Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  “Things do happen,” said Ruth. “And I’m not too proud of my part in this.”

  Later that afternoon the phone rang again. Melissa answered. After a brief exchange, she went looking for Ruth to once again break their long-standing phone policy.

  Found her.

  “It’s for you Ruth. It’s Abbot White.”

  :: 100 :: (Pasadena)

  Timothy White, the Abbot of the Los Angeles Franciscan Mission, was born in Ireland in the spring of 1948. Four years later, in the summer of 1952, his parents emigrated to America.

  Growing up, he was often told that his first words were Irish, but he has little memory of that. What he does remember is the Mauretania, the ship that took them to America; well, not so much the Mauretania herself as the ocean. Growing up in a small town, in hilly country, there had never been much of a vista in his forming years, the horizon always close and uphill. But here, leaning his head up against the stanchions of the promenade deck railing looking out at the endless water he realized, for the first time that he can recall, that the world was a very large place, near enough endless.

  His father, a deacon of the parish church, had been offered a small parish of his own in the Irish section of Chicago, which his well-to-do brother—who had settled there a score of years earlier—attended and supported. So, off they went, soon-to-become-priest father, mother, four older brothers and one sister on the way, and Timothy, staring at the watery horizon so distant, and so all around. So almighty (which was a word he’d heard his father use often, and which seemed to fit well, especially with the way the water glittered in the sun). So everywhere. It was an experience and an image that he would carry with him and treasure for the rest of his life. His first impression of God.

  It established a special relationship between them, that’s how Timothy would tell it later. And so, whereas his brothers always did their best to shirk any church duties their father saw fit to assign them, Timothy volunteered.

  Timothy volunteered because in the church, even on early winter’s mornings, when the cold and dark said otherwise, he felt—almost saw—the endless horizon of God’s sea stretch in all directions. He felt at home, as if called there not by his father, but by ocean.

  By age eight he was his father’s favorite altar boy; his father’s favorite, period. He took his duties seriously, and frowned (though he never bothered to defend himself, it was beneath him) when his brothers teased him for being a push-over and a toady.

  After high school there was never any doubt what his next step would be. By then, his father had arranged a place for him at the Franciscan University of Steubenville, Ohio, which, together, they had already selected during his junior year in high school. The following summer he visited (and liked) the campus, and even got to meet some of the staff—which all seemed of the finest cloth as far as he was concerned.

  A few days before the start of fall term his second year at Steubenville, Father Martin broached the subject not of priesthood but of joining the order.

  “Becoming a monk?” said Timothy. “No, Father. I admit, I have thought about it, but my plan remains the priesthood. I already know the parish.”

  “You have a higher calling than that,” said Father Martin.

  “Why is joining the order the higher calling, Father?”

  “Perhaps I did not put that very well,” answered Father Martin. “The priesthood is a fine calling, of course it is. Heaven knows we need dedicated priests these days. But the order is a narrower path, more arduous, but, in the long run, more rewarding. Purer.”

  “I don’t know, Father. My father expects me back. It is his mantle I mean to shoulder.”

  Nodding that he understood, Father Martin said, “Do me this one favor, Timothy. Add a Franciscan History class to your curriculum this year, find out more about our roots. See for yourself whether you think I would steer you wrong.”

  He considered that. Considered his workload for the next two semesters—which was not light—but he liked Father Martin, trusted him, and so consented. He would add Father Martin’s own class of Franciscan History to his workload.

  A choice he never regretted.

  Half-way through the fall semester that year, he had already dropped another class in order to delve deeper into the Franciscan Mysteries (as he called them), and by the following spring he saw for himself what Father Martin had already known: this was his path.

  To better serve his chosen fraternity and its mission, Timothy (with Father Martin’s gladly given blessings, and his father’s less gladly given consent—at heart he would rather have seen Timothy take over his church and congregation) remained at Steubenville to complete his studies—which included master’s degrees in both theology and philosophy, and so it was not until 1974 that he joined the Los Angeles Mission to become Brother Timothy, which is what he to this day liked to be called, even though he was now the abbot of the Mission.

  And of a surprisingly successful Mission at that. Successful both in terms of finances and of outreach and goodwill. Under his guidance the Mission had established not one but several very effective drug rehabilitation programs with a more than twice the national average success rate, many graduates of which moved on to successful careers and who never ceased to share their success with generous donations.

  Other donors included those whose lives Abbot White personally had consoled, consulted and changed, steering some from the brink of despair back into the light.

  By any conventional yardstick, Abbot White had lived a full, rewarding life, achieving all that he had set out to achieve. Even his father, toward the end of his life, had to concede that his son had made the right choice—something that gladdened Timothy deeply. And his brothers, to a man, not only respected him, but brought their many problems to him, and quite often at that.

  Viewed objectively, Abbot White was an unqualified success.

  Viewed subjectively, he was not.

