Archive for the ‘board’ tag
by CPWR Trustee Anantanand Rambachan
Our celebration of Diwali 2012 occurs in a year when, sadly, the major events associated with religion are stories of violence, suffering, anger, rage and protest. In Milwaukee, Sikh worshippers were slaughtered because they were different-looked different, dressed different and practiced a different faith. A provocative film, made with the singular purpose of vilifying the character of Prophet Muhammad, ignited protests across the Muslim world and resulted in the loss of lives. In the subway stations of New York, Pamela Geller has been running controversial anti-Muslim ads, claiming constitutional freedom to speak words that others may find offensive.
Most of the official political responses to the film on the Prophet Muhammad had a two-fold focus. Condemnation of the film was followed usually by an affirmation of the freedom of speech. I understood the importance of reiterating the right of free speech, and the need to explain the limits of government intervention, but I always thought that more needed to be said. Political responses went as far as may be expected, but something was missing. What remained unspoken? What could I, as a Hindu, coming from a place of religious commitment, add to what was being said by leaders across our world?
I knew that my religion had much to say about speech and so I turned to the wisdom of the Bhagavadgita for guidance on what the Hindu tradition could contribute to our understanding of speech in the public sphere. The Bhagavadgita commends the “discipline of speech” and describes it as satisfying four criteria. It is speech (1) that does not cause pain to another, (2) that is true, (3) respectful and (4) beneficial. Speech is disciplined only when all four criteria are met.
Because the right of free speech was not always protected, and there are still many places in the world where it is not guaranteed, the emphasis in our discourse about speech is properly on freedom. Our value for freedom of speech is conveyed best in words attributed to Voltaire: “I disagree with what you say, but I will defend to death your right to say it.” As precious as this freedom is for us, it does not alone constitute the “discipline of speech” as commended in the Bhagavadgita. Speech is not as free as it may claim to be when words or other symbols are employed with the sole intention of inflicting pain, when truth is disregarded, when the other is disrespected and when the outcome is suffering. Religions cannot stop with affirming the right of free speech without speaking passionately about intention, truth, mutual respect and consequences. These are the locations from where we can lift our voices of concern about a film like the “Innocence of Muslims” or the subway ads of Pamela Geller. In both cases, the intention is to inflict pain and to demean, without any thoughtful consideration for truth or consequences. Every criterion of the “discipline of speech”, as described in the Bhagavadgita, was violated.
What about the criterion truth one may ask? Do we not have an obligation to speak the truth regardless of consequences or any other criteria? Leaving aside the challenges and complexities of determining what is truth, especially when it involves a religious tradition other than our own, it is important to note that in the order of criteria in the Bhagavadgita, the obligation not to inflict pain precedes truth. Ahimsa, that is non-hurting, guides and informs our obligation to truth and always precedes it in the listings of virtues in Hindu sacred texts. In good human relationships, and it is these that are of concern to us, we do not privilege truth speaking above all else. We value love and its expressions in generosity, care and delight in the happiness of others. Truth is never championed inhumanely and with heedless disregard for human well-being. Truth is one of many obligations in a complex set of values that defines and sustains mutually enriching relationships and there is no good reason why relationships with our neighbors of other faiths should be excluded from such considerations.
Does the “discipline of speech”, enunciated in the Bhagavadgita, mean that in interreligious communities one does not enjoy the liberty to be critical of another’s beliefs and practices? One of the most famous students of the Bhagavadgita, Mahatma Gandhi, pondered this question. Gandhi does not rule out public criticism of other religions but, most importantly, believed that the right to criticize another religion had to be earned. It is earned, according to Gandhi, by a careful and sympathetic study of the scriptures of other religions and a willingness to appreciate all that is good in these traditions. Such a study should be undertaken through the writings of the finest exponents and practitioners of the tradition. It is earned also by the cultivation of friendship and trust with people of other traditions. In the absence of trust, criticism is heard a demonization. Neither the maker of “Innocence of Muslims” nor Pamela Geller sought to earn the right that Gandhi speaks about.
