Sons Dead in a Dream

A fisherman and his wife had a son after many years of marriage. The boy was the pride and joy of his parents. Then, one day, he turned seriously ill. A fortune was spent on doctors and medicines. But the boy died.

His mother was utterly grief-stricken. There wasn't a tear in his father's eyes.

When his wife reproached him for his total lack of sorrow, the fisherman said, "Let me tell you why I do not weep. Last night I dreamed I was a king and the proud father of eight sons. How happy I was! Then I woke up. Now I am greatly puzzled: Should I weep for those boys or for this one?"

The Dream Contract

It was nine o'clock in the morning and Nasruddin was fast asleep. The sun had risen in the sky, the birds were singing in the trees, and Nasruddin's breakfast was getting cold. So his wife woke him up.

He woke up in a towering rage. "Why did you wake me up just now?" he shouted.

"The sun has risen in the sky," said his wife, "the birds are singing in the trees, and your breakfast is getting cold."

"Breakfast be damned," he said. "I was about to sign a contract worth a million grams of gold."

With that he closed his eyes to recapture his shattered dream and those million grams of gold.

Now Nasruddin was cheating in that contract and his business partner was a tyrant.
If on recapturing his dream, Nasruddin gives up his cheating, he will become a saint.
If he works strenuously to free the people from the oppression of the tyrant, he will become a freedom fighter.
If, in the midst of his dream, he suddenly realizes that he is dreaming, he will become awakened. Enlightened.
What kind of saint or freedom fighter are you if you are still asleep?

The Phony

The hall was packed, mostly with elderly women. It was some sort of new religion. One of the speakers was dressed in nothing more than a turban and a loincloth. He spoke, feelingly, of the power of mind over matter.

Everyone listened spellbound. The speaker eventually returned to his place right in front of me. His neighbor turned to him and asked in a loud whisper, "Do you really believe what you said, that the body feels nothing at all and it's all in the mind?"

The phony replied, with pious conviction, "Of course I do."

"Then," said his neighbor, "would you mind changing places with me? I'm sitting in a draft."

Why do I try to practice what I preach?
If I stuck to preaching what I practice, I'd be less of a phony.

The Narrow Path

God warned the people of an earthquake that would swallow all the waters of the land. The waters that would take their place would make everyone insane.

Only the prophet took God seriously. He carried huge jugs of water to his mountain cave so that he had enough to last him till the day he died.

Sure enough, the earthquake came and the waters vanished and new water filled the streams and lakes and rivers and ponds. A few months later the prophet came down to see what had happened. Everyone had indeed gone mad, and attacked him, for they thought it was he who was insane.

So the prophet went back to his mountain cave, glad for the water he had saved. But as time went by he found his loneliness unbearable. He yearned for human company, so he went down to the plains again. Again he was rejected by the people, for he was so unlike them.

The prophet then succumbed. He threw away the water he had saved, drank the new water, and joined the people in their insanity.

The way to truth is narrow. You always walk alone.

The Truth Shop

I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the name of the shop:THE TRUTH SHOP

The saleswoman was very polite: What type of truth did I wish to purchase, partial or whole? The whole truth, of course. No deceptions for me, no defenses, no rationalizations. I wanted my
truth plain and unadulterated. She waved me on to another side of the store.

The salesman there pointed to the price tag. "The price is very high, sir," he said. "What is it?" I asked, determined to get the whole truth, no matter what it cost. "Your security, sir," he answered.

I came away with a heavy heart.
I still need the safety of my unquestioned beliefs.

The Explorer

The explorer returned to his people, who were eager to know about the Amazon. But how could he ever put into words the feeling that flooded his heart when he saw exotic flowers and heard the night-sounds of the forest; when he sensed the danger of wild beasts or paddled his canoe overtreacherous rapids?

He said, "Go and find out for yourselves." To guide them he drew a map of the river. They pounced upon the map. They framed it in their town hall. They made copies of it for themselves. And all who had a copy considered themselves experts on the river, for did they not know its every turn and bend, how broad it was and how deep, where the rapids were and where the falls?

It is said that Buddha obdurately refused to be drawn into talking about God.
He was probably familiar with the dangers of drawing maps for armchair explorers.

The Formula

The mystic was back from the desert."Tell us," they said, "what Godis like."

But how could he ever tell them what he had experienced in his heart? Can God be put into words?

He finally gave them a formula - so inaccurate, so inadequate - in the hope that some of them might be tempted to experience it for themselves.

They seized upon the formula. They made it a sacred text. They imposed it on others as a hold belief. They went to great pains to spread it in foreign lands. Some even gave their lives for it.

