The Breath of God

by Jeffrey Small

  Kinley returned the lama’s smile. “During Grant’s recovery, I have taught him a little of our ways. He’s beginning to understand the dharma.”

  “Is your role here to teach Westerners?” The lama’s bloody grin vanished. “Their culture is too undisciplined to master our teachings.”

  Grant felt his face flush. Is the lama accusing me of being lazy? Even though the content of their studies differed, Grant put as much energy into his work as these students did. Even in the month he’d been stuck here, he’d made the most efficient use of every minute. When he wasn’t sweating through the physical therapy exercises his doctor had prescribed, he was taking notes on Kinley’s teachings or brainstorming how he would rewrite his dissertation once he saw the Issa texts. Kinley’s grip on his shoulder intensified, indicating that he should keep his mouth closed and let the lama speak. “Look at the dedication of these young ones.” Dorji waved to the students, many of whom now watched the two orange-robed seniors and the Americans. “Do you believe that enlightenment can be obtained with a few mind tricks and fancy sayings?”

  His voice steady, Kinley asked, “Do you remember the story of the blind men and the elephant?”

  A look of irritation flashed across the lama’s face, but he did not respond. Kinley continued, “One day, the Buddha asked his students to imagine a group of blind men being led to an elephant and asked to describe it based on touch. One man might grasp the tail and say that the object was a rope; a second might disagree, feeling the leg and claiming it to be a tall column; a third might run his hands along the elephant’s side and declare it to be a wall; and the last man might examine the trunk and exclaim that, no, the object was a hose.”

  Grant suppressed a smile. Kinley had explained to him several times how the Buddha taught that there was more than one path to approach his teachings. He could think of more than a few people from his father’s church who could have used this lesson.

  “Although you may be the elder in this lifetime, Kinley,”—Lama Dorji shifted in his throne—“I am the fifth reincarnation of Guru Tashi and the senior assistant to the Je Khenpo.”

  Grant noticed that the lama did not respond directly to the point of Kinley’s parable. The rest of the temple was silent, listening to this exchange that seemed calm on the surface and yet had clear undertones of a power struggle that Grant imagined had been brewing for some time.

  “I meant no offense, Lama Dorji, la.” Kinley bowed his head. “I only wanted to illustrate the point that these young Americans have creative, curious minds. They learn differently than our students, and their independent nature may lead them to grasp a different part of the dharma elephant than we do.”

  “You spent much time away from our culture in your younger years, yes?” Lama Dorji popped a betel nut into his mouth and crunched it between his teeth.

  Kinley replied in the same even tone, “I learned a great deal when I was away, but I chose to return to Bhutan, and I am here at the monastery now of my own accord.”

  “Do you know why we are the last independent Buddhist kingdom in the Himalayas?”

  For the first time, Grant thought he detected a tension in Kinley—a slight stiffening of his posture and an edge to his voice that he’d never heard before. “A hundred years ago the only entrance into our country was on horseback or on foot over treacherous mountain terrain. Today we are but a two-hour flight from China and India, the two most populous countries in the world. Through the Internet, our children experience influences beyond our control. It is no longer possible to isolate ourselves from the world.”

  “So we disregard our traditions?” Dorji reclined further in his throne.

  Kinley shook his head. “Why can’t we embrace our heritage and open our minds to other Buddhist traditions at the same time? Feel the different parts of the elephant and decide for ourselves which works best.”

  For the first time, Grant better understood Kinley’s teaching methods. Although Grant’s knowledge of the differences among the various schools of Buddhism was limited, he had been curious about Kinley’s use of koans, which were part of the Japanese Zen tradition, not his own.

  “Different teachings?” Lama Dorji shook his head. “Why teach what is inferior? We practice Vajrayana, the highest form of Buddhism.” He pointed at Grant and Kristin with his staff. Grant was acutely aware that all eyes in the temple were upon him. The lama’s voice took on a tone that was almost sad. “Kinley, I know your intentions are pure, but I fear that your time in the West has polluted you. Those kinds of influences are the reason we choose the monastic life. We isolate ourselves from the temptations of the material world, an existence that the West”—the staff pointed at Grant and Kristin wiggled back and forth—“upholds as their ideal.”

  Kinley was immobile but for the breath going in and out of his chest. Then he bowed deeply from the waist. “Yes, Lama Dorji, I understand you clearly, la.”

  Grant stared at his friend. That was it? He couldn’t believe Kinley would just give up.

  Lama Dorji leaned forward in his throne and snatched another betel nut from the plate. “You are fortunate the Je Khenpo favors you.”

  “I am fortunate indeed.” Kinley bowed again and then took Grant’s arm to leave.

  “You, Mr. Matthews,” Lama Dorji said, surprising Grant by using his name. “Now that you have healed, I expect you will leave the monastery tomorrow. You will find a suitable hotel in town.”

  Grant felt a pressure on his chest that made it difficult to take in as much oxygen as he needed at that moment. Afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he spoke, he merely nodded and let Kinley lead them toward the sunlight pouring through the open temple door.

  “And Kinley,” the lama called across the temple when they reached the door. Every monk young and old watched. “If I were you, I would be careful about who you spend time with.” He pointed his staff at Kristin. “You wouldn’t want your brothers to get the wrong idea. Talk can spread quickly in the goemba.”

  Once they were outside in the warm afternoon sun, Grant said, “How could you let—”

  “To continue the discussion would have served no purpose other than to cause more conflict and to feed my own pride.”

  “His insinuations don’t affect you?” Kristin asked.

  Kinley shrugged. “I felt frustration, but I didn’t fight it. Instead I let it take its course, flowing through my body. I watched it as I might watch a log float down a river until it disappeared around a bend.”

  Grant shook his head. Kinley had explained this technique of watching one’s emotions and destructive thoughts like one might watch a movie playing inside one’s body, but he’d dismissed it as quaint. Such a practice might bring temporary relief, but then he would be resigning himself to a life of always surrendering to other people.

  Kinley continued, “Lama Dorji means well. He wants the best for our young monks, just as I do, but he and I have had different life experiences: his life has been shaped by the insular monastic environment, while mine has been influenced by my travels and education. I realized that I was not going to change his opinion today. Further debating my position would only inflate my own ego and bring suffering to us both.”

  Kinley stopped walking when they reached the tree in the center of the courtyard. He glanced at its bare branches. A smile passed across his lips and his eyes crinkled in the corners. “Anyway, I had already made my decision. This conversation merely solidified it. We can no longer give in to the isolationism that religion often fosters. It is time that the story of Issa becomes public. Tomorrow morning we shall go to the library.”

  “You’re serious?” Grant asked.

  “And, Ms. Misaki, please join us, if you can. Your camera will be useful. We won’t have much time.”

  CHAPTER 10

  BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA

  REVEREND BRIAN BRADY PORED over the construction plans spread out on the cherry table that could seat twelve comfortably. At the opposite end of the dining roo
m that Brady’s wife had decorated in a sea green Venetian plaster, William Jennings, director of operations of New Hope, and Carla Healy, the church’s new controller, huddled over a stack of financial spreadsheets. Brady admired the brilliance of his design. The New Hope Community would be his crowning glory, his testament to the power of God’s will to accomplish the difficult. The project had brought him the spotlight of recognition from his evangelical brethren. Brady was now one of the leading candidates in the upcoming election for the presidency of the NAE, the National Association of Evangelicals.

  Brady had known since the day he had given his first sermon in a small church on the outskirts of Mobile that he was meant for something greater than Alabama. Most men would have been content with the success he’d already experienced as the pastor of Birmingham’s largest megachurch, but as the head of the NAE, Brady would rise to national prominence. He could become the next Billy Graham, ministering to presidents and tending to the faith of millions. Eighteen months ago such a goal seemed a distant fantasy, but then he had announced the ambitious plans for the New Hope Community, and now his book, Why Is God So Angry?, was the number one best seller in the country.

  The current NAE president, Jimmy Jeffries, had not had an auspicious term. The country had further declined under his leadership, and the power that the evangelical movement used to wield in politics had waned to its weakest point in thirty years. Brady would change all that. Rarely was an incumbent president challenged, much less defeated, but Brady knew that his momentum in the organization was building, and Jennings was working to ensure that it would peak right before the April election.

  Brady admired the architectural drawings on the large sheet before him: the New Hope Community. What began three years ago as a search for land to build a larger and more modern church had morphed into a six-hundredacre mixed-use development. The current master plan included not only the new church, which had grown from its current 100,000 square feet to over 250,000, but also a community center, athletic facilities, a new seminary for 650 students, an eighteen-hole golf course, over 200 single-family residences, 350 apartments, and 300 town homes. A retail center with a grocery store, shops, and restaurants completed the development.

  For years Brady had dreamed of building a community of the faithful. A community that would literally be centered around the church that he’d placed in the middle of the town square. His architects had visited Charleston and Savannah for inspiration from old southern architecture.

  In the New Hope Community, the faithful would gain strength and support from each other, as well as worship, shop, and dine together—all without the corrupting influences so rampant in society today. The development would have its own cable TV system and movie theaters, playing only appropriate inspirational programming. Likewise, the Christian bookstore would carry titles similar to Brady’s book that would strengthen rather than confuse the people. Jennings had referred to the concept as Christian Urbanism, a take on the popular New Urbanism developments springing up around the country. Brady loved the term and immediately adopted it as his own. New Hope would be the model for how to turn around the problems of the country. Once Brady unseated Jimmy Jeffries, he would be in position to bring his vision to the nation.

