The Naked Monk

Listening to the radio news the other night, I heard for the first time about Jacques Delisle, a Former Quebec Appeal Court justice charged in a Quebec courtroom this week with first-degree murder in the death of his wife.

My first reaction was a sigh. This comes in the same week that a commission of inquiry examines allegations of partisan interference in the selection of Quebec judges. Over the years I’ve heard personal anecdotal stories of judges that I can’t repeat because they’d be libelous, but which I tend to believe. There’s something comforting in the thought that the powerful are probably more corrupt than the rest of us; perhaps it justifies our powerlessness.

Delisle was called to the bar in 1958, named a Superior Court judge in 1983, and promoted to the Quebec Court of Appeal in 1992. He also faces a charge of possessing an illegal firearm.

His wife Marie-Nicole Rainville’s death was originally classified as a suicide, but police reversed the finding following a lengthy investigation into the death of the 71-year-old woman. Details are covered by a publication ban.

The more I listened, the more I sickened to think that someone like this had held judicial power over hundreds of people and participated in the formation of public policy. The feeling merged with my general distrust of public figures, known instances of betrayal by public officials and a growing sense of cynicism about our society, a realisation of powerlessness and, above all, a feeling of us and them.

As the announcer wound down his long report about the caution of the police and courts in pursuit of this arrest, I was filled with disgust. Almost as an afterthought, he closed his report with the statement that “Delisle’s wife had been seriously ill for some time.”

My judgements came tumbling down around my ears. Suddenly there was no more ‘us and them;’ I was in this man’s shoes, respecting the possibility that he might have done the unthinkable to end her suffering. My wife Caroline has made it clear in no uncertain terms that should her MS ever bring her to a state of total disability, she wouldn’t want to be kept hanging on. Of course, I respect her wishes. Given a legitimate choice I’d perhaps make the right decision. But what if I weren’t given that choice, and was left to watch her suffer without respite? Would my commitment to those wishes override all other considerations?

If this story actually turns out to be one of compassion, and not of conjugal violence as I’d cynically assumed, Judge Delisle may lose his liberty—and gain my respect.

We talk of ‘the media’ as if it’s an entity in its own right, but in the end it’s just people under pressure putting stories together. Even when those stories are factually accurate, they still have to pass through the filter of our prejudices and emotional needs before they settle in our consciousness. Unfortunately, we’re not answerable to anyone for our judgements until we express them. More often than not they’re half-baked, flimsy and based on habitual thinking; if we do express them it’s usually to enable the cynicism of others and believe ourselves smugly right because they agree. It’s comforting to know that we’re not alone in our prejudices. Is this how our society has grown so cynical?

In this instance the facts jarred sufficiently for me to question myself, but how often is that not the case? How often do I just jump to convenient conclusions? If I can’t blame things on the powers that be, I can always shift the blame to ‘the media’ for the way they presented ‘the facts.’ Either way I remain, in my own eyes, as pure as the driven snow.

This realisation isn’t very flattering. It reminds me of how much rubbish goes through my head under the pretext of common sense. The price of integrity is the abandonment of beliefs that we hold simply because they’re comfortably familiar. Sometimes we’re our own worst enemies; how often are we willing to admit that?

Unlike most self-employed people, I’m quite content when things slow down. I have half a dozen projects on the go that, since they don’t produce any short-term income, usually take second place. Slow business enables me to work on my blog, my new book or my website makeover.

Sometimes, however, things are too slow. The recession that’s put millions out of work around the world seemed at first to not affect me, but last autumn I noticed that funds were not dribbling into my reserves any more; in fact, they were seeping out.

My first reaction was to assure myself that this was a blip on the radar, and that things would work out; I’d be a financial optimist. I recalled that I’ve always managed to land on my feet; that I don’t live in a war zone or a failed state; that I have resources.

Of course, that’s in the cold light of day. In the middle of the night, when panic sets in, I see money flowing out like a babbling brook down a steep mountainside. Worse, I slip one notch lower and see the universe holding me to account for my true nature: a failed human being, finally exposed for who I am.