The mystic was sad. It might have been better if he had said nothing.

The Medal

A mother could not get her son to come home before sunset. So she told him that the road to their house was haunted by ghosts who came out after dusk.
By the time the boy grew up he was so afraid of ghosts that he refused to run errands at night. So she gave him a medal and taught him that it would protect him.

Bad religion gives him faith in the medal. Good religion gets him to see that ghosts do not exist.

Shout to Keep Safe - and Certain

A prophet once came to a city to convert its inhabitants. At first the people listened to his sermons, but they gradually drifted away till there was not a single soul to hear the prophet when he spoke.

One day a traveler said to him, "Why do you go on preaching?"

Said the prophet, "In the beginning I hoped to change these people. If I still shout it is only to prevent them from changing me."

The Poisoned Arrow

A monk once said to the Lord Buddha, "Do the souls of the just survive death?"
Characteristically,, Buddha gave him no reply.

But the monk persisted. Each day he would repeat the question and each day he would get silence for an answer, till he could take it no longer. He threatened to quit unless this crucial question was answered, for to what purpose was he sacrificing everything to live in the monastery if the souls of the just perished with their bodies?

Then the Lord Buddha, in his compassion, spoke: "You are like a man," he said, "who was sying from a poisoned arrow. His relatives rushed a doctor to his side, but the man refused to have the arrow pulled out unless three vital questions were first answered:
First, the man who shot him, was he a white man or a black man? Second, was he a tall man or a short man? And third, was he a Brahmin or an outcast?"

The monk stayed on.

The Soup of the Soup of the Duck

A relative once came to visit Nasruddin, bringing a duck as a gift.
So the bird was cooked and eaten.
Soon one guest after another began to call, each claiming to be a friend of the friend of "the man who brought you the duck."
Each one, of course, expected to be fed and housed on the strength of that hapless bird.
At length the mullah could stand it no longer. One day a stranger arrived at his house and said, "I am a friend of the friend of the kinsman who brought you the duck."
And, like the others, he sat down, expecting to be fed.
Nasruddin placed a bowl of steaming water before him. "What is this?" asked the stranger.
"This," said the mullah, "is the soup of the soup of the duck that was brought to me by your friend."

One hears of people who become the disciples of the disciples of the disciples of someone who had experienced the Divine.
How can you kiss through a messenger?

The Experts

A Sufi tale:
A dead man suddenly came to life and began to pound on the lid of the coffin.
The lid was raised; the man sat up. "What are you doing?" he said to the assembled crowd.
"I am not dead."
His words were met with silent disbelief. Finally one of the mourners said, "Friend, both the doctors and the priests have certified that you are dead. So dead you are."
And he was duly buried.

Destiny in a Tossed Coin

The Japanese general Nobunaga decided to attack even though he had only one soldier to the enemy's ten. He was sure he would win, but his soldiers were full of doubt.

On the way to battle they stopped at a Shinto shrine. After praying in the shrine, Nobunaga came out and said, "I shall now toss a coin. If it is heads, we shall win. If tails, we shall lose. Destiny will now reveal herself."

He tossed the coin. It was heads. The soldiers were so eager to fight that they wiped out the enemy.

The next day an assistant said to Nobunaga, "No one can change Destiny."

"Quite right, " said Nobunaga, showing him a doubled coin that was heads on both sides.

Who makes Destiny?

Dandelions

A man who took great pride in his lawn found himself with a large crop of dandelions. He tried every method he knew to get rid of them. Still they plagued him.

Finally he wrote the Department of Agriculture. He enumerated all the things he had tried and closed his letter with the question: "What shall I do now?"

In due course the reply came: "We suggest you learn to love them."

I too had a lawn I prided myself on sand I too was plagued with dandelions that I fought with every means in my power. So learning to love them was no easy matter.
I began by talking to them each day. Cordial. Friendly. They maintained a sullen silence. They were smarting from the war I had waged against them and were suspicious of my motives.
But it wasn't long before they smiled back. And relaxed. Soon we were good friends.
My lawn, of course, was ruined. But how attractive my garden became!

Liturgical Vestments

October 1917:
The Russian Revolution is born. Human history takes a new direction.

The story goes that the very month the Russian Church was assembled in council. A passionate debate was in progress about the color of the surplice to be used in liturgical functions. Some
insisted vehemently that it had to be white. Others, with equal vehemence, that it had to be purple.

Coming to grips with a revolution is more of a bother than organizing a liturgy. I'd rather say my prayers than get involved in neighborhood disputes.