  Many of us deem ourselves as successful or as good as others consider us to be, sustaining our sense of worth on their praise and admiration. It is a trap easily stumbled into, and one comfortable to settle in. Abbot White, however, was not one of us, and he carried his own yardstick of success: the glittering ocean, the far-reaching horizon of no land in sight. The glimmering presence that excluded all other presences. And, in truth, while longing for it his whole life, he had never managed to return there, nor had he—to the best of his knowledge—managed to lead others to it either. Toward, sure. But all the way, no. No, there was always a falling short.

  And that is why, during the last decade or so, he had taken to study other paths, including thorough readings of Dogen’s complete Shobogenzo, of the Dhammapada, of the Tao Te Ching, and of other Eastern writings, wondering now if his chosen path had not been too restrictive, too narrow; and wondering, too, if it were not too late to do anything about it.

  And it was with this view, against this backdrop, that Abbot White, with mounting interest watched the Ruth Marten spectacle unfold.

  :

  When he saw a startled Federico Alvarez levitate, chair and all, his immediate thought was that he was witnessing a miracle. In fact, he knew that he was witnessing a miracle. Don’t ask him how he knew, he just did.

  And the source of this miracle, well that was the young girl with the black hair and blue eyes watching the rising with what he deemed to be gentle, quiet amusement.

  When he then was asked to sit on the expert panel (their word, not his) commenting on the Clare Downes interview with this very Miss Marten, he took that as a sign. Something fundamental was going on, he felt the stirring. Up onto the promenade deck.

  And that is why he, after the storm around her had settled down, found himself on the telephone with Ruth Marten.

  :

  For the first time in years—he could in fact not remember the last time this had happened to him; refreshing, is what he thought—he found himself a little nervous. For this call was of consequence, true consequence.
r />   She came to the phone.

  “This is Ruth,” she said.

  “Miss Marten. This is Abbot White.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, I do. I watched your commentary on my interview.”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “What can I do for you Abbot?”

  She did not seem to him friendly. She seemed to him his equal. Her voice, though quite soft (like his own), carried unmistakable authority.

  “I should like to see you,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I think I can be of help.”

  “How can a Franciscan abbot be of help to a young particle physicist?” she said. Still unfriendly, though either amused or curious.

  “I don’t think that’s the correct question,” he answered.

  “What would be the correct question?” she said.

  “How can a Franciscan abbot help a young Buddha?” he said. “That would be the correct question.” And that was apparently the right thing to say, for her voice donned a friendlier note. And what it said was:

  “I should like to see you, too.”

  :: 101:: (Pasadena)

  Shortly after ten in the morning the following day, the doorbell rang and Melissa went to answer it. And there he was. A Catholic Ananda is how the old abbot struck her.

  “Come in, Abbot, please,” she said, holding the door wide open.

  “Timothy, if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay, Timothy. Melissa,” she said, and held out her hand.

  “Melissa.”

  She led him through to the living room where Ruth and Ananda were waiting, both standing. The abbot introduced himself two more times, insisting on “Timothy” all the way. Ruth and Ananda reciprocated.

  Melissa had tea and some fruit ready to go and dashed off to the kitchen to fetch it. She returned to a quiet living room, apparently waiting for her.

  “Did an angel just cross the room?” she asked.

  The abbot laughed at that, quite unexpectedly. “Oh,” he said. “Funny you should say that. My mother used to say that whenever silence fell upon us, which was rare to be sure.”

  Ananda smiled, too. As did Ruth, who then added, “I think she just returned, bearing tea.”

  And so, what little ice there was found itself broken.

  “I have a confession to make,” said the Abbot.

  No one said anything, but the listening was almost palpable.

  The Abbot took another sip of the green tea, then regarded the cup for quite a silent while. Then said, “I have been a Catholic all my life, and a Franciscan for most of it, for near enough sixty years. All, yes I think I can say that, all to regain the clarity I experienced as a four-year-old boy in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Yes,” he continued, “I have done much good, and I have helped many. I have lived in the conviction that my path has been the correct one, and that if only I could walk it with more sincerity, more truly, more deeply, then I would finally enter into light.”

  He paused here and helped himself to some more tea. Then he recounted his horizon experience on the deck of the Mauretania, leaving his young Ireland for the unknown America.

  “I knew God then,” he said to end the story. Then he said it again.

  The he looked directly at Ruth. “Am I incorrect in assuming that you, in fact, did raise that chair? That you performed that miracle?”

  “Not a bit,” said Ruth.

  “I thought not,” said the Abbot. Then, after another brief silence, looking down at his hands and then back at Ruth, he asked, “Do you know the way back to God?”

  “Your God?” said Ruth.

  “Is there more than one?” said the Abbot.

  “No,” said Ruth.

  “Is there a way back?” said the Abbot.

  “I know the way back to the stillness you described,” said Ruth. “If that is what you mean by God.”

  “That is what I mean by God,” he replied.

