I want to respond to your comment about being at the funeral,” the Dalai Lama said, referring back to the Archbishop’s story about preaching at Chris Hani’s funeral. “You mentioned when you spoke at the funeral that you did not consider yourself as superior, you were just one of them. That’s very, very important. I always feel the same way when I give a talk. I consider myself as simply another person, just like those in the audience, same human being. So, I am just one human being talking to other human beings.
“Similarly, they should consider me as the same human being, with the same potential for constructive emotions and destructive emotions. When we meet anyone, first and foremost we must remember that they, too, have the same desire to have a happy day, a happy month, a happy life. And all have the right to achieve it.
“Then, you see, my talk may offer them something relevant, but if I consider myself something special, or if they also consider me something different and special, then my experience will not be of much use. So it’s wonderful that, in you, Archbishop, I have found a comrade who fully shares this same view.”
The Dalai Lama and the Archbishop were uninterested in status and superiority. The Dalai Lama began to tell a story that was a poignant reminder that not all shared their view in the religious world.
“You have said I am a mischievous person,” he said, pointing at the Archbishop. “One day, at a big interfaith meeting in Delhi, one Indian spiritual leader sat there next to me like this.” The Dalai Lama sat up stiffly and made a rigid, scowling face. “He said that his seat should be higher than the others. What do you call this?” the Dalai Lama asked, tapping the base of his chair.
“The legs,” the Archbishop offered.
“Yes, the legs were not long enough, so the organizers had to bring some extra bricks to make this spiritual leader’s chair higher. The whole time I sat next to him, he remained immobile like a statue. Then I thought, If one of the bricks were to move, and he fell over, then we would see what would happen—”
“Did you move the brick?” the Archbishop asked.
“If I had . . .”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Maybe you will see some mysterious force move the brick because I will pray to God, ‘Please, just topple that chair.’ Then that spiritual leader will act like a real human being.”
The Dalai Lama and the Archbishop were cackling.
“As I mentioned earlier I used to get nervous,” the Dalai Lama continued. “When I was young and had to give some formal teachings, because I was not thinking that we are all same, I would experience anxiety. I would forget that I’m just talking as a human being to fellow humans beings. I would think of myself as something special, and that kind of thinking would make me feel isolated. It is this sense of separateness that isolates us from other people. In fact, this kind of arrogant way of thinking creates a sense of loneliness, and then anxiety.
“In 1954, just after I reached Beijing on an official visit, the Indian ambassador came to see me. Some Chinese officials were also there. The Chinese Communist officials, again, were like statues, like this—very serious and reserved. Then somehow a bowl of fruit on the table toppled over. I don’t know what happened. So then those stern-looking Chinese officials got down on their knees to chase and pick up the fruit. You see? When things go smoothly, then we can pretend we are something very special. But something happens, something unexpected, then we are forced to act like normal human beings.”
I began asking another question, when the Dalai Lama glanced at a clock that was displaying the wrong time and asked whether it was time for the tea break. I explained that we still had a half hour but asked the Archbishop, whose energy level we were monitoring closely, whether he needed a break.
“No.”
“You’re okay?” I asked again, aware that the Archbishop might push himself beyond what would be good for his health.
“He’s doing very well,” the Archbishop said, referring to the Dalai Lama. “He’s behaving like a human being.”
“So you describe me as mischievous person,” the Dalai Lama joked back. “So when I’m at a very holy or formal meeting, I truly am thinking that I wish something would go wrong.”
“Now people are going to know that when the Dalai Lama comes into a room, and maybe he’s sitting with presidents, he’s looking around and hoping that one of the chairs will break.”
“So that’s why,” the Dalai Lama continued to explain, “when I first met President Bush, we immediately became close friends on the human level—not official level—human level. We were sitting together, when some cookies were served. Then I asked, ‘Which one is the best?’ And he immediately said, pointing to one, ‘This one is very good.’ He acted like a normal human being, so we became very close. Some other leaders, when we are meeting, there’ll be some distance. Then the second time, little closer, third time, little closer.” With each time, he was moving his head a little closer to the Archbishop.
“When I was very young, in Lhasa, I used to receive copies of the American magazine called Life. One issue had a picture of Princess Elizabeth, the future queen, at some very big official function. The princess was reading a message with Prince Philip by her side. The wind had blown Her Majesty’s skirt like that.” The Dalai Lama was puffing his robes out. “Both Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip pretended like nothing had happened, but an American photographer took the picture. When I saw that picture I laughed. I really thought it was very funny. Sometimes, especially in formal occasions, people act as if they are different and special. But we all know that we are all the same, ordinary human beings.”
“Can you explain the role that humility plays in cultivating joy?” I asked, as the Archbishop started laughing.
