Read Ebook: Take Me for a Ride: Coming of Age in a Destructive Cult by Laxer Mark E

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1460 lines and 68875 words, and 30 pages

"The Transcendental portrays Guru in his highest transcendental consciousness," my brother told me.

Atmananda scanned the audience, mostly women in their sixties. Then he began to lecture, not on meditation, but on reincarnation, which he had done many times before.

"Maya, or illusion, eclipses the original perfection of the soul," he said. "The soul reincarnates over thousands of lessons known as lifetimes."

I could not recall learning about reincarnation at Hebrew school.

"As the soul evolves, it transcends desire and attachment, which is the root of all suffering. Finally, enlightenment occurs."

Unaware that he was borrowing Hindu and Buddhist doctrine, and intrigued but not convinced that in a future life I would attain enlightenment, I kept one eye on Atmananda and the other on Anne.

"Everything can be classified according to its level of spiritual evolution. Rocks and minerals are very primitive, whereas plants have more developed auras. After thousands of years, the soul seeks an animal incarnation. Except in rare instances, enlightenment occurs through the human form only."

I grinned and wiggled my thumbs, figuring I was already ahead of the game.

"Humans in their early incarnations are responsible for many of the world's problems. But evolved people are not better than others. Are college students any better than third graders?"

This diffused my concern that Atmananda's line of reasoning justified the formation of an evolved elite.

"Karma is a cosmic feedback mechanism triggered by past actions. In a universe governed by karma, few experiences are coincidental."

I supposed a lottery winner could have been a generous philanthropist in a past life. But remembering the various times I had been robbed while growing up in New York, I doubted that I had spent incarnations as a mugger. Still, I liked his contention that it was karma's role not to punish, but to educate.

Atmananda turned toward me, as if in response to my newest doubt, and said, "An enlightened teacher can take a person through thousands of lives in just one lifetime."

"What's the rush?" I thought.

"The sooner you attain enlightenment, the sooner you can help others transcend this world of pain and suffering."

"How did he do that?" I wondered, unsure if he were addressing typical doubts, or if he were actually reading my mind.

Atmananda continued to look at me. I found myself gazing, without blinking, into his eyes...I began to feel as if I were floating... somewhere far away I sensed my body breathing...I heard "bzzzzzzzz" droning on and on and on...

He turned away, and I returned to normal consciousness.

"Holy cow," I thought. "He did it again!" Suddenly, I imagined that he was a sorcerer and I, his apprentice. I forgot about Anne and carefully followed his words.

"Advanced seekers say that after they attain enlightenment they will return to earth to help others. But most of them end up choosing eternal ecstasy instead."

I vowed to come back and help the downtrodden.

"It is even rarer for fully enlightened souls to return," he said, pointing out that his Guru was fully enlightened.

Fully enlightened souls, Atmananda explained, were aware of those who meditated sincerely on their photograph. Atmananda then instructed us to meditate on the Transcendental. After about ten minutes of silence he asked, "Who saw the light around Guru?"

One woman shot up her hand. Then another. I admitted to myself that I thought I saw the photo glow.

"Guru flooded you with light from another world," he explained. Then, inviting the audience to experience the "advanced" side of self-discovery, he told us about Chinmoy's free weekly meditations at St. Paul's Chapel, Columbia University.

We met at our parents' home. He wore all white clothes. "White symbolizes purity--the spiritual quality men need to develop most," he explained, quoting Chinmoy. "Wearing white only adds one or two percent more purity to your consciousness, but every bit helps."

My mother came into the room and looked at my brother.

"Uh-oh," I thought. I felt bad for my mother. She typically had to deal with me and my brother on her own. Perhaps in anticipation of an ulcer condition, my father tended to avoid so-called family discussions. "If only she would leave us alone," I figured, "she would not get so bent out of shape."

I also felt bad for my brother. Everything he did, it seemed, aggravated my parents. "They should support him in his spiritual quest," I decided.

Now my mother looked upset. I did not know it then, but she was not upset that her sons were interested in yoga. In her youth she had satisfied a similar interest in the East by taking a course on Gandhi's philosophy. She grew concerned, however, when she realized that we were intensely focusing on one person--on a living guru.

"Where are you boys going?" she asked.

"It's okay, Mom," I replied, assuming my role as mediator. "We're just going to a talk on relaxation and meditation--you know, stuff like that." I had already told her about Chinmoy and Atmananda . But she wanted to know more. She looked hurt.

The silence that ensued bore with it all the weight of a mother's love, hope, and fear for her sons.

We said good-bye and rode to the city.

"I mean, I have to lead my own life," I thought, and focused on my parents' shortcomings to offset pangs of guilt.

Manhattan's ivy-league citadel of the intellect seemed an unlikely spot for people to be led beyond thought. But then, finding a guru with an enlightened soul uptown seemed no less likely than meeting a sorcerer with a Ph.D. downtown. We switched at Grand Central Station to an uptown train and emerged at 125th Street. The clatter of subway cars gave way to traffic noise which faded once we entered the Columbia University campus. Soon we ascended steps to St. Paul's Chapel. Ahead of us were men with closely cropped hair wearing all white clothes. With hair clenched in braids, the sari-wrapped women walked apart from the men--who were not looking at them. At the top of the stairs, dressed in a red tennis outfit, stood Atmananda.

"Hi, Atmananda," said my brother, looking up.

With folded arms, Atmananda looked down and said, "Hello, Dan."

"You remember my kid brother?"

"Hello, kid brother."

Atmananda and I were roughly the same height, yet as disciples flocked by him he seemed much taller. I was again struck by his piercing eyes, sharp nose, and thick crown of brown hair. With such a countenance of nobility, he could have passed as a high Roman senator or Greek god.

"Guru couldn't make it this week," he said. "Why don't you go in and meditate, and pick up on Guru's vibes?"

My brother and I went inside. High above us on the massive chapel dome were paintings of angels. Perhaps it was the distant angels, the two hundred or more silent disciples, and the rising scent of sandalwood incense, that made me feel foreign and small. We meditated for about five minutes and left.

Outside, Atmananda was speaking with a man in white, when it struck me that he was wearing red. "A non-conformist within a group of non-conformists!" I thought.

He nodded to us but continued talking.

I walked by and noticed his name tag. Directly beneath "ATMANANDA" glimmered a sticker from AAA and this warning: "Fasten Your Seat Belt."

That night, in the Castaneda books, I read how ordinary events were often portentous omens. I wondered if there was a significant message hidden in the Guru's absence. I wondered, too, if I was supposed to meditate with this Guru before hitchhiking west.

The following week, I ventured with my brother to another of Atmananda's lectures. We also returned to meditate with Chinmoy. When we arrived at Columbia, disciples were arranging flowers, lighting incense, and otherwise darting about in preparation for their master's presence. Chinmoy apparently was on his way. Several minutes later a short, stocky Indian entered the chapel. He had a shiny head, a hooked nose, and high cheek bones. He was draped in a light-blue dhoti, the male version of a sari. He walked slowly toward the front. He sat in a big blue chair, opened his eyes wide, and blinked a couple of times.

Disciples in the audience sat with their hands folded, as if they were praying to him.

"Are they praying to him?" I asked my brother.

"No," he whispered. "They are aspiring to the Infinite in him."

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet