Say “Amen,” Gracie

I experienced my first religious epiphany in a Des Moines movie theater. Not The Passion of the Christ — its gore and violence conflict with my family values. Rather, I became a “born again” believer when I accepted George Burns as my Lord.

The 1977 movie Oh, God! served as my spiritual awakening. Watching it, I realized that the wrathful, authoritarian, narcissistic, lighting-bolt-wielding Almighty of my Sunday Schooled youth was, in fact, a macho myth. Holy George proved that God could be patient, benevolent, witty and unpretentious. Instead of the white-bearded adjudicator of all things righteous, George proved a cuddly, grandfatherly figure who hung with kids, dogs and just plain folk. He listened. He understood. He made rain inside a car so not to ruin an otherwise sunny Southern California day. You didn’t pray to him as much as kibitz over canasta.

I remember when costar John Denver needed God to answer questions developed by a panel of stuffy theologians (in Aramaic, long before Mel Gibson stole that gimmick for his flick). “Is Jesus Christ the son of God?” John asked. The movie audience gasped. How would a Jewish actor (George), speaking lines by a Jewish screenwriter (Larry Gelbart) and directed by a Jew (Carl Reiner) respond to that one? “Jesus was my son,” declared George. “Buddha was my son. Mohammed. Moses. You. The man who said there was no room at the inn was my son…” The multicultural audience sighed with those ecumenical words by an all-inclusive God.

But when the house lights flipped on, I was excommunicated into the blinding glare of Cecil B. DeMille reality, where God again was vengeful, judgmental, dogmatic and political. As long as I worshipped Him by the appropriate name and in the proper gender, accepted one human as HIS only son, voted for HIS candidates, belonged to the NRA, lived in a “red” state, and tithed cash for the preacher’s Rolls Royce, He and HIS followers would “allow” me to enter HIS Kingdom upon my demise. If not, I could burn in hell with George, Larry and Carl.

Sharing eternity with George and other funny souls would not be a fate worse than death. However, even in the hallowed hall of Hebrew school, I never fitted in. I did the Bat Mitzvah shtick, babbled Hebrew and enjoyed gefilte fish. Yet, I often felt trapped in a Seinfeld episode and I was not “shmooze worthy.” I remember at my Bat Mitzvah reception how Debbie Greenberg’s mom reveled in her daughter’s popularity, “More napkins were used at my darling’s reception than yours” — but who’s counting trash? New to my current town, I searched for a temple and, therein, encountered my next ecclesiastical V-8 moment. Rabbis always solicited me to “join” but never welcomed me to belong to their congregations. A newcomer at shul, I ended up sipping Manischweitz alone in a corner, a stranger among them.

While George Burns served as my first spiritual guru, Richard Gere never influenced my affinity toward Buddhism. My dog did. I signed up for an introductory class at a small Buddhist sangha, but on the first night of class, due to some lousy scheduling on my part, I had my dog with me. Could my very friendly, quiet dog come to class?

I soon learned that Buddhists not only welcomed wandering Jews and their mutts but all sentient beings — including furry ones. Buddhism did not require me to shave my head (nor my dog), pay dues or count napkins. Just sit on my butt, generate good karma and be aware of desirous thoughts that cause world suffering. Buddhists don’t believe in original sin, just original goodness. No need to prophesy a Messiah’s coming, because the “messiah” is within us all.

The first Tibetan lama I met resembled a living version the kitsch rotund happy Buddha of Chinese restaurants. He sported a shaved head, elongated ears, and a constant smile. He exuded peace, joy and kindness. His twinkling eyes not only observed you, they absorbed you. And underneath his maroon and gold robes he sported a Marlboro polo shirt. Finally, I discovered the illusive spiritual “gotcha” I’d been seeking — a religion with a sense of humor! Jewish jokes abound, but no other religion offered humor, a paradoxical view of life, as root teachings. “How old are you?” one student asked another, very youthful visiting lama. “Ninety,” he replied.

A profound joke.

A Zen koan.

Crazy wisdom.

My true Path.

© 2008 winkingbuddha.com  All Rights Reserved

This article first appeared in Change Magazine and later in the blog the Daily KOS