Gandhi exemplified some of the highest possibilities of interreligious relationships in his friendship with the Christian priest, Charles Andrews. They remained faithful to their respective traditions, learned deeply from each other and disagreed publicly. Gandhi’s words, written after a disagreement with Andrews, convey the profound trust and mutual respect that permeated their relationship. “It is so like him,” wrote Gandhi. “Whenever he feels hurt over anything I have done-and this is by no means the first of such occasions–he deluges me with letters without waiting for an answer. For it is love speaking to love, not arguing.” We are a very long way from cultivating interreligious relationships in which criticism is received as “love speaking to love,” This alone, however, will save our relationships from suspicion and superficiality.
During Diwali, we pray with the famous words of the Bṛhadaraṇyaka Upaniṣhad:
Lead us from untruth to truth
Lead us from darkness to light
Lead us from death to immortality
May the words that we speak be always free but free also in the most profound religious sense: free from the intention to hurt, free from falsehood, free from disrespect, and free from violence. May our words be peaceful, truthful, respectful and helpful.
A Happy Diwali to All
Professor of Religion
Saint Olaf College
by Robert Sellers
How should Baptists relate to persons of other faiths? “Where am I going to meet someone like that?” might be the question of many Baptists, especially in the “Bible Belt” of the deep South. Well, we no longer need to travel internationally to encounter them. Here in this country they are our office colleagues, university classmates, town merchants and healthcare workers, active-duty soldiers, or local firefighters and police officers. They congregate in community centers and shopping districts of our large cities, establishing an ethnic, cultural quarter that is distinct and well-defined. They lobby city councils and zoning boards for permission to build mosques, temples, gurdwaras, or synagogues on quiet, tree-lined streets. They manage play groups and summer camps, participate in science fairs and musical competitions, and conduct food and craft bazaars. Most importantly, such families are living in our suburban neighborhoods, where we meet them at backyard barbecues and pool parties. At school their youngsters become our children’s and grandchildren’s friends and competitors and may one day become our daughters- and sons-in law. None of these new realities should surprise anyone, for this growing segment of our population belongs here, for they too are Americans.
Yet, the increasing cultural and religious plurality in the United States, coupled with recent world events, makes it difficult for many Americans to know just how to relate to minority religious and ethnic groups. My immediate concern here, however, is how Baptist Americans—those of my own religious heritage—think about and treat our neighbors of other faiths.
CERTAINLY NOT WITH FEAR AND STEREOTYPING
There are several ways of relating to religious others. One approach that is totally unproductive and damaging is to react with fear and stereotyping. There is evidence of this negativity all around us. Books that claim to know the “truth” about other religions line the shelves of popular Christian bookstores. Internet “you-won’t-believe-it!” stories about religions and their practitioners are forwarded, perhaps by millions of church members, without regard for whether the accounts are factual or kind—or simply constitute urban legends, political propaganda, or hate-mongering. Regrettably, Baptist leaders—the most recent being Robert Jeffress—make public statements that draw critical reactions and portray an intolerant spirit.
According to Harvard professor Diana Eck: “Without question, some Americans are afraid of the changing face of our country. After all, the first response to difference is often suspicion and fear.”# This nebulous fearfulness expresses itself in stereotypical thinking and unkind generalizations. Reacting with fear and stereotyping, however, is uncivil and unchristian, yet Baptists have not been guiltless in this regard. One particularly harsh judgment, for example, was made by Baptist Franklin Graham, who in the aftermath of 9-11 called Islam “a very evil and wicked religion.”# Speaking to NBC News in 2001, he remarked: “It wasn’t Methodists flying into those buildings, and it wasn’t Lutherans. It was an attack on this country by people of the Islamic faith.”# Graham’s generalization circled the globe via the internet and painted Baptists worldwide in harsh shades of black and white. As an institution dedicated to proselytism, the Southern Baptist Convention’s International Mission Board has produced Prayer Guides that direct members of the denomination, especially during the high holy days of individual religions, to pray for “lost” Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, Jains, Sikhs, and Muslims who are bound by “confusing and mistaken belief[s]” and who practice “meaningless rituals.”#
Fomenting fear of followers of other faiths by making grossly stereotypical observations and patently untrue accusations—or uncritically passing along such inflammatory material—will not encourage peace or cooperation. May Baptists never build walls when we ought to construct bridges.
