The Breath of God. Jeffrey Small
along the elephant’s side and declare it to be a wall; and the last man might examine the trunk and exclaim that, no, the object was a hose.”
Grant suppressed a smile. Kinley had explained to him several times how the Buddha taught that there was more than one path to approach his teachings. He could think of more than a few people from his father’s church who could have used this lesson.
“Although you may be the elder in this lifetime, Kinley,”—Lama Dorji shifted in his throne—“I am the fifth reincarnation of Guru Tashi and the senior assistant to the Je Khenpo.”
Grant noticed that the lama did not respond directly to the point of Kinley’s parable. The rest of the temple was silent, listening to this exchange that seemed calm on the surface and yet had clear undertones of a power struggle that Grant imagined had been brewing for some time.
“I meant no offense, Lama Dorji, la.” Kinley bowed his head. “I only wanted to illustrate the point that these young Americans have creative, curious minds. They learn differently than our students, and their independent nature may lead them to grasp a different part of the dharma elephant than we do.”
“You spent much time away from our culture in your younger years, yes?” Lama Dorji popped a betel nut into his mouth and crunched it between his teeth.
Kinley replied in the same even tone, “I learned a great deal when I was away, but I chose to return to Bhutan, and I am here at the monastery now of my own accord.”
“Do you know why we are the last independent Buddhist kingdom in the Himalayas?”
For the first time, Grant thought he detected a tension in Kinley—a slight stiffening of his posture and an edge to his voice that he’d never heard before. “A hundred years ago the only entrance into our country was on horseback or on foot over treacherous mountain terrain. Today we are but a two-hour flight from China and India, the two most populous countries in the world. Through the Internet, our children experience influences beyond our control. It is no longer possible to isolate ourselves from the world.”
“So we disregard our traditions?” Dorji reclined further in his throne.
Kinley shook his head. “Why can’t we embrace our heritage and open our minds to other Buddhist traditions at the same time? Feel the different parts of the elephant and decide for ourselves which works best.”
For the first time, Grant better understood Kinley’s teaching methods. Although Grant’s knowledge of the differences among the various schools of Buddhism was limited, he had been curious about Kinley’s use of koans, which were part of the Japanese Zen tradition, not his own.
“Different teachings?” Lama Dorji shook his head. “Why teach what is inferior? We practice Vajrayana, the highest form of Buddhism.” He pointed at Grant and Kristin with his staff. Grant was acutely aware that all eyes in the temple were upon him. The lama’s voice took on a tone that was almost sad. “Kinley, I know your intentions are pure, but I fear that your time in the West has polluted you. Those kinds of influences are the reason we choose the monastic life. We isolate ourselves from the temptations of the material world, an existence that the West”—the staff pointed at Grant and Kristin wiggled back and forth—“upholds as their ideal.”
Kinley was immobile but for the breath going in and out of his chest. Then he bowed deeply from the waist. “Yes, Lama Dorji, I understand you clearly, la.”
Grant stared at his friend. That was it? He couldn’t believe Kinley would just give up.
Lama Dorji leaned forward in his throne and snatched another betel nut from the plate. “You are fortunate the Je Khenpo favors you.”
“I am fortunate indeed.” Kinley bowed again and then took Grant’s arm to leave.
“You, Mr. Matthews,” Lama Dorji said, surprising Grant by using his name. “Now that you have healed, I expect you will leave the monastery tomorrow. You will find a suitable hotel in town.”
Grant felt a pressure on his chest that made it difficult to take in as much oxygen as he needed at that moment. Afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he spoke, he merely nodded and let Kinley lead them toward the sunlight pouring through the open temple door.
“And Kinley,” the lama called across the temple when they reached the door. Every monk young and old watched. “If I were you, I would be careful about who you spend time with.” He pointed his staff at Kristin. “You wouldn’t want your brothers to get the wrong idea. Talk can spread quickly in the goemba.”
Once they were outside in the warm afternoon sun, Grant said, “How could you let—”
“To continue the discussion would have served no purpose other than to cause more conflict and to feed my own pride.”
“His insinuations don’t affect you?” Kristin asked.
Kinley shrugged. “I felt frustration, but I didn’t fight it. Instead I let it take its course, flowing through my body. I watched it as I might watch a log float down a river until it disappeared around a bend.”
Grant shook his head. Kinley had explained this technique of watching one’s emotions and destructive thoughts like one might watch a movie playing inside one’s body, but he’d dismissed it as quaint. Such a practice might bring temporary relief, but then he would be resigning himself to a life of always surrendering to other people.
Kinley continued, “Lama Dorji means well. He wants the best for our young monks, just as I do, but he and I have had different life experiences: his life has been shaped by the insular monastic environment, while mine has been influenced by my travels and education. I realized that I was not going to change his opinion today. Further debating my position would only inflate my own ego and bring suffering to us both.”
Kinley stopped walking when they reached the tree in the center of the courtyard. He glanced at its bare branches. A smile passed across his lips and his eyes crinkled in the corners. “Anyway, I had already made my decision. This conversation merely solidified it. We can no longer give in to the isolationism that religion often fosters. It is time that the story of Issa becomes public. Tomorrow morning we shall go to the library.”
“You’re serious?” Grant asked.
“And, Ms. Misaki, please join us, if you can. Your camera will be useful. We won’t have much time.”
CHAPTER 10
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA
REVEREND BRIAN BRADY PORED over the construction plans spread out on the cherry table that could seat twelve comfortably. At the opposite end of the dining room that Brady’s wife had decorated in a sea green Venetian plaster, William Jennings, director of operations of New Hope, and Carla Healy, the church’s new controller, huddled over a stack of financial spreadsheets. Brady admired the brilliance of his design. The New Hope Community would be his crowning glory, his testament to the power of God’s will to accomplish the difficult. The project had brought him the spotlight of recognition from his evangelical brethren. Brady was now one of the leading candidates in the upcoming election for the presidency of the NAE, the National Association of Evangelicals.
Brady had known since the day he had given his first sermon in a small church on the outskirts of Mobile that he was meant for something greater than Alabama. Most men would have been content with the success he’d already experienced as the pastor of Birmingham’s largest megachurch, but as the head of the NAE, Brady would rise to national prominence. He could become the next Billy Graham, ministering to presidents and tending to the faith of millions. Eighteen months ago such a goal seemed a distant fantasy, but then he had announced the ambitious plans for the New Hope Community, and now his book, Why Is God So Angry?, was the number one best seller in the country.
The current NAE president, Jimmy Jeffries, had not had an auspicious term. The country had further declined under his leadership, and the power that