THE END OF TIME
Heavy rains draped the pointed arch cathedral, the ribbed vault, and the
exterior buttresses. The cathedral had many figures, and these gargoyles on the
buttress were frightening when these animals like creatures spat large amounts
of water on the ground.
The brick cement that was used to bind
the stones together dangled
loosely, and rains chipped the slated shingle cedar roof held by copper
flashing. Cyclone Charlotte came across from the gulf and flooded cairns,
coupled with king tides. The monsoon gave gale force winds and rain for days
causing road closures and impassible rivers and creek crossings. The cane
fields look like lakes.
Inside the cathedral were pitched pine pews, oak arches and bronze
statues. But probably the most spectacular were the stained glass windows:
the interlocking triangles of Star David, the Crescent Moon and Star, the
Christian Cross, the Ying and Yang circle, Buddha posing at the temple, and
Lord’s Krishna’s battle with Arjuna.
No single space was left vacant in the seating that circled the elaborate
ornamental pulpit, which represented a ship with sails, a mast, and rigging,
poised over sea monsters.
The pillar of the nave was placed near the acoustics, and the sounding
board made the speaker’s voice perfectly distinct and by giving it, the form of
a shell the waves of sound was sent in a definite direction.
On the right side of the pulpit lay a handful of sacred text: The Bible, the
Torah, the Koran, the Bhagavad Gita, and the Sutras. The only book covered
was the Bible. Its cover was detailed gracefully with a slender-tailed, small-
headed dove. On the left side of pulpit was Babaji’s one hour homily
prepared by the Order of the Star.
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“Has Babaji arrived?” asked a woman wrapped in an sari shaking the
wetness from home spun cloth.
“Babaji arrived yesterday from a tour at the castle. I heard it was fruitful,”
said a woman wearing a veil. A crimson umbrella rested on her knobby knees.
“How long was Babaji in Holland? asked a brawny man shaking the
wetness to his steel toed Bay Apache boots.
“A month. It was the Order’s jubilee and people from all over Europe
attended.
Babaji didn’t want to leave Arjun so long. Arjun is doing better. So, I
heard.” Young Lillith stared at her feet and wiped the wetness from her
cheeks.
“I am Christian, but I have read Babaji's books,” said a young man with
white teeth, sandy hair, and frost blue eyes like glittering diamonds.
“I drove miles to hear Babaji. The cathedral is Babajii’s favorite spot. It’s
like the Great Lakes outside. Babaji chose a bad time to come.” A young
woman, classically curved, gingerly walked to the white gloved usher who
seated her by a blue and white cornice stained window and immaculately
trimmed ornamental plant.
“This is not a good time, but, the weather in Holland isn’t any better.
Without dykes the whole country would flood,” said a man draped in an
orange robe.
Followers and guests packed like sardines eyed Babaji’s foot-steps.
Babaji walked slowly. Dressed in his somber black suit, black socks, and b
black shimmering shoes perfectly laced, he magnified the embodiment of
holiness.
Babaji, marked by melancholy, smiled softly to his flock and bowed
graciously. His eyes reflected the color of the sky on a cloudless day, and his
shiny gray white hair
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complemented his silver bullet approach. Babaji approached the pulpit and
looked compassionately at his followers.
“Babaji looks different,” whispered the veiled woman.
“What do you mean?” replied the woman wrapped in a sari.
“I don’t know. Babaji is ready to speak.” She nudged the woman softly.
Babaji walked his final step and his long piano fingers clung to the pulpit.
With restrained and determined composure he stood tall. His right hand
moved with an effort and he held a red book against his heart.
The rain water was running through the ruts and closely by the door. A
usher peeked through a pane of clear glass and saw a person rowing a boat up
the street.
Babaji’s followers held on to their pitched pews, and when one double
whammy king tide wreaked havoc and slammed the side of the cathedral,
Babaji said calmly.
“Truth is not within a book. Truth is not in the Bible. Truth is not in the
Torah. Truth is not in the Koran. Truth is not in the Bhagavad Gita. Truth is not
in the Sutras. Truth is not within a book. He stretched his arm and stacked the
handful on a pile.
“Truth is not in creed nor ritual. The path of Truth has no form, no
boundary, and is free from a savior, a rabbi, an imam, a guru, a monk, or a
Babaji. No authority can lead you to Truth. I resign today as head of the
Order,” said Babaji firmly.
Babaji opened the red book carefully. The pages were empty; not a word
written in it. He showed the empty pages back and forth.
“Truth is like this book. Pathless. Your mind must be vacant like this book
and beyond the inventions and tricks of the mind. You must leave the pool you
have dug for yourself
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and go out into the river of life. God is dead,” Babaji looked lovingly at his
followers.
A gasp swept across the cathedral while another king tide spun clockwise,
chopping the cedar shingles into wood chips, dropping copper flashing,
dumping large amounts of water, and pitching the scattered handful of books.
In a net pool thickly ingrained with dirt and soot lay scriptures and the
slender- tailed small-headed dove sliced by the razor glass edges of the
windows.
“Allah is angry,” the veiled woman shrieked.
“The abode of Elohim is punishing us,” screamed the full faced Lillith.
“A demon from the depths of the pit got our Babaji,” lamented the spun
sari.
“Hell is paved with good intentions,” wailed the blue eyed man.
“The bus ride in the blizzard was a trip from hell, but this Dante’s inferno,
shrieked the brawn man, riding the water.
“Oh, Lord Krishna, help us,” said the woman clinging to her sari.
The white gloved usher pointed his finger and howled like a wolf. The roof
split and the cathedral was in total darkness. Nature herself could not ward off
intruders; in and out of the rivers, streams of death in life, whose banks were
rotting into mud, and whose waters thickened into slime, to writhe in the
extremity of an impotent despair.
One year earlier, senses spellbound Arjun, Babaji’s ailing younger brother
when thebrothers looked at a countryside carpeted with thick green grass
alongside countless trees and flowers graced in fitful splendor. Babaji and
Arjun walked to unwind, and on the elm-girded woodland path a hawk darted
by a rock close to a tulip stalk.
Ojai is a quaint town where natures in al its moods finds the rustle of the
wind, the
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fine silvery stream, a moist breeze, a dew wet after a rainfall. Babaji and Arjun
meditated by the murmuring rushing brooks, a joy, a passion Babaji and Arjun
would not find in a thousand books.
Babaji and Arjun were two interlocked
triangles like the Star of David.
Babaji would rush to Arjun’s side after each speaking tour and engage in a
lengthy conversation.
A full time nurse was at the house, who wore a mask whenever she was in
close contact with Arjun. Babaji, unafraid of being infected read poetry to
Arjun hours into the night.
The Order furnished the house and made it comfortable for Babaji and
Arjun. Babaji’s bedroom was close to Arjun’s.
Babaji’s personal confidant, Sir Asby, the head of the Order met Babaji
after cyclone Bijli skirted, like the God Shiva the Bay of Bengal. Sir Asby was
appointed to form a team and help the Shiva site of toppled rice paddies and
tumbled bamboo sticks and poles. Babaji ad Arjun joined the team and
labored like toiling coal miners in the black depths, digging through the rubbish
to find life. Asby glanced at Babaji and a golden aura hovered around
Babaji’s head. To Asby that has a sign of holiness. Asby took the
undernourished boys’ under the safety of the Order’s Sacred Canopy. Since
the boys’ were re-incarnated Brahmin, a priestly caste, the privilege was
welcomed by the boys’ parents as a sign of approval from Brahma, the
Creator, and one of three major deities in
the Hindu pantheon.
The boys were educated and groomed in England, and Babaji resisted
being molded like a European bourgeoisie. The Order dressed him in fine
tailored suits, shirts, and
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cashmere sweaters. His education was the sum of multiple theologians and
philosophers from Socrates to Sarte. He meditated each day into late hours of
the night, and memorized scriptures from the Bible, Torah, Koran, Bhagavita,
and the Sutras to name a few. After a lengthy British education, Babaji and
Arjun returned home and the Order branded Babaji a Savior. At twenty three
Babaji was initiated as “Mahatma.”