NOT EVEN WITH INDIFFERENCE OR TOLERATION
A second possible approach to religious others is to act with indifference or toleration. Perhaps we believe that tolerating differences is the best way, because it is a moral solution with impressive historical roots. The Greek moralist Plato considered the crowning human virtue to be “harmonious action [that] forges a link between [an] individual and [others within society].”# Immannuel Kant, the German Enlightenment rationalist, argued that people should act in such a way that they could be satisfied were their action the universal behavioral norm.# These lofty European ideals were preceded by parallel sentiments from Asia. Confucius taught his followers to cultivate loyalty, humanity, integrity, mutual respect, personal self-restraint, and harmonious family and social relationships.# Similarly, the ancient Buddhist philosopher Shantideva taught that “[i]f you can cultivate the right attitude, your enemies are your best spiritual teachers because their presence provides you with the opportunity to enhance and develop tolerance, patience, and understanding.”# So, tolerating others is certainly better than not tolerating them!
The problem with toleration, however, is that it may just be a polite word for “indifference.” Diana Eck acknowledges that “[a]lthough tolerance is no doubt a step forward from intolerance, it does not require new neighbors to know anything about one another. Tolerance can create a climate of restraint but not one of understanding.”# Tolerance becomes indifference if its mantra morphs from “we all have a right to be ourselves” to “let them just be whoever they want.” Whenever our language turns from talk of “we” to references to “they,” a dichotomy, a chasm, a rift has formed between us and them, between ourselves and the “Other.”
As America becomes more religiously and culturally pluralistic, some Baptists regrettably practice only toleration, mistaking the philosophical moral norm for the ethic of Jesus Christ, which is much more demanding. May we never merely tolerate our multi-religious neighbors, much less treat them with indifference, as if they are not important to God.
BUT WITH COMPASSION AND FRIENDSHIP
How, then, should Baptists relate to religious others? We need to respond with compassion and friendship. Jesus is our model for approaching others. He crossed multiple barriers that separated respectable religious folk of his day from the foreigners, disenfranchised, and marginalized of Palestinian society. Toward a host of persons whom most merely tolerated, and others who were feared, stereotyped, and even violently oppressed, Jesus was inclusive, attentive, helpful, and befriending.
Of course, genuine friendships require honest communication, which necessitates both talking and listening—dialogue instead of monologue. Also, friendships are always more successful where there is mutual esteem and a genuine interest in the other. Such connections require both time and great patience. This kind of relationship that stretches across cultural and religious barriers may be more difficult, but it is adventuresome and hugely rewarding.
Genesis 18, in the Hebrew Bible and Christian Old Testament, records the occasion when Abraham was sitting outside his tent at Mamre, seeking a breeze on a stiflingly hot Middle Eastern day. Three strangers appeared in the hazy distance—perhaps enemies, clearly not a part of Abraham’s clan. But, interestingly, Abraham eagerly went to greet the strangers, first falling down before them in an extravagant gesture of welcome, later offering a warm meal and place to rest in his personal tent. British historian, comparative religionist, and author Karen Armstrong astutely notes that “during the ensuing conversation, it transpires quite naturally that one of these strangers is Abraham’s God. The act of practical compassion led directly to a divine encounter.”#
It is my conviction, one I passionately hold, that most of the people who follow other faiths—like most Baptists—are good people who would like to tear down the walls of separation and build bridges of connection. But in order for us to do our part, we must not react to them with fear and stereotyping. We have to go beyond mere indifference or toleration. The way forward, the way of Jesus, is to respond with compassion and friendship. And, when we risk forging new friendships with our multi-religious neighbors, they will no longer be as strangers to us. Such a bonding can provide an experience of real transcendence, for in acting toward them in a godly fashion, we will be enriched by the evidences of God in them.
Robert P. Sellers is professor of missions and theology at Hardin-Simmons University in Abilene, Texas, and represents Cooperative Baptist Fellowship on the Interfaith Relations Commission of the National Council of Churches, USA. He is a member of the Board of Trustees of the Council for a Parliament of the World’s Religions.
Raimon Panikkar, known to many in this society of Hindu-Christian Studies as a teacher, scholar, mentor, or friend, died at his home in Tavertet, near Barcelona, on August 26, 2010. He was ninety-one and had been in poor health for some time, but he did live to see the day when his Gifford Lectures, originally delivered in Edinburgh in 1989, and over which he had agonized ever since [he produced some nineteen different versions of parts of the texts], finally saw the light of day in June of this year as The Rhythm of Being (Orbis Books).
Panikkar taught and lived in the United States from 1966-1987 and was known to generations of students here and around the world through both his lectures and his many books. What they heard and read were the arresting reflections of a multi-dimensional person, who was simultaneously a philosopher, theologian, mystic, priest and poet.
It was also that combination of personae that made him at times difficult to understand. He was a formidable scholar with doctorates in philosophy, theology, and chemistry and an acquaintance with the worlds of learning and religious reflection in more than a dozen languages. But at heart he was a mystic and a contemplative, who chose at the end of his academic career in 1987 to live in the small mountain village of Tavertet (population 75) in a remote part of the Pyrenees north of Barcelona. Even there he was not easily accessible because he would shut off his phone for half the week. The prayer and meditation room in his house was right next to his study, and he would drift imperceptibly between the two spaces both literally and in consciousness. He once wrote
“Writing, to me, is meditation—that is medicine—and also moderation,
order for this world. Writing, to me, is intellectual life and that in turn
is spiritual existence. The climax of life is, in my opinion, to participate
in the life of the universe, in both the cosmic and divine symphonies to
which even we mortals are invited. It is not only a matter of living but
also of letting life be—this life, offered to us as a gift so that we may
sustain and deepen it.” (A Dwelling Place for Wisdom, 79)
He was born the son of an Indian Hindu father and a Spanish Catholic mother on November 3, 1918. He received a conventional Catholic education at a Jesuit high school in Barcelona before launching on his university studies in the natural sciences, philosophy, and theology, first in Barcelona and then in Madrid. Shortly thereafter, the Spanish Civil War broke out, and Panikkar was able to take advantage of his status as the son of a father who was a British citizen to go to the University of Bonn in Germany to continue his studies. When World War II started in 1939, Panikkar returned to Spain and completed the first of his three doctorates, this one in philosophy, at the University of Madrid in 1946.
In late 1954 when he was already 36 Panikkar visited India, the land of his father, for the first time. It proved to be a watershed, a decisive reorientation of his interests and of his theology. He had entered a dramatically new world, religious and cultural, from the Catholic Europe of his youth. The transformation was aided by his meetings and close friendship with three monks, who like him were attempting to live and to incarnate the Christian life in Indian, predominantly Hindu and Buddhist, forms: Jules Monchanin (1895-1957), Henri Le Saux, also known as Swami Abhishiktananda (1910-1973), and Bede Griffiths, the English Benedictine monk (1906-1993). All four of them, in different ways, discovered and cherished the riches and the deep spiritual wisdom of the Indic traditions, and attempted to live out and express their core Christian convictions in Hindu and Buddhist forms. To some extent this multiple belonging was made possible by their embrace of Advaita, the Indic idea of non-dualism, which sees the deep, often hidden, connections between traditions without in any way minimizing the differences between them.
One of Panikkar’s many striking sentences looking back on his life’s journey asserts: “I left Europe (for India) as a Christian, I discovered I was a Hindu and returned as a Buddhist without ever having ceased to be a Christian.” A wealth of meaning lies in that assertion. Christianity in its historical evolution began as a Jewish tradition and then spread to the Greco-Roman world, acquiring along the way Greek and Roman cultural expressions which have given it a certain form and character. Panikkar, having grown up and having been trained in a traditional Catholic and neo-Thomist environment, had a profound knowledge of, and respect for, that tradition. This knowledge prepared him for discussions with some of the great minds of twentieth-century Catholicism: Jean Danielou, Yves Congar, Hans Urs von Balthazar, and others. He was also invited to take part in the Synod of Rome and the Second Vatican Council. But Panikkar did not confuse or conflate historical contingency with spiritual truth. In Hinduism and Buddhism Panikkar found other languages, in addition to Biblical Hebrew, Greek philosophy, and Latin Christianity, to express the core convictions (the kerygma) of the Christian tradition.
