Preaching To The Air

I was talking with a friend of mine the other day. Reminds me of a song (Tom Petty, Don’t Do Me Like That, Damn the Torpedoes, 1979). Tom Petty has distinguished himself (among other accomplishments) as The Guy Who Made The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Crowd Chant Hare Krishna. God bless him for that.

To brahminical scholars, everything reminds them of verses from the Vedas. They can recite the sloka, the verse number, the speaker, the exact scripture. Everything reminds me of lines from old pop songs. I can take any phrase and show you where it appears in great works of modern literature, such as “You are a Magnet and I am Steel,” or “Love is Like Oxygen.” Such is my vast learning.

I almost began this whole thing with “Got a call from an old friend. . .” (Billy Joel, My Life, 52nd Street, 1978). I remember rooting for that song every Saturday morning, hoping it would stay at number one on American Top Forty. However, I’m not aware that Mr. Joel has ever said “Hare Krishna” on national television, or indeed anywhere. I highly recommend Mr. Joel start doing that. It could be a significant career booster.

Anyway, I really was talking with a friend of mine—one of the few people from my pre-Krishna past who keeps in touch. I was so happy to hear from him that I didn’t mind pacing the freezing backyard for half an hour to get decent cell phone reception. We talked about music—bands we like, songs we like, writers we admire—which we still agree on. Then he mentioned the Dalai Lama, someone he’s become a fan of. “He doesn’t believe in God,” he said, “but of anyone from any religious tradition in the world, he most exemplifies to me the kind of selfless loving and giving spirit of Jesus Christ.”

I’m glad he digs the Dalai Lama. I really am. We’ve come a long way from dancing around listening to “Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue (The Ramones, The Ramones, 1975).” At least he’s into some kind of philosophy these days. But the “not believing in God” thing stuck in my head, like finding a pebble in a mouthful of oatmeal.

I thought to write a smokingly incredulous blog post about “how can people think that God is some kind of metaphysical, theoretical being they can either believe in or not—as if anybody’s belief has any effect whatsoever on any aspect of reality?” I prepared statements. I went on and on, making solid philosophical point after solid philosophical point. They were smoking. They were hot. The more I wrote, the less happy I got.

I realized I was arguing with no one. The phone call was over days ago. My friend hadn’t asked me for my opinion. I was basically “air preaching,” like some people play air guitar. In the mirror of my mind, I was absolutely unstoppable, convincing, compelling. In reality, I was wasting time, energy, and ink.

I sometimes have dreams where I’m about to fight someone. I’m in a total rage, winding up to deliver a knockout punch. When my fist makes contact with the face I’m hoping to smash, though, it does so with the force of a hankie, as if I was gently stroking the person’s cheek with the backs of my fingers, my wrist limp as overcooked spaghetti. It’s so frustrating.

My occasional philosophical rants have about the same effect on the world. I wish they could be more like the old “Srila Prabhupada Speaks Out” feature in Back to Godhead magazine, in which he expertly and totally dismantles the philosophical construct of any view opposing the conclusions of Krishna consciousness. I feel like a guy at a boxing match when I read those. “Yeah! Pow! Get him, Prabhupada!”

Tamal Krishna Goswami developed an effective strategy—for deciding whom to talk with about Krishna consciousness—on the Radha Damodar bus tour. Students would be eating their lunch of Krishna prasadam, listening to the Vishnujana Swami Kirtan band rocking away. TKG would go from person to person and ask, “How do you like the music? How do you like the food?” If they replied, “Oh it’s great!” he would stay and talk with them a little. If they said, “Eh, okay,” or shrugged their shoulders, he’d move on to the next person. Breath is precious. Why waste it?

In one conversation with John and Yoko, Prabhupada warmly encouraged them to give Krishna consciousness a try. They said they were into “their own thing,” but couldn’t articulate what that thing was. Prabhupada made a few philosophical points. They missed them. I’ve heard the recording. It’s painful to listen to—it always sounds to me like John and Yoko would rather have snipped off their toes with garden shears than accept anything Prabhupada was trying to give. Finally, after twenty or thirty minutes of dealing with Causeless Unwillingness to Surrender, Prabhupada asked someone to bring them lunch. I imagine the scene as a game show: “Sorry! you don’t win the grand prize, today, John, but here are some lovely parting gifts!”

After all these years, my old friend still thinks Krishna is like Santa Claus or leprechauns. Fine. God bless him. I think I’ll send him some granola.