The Order gave the “Brahmin Sage,” multiple speaking assignments, an
Asby’s expertise molded Babaji into a charismatic orator.
Asby took pride in showing off his protégé. As a philosophical and
religious encyclopedia, Babaji was a hero to the four castes, and upon his
arrival from England his head as covered like a coolie with a white six yard
home spun cloth wrapped like a turban around his head. A white six yard cloth
draped his right shoulder, flowing loosely and encircling his open toed sandals.
Seven years in the spiritual game Babaji graduated to “World Teacher.”
Babaji went along with his celebrity role as the world teacher for two
decades, and like a juggler tossed the five faiths on a world stage effortlessly
entertaining in castles, cathedrals, and palaces.
One day, Babaji spoke. After his performance the brothers strolled to a
nearby place where space and time are silent, and free from city noise. The
wild stretch of white sand graced the rolling hills and valleys. He took off his
turban and his limber fingers loosened his hair. He touched his face to loosen
the dust from his cheeks. Babaji licked his lips from a gentle breeze, and
kicked off his sandals to sink his feet on the tapestry of water washed sand.
The sand was tranquil and the desert flowers were in bloom. He stretched
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out his arms and embraced the horizon, strutting like a peacock beneath white,
green, and blue skies. Babaji smelled perfumes of lavender and sage, and
enjoyed the calm desert air, every rolling hill tucked. Babaji celebrated
moments of freedom with Arjun, relaxing and observing the assortments of rich
colors splashed on the desert’s canvas: pink, rose, sage, lavender, and yellow.
Arjun started to cough and from his parrot shaped nose blood dripped on the
desert carpet and Babaji’s white wrap. Myco bacteria invaded, and consumed
Arjun from within, assailing his lungs and wasting his bones, his joints
and his skin relentlessly. Medication helped the treatment to ease the pangs of
the disease. Babaji pleaded for Arjun to go a milder climate. Sir Asby was
convinced that Arjun was protected by the omnipotent power, and God would
spare him. Asby believed that it was not necessary to change location because
God would protect Arjun. Despite Asby’s effort, the Order agreed to change
the environment, crossing land and sea to the Order’s re-treat in Ojai,
California.
The Order’s jubilee was held at the Kasteel Heeswyk, the 12 century
home of a Dutch nobleman loyal to the monarch. It was a moated, round
motte with a keep made of stone and wood on top. In the 13th century, the
family enlarged the castle with a round tower and a square gate tower and
embellished the interior. After each speaking engagement,
Babaji walked on the lush green carpet of a large baroque gardens and with
wonder and delight named the flowers: begonias, tulips, and gladiolis. Babaji
was reluctant leaving Arjun in the nurse’s care, but Sir Asby preached that
God’s omnipotent power would save Arjun, and that Babaji must have faith l
like Job. The annual jubilee was grandeur. The Order invested huge sums to
celebrate the anniversary and to honor Babaji, the World
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Teacher. The pressure was from all sides and Babaji had no alternative but to
trust Asby and have faith like Job.
Bags were packed and Babaji made a list of instructions for the nurse. He
kissed Arjun and left with Asby to catch a flight to New York, and from New
York to Amsterdam. At the airport a stretch limousine took Babaji ad Asby to
Heeswyk Castle. It was Babaji’s fourth and final week in Heeswyk, and he
dressed smartly in his camel suit sat on his broad gold leaved chair.
A white gloved usher walked to Asby and handed him a sealed envelope.
Asby gasped when he read the disconcerting news. Arjun had crossed over.
Asby re-arranged his seat, viewing the spellbound audience, and musing
the death of Arjun and Babaji’s response.
“Babajai, I have something to tell you,” Asby held Babaji’s hand.
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Babajai responded.
“Babajai, Arjun has crossed over,” Asby said tearfully.
“Crossed over? My brother?” Babaji cried.
“I should have not come here. Arjun. Arjun,” Babaji covered his face and
cried.
Asby instructed the funeral parlor to keep Arjun;s body refrigerated. He
was the first to arrive at the funeral parlor. He pleaded with the funeral director
to have Babaji partake in the embalming, and handed the director all sorts of
perfumes, powders, paints, and spices. Babaji, like Rembrandt ,transformed
Arjun’s body. After the fluids were drained, the embalmer permitted Babaji to
use a palette of paints on an easel, and
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Babaji used a wide range of color for Arjun’s final image. He lathered Arjun
and richly
used with a sweet fragrance of strawberries and apple blossoms. Babaji
immersed Arjun’s skin with tropical creams, and a thick translucent powder to
mask the abrasion. A spray covered Arjun’s face and neck like a perfect veil.
Arjun’ nails were polished and toe nails trimmed, his lips outlined and hair
dyed with henna and a shade of honey. Herb’s, spice,
and perfume extracted from flowers was stuffed in his body. Babaji covered
Arjun’s hair with baby’s breath and gracefully twined it through his hair and
wrapped Arjun in a white sheet of lavender scent. Babaji removed the linings
of the coffin and laid Arjun on a sheet.
After the wake the coffin was nailed and flown off to India. A station
wagon covered with garlands stood at the Madras terminal and drove the
body to Arjun’s birth village near the Bay of Bengal.
Primordial sounds of the didjeridoo saluted Babajai’s entrance, and
continued until Arjun’s flesh burned to the ashes. The villagers had quickly
carved the didjeridoo for the ceremony from trunks of a Eucalyptus tree
hollowed out by nesting white ants.
Babaji gathered wooded sticks until a modest pile was reached. He took the
nails out of the coffin, and placed the body on top of the wood pile. The
villagers covered Arjun with thousands of lotus petals and garlands of water
lilies.
Babaji took a long lit stick and burned the body until Arjun’s ashes
dropped into the burned sticks. A breeze of burning flesh hovered over the
camp site, and the aroma was like dried leather. Babaji sat in a lotus pose until
the pile was a heap of ashes.
After forty days of mourning, the agenda was full of speaking engagements.
Babaji
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went along with the game, but silently questioned religion and society. He
became aware of his ego in himself, and that emerging awareness was Babaji
beyond the ego, the deeper “I:” Babaji’s recognition of the false was already
the arising of the real.
Six months after Arjun’s passing. Babaji met a Buddhist monk walking a
trail adjacent to a rice field near Madras. The monk’s saffron robe was
patched together from cloth taken from rubbish heaps. His robe was dyed
with turmeric and saffron spices, which gave it a yellow-orange color. The
monk followed Babaji, and Babaji perceived his presence. Babaji turned
around and welcomed the Monk. The monk bowed gracefully and
said, “Babaji, the only possessions I have are three robes, one begging bowl,
one razor, one girdle, and one water strainer. Most of the time I sleep under
trees, and I beg for food in the morning and eat one meal a day, at noon. On
days of a new and full moon, I gather in an assembly to recite the canon of
rules. Babaji, I have extinct desire and suffering.
What else do I need to do to obtain the beatitude that transcends the cycle of
re-birth?”
"Sir, you have assumed the role of robe poverty, but you are still rich with
the things of society, inwardly and psychologically, because you are still
seeking position and prestige," Babaji told him and lay his hand on the monk’s
bare shoulder.
“Babaji, I am saddened that I have to experience more re-birth. What do I
have to do to end it?” the monk asked taking his beads out of his begging
bowl.
“Sir, do you see this field,” Babaji point to the rice field.
“Yes, Babaji I see the field,” the monk holding his prayer beads.
“Sir, this field is your consciousness of the past, present, and the future.
The content of this field is “thought” and thought is always conditioned.
Thought has
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invented the constant renewal of the soul. Now please listen carefully. Is there
such a thing? We like to think there is such a thing, because it gives us
pleasure, because that is something that we have set beyond thought, beyond
words, and beyond something eternal, spiritual, that can never die, and so
thought clings to it. There is enormous uncertainty, confusion, nothing
permanent in life, and so the mind invents something, which is permanent. Sir,
you strive towards a soul that desires extinction.