That was the main thesis of The Unknown Christ of Hinduism, which Panikkar originally presented as a doctoral thesis to the Lateran University in Rome in 1961, based as it was on a close textual comparison between Thomas Aquinas and Sankara’s interpretation of a canonical Hindu scripture, the Brahma-Sutras. Christ and his teaching are not, so Panikkar argues, the monopoly or exclusive property of Christianity seen as a historical religion. Rather, Christ is the universal symbol of divine-human unity, the human face of God. Christianity approaches Christ in a particular and unique way, informed by its own history and spiritual evolution. But Christ vastly transcends Christianity. Panikkar calls the name “Christ” the “Supername,” in line with St. Paul’s “name above every name” (Phil 2:9), because it is a name that can and must assume other names, like Rama or Krishna or Ishvara.
This theological insight was crucial for Panikkar because it provided the basis of the inter-religious dialogue that he and Abhishiktananda and Bede Griffiths were both advocating and practicing themselves. Far from diluting or in any way watering down core Christian beliefs and practices, such dialogue, in addition to fostering inter-religious understanding and harmony, provided an indispensable medium for deepening the Christian faith. Such dialogue provides an insight and entry point into other, non-Christian names and manifestations of Christ. This was particularly important for Panikkar because together with other Asian theologians he saw how historical Christianity had attempted, especially during its colonial periods, to convert Christ into an imperial God, with a license to conquer and triumph over other Gods. This for Panikkar is the challenge of the post-colonial period inaugurated in the mid-to-late twentieth century and continuing into our present and the future. In his words, “To the third Christian millennium is reserved the task of overcoming a tribal Christology by a Christophany which allows Christians to see the work of Christ everywhere, without assuming that they have a better grasp or a monopoly of that Mystery, which has been revealed to them in a unique way.”
Needless-to-say, such striking ideas carefully and rigorously argued and dramatically expressed got the attention of religious thinkers and secular institutions around the world. Panikkar was invited to teach in Rome and then at Harvard (1966-1971) and the University of California, Santa Barbara (1971-1987). He was now, as Leonard Swidler, occupant of the Chair of Catholic Thought at Temple University, called him, “the apostle of inter-faith dialogue and inter-cultural understanding.”
In true apostolic fashion, he traveled tirelessly around the world, lecturing, writing, preaching, and conducting retreats. His famous Easter service in his Santa Barbara days would attract visitors from all corners of the globe. Well before dawn they would climb up the mountain near his home in Montecito, meditate quietly in the darkness once they reached the top, and then salute the sun as it arose over the horizon. Panikkar would bless the elements—air, earth, water, and fire—and all the surrounding forms of life—plant, animal, and human—and then celebrate Mass and the Eucharist. It was a profound “cosmotheandric” celebration with the human, cosmic, and divine dimensions of life being affirmed, reverenced, and brought into a deep harmony. The celebration after the formal service at Panikkar’s home resembled in some respects the feast of Pentecost as described in the New Testament, where peoples of many tongues engaged in animated conversation.
At the center of these celebrations, retreats, and lectures stood Panikkar himself and his arresting personality. People who heard or encountered him could not help but be struck by this physically small man who in his earlier days was like a cluster of fireworks exploding in an array of shapes and colors. Here is what the great Mexico poet Octavio Paz, who was his country’s ambassador to India from 1962-1968, had to say about him:
It is impossible not to recall a Catalan Hindu, both a theologian and
a migratory bird in all climates from Benares to Santa Barbara,
California: Raimundo Panikkar. A man of electric intelligence,
with whom I would spend hours discussing some controversial point
in the Gita or Buddhist sutra—I have never heard anyone attack
the heresy of Buddhism with such furious dialectics as Panikkar
(In Light of India 209).
