CHAPTER 8
As the plane taxied down an interminable runway, a young woman with a heart-melting smile and a complexion the color of polished mahogany turned around in her seat and began chatting with the two pilgrims. Extremely extraverted, she made no apology for her excitement at finally getting to go to India—her lifelong wish.
Andre and Brother Francis enjoyed sharing her joy. They, too, were filled with excitement about a trip which would take them to the other side of the world. As the twenty-something young lady turned to sit face forward in her seat again she thanked the gentlemen for their conversation and “complimented” the fifty-eight year old Brother Francis by telling him what a warm and wonderful “grandfatherly” image he possessed.
The two men laughed heartily at the thought of Brother Francis being called grandfatherly. The woman apologized because she realized that this was probably the first time someone thought of the monk as appearing grandfatherly.
“I suppose that others will be hearing about this, Andre.”
“Only your closest one thousand friends and associates, dear Brother.”
Thank God for a sense of humor, thought the monk.
It was four thirty in the morning by the time the travelers arrived at the Sri Aroubindo ashram in Delhi. A large gate, complete with heavy chain and padlock welcomed them. The taxi driver did a considerable amount of yelling, horn honking, and banging on the gate before Brother Francis could quiet him down enough for the driver to notice and use the electronic door bell and speaker system next to the gate.
Within minutes a weary looking little brown man of about forty years of age walked down the spottily lit driveway and let the duo in.
There was an air of peace and security at the ashram, even though it was dark outside and the place and people unknown to the two friends. Boiled water, the only kind which was drinkable, and a simple room with marble floor and walls, waited for them. The small canister of shower water which was mounted on the wall of the bathroom was heated by the flick of an electric switch. It took about twenty minutes for the water to heat. The weary pair showered and flopped into low beds made of wooden platforms topped with thick mats. They were more than grateful for their spartan accommodations and soon drifted off to sleep.
The blazing Asian sun woke them in a few hours. Dressed informally in shorts and sandals, the pair made their way to an open-air breakfast area. Brother Francis ate his round roti pancake-like bread but couldn’t get much of the curry-laced breakfast down otherwise. They washed their tin plates at the outdoor sink and placed them on the wooden rack as was the custom.
“Let’s find the temple, Brother.”
“You read my mind, Andre.”
They wandered through gardens and past buildings of various sizes and shapes. There was a craft building, a vocational school, garages for farm equipment, and a variety of outdoor shrines. Eventually they came upon a single story simple building, just a little like something one would find in the Southwest of the United States. It was beige in color and had an open porch all around it. The floor inside was covered with a similar colored shag rug for the most part. The front and center area, which housed a large carved wooden image of Lord Shiva with a circle of wood surrounding him, had marble flooring. It is the eternal dance of God in the form of Shiva which, according to Hindu theology, keeps all of life going. The overall ambiance of the temple gave one the impression of reverence and simplicity at the same time.
A sign said that a pujah, a Hindu prayer service, would begin in about half an hour. The friends agreed to spend the time in private meditation—something both of them saw as vital to their lives.
The sounds of nature created a peaceful backdrop as the meditators allowed themselves to be swallowed up by the Void, as the Buddhists would say. Here were two Christians praying in a Hindu temple, and completely comfortable with the concept of the Void. All are one in Christ.
Andre moved into a Shamatha / Vipassana meditation, alternating between what is sometimes translated as “Calm abiding” and “Insight.” He did what he could to keep his mind peacefully resting on one point, for the word Shamatha means peace. He sat on the floor in the lotus position, legs intertwined, with the back of his right hand lightly resting in the palm of his left hand. The Canadian’s dark eyes chose a jasmine flower, part of a larger arrangement at the base of Lord Shiva, for their focus. Eyes half-closed, Andre gently returned to the golden flower whenever his mind would wander to other things.
Every ten minutes or so the naturopathic medical student would shift to Vipassana, or insight meditation, and mentally scan his body. Andre would focus his attention on the top of his head and slowly move downward through his physical body. Whatever the meditator would experience was accepted without judgment or evaluation. He felt a certain lightness in his head, his nose was just a little stuffy, his heart was filled with gratitude, and his entire being reverenced God.
On the other side of the large quiet room, Brother Francis sat back on a low wooden prayer bench which he had placed over his ankles. His “half-Irish” skin did not always take to the sun, but this morning it felt life-giving as Brother Sun washed over him from a nearby window.
After placing himself in the presence of God, something Saint Francis de Sales and Saint Jane de Chantal encouraged all the followers of Jesus to do prior to any prayer, the Christian monk began a “Following the Breath” meditation. He simply paid attention to his breathing in and breathing out. Francis was convinced that the core of all people is good. He believed that what is most valuable about us, the gold of the person, as Swiss Analyst Carl Jung might say, lies deep within.
More importantly for Francis, all were created in God’s image and that likeness resided in the core of one’s being and could never be harmed, scarred, or taken away. The muck and mire of life splash upon the core and hide it, even from ourselves, but it always remains there. Some of us sometimes confuse the accidents of a person for his or her substance, i.e., physical attributes, wealth, possessions, etc. can be thought to be the measure of a person rather than what is on the inside.
Meditation, for this monk was a way to access this sacred core through the guidance of the Holy Spirit. There need be no particular insight or understanding gained on a conscious level during the meditation. The time spent in this form of prayer was simply a way to open oneself up to God. Each return from distraction to following the breath was a “yes” to God, a way of saying “do with me whatever you will and I will mindfully cooperate.”
The fruit of meditation, as this veteran meditator understood such things, was often revealed outside of the formal meditation times. Meditation might make one stronger in the faith, more patient, more honest with oneself or God, or perhaps more courageous in dealing with one’s own faults or the faults of others. Above all, it kept one in contact with God and the goodness within each person. This philosophy was a far cry from the spiritual sado-masochism of the middle ages which thought that pain and suffering equaled holiness. Dealing with the everyday issues of life was more than enough to make anyone holy, Francis firmly believed.