Desire is still within the field of thought. As long as you can think about it, it is
in the field of thought, and in that field is time, experience, and knowledge. So,
the idea of a continuity of a soul that will be reborn over and over has no
meaning because it is the invention of the mind that is frightened, of a mind that
wants, that seeks a duration, through permanency, that wants certainty,
because in that there is hope. Sacredness is outside the field of thought,”
Babaji point to the boundaries of the rice field.
The monk thanked Babaji for his time, and took his beads and begging
bowel and walked to the rice field, sat down in a lotus pose, and looked at the
rice field pondering Babaji’s example of consciousness and “thought.”
Four seasons passed and the Jubilee held at Heeswyk was a real score,
but Babaji had difficulty juggling the five faiths. Babaji’s thoughts were with the
monk, and he revolted against conformity and his role in society. Babaji
decided that this was his last Jubilee and left for the cathedral to end the
masquerade without due thought of cyclone Charlotte.
Followers of Babaji fled the cathedral, and Babaji sought shelter under a
solid oak desk moments before the cathedral crumbled. Asby found Babaji
with his red book tucked underneath his shirt. Asby helped the limping Babaji
to the Red Cross.
Once the
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cyclone settled Babaji and Asby flew to Ojai.
Babaji rested from cyclone Charlotte and sat under a apple tree meditating.
Asby sat next to Babaji and after fifteen minutes of meditating asked, “Babaji,
are you ill? The Order has invested time and money honing you to be a World
Teacher. I can explain to your followers that you are grieving for Arjun.”
“The mind is like a prisoner. The prisoner can reform, revolt, or conform to
the prison; but, the prisoner is still within the walls of the prison. A prisoner can
only be free outside the prison walls; free from the psychological structure of
society,” Babaji said lovingly.
Babaji stepped down as the “World Teacher” and Asby turned over the
Ojai house on an acre to Babaji. Babaji enjoyed talking the trails and spend
endless hours in meditation and writing his talks.
Six months later, Babaji returned to his homeland to give a talk. The place
looked like an army of ants congregating, competing for space. Babaji,
dressed in a light blue shirt and beige slacks, sat on a chair and gave a talk.
After the talk, a guru followed Babaji and sat beside him underneath an
oak tree.
Babaji gave the guru his handkerchief, and the guru being very careful,
blotted his face from hailstones of running sweat.
“Babaji, you have been re-incarnated a Brahmin. Babaji, how can you
reject re-incarnation and your advancement to a Brahmin?” The Hindu guru
bowed.
“ Sir, my mind has been for decades shaped in a particular society, through
time, experience, knowledge, and memory. My mind was conditioned,
shaped, and held within a narrow pattern of the me. How can such a mind
become aware of its own
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conditioning?” Babaji asked.
“Babaji, we have been taught to accept our condition; our caste in society
is our lot to re-incarnate and become better,” the guru responded.
“Can your mind, which is shaped day after day, become aware of its own
conditioning? Re-incarnation says there is a reality for which you must prepare,
for which you must do certain things, discipline yourself, resist every form of
temptation, and conform to a pattern? Can you see the absurdity in all this?”
Babaji looked attentively.
The Guru leaned on the oak tree and tucked his robe.
“Sir, what makes the oak and cypress magnificent?” Babaji asked.
“Well, because the trees were planted apart,” the Guru responded.
“Yes, Look at the space,” Babaji replied.
The Guru nodded, “The oak and cypress can only grow to their potential
when they are planted apart. Each of those trees is gracious when it stands
alone.”
“Exactly, a healthy mind needs space. A dull insensitive mind, a mind that
is crowded is not highly intelligent, and can practice a method endlessly; it will
become more and more dull, more and more stupid,” Babaji said softly.’
The guru nodded, “The oak and cypress can only grow to their potential
when they are planted apart. Each of those trees is gracious and it stands
alone.”
The guru took Babaji handkerchief and wiped sweat dripping
from his face
like a running faucet, and not knowing, took off his red distinguished mark, a
dot, between his eyebrows.
“My friend, are you negating absurdity?” Babaji smiled and pointed out the
redness on
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the square piece of cloth.
“No, No, Babaji,” The guru took a melted red pencil and drew a circle
between his eye-brows, handed Babaji his handkerchief, straightened his robe,
and bid Babaji farewell.