  What struck Melissa the most and deepest about this exchange was that her sixteen-year-old daughter and the ancient—and he was truly ancient—abbot treated each other as equals in every respect, age included. Truth be told, she had a hard time trusting her perception, but then she reminded herself, again, who her daughter was and that took the edge of the wonder. But it remained a wonder.

  “You are who you say you are?” said the Abbot.

  “Who do I say I am?” said Ruth.

  “The Tathagata,” said the Abbot.

  Melissa saw Ananda’s eyes startle, then fix upon the Abbot. And it was in fact Ananda who spoken next, “the Tathagata?”

  The Abbot turned to him, “Yes.”

  Ananda turned to Ruth, who smiled in turn. “Yes, Timothy. I am Tathagata. Sooner back than planned.”

  The Abbot nodded. Then said, “Pardon me for saying so, but I think—and don’t take me wrong, I know you had your reasons—but it seems to me that you’ve made a bit of a mess of it.”

  “My thoughts, precisely,” said Ananda.

  “How so?” said Ruth.

  “You are the Buddha, back here for a reason,” said the Abbot.

  “Yes,” said Ruth.

  “Miracles have their places,” said the Abbot. “That was not one of them.”

  “It was not meant as a miracle,” said Ruth. “I just got unforgivably annoyed with the man, and wanted to put him in his place.”

  “And so you did,” said the Abbot. “He hasn’t been heard from since.”

  “Actually,” said Ruth. “He called the other day.”

  “He did?”

  “To apologize.”

  “For what?” The Abbot sincerely curious.

  “For doubting me, is what he said.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well,” said the Abbot. “Wonders seem to never cease.”

  “It was a bit of a surprise,” agreed Ruth.

  “Still, what you did created more agitation than clarity. It was not, well, to speak your tongue, it was not very skillful.”

  “Well put. And you are absolutely right. It was a very stupid thing to do. Really stupid.”

  Ananda nodded his agreement. Ruth turned to him, and watched the slowly bobbing head for a breath or two. “Nobody’s asked you,” she said, though more in jest than anything.

  Then the Abbot asked, “Can I be of help?”

  “To be honest,” said Ruth. “I don’t know. I have made a mess of things, that’s obvious. Even though the media have accepted the official account, the Fairweather explanation—which is probably for the best, of course—still, I have managed to muddy my waters. And as time will blur memory and erase details, I fear people will remember me not as innocent bystander but simply as murky part of that scandal.”

  The Abbot considered that. “Yes,” he said. “I can see that.”

  “And I think very few if any will take my intimation about being the Buddha seriously. Perhaps that too was a part of the hoax. I don’t know what they will think, but the waters are muddied. Definitely.”

  “Yes, they are,” he answered.

  “I had hoped to stand on an elevated but wholly credible platform—which is how I saw the successful EPROM experiment—and speak from there. My voice would then carry, and people would hear it and take it seriously. Now I fear that this window of opportunity has not only passed, but that it now lies in a thousand pieces.”

  “Apt,” said Ananda.

  The Abbot nodded, “Yes, apt.”

  “So,” said Ruth. “How can you help? I don’t know. But I’m wide open to suggestions. In other words, what do I do now?”

  Another angel entered, lingered, then left the room. Finally, the Abbot spoke:

  “It is a matters of credentials, then? Your approach. Of respectable, believable credentials?”

  “Yes,” said Ruth.

  “Why did you choose this way? As opposed, I guess, to being yoursel
f?”

  “The Buddha Gotama?”

  “Yes.”

  “A tree told me,” said Ruth.

  “I don’t follow.”

  And so Ruth told the Abbot about the old Bristlecone.

  The Abbot, a little puzzled at first, then began to nod. He understood. And then, once Ruth had finished the story, said, “Good advice.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Science.” said the Abbot.

  “And religion,” said Ruth. “I want to marry them.”

  The Abbot was weighing his word-options, that is how it struck Melissa. Then he said:

  “So it is with authority that you want to address the world.”

  “Yes, from strength. With the authority of science,” said Ruth.

  “You’ve certainly gained scientific recognition,” said the Abbot. “Perhaps you now need to gain religious recognition.”

  “What do you mean?” said Melissa.

  The Abbot set out to summarize, as much for himself as for others. Again, this was Melissa’s impression. “I think we have to face the fact that few will take a sixteen-year-old girl seriously, especially on matters of life and death, the essential matters. Most sixteen-year-olds are still in high school, trying to find their own feet, and have no business instructing others about theirs. That would be the general consensus.”

  “Yes,” said Ruth. “I agree.”

  “You are, and remain, a recognized genius in scientific circles, I don’t think the Alvarez incident has tarnished you in this respect. And your plan was to widen that recognition, then build on that, on those credentials, to make your voice not only heard—not an easy thing these days—but believed.”

  Ruth was nodding, yes, that had been her plan.

  “In view of what has happened, I fear as you do that those credentials will no longer hold up for the man on the street. You will not be heard.”

  And now looking straight at Ruth again, he added, “At this point you have no place to stand, do you?”

  “That sums it up nicely,” said Ruth.