“They tell the story of a bishop,” he began, “who was about to ordain candidates to the priesthood. They were speaking about virtues, including the virtue of humility. One of the candidates came up to the bishop and said, ‘My lord, I’ve been looking in the library to find a book on humility.’ The bishop said, ‘Oh, yes, I’ve written the best book on the subject.’”
I thought he might also share the joke he often tells of the three bishops: These three religious leaders were standing before the altar, beating their breasts with great humility, saying how, before God, they were nothing. Shortly, one of the lowly acolytes in the church approached and started to beat his chest, professing that he, too, was nothing. When the three bishops heard him, one elbowed the other and said, “Look who thinks he’s nothing.”
These stories about false modesty are funny because humility is not something that one can claim to have. It is for this reason that I think that the Archbishop was laughing about the question even before I had finished asking it. He did not want to claim to be an expert on humility. Nonetheless he and the Dalai Lama were saying that humility is essential to a life of joy. And it’s exactly this humility that allows these two men to be so approachable, so connected to others, and so effective in their work in the world.
“There is a Tibetan prayer,” the Dalai Lama said, “which is part of the mind-training teachings. A Tibetan master says, ‘Whenever I see someone, may I never feel superior. From the depth of my heart, may I be able to really appreciate the other person in front of me.’” And then he turned to the Archbishop and said, “Sometimes you tell me to act . . .”
“Like a holy man,” the Archbishop finished.
“Yes, like a holy man,” the Dalai Lama said, laughing as if his being a holy man was the funniest thing he had ever heard.
“Yes, yes,” the Archbishop said. “I mean, people expect that you would have a presence and behave properly. Not take my cap and put it on your own head. I mean, people don’t expect that from a holy man.”
“But if you think you are just a normal person—one human being out of seven billion—you see there’s no reason to be surprised or to feel like I should be something special. So whenever I’m with queens or kings or presidents or prime ministers or beggars I always remember that we are all the same.”
“So when people treat you as His Holiness with such deference,” I said, “does that make it difficult to maintain your humility?”
“No, I don’t care about formality or protocol. These are artificial. Really. Bishop, you were born the same human way. There is no special way that bishops are born. And I think, when the end comes, also you will die as a normal human being.”
“Yes,” the Archbishop said, “but when people come into your presence they don’t come as they come into my presence.”
“That I think is because I come from mysterious land, Tibet. Some people call Tibet Shangri-La, so perhaps a person who spent many years in Potala is sort of mysterious. And then I think these days you see Chinese hard-liners always criticize me. So that also makes more publicity. So these—” The Dalai Lama was laughing at his mysteriousness and his global fame.
The Archbishop cut him off. “You see—that’s exactly what we mean. You laugh at what would normally be a source of anguish. And people say, I hope that when I have some anguish in my life, I can respond in the way that I saw the Dalai Lama respond to how the Chinese treated him. How are you able to cultivate it? How did you cultivate it? You were not born like that.”
“That’s true, it was through training and also the good fortune of receiving my mother’s love. When I was young, I never saw my mother’s angry face. She was very, very kind. But my father had a very short temper. On a few occasions I even got his blessing.” The Dalai Lama made the gesture of being slapped. “When I was young,” he continued, “I followed my father’s way, remaining quite short-tempered. But as I got a little older, then I began to take after my mother’s way. So that way I lived up to the expectation of both my parents!”
The Dalai Lama and the Archbishop were both insistent that humility is essential to any possibility of joy. When we have a wider perspective, we have a natural understanding of our place in the great sweep of all that was, is, and will be. This naturally leads to humility and the recognition that as human beings we can’t solve everything or control all aspects of life. We need others. The Archbishop has poignantly said that our vulnerabilities, our frailties, and our limitations are a reminder that we need one another: We are not created for independence or self-sufficiency, but for interdependence and mutual support. The Dalai Lama was saying that we are all born and all die in the same way, and at these moments we are totally dependent on others, whether we are a Dalai Lama or a beggar, whether we are an Archbishop or a refugee.
With the keen insight of a longtime friend and collaborator, Daniel Goleman characterized the Dalai Lama’s attitude toward life: “The Dalai Lama seems amused by everything that is going on around him, taking pleasure in whatever is going on, but not taking anything too personally, and not worrying or taking offense at anything that is happening.” The Dalai Lama was reminding us throughout the week not to get caught up in roles, and indeed arrogance is the confusion between our temporary roles and our fundamental identity. When Juan, our sound technician, wired up his remote microphone, the Dalai Lama playfully pulled on Juan’s Don Quixote beard, which would start everyone giggling, most of all the Dalai Lama. He was saying: Today you are the sound technician and I am the Dalai Lama, next time maybe the roles will be reversed. Next time might be another year or another life, as the idea of reincarnation does remind us that all of our roles are temporary.