After three months of talks, Babaji returned to Ojai and strolled the
wonderful lounging Ventura Surfers Knoll Beach. Miles of glorious sand, the
pounding surf is made particularly special by the illusion of privacy. Babaji
watched a kite runner fly a burnt orange kite as the strong gust lifted the kite h
high towards the white blue skies from the open blue green ocean. The young
kite runner looked at his wrist watch, pulled the kite string, and like a fallen
helicopter the head of the kite crashed into the white sand. The
man rolled his string, and took off his shoes, placing the shoes on his kite
string, fastening the kite. Besides the man’s shoes lay a duffle bag. The man
took out a mat, faced east, and knelt. Then he stood stretching his arms,
praising and reciting five times.
Babaji was nearby and when the man completed his ritual folded his mat
and placed the mat in the bag.
The man looked at Babaji, “I love the sand and run my kite. It reminds me
of the Saudi
desert. I am Muslim and I pray five times facing Mecca.” The young man
smiled.
“What is a Muslim, sir?” Babaji asked.
The kit runner explained to Babaji that he is mandated to uphold the five
pillars of
Islam: There is only one God. Mohammad is His last prophet. Pray five times
per day facing east. Give arms to the poor, and do the Haji once. The full
beard Shiite Muslim was an Imam from a Mosque, and added his daily
prayers is only three.
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“Sir, do you believe in Allah, or God?” asked the young Muslim.
“A man who believes in God can never find God. If you are open to reality,
there can be no belief in reality. If you are open to the unknown, there can be
no belief in it. After all, belief is a form of self-protection, and only a petty
mind can believe in God,”
Babaji responded seriously.
“Mohammad is His last prophet and the Koran the Holy Book,” The
runner sighed.
“A religious man does not seek God. The religious man is concerned with
the transformation of society, which is himself. The religious man is not a man
who does innumerable rituals, follows traditions, lives in a dead past culture,
explaining the Koran, praising Mohammad, praying on a mat five times a day,
or taking a Haji to Mecca. One should give alms to the poor, not out of duty,
but compassion, seeing the beggar as he or she is,” Babaji looked squarely
into his warm brown eyes.
“You don’t understand Muslim. Last year in Mecca, there was a sea of
pilgrims, and the pilgrims raced with everyone circling the Black Stone. It was
as if a dam had burst. Muhammad kissed the Black Stone, and the only thing t
that was between
Mohammad and I was the Black Stone. I pushed and shoved until my lips
touched the Black Stone. Mohammad is my companion. May He rest in
peace,” said the Iman.
“Exactly. Your mind is never alone. You never walk alone because you
always walk with a companion, the companion with ideas, ” said Babaji.
The young Muslim took his kite, kite string, bag, mat, and recited, “Just one
God, Allah, Mohammad is Allah’s prophet. May he rest in peace.”
Decades passed and Babaji was invited to give a talk near the Kew
Gardens located
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East of New York. The talk was in the early afternoon.
Babaji arrived at sunrise before his talk, and relaxed the day with
meditation and a cup of tea at the Kew Gardens Café, a well know
international café. The café was decorated with European paintings and
Middle Eastern tapestry. Clay pots filled with flowers in
bloom and plants of all sorts. Hanging from a beam was an incense of
lavender, sage, and vanilla. The waiter approaches Babaji and offers him a
seat.
“I like to sit on the terrace. I need the fresh air,” Babaji smiled at the
waiter.
Near the window of the café, Babaji noticed a group of students, debating
with an intrepid truth teller who dominated the debate by reciting scriptures
from memory.
Babaji heard about the rabbis dressed in black over-coats, black hats, and
long locks interpreting the Torah word for word .
A group of Seeds for Peace students next to the rabbi saw Babaji having a
cup of tea and the oldest turned to the rabbi and said, “ Rabbi, we have the
presence of Babaji, the World Teacher,”
The rabbi nodded and left his students in command of the debate at the
table to sit with Babaji having kosher bread and tea. “Sir, I heard that you
have left your position at the Order and travel giving talks.” said the Rabbi.
