"There Where Your Treasure Is ..."

I get taken for "ideological" when I tirelessly confront and expose ideologies to examination, in particular the most ideological – and dangerously so – of them all: "The-Religion-Of-Peace". I don't hold to any brand or form of "superiority" of persons – and you have this in Jews and in Christians (most particularly in America) and in some other religious designations. In “The-Religion-Of-Peace“ most dangerously so. It's the one common thread which appears to link them all under the apparent characteristic called "fundamentalism." The word has in it fundament and mental, so the problem is inherent, as spirit is not a mental exercise.

For this is at best a misnomer, as Jewish or Christian "fundamentalists" would do better to devote themselves to unconditional love as their own true fundament, which does not bespeak superiority. "The-Religion-Of-Peace" holds this fundamental supremacism in its very marrow. And not just theoretically but quite concretely and actively, as is obligatory, with force, coercion and deception inherently enjoined.

The guidance which I personally take as my rule is to love, serve and remember. And, to defend the defenseless, the innocent and truth. And not even the words, because then it's all concept again, or: "no-fun, just dumb-mental". I hold in image (not as cult but as devotion toward my fundament) those personal Beings who, embodying this, gave me this. If that makes me ideological – then only idiot-logically so.

"For there where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."

Let me share something with the reader, quite personally, to illustrate.

Back when I discovered my attraction toward healing, I'd made it my custom to approach lots of people, in lots of situations, from well-endowed to down-and-out, with towel and water and almond oil, to wash and massage their feet. In rooms, in parks, on the street, anyone and anywhere. Not once or twice, but over a long period. I was not on drugs. I preached nothing, I had no ideology and nothing to sell. I was internalizing and demonstrating John 13:1-17.

Shortly thereafter I began a 12-year period of development in a school pertaining to inner work and a demanding spiritual preparation. Everything that went on there, the invaluable teachings and the mickey-mouse which came with it, went toward a foundation of inner preparation for: now. There was a period where for two solid years running, without so much of a day's gap, we ran a Community Kitchen, serving lunch in an open place culled from entirely contributed food and foodstuffs from local supermarkets who could not use their surplus on any given day which were still fresh. The cost-free meal, prepared with love and sweat regardless of our other schedules and obligations, was made available to anyone who came. One did not have to be poor or transient. It was a coming together of anyone who came. And they came, and they ate. We were not on drugs, we preached nothing, we had no ideology and nothing to sell. The food was good.

While later living in San Francisco, that being 1985, I was often home-visiting caregiver to AIDs-stricken clients, among others. I had also at about this time opted to join the Army, something quite contrary to my concepts up to that point. I entered one domicile on Twin Peaks overlooking the City, to spend four scheduled nights with a guy whose stage of AIDS was as advanced as it gets. He sat woodenly in the livingroom as three friends of his partner created atmosphere over pinochle and chat. The partner was a very dear fellow who himself showed unmistakeable signs already of Karposi's-Sarcoma. I was immediately regarded as the ideologically homo-distanced hetero who's joining the Army to get more butch or something. This although they had nothing to actually go on. The client himself was in no position to speak but was still consicous of most of what passed around him. His partner expressed to me the client's wish, as a practicing Buddhist, to have the Tibetan Book of the Bardos read aloud to him, as is customary with those soon departing and after their departure. The partner was a bit overwhelmed with the task, and as I was already quite familiar with the book, its purpose and its use, I gladly relieved him of it.

For two nights running I read to my client from the preparation for dissimilation and the entering into the Bardos. The third night I showed, he was already laying on the bed and this was evidently it. Back then I did not work with aprons, gloves, masks; I just did the work I was there to do. We, his partner and I, laid ourselves on that bed on either side of this dying client. I to his right, his partner on the left. We each had our respective arm under his neck, as – leaning in to that sweaty, clammy, emaciated, decimated, wooden-stiff body as the person in it prepared for transition, with every unspoken fear or expectation or unfinished business – we two whispered together into each respective ear, the name Amitabha, the Buddha of Compassion, as is customary. Then he died, his breath going out as I was one sniff away from his cheek.

Left alone in that room at 2 a.m. with that body, I asked for a basin and such, and washed it, carefully, with dignity. When I left the room, my four day stint ended there with three – they all stood in the livingroom and received me into their embrace. We discussed amicably and in low tones about the deceased, much of it was not charming – but it was real. As real as physical care is and ideology is not.

"For there where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."