  Brady peered across the table at Jennings. His number two was dressed in a gray pinstriped suit that hung loosely from his limbs and a white dress shirt that had stray threads showing around the neck and cuffs from being laundered too many times. A long, sharp nose protruding from a pale face combined with an even longer neck gave him the appearance of an ostrich outfitted in Brooks Brothers. Brady shook his head and then brushed a fleck of lint from the sleeve of his own midnight black Armani suit. He then adjusted the French cuffs on his pale pink shirt so that they peeked out from his jacket sleeve just the right amount. He’d tried to tell Jennings that a low-budget appearance invited low-budget offerings, but his number two just didn’t have the flair for style that he had.

  Brady tapped his fingers on the table. Jennings and Carla still had their heads stuck in spreadsheets. Brady couldn’t tolerate those things. Fortunately, he had Jennings. The growth the church had experienced under the Brady-Jennings partnership surpassed even Brady’s lofty expectations: a few hundred members twenty years ago to over ten thousand today. The combination of Brady’s charisma and passion for the scripture and Jennings’s organizational abilities and attention to detail, along with God’s blessing, had worked a miracle.

  “These delays are getting annoying. Do we start grading for the town square next month as planned?” Brady asked. They could finish the accounting later.

  Jennings looked up. “The bank’s attorneys have agreed to the final changes in the loan documents. We should close next month on the first hundred million. Then we’ll be able to pay down the line of credit we used to buy the land and fund our initial construction.”

  “Good. Everything’s going according to God’s will.” Brady gestured to the site plan in front of him. “Let’s talk about the layout of the retail center. I was thinking that maybe we should move these restaurants—”

  “Brian,” Jennings interrupted, “we spoke about this yesterday. Today we need to focus on the financial issues. You can indulge your creative side on Thursday with the architects, but for now we need to reexamine our costs.”

  “I thought we finished the value engineering last week. Didn’t you say that the money from the banks was a sure thing?”

  For the first time Carla spoke up. “Yes, Reverend, the loans should come through, but we still need to meet certain fund-raising covenants. I’m concerned that we’ve tapped out most of the large donors, and the smaller ones have slowed significantly.” She pushed several sheets of legal paper in front of Brady.

  Not bothering to look at the papers, Brady stared at his new employee. He recalled her resume: a twenty-eight-year-old MBA from Auburn, Carla had worked at a midsized Birmingham accounting firm before tiring of the corporate life and deciding to put her education toward a more worthwhile endeavor. Jennings spoke highly of her skills, but Brady had been reluctant at first because she was an Episcopalian. He didn’t even like to think about the blasphemy that was occurring in that church: first women and then gays at the pulpit. Always the practical one, Jennings had persuaded him that they needed more firepower, as he put it, to handle the financial complexities of such a large development.

  “Won’t the million a month we pull in from our regular donations make up for any slowdown in the capital campaign?” Brady asked her.

  “We take in eight hundred seventy-five thousand a month, but our current expenses are just over eight hundred, and that assumes our expenses stay flat, but they’ve been steadily rising. Just this year our general and administrative expenses are up twelve percent, our homeless shelter sponsorship expenses are up seven percent, and our outreach program is up twenty-five percent.”

  “Well, we can’t cut any of those things,” Brady replied. “Certain expenses are necessary to run the church. You have to spend money to make money, Carla. And our outreach programs are doing God’s work. If we can’t reach out and spread the message of Jesus Christ, then why are we here?”

  “I anticipated you might say that, Reverend, so I’ve taken the liberty of putting together another option.” Carla slid a second spreadsheet in front of Brady, which he also ignored. “We should consider phasing in some of the development at the New Hope Community over a longer period of time.” She slid a copy of the same spreadsheet to Jennings, who wrinkled his brow as he studied the numbers. “Now, I’m not suggesting that we cut out anything on your plan,” she added quickly, “but by delaying some of the projects until the home sales generate substantial income—”

  “Delay our development!” Brady boomed. “Child, you don’t understand the concept behind Christian Urbanism. Every aspect of this development works together harmoniously, each part supporting the other.”

  “Reverend, if you would humor me for a minute and just look
at the plan.” She held up the spreadsheet so that he was forced to take it. “What I propose is to start construction on the church, golf course, and phase one of the town homes first. As this phase sells out, we construct the next one, and when the golf course is completed, we open the adjacent residential lots for sale. This timing allows us to use revenue from the sales to fund the later development, and thus lower our debt.”

  “But what about the seminary, community center, theaters,”—he leaned over the table toward her—“the restaurants?” He stabbed at the site plan with a finger. “They’re fundamental to the entire concept of the faithful living, worshipping, and playing together.”

  “Once we have seventy-five percent of the residential areas built and sold, then we have the critical mass to support the retail. Let’s see,” Carla said, brushing her flat brown hair out of her face as she studied the projections in front of her. “We could start construction on the retail phase in about four years.”

  Brady’s face reddened before he exploded. “Four years! But I’ve promised the congregation an entire community, not just some houses and a church. This option is not acceptable.” Brady turned to Jennings. “William, certainly you’re not in agreement with this?”

  Jennings removed his half-moon reading glasses from his long nose and spoke calmly. “Carla, your numbers here do not account for the income from the reverend’s book sales.”