“Yes, I am. Today, my talk is about psychological evolution” responded
Babaji.
“Do you mean reward and punishment?” asked the rabbi.
“Yes, Religion believes that psychologically there is evolution, becoming, a
continuation: a place to re-birth, re-incarnate, paradise, heaven, or a purifying
place.
When a believer has done badly then psychologically the evolution is hell,
eternity of
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torment, or annihilation,” Babaji responded gently.
“Babaji, the mainstream Jewish view is that God will reward those who
observe His commandments and punish those who intentionally transgress
them. Those who do not “pass the test” go to a purifying place to “learn their
lesson.” There is, however, for the most part, no eternal damnation. The vast
majority of souls can only go to that reforming place for a limited amount of
time. Certain souls are spoken of as having “no part in the
world to come", but this appears to mean annihilation rather than an eternity of
torment,” argued the rabbi.
“Yes, the rabbi replied.
“Why, do you believe?” asked Babaji.
"God gave rules as to how the laws were to be understood and
implemented, and these were passed down as an oral tradition. This oral laws
was passed down from generation to generation and ultimately written down,”
argued the Rabbi.
“What makes the mind always follow a certain pattern? Always seeking?
Rabbi, it appears that the intelligent, learned, philosophical, and religious
always fall into a groove of pattern seeking,” Babaji said.
“Well, I think the groove is inherent in the nature of accumulated
knowledge,” replied the rabbi.
“It seems to me that the groove, or the accumulated knowledge, seems to
have a significance far beyond what its significance is. Knowledge of an
object like a microphone has little significance but knowledge about religion to
which you belong seems to have immense significance,” Babaji said softly.
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“Yes, my religion is significant,” replied the Rabbi.
“Rabbi, this accumulation becomes psychological knowledge, and this
knowledge deceives the mind because when this process gets started, the
mind is not in a state where it can look at it because it is avoiding the question.
There is a tremendous defensive mechanism or escape from looking at the
whole issue,” Babaji responded.
“Rabbi, is it possible to end time?”
“No, God has a plan for all of us,” the rabbi replied
"When you end the accumulation of psychological knowledge, there is no
concern about reward and punishment. This illusion has been nurtured, and is
so deeply rooted that it is difficult to let go of. Let me put it this way:
psychologically, becoming implies identification with a nation and a group
based on time which is the past and the accumulation of knowledge. Reality
can only approach when you end the illusion of psychological time," Babaji
responded.
One of the rabbi's students came to the table and asked him for help. The
rabbi was in a frenzy when Babaji probed his intellect, "Babaji, I have to go
back to my students.
Young minds are waiting for me to read the Torah."
Half an hour later, Babaji waved to the rabbi. The rabbi waved and said,
"My students are learning the Torah in a timely manner as their fore-fathers did
to achieve initiation."
Babaji left the cafe and gave his talk about The Ending of Time. A middle
aged man with frost blue eyes asked all sorts of questions, and Babaji
answered each one. He was eager to leave the Big Apple despite a forecasted
rainstorm. A stretch limousine pulled in front, and a taxi driver dressed in white
held a large umbrella for him.
18
“Good morning. Are you not the man that asked me a lot of questions?”
Babaji asked.
"Yes, I heard you denounce your position at the cathedral as Babaji and
boldly you confirm that ‘God is Dead’. I was a Christian when I heard you
speak and had Jesus as a personal savior. I became aware that my mind had
accumulated all the things that thought has put there” the belief of a savior, the
Bible as the 'Word of God,' Jesus nailed our sins on to the cross, and that
salvation is only through 'grace'. Sir, when I witnessed cyclone Charlotte, I
saw the universe in order. Like the Cyclone, my house had to go
through destruction: destruction of thought, the accumulation of knowledge,
and the clinging of patterns,” the man said softly while driving through the
rainstorm.
“Yes, the universe is in order. Whether it is destructive or constructive, it is
still order,” Babaji stated. He smiled.
The taxi driver took from his pocket a part from a book cover, a slender-
tailed, small- headed dove, and opened his window, dropping the remnant into
the flow of the rainstorm.
The End