In later life, his persona managed to combine the dignity of a sage, the profundity of a scholar, the depth of a contemplative, and the warmth and charm of a friend in his effervescent personality. An Australian friend of his, Dr. Meath Conlan, mentions having dinner with him at his home when the phone rang. It was the Pope calling from the Vatican, seeking Panikkar’s advice on how best to handle the aftermath caused by his ill-advised remarks about the Prophet Mohammed in his Regensburg Address of 2006.
He is well known to readers of this journal as a great scholar of both the Hindu and Christian traditions and the dialogue between them. The 940 page translation and commentary of the Vedas and the Upanishads, published as The Vedic Experience: Mantramanjari, is a sensitive hermeneutical study that attempts to bring the ancient Vedic world alive as a resource for contemporary celebration. Likewise, his account of Hindu myths in Myth, Faith, and Hermeneutics tries to bring out their deeper cross-cultural philosophical resonance.
Critics, of course, charged him with proffering a Christian interpretation of Hinduism to which his wry response often was that he had a Hindu interpretation of Christianity. The point for Panikkar as a thinker was to move beyond labels and the conventional ideas they carry to deeper spiritual truth. Indeed, one of the main purposes of inter-religious dialogue for Panikkar is the intra-religious dialogue it should spark and the discovery of often hidden treasures in one’s own tradition.
Perhaps the most daring of Panikkar’s attempts at charting a Hindu-Buddhist-Christian spirituality within a still Christian self-understanding came in his early and path-breaking little book first published in 1970 as The Trinity and World Religions. Here he imposed a Trinitarian structure on Hinduism and an advaitic structure on Christianity, both “trinity and “advaita” being alternative symbols for the cosmotheandric Mystery. Drawing on traditional and unacknowledged, submerged dimensions of the Christian trinity, Panikkar attempted to connect Buddhism with the silent, self-emptying dimension of the Father; Christianity, Judaism and Islam, as religions of the word, with the Son, the incarnate Word; and advaitic Hinduism with the immanent, radically inner dimension of the Spirit. In doing so it was not his purpose imperialistically to provide a Christian grid onto which other traditions could be forced. Rather, taking Christianity as his point of departure, he wanted to show that Christianity has no monopoly on Trinitarian understanding and that such understanding enriched by the contributions of different traditions can in fact deepen and transform all of them.
It is important, however, to balance this account of Panikkar as thinker with the stress he placed on living an authentic life. “My aspiration,” he would often say, “does not consist so much in defending my truth, but rather in living it out.” As one of his students speaking for many put it, “He integrated intellect, commitment, and practice in a very important and inspirational way for so many of us. Many of our lives and paths have benefitted from his touch.”
To cite just one example of that commitment, in September 1994 at the age of 76 Panikkar made a pilgrimage of almost a month to Mount Kailash. He had a weak heart, and the doctors were against it, but Panikkar was determined. Anyone who has been on such a pilgrimage can vouch for its hazards—there are no resources for rescue and hardly any medical amenities. It was in part a fulfillment of a promise to his Hindu, Saivite father. As Panikkar wrote after the expedition
I have always been more inclined to the spiritual pilgrimage. And
yet that memory of a hindu father telling his teen-age son
about Kailasa reverberated in him when the occasion arose to join the
last batch of sadhus the Chinese would allow in 1959. He had then
to renounce by virtue of ‘holy’ (christian) obedience, and later on
due to other reasons, not the least his heart not supporting high altitudes.
By an inexplicable synchronicity of events he found himself this time
almost led to undertake the pilgrimage which for him was likely to
be not only ultimate but final (Setu ed. Bettina Baeumer, January 1996, 8)
Sixteen years later, Panikkar did indeed embark on a pilgrimage both ultimate and final. May God and the gods grant him rest in the Great Source which he sought with such intensity and single-mindedness during his earthly sojourn.
California State University, Los Angeles
September 20, 2010