Sometimes I have to actually get out of bed to shake off demons like this—I can’t do it in that half-conscious state that’s so susceptible to wild imaginings. It takes a few minutes, but I soon get a grip and realise that failure is just a way of seeing myself — a choice, though a subconscious and automated one.

I remember other times, when in a similar state of semi-slumber I saw the whole universe aligned with my hopes, sending bright rainbows to guide my way and pots of gold to reward me. In those times, I see another true self: this time a happy child of bounty!

It never ceases to amaze me how I get trapped by this nonsense—how on earth can I fall for such one-dimensional claptrap as my ‘true nature?’ My visions of total failure and utter success haven’t the least connection with reality; they’re just ways of seeing myself or, as Buddhists would say, seeing my self.

Notwithstanding the cute language, they’ve got a point. In this case, there’s clearly no such a person as ‘Stephen the total failure’ or ‘Stephen the bounteous boy.’ These aren’t just inaccuracies in need of correction; they’re complete fabrications with no bearing on reality.

Actually, that’s not true, and here lies the tragedy, I know from hard and embarrassing experience that I’ve at times fallen for them hook line and sinker, and they’ve guided my footsteps in very real ways. Visions of heaven and hell are interconnected. The harder I try to maintain the optimistic view, the sooner it collides with reality and leaves me with the pessimistic one. It’s a vicious, self-destructive cycle.

In these moments of lucidity I remember that those who present ‘spirituality’ as a wonderful world of positive thinking are off their rocker. I step into the spiritual life when I realise that the reality before me is workable, not a heaven- or hell-sent scenario; that the best perspective is one without projections of hope and fear. Then I can take stock of my situation, explore my resources and prosper.

Survival isn’t just a way of getting by; it’s a great teacher, a reminder that the spiritual life is material, and the material is spiritual. We can’t wrest one side of our nature from the other; we need both, and we need them integrated.

I’m still a little conflicted in my relationship to Buddhism. I study the Buddhist scriptures with, in anything, more interest than ever, but I stubbornly refuse to call myself a Buddhist. Why? Because I don’t belong (or wish to belong) to any particular tradition. Am I being honest, or ornery?

By conventional standards, I’m not a Buddhist. Just as a Christian must be baptized to enter the Church, an orthodox Buddhist is someone who takes refuge in the Three Jewels—the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha. There’s a ceremony for just that, and most Buddhists recite a prayer of refuge daily. I don’t do that now, although I did many years ago, and reiterated it in my ordinations as a novice, and then as a fully ordained bikkhu. Ostensibly, one is declaring fealty to the Buddha, faith in the words of the scriptures and loyalty to the congregation of fellow refugees. As the word implies, there’s a sense of fleeing something harmful—the undirected, unmindful life; as the explanation implies, there’s something religious and consolatory about the act of refuge.

I have many friends who are avid Buddhists. Much to my surprise Stephen Batchelor, the most notorious of them, opens a 2009 Dutch TV documentary with the statement: “I’m a Buddhist.” Nevertheless, I can’t join them—not in that way, anyhow. I feel amply connected to them through our common humanity, but am rather put off by labels of affiliation. Similarly, although I was born and raised in England, spiritually formed among Tibetans and have lived in Canada longer than anywhere else, I feel no loyalty towards any place more than the planet itself—our poor, overburdened mother Earth.

I take refuge in unorthodox ways that are legitimate for me: in the Buddha, as awakening itself; in the dharma, as the practice of mindful reflection; and in the sangha, as people of like mind. You see my dilemma? Many Jews, Muslims, Christians and atheists fit that mould perfectly well, while many Buddhists don’t. Sorry, no names, though you could always start with the ruling junta of Myanmar.

So there’s the logic of it, aka my rationalization. As for the real reason, it’s emotional of course. Although I’ve spent much of my life in visceral search of belonging, when push comes to shove I never last long. I was a miserable boy scout, a negligent schoolboy, an awful Catholic and an ungrateful Buddhist. I don’t like to be pigeonholed, nor expected to be good by other people’s standards. What gives enthusiastic members a sense of security makes me question my motives. I never quite figured out how to reconcile loyalty and honesty.

Besides, whether I like it or not, I seem to be a square peg.

I like to wake up to a good strong shot of caffeine—usually a caffé latte made with pure Arabica. Once in a while I give into my English side too, and dunk a McVitie’s digestive biscuit or two. It’s a treat.

Which is what I gave myself this Sunday morning of Victoria Day weekend 2010—the spring holiday when, the threat of frost having finally receded, Canadians lay out their annual flowers and vegetable gardens. Sitting in the morning sun and listening to Caroline and Melanie chat about Melanie’s upcoming departure for China, I was purveying yesterday’s planting and had just dunked my second biscuit when a brilliant interjection came to mind. The biscuit was poised, I uttered the phrase, and the dunked side of the biscuit plopped into the brew. It splashed my tee shirt and, far more gravely, transformed the delicious treat into a gooey pollutant. My coffee was ruined; well, it wasn’t the same.

“What?” asked Caroline.

They hadn’t even heard my phrase!”

My mind promptly went back to Thursday night, and my even wiser words to a group of Mindful Reflection trainees. The topic had been Buddhist ethics—the eightfold path—and I’d spent a disproportionate on the topic of idle chatter. I disparaged the practice mercilessly and advised them sternly to hold their silence unless they had something consequential to say.

My witty statement this morning wasn’t even slightly consequential. The important thing is that coffee and biscuit conspired to remind me that I was blathering on about nothing, and that if I’d just kept my trap shut, attending mindfully to dunking and drinking, my morning collation would have been just perfect. It seems I still have plenty to learn about aligning myself with the way of the infinite universe.

The sage is devoted to non-action,
Moves without teaching,
Creates ten thousand things without instruction,
Lives but does not own,
Acts but does not presume,
Accomplishes without taking credit.

When no credit is taken,
Accomplishment endures.

[Tao Te Ching, 2; translated by Stephen Addiss & Stanley Lombardo]

As someone who was raised as a Catholic — and as a former celibate, albeit Buddhist — I can’t help but follow the scandal that’s finally breaking over the Catholic Church. Long, long overdue, it’s the stuff of nightmares — the worldwide sexual abuse of children for decades, probably centuries, and the instinct of most church officials to deny its sins and leave victims to rot in their own misery. It goes against just about everything the Church is supposed to stand for, and has horrified Catholics and non-Catholics alike. After decades of successfully dodging widespread publicity, the Vatican now faces a broad-based, tangible protest — actually, blood-lust is more like it. No surprise there. Will the church survive? Will it learn? I’d bet on the first, not the second. I said as much on Huffington Post, and drew the ire of Catholic bashers, as if I were a sympathizer!

All in all, I was fortunate. Although I was terrorized by my Catholic teachers as a boy, the abuse foisted on me was only physical and emotional, not sexual. Years of therapy and mindful reflection have taught me to disbelieve the disparaging inner voice of my teachers, and to wrestle it aside whenever it shows its ugly face, but it still shows up. I’ve worked hard and can win the battles, but the war goes on.

Now, do the math: if thousands of children were sexually abused, then how many were simply abused like me? I’d guess millions, most still carrying their demons around and passing down the same old ‘discipline’ on their children. It becomes instinctive.

Mine is just one story, not unusual. Children are society’s most natural scapegoats — weak, defenceless, silent, and respected by only a minority of parents. Most of us are in need of psychotherapy just as much as of dentistry and daily hygiene, but people still look at those in therapy and wonder, ‘What’s wrong with them?’

Nothing’s wrong — at least, no more than usual. It’s just life in an imperfect world.

