look, you are an African!”
“The European, the Asian, the Arab, the American . . .” the Dalai Lama began.
“They are all African,” the Archbishop finished. “We are all African. Some of us were farther away from the heat and their complexions changed. Now we want to be quiet.”
“Yes. First, you should be quiet. Then we will follow,” the Dalai Lama said, one last tease before sanctity descended, although I often felt like, for these two men, holiness and lightheartedness were indivisible.
The Dalai Lama now sat there with his lips pursed together reverentially. As the service began he nodded his head attentively. When we stood, he stood straight and wrapped his crimson cloak around him. His hands were pressed together, his fingers laced. I knew that each leader was used to serving as the representative of their entire tradition, and the Dalai Lama was attempting to offer his respects on behalf of the whole Tibetan Buddhist—perhaps the whole Buddhist—community.
• • •
Mpho Tutu wore a bright red dress and a matching red headscarf as well as a black cloak. She began with a prayer for all of those places where injustice exists, where there is strife, and continued to offer prayers of healing for all of those who are in need. She concluded by blessing the work that we were doing together.
We finished the prayers and affirmations of the Eucharist with the words “Peace be with you. The peace of the Lord be with you.” Everyone went around to kiss and embrace one another. The Dalai Lama was behind his meditation table. I was thinking about how few embraces he must get, and went over to greet him. Mpho did, too. Then the Archbishop did as well. They held hands and bowed to each other.
Now was the time for Communion. The Archbishop lifted up a small piece of Tibetan white bread and placed it in the Dalai Lama’s mouth. One could see the beaded U-B-U-N-T-U bracelet on the Archbishop’s wrist affirming our connectedness and interdependence to one another. It was the reminder that we can be in communion with everyone. Then Mpho approached with the glass of red wine. The Dalai Lama dipped the tip of his left ring finger into the glass and then placed the smallest drop into his mouth.
After giving everyone Communion, the Archbishop used his finger to collect all the crumbs, so not a smidgen of the symbolic body would be discarded, then poured any remaining bits into the glass of watered-down wine and drank it.
The Archbishop ended with a blessing in Xhosa, clicking repeatedly in the beautiful sound poetry of his native language, crossed himself, and then made the sign of the cross over the gathered fellowship. “I’m driving you out, go out into the world. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. In the name of Christ. Amen. Hallelujah. Hallelujah.”
• • •
Before we left, the Dalai Lama stopped to take some pills, which he explained were Tibetan medicines. He chewed them up, his face puckering at their bitter taste.
“That’s why you are looking so handsome,” the Archbishop said.
“Because of God’s grace,” the Dalai Lama replied.
Rachel then added, “God’s grace sends the Tibetan doctor.”
“In terms of physical strength, God loves the nonbeliever more than the believer!” the Dalai Lama said, laughing.
The Archbishop began to cackle, too, as he took his cane and started to walk away but then turned around: “Don’t laugh at your own jokes, man.”
“You taught me to do that.” Then the Dalai Lama got up, wrapped his cloak around his shoulders, and took the Archbishop’s arm. “Thank you very much,” he said, referring to the service. “Very impressive.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” the Archbishop replied.
They exited back down the dark hallway lined with thangkas. The bright light was streaming in through the windows at the end of the hallway now. They stepped outside and down the concrete stairs, the Archbishop moving slowly, bracing himself with the handrail.
A car was waiting, but the Archbishop and the Dalai Lama decided to walk up the path together to the conference room where the interviews were being filmed.
The Dalai Lama took the Archbishop’s hand, the one that held the cane. They walked together rather nimbly.
“Have you had any problems with security here?” the Archbishop asked.
“No, no,” the Dalai Lama said.
“I’m quite surprised,” the Archbishop responded.
“No,” the Dalai Lama said again, confirming his safety. “I usually describe myself as the longest guest of the Indian government, now fifty-six years.”
“Fifty-six? But, I mean, there have not been any intruders? People who have wanted to come in here and attack you?” He was no doubt thinking of his own death threats and the actual plan to assassinate him. It was foiled by the embrace of a crowd of people that had surrounded him at the airport and prevented the would-be assassin from getting close enough.
“No, no. Twenty-four hours a day. India provides protection.”
“Quite amazing, but even so, they can be quite clever. They can infiltrate the security establishment, and you think that it is someone who is coming to protect you, and it turns out . . .”
“Even in the White House,” the Dalai Lama said, “someone entered without much notice.”
“It is wonderful that you have been able to be secure here.”
“The only danger,” the Dalai Lama said, “is an earthquake.”