The word humility actually comes from the Latin word for earth or soil, humus—which sounds a lot like but should not be confused with the simple but delicious Middle Eastern chickpea dip, hummus. Humility literally brings us back down to earth, sometimes with a thud. The Archbishop tells the story of flying from Durban to Johannesburg during the anti-apartheid struggle. A flight attendant said that one of the passengers had asked if he would autograph a book. He recalls, “I tried to look humble and modest, although I was thinking in my heart that there were some people who recognized a good thing when they saw it.” But when she handed him the book, and he took out his pen, she said, “You are Bishop Muzorewa, aren’t you?”
None of us are immune to the all-too-human traits of pride or ego, but true arrogance really comes from insecurity. Needing to feel that we are bigger than others comes from a nagging fear that we are smaller. Whenever the Dalai Lama senses this danger, he looks at a bug or some other creature and reminds himself that, in some ways, this creature is better than we are, because it is innocent and free of malice. “When we realize that we are all children of God,” the Archbishop has explained, “and of equal and intrinsic value, then we don’t have to feel better or worse than others.” The Archbishop was adamant: “No one is a divine accident.” While we may not be special, we are essential. No one can fulfill our role but us in the divine plan or karmic unfolding.
“Sometimes we confuse humility with timidity,” the Archbishop explained. “This gives little glory to the one who has given us our gifts. Humility is the recognition that your gifts are from God, and this lets you sit relatively loosely to those gifts. Humility allows us to celebrate the gifts of others, but it does not mean you have to deny your own gifts or shrink from using them. God uses each of us in our own way, and even if you are not the best one, you may be the one who is needed or the one who is there.”
I recalled how the night before the interviews began I had tossed and turned in bed, feeling quite insecure and nervous. I was going to have to interview these two great spiritual teachers and needed to make sure I was asking the right questions. We had one opportunity to get this right—one opportunity to capture this historic meeting and series of dialogues for the world. I was not a news anchor or journalist. Surely there were many others who were more qualified to conduct the interviews. I was attempting to do something I had never done before, and whenever we challenge ourselves, fear and doubt are inevitable. I am not sure we ever vanquish these voices. Whenever we are at the edge of our ability and experience, they always whisper in our ears, their worried words. I have come to see that these voices are actually trying to keep us safe as they warn us away from the unfamiliar and the unknown, but this does not make their daggers of self-doubt any less painful. I finally was able to fall asleep when I realized that this was not about me, or my limitations. I was simply the ambassador asking questions on behalf of all those who wanted to benefit from the wisdom of the Archbishop and the Dalai Lama—and I would not be alone during the interviews or in the writing of this book. As the Archbishop had said, whether I was the best one or not, I was the one who was there.
“We have a question from a boy named Emory,” I said. “It is addressed to you, Your Holiness. He writes: ‘Your quotes always lift me up and give me purpose when I am down on myself. What is the best way to keep a positive attitude when things aren’t going your way?’ So here is a boy who gets down on himself, the way we all do. How can we deal with the self-critical voices that we all have?”
“So many people,” the Dalai Lama said, “seem to struggle with being kind to themselves. This is really sad. You see, if you don’t have genuine love and kindness toward yourself, how can you extend these to others? We must remind people, as the Archbishop has said, that basic human nature is good, is positive, so this can give us some courage and self-confidence. As we said, too much focus on yourself leads to fear, insecurity, and anxiety. Remember, you are not alone. You are part of a whole generation that is the future of humanity. Then you will get a sense of courage and purpose in life.
“Now, we should also realize that the recognition of our own limitations and weaknesses can be very positive. This can be wisdom. If you realize that you are inadequate in some way, then you develop effort. If you think, everything is fine and I’m okay just as I am, then you will not try to develop further. There is a Tibetan saying that wisdom is like rainwater—both gather in the low places. There is another saying that when the spring bloom comes, where does it start? Does it start on the hilltops or down in the valleys first? Growth begins first in the low places. So similarly if you remain humble, then there is the possibility to keep learning. So I often tell people that although I’m eighty years old, I still consider myself a student.”
“Really?” the Archbishop said with a wry smile.
“Really. Every day learning, learning.”
“Yes, you are wonderful.”
“Oh.” The Dalai Lama laughed. “I expect that kind of comment from you.”
The Archbishop laughed, too, trying to keep himself humble. When we have humility, we can laugh at ourselves. It was surprising to hear the Archbishop and the Dalai Lama describe the importance of a proper sense of humor, and especially the ability to laugh at our own foibles, as essential to the cultivation of joy.