Many blame the sins of the pedophile priests on a mix of homosexuality and celibacy, but to equate pedophilia with homosexuality is reactionary, and mistaken. The celibacy connection is another thing altogether. Forcing celibacy on those with healthy hormones — and telling them that they’re becoming ‘pure’ because of it — is a recipe for deceit, perversity and disaster. On the other hand, there are those who handle it well, even thrive off it — it seems to be a matter of personal temperament. I was avowedly celibate for eight years with great enthusiasm, hoping it would wean me off urges that had only brought me pain and heartache. That didn’t work, and I returned to a normal lifestyle, to face the music and eventually discover unexpected joy. Other people, like Wilfred Thesiger the great English explorer and writer, professed to simply prefer that way of life. There was no social pressure on him to be a confirmed bachelor; he simply was one.

Likewise, many priests are successfully celibate. Still, those who are not are apparently not a tiny minority, as the church insists. The history of the Catholic Church is one of breathtaking hypocrisy, featuring among other things dozens of pope’s mistresses, even wives. Wisely, the Eastern Orthodox Church offers priesthood with or without celibacy.

Why is the Catholic Church stuck on it? Because it’s considered holy.

I found the same attitude in Tibetan monasticism, where celibacy is the norm and homosexuality, of course, exists too. I never heard of any cases of pedophilia, but that’s presumably because the Tibetan establishment bears the same unwritten code of silence as the Catholics, and is not exposed to the same sort of scrutiny. Bad things that happen in monasteries are hushed up for two stubborn reasons: so as to not a) besmirch the monks, and b) weaken the faith of the laity. Within the confines of the ‘holy’ life, such logic is the automatic reaction. Also, in the ritualistic world of Tibetan Tantrism, ‘preserving one’s seed’ is considered a meditative accomplishment, a source of vigour and prerequisite for serious practice.

I never experienced, understood or believed that, and have never been sympathetic to it. I went to church every Sunday as a child, and heard the weekly announcement of ‘couple counseling’ provided by the parish priest — a man with supposedly no experience of sex, personal intimacy or parenting. I thought that preposterous; to their credit, many of my parents’ Catholic friends were of the same opinion, though they kept it discretely to themselves.

As I studied the life and times of the Buddha, it seems to me that he demanded celibacy from his monks for entirely practical reasons — firstly, he built communities that were dependant on local lay people for food and shelter, and needed his monks to not look as if they were having a fun and pleasant life on the backs of their benefactors. Secondly, a life of withdrawal was the antithesis to the ‘householder’ life, i.e. one with family responsibilities. In the days when sexual intercourse led almost inevitably to pregnancy, dependants and the need for a livelihood, you could either withdraw into meditative retreat or accept the everyday responsibilities of a parent, spouse and provider — the two were mutually exclusive. Makes sense to me, but what does it have to do with ‘purity?’

I’ve come to think of purity as an affectation, a notion I associate mostly with religious and racial bigots, a pretense and an untruth especially when it comes to sex. It’s true that sexuality can be a source of dissipation and confusion, but it’s also the source of the greatest intimacy most people experience. In good hands, it’s a foundation of mature, fruitful relationships — far more compatible with the reflective lifestyle than is the pointless attempt to deny one’s natural urges. It’s simply enriching — though not necessarily so. That takes a suitable match, real honesty and hard work.

There’s nothing revolutionary in this. Many religious traditions, like the Orthodox Christians, embrace sexuality. Some, like Judaism, largely reject celibacy. Now that makes sense. Except for a small few, celibacy is unnatural. Even when it is suitable for a particular individual, I can’t for the life of me see how it suggests any sort of saintliness or spiritual advantage; it’s just a preference. Even the Catholic Church calls marriage a sacrament, though most clergy obviously consider it a a lesser one than priestly ordination. Perhaps in the fallout of this scandal the Vatican powers will at last reconsider their old prejudices. As rigid and intolerant as the Catholic Church has been over the ages, when it really has to adapt, it does. It’s a survivor.