Miss Buddha (81 page)

If the media was surprised that he would
testify at this trial, no mention was made of it; in retrospect,
many outlets held, he was indeed the perfect witness.

“Mister Brent,” said Jones. “Over the last
few days of testimony, there is one question I am sure has surfaced
in most minds, and I can think of no one more qualified to answer
it than you.”

Jones paused to let the as yet unasked
question fill the room. Then said:

“And that question is: Why do people believe
Miss Marten?”

August Brent took in Jones with a long, even
gaze. Then he surveyed the room, seemingly oblivious of the two
cameras. He looked back at Jones.

“That,” he said. “Is a very good
question.”

Jones nodded his unreserved agreement.

“Miss Marten, and make no mistake about
that, is a brilliant young woman. Her genius—she’s earned a
Doctorate in Particle Physics from Cal Tech, and a combined
Doctorate in Philosophy and Theology from USC, don’t forget that—is
underscored by her captivating beauty. Her very blue eyes, in such
dramatic contrast to her jet-black hair, make her almost
unworldly.”

“Mister Brent,” said Judge Moore as a
precursor to a question regarding the relevance of this descriptive
diversion. But, then struck by precisely such relevance, said no
more.

August Brent looked up at
her and said, “It
is
relevant, your honor.”

Judge Moore nodded, and August Brent
continued:

“Add to this an amazing vocabulary, and a
beautiful voice. And add to this her uncanny ability to read her
audience and to tell it what it seemingly needs to hear. Add this
all up and you’ll find that this woman is very little short of a
miracle.”

Jones looked over at the jury as if to urge
it on to get all of this, really.

“Given all this,” continued Brent, “it is no
wonder that people will listen, and believe, when she outlines and
promises them heaven here on earth.”

“Is that really what she promises?” said
Jones.

“Most men lead lives of
quiet desperation,” said Brent. “Thoreau said that almost two
hundred years ago. It still holds true today. Most people,” and
here Brent finally acknowledged, and looked into, the camera, “on a
very real level, suffer through their lives. Not many of us realize
this, we’re so busy covering up our dissatisfaction with truckloads
of things that we hardly notice it, but deep down—though not so
deep as to be indiscernible—we know, we feel unfulfilled,
incomplete. We seek to complete ourselves in a thousand, in a
million ways. Many through relationships, others through the arts,
though most through possessing more and more and more. Still, this,
well I call it
incompleteness
, refuses to complete.
We know that we come up short.

“Those who take this certainty to heart turn
to philosophy or religion, but most take little notice, rip open
another beer, or smoke another joint, or take another pill to
deaden the hurt. Or buy another car.

“This is the internal, the mental state of
affairs of our race, Mister Jones.”

Jones nodded that he understood—though,
truth be told, he did not.

“To then have this near miracle, this Ruth
Marten, stand up and tell you that you can indeed reach a place
where you will feel fulfilled, where you don’t come up short.

“People don’t specifically know what this
place is, or what Nirvana is all about, but they do recognize—or
convince themselves—that what she’s talking about is relevant,
personally relevant to them, to their deep spiritual or mental
problem.”

“Meaning?” said Jones.

“Meaning that she tells
people
precisely
what they want to hear at
precisely
the right mental level.
That, if anything, is her genius.”

“But this promise,” began Jones.

“This promise,” interrupted Brent, “is a
promise of nothing. It is a dangerous promise. Sitting still long
enough will not solve the issue. We are not a race of seclusion; we
are a gregarious race. We are a race of inclusion. She is pointing
them in a precarious direction.”

“It is a false promise, then” suggested
Jones.

“Yes, it is a false promise.”

“Do you, in your expert view, believe that
she knowingly misleads her audiences?”

Here August Brent took a deep breath, and
almost closed his eyes. He then straightened up and looked over at
Ruth. “She knows precisely what she is doing,” he said. “She is, in
my expert view, knowingly misleading her listener.”

“Why?” said Jones. “She does not, as far as
we can ascertain, benefit financially or otherwise from her
lectures, or from her astronomical online viewership.”

“Another good question,” said Brent. “I can
only surmise that she derives a healthy dose of self-gratification
from her notoriety.”

Then he added, “That is not an uncommon
thirst.”

“So you give no credence to her Buddhist
teachings?”

“Oh, I do. As teachings go, they are true to
the Pali Canon all right. She is very, very well read. But that
only leads to the next question: does the Pali Canon hold
water?”

“The Pali Canon?” Jones asked for the jury’s
benefit.

“It is the Bible of Theravada Buddhism,”
said Brent. “It is, among the true believers, held as the word of
the historical Buddha. Sacred teachings.”

Jones nodded that he understood, and Brent
continued:

“But how much credence can you give some ten
thousand pages of scripture when their first five hundred years
consisted of memorized words passed down verbally from
monk-generation to monk-generation. You have to assume that a comma
slipped out of place here or a preposition was dropped there.

“You remember the old game of whispering a
phrase in the ear of person number one in a line of ten, who then
whispers that phrase to his or her neighbor, et cetera. You never
end up with the original phrase at person number ten. Never.

“Extend this analogy to ten thousand
whispered pages through a line one hundred monks long and what do
you think you’ll end up with? The historical Buddha’s words,
verbatim? I think not.”

“You are saying the Pali Canon does not hold
water?”

“I’m saying it is leaking like a sinking
ship. It could not possibly.”

“And her teachings?”

“Her teachings—and I’ve listened to and
dissected quite a few of her lectures—are based on the Pali Canon,
mixed up with some of her scientific and philosophic insights and
adapted for the youth of today.”

“So, that’s your take? She’s addressing
younger people.”

“Yes, they are as a rule more gullible.”

“Demographically, however, no one age
bracket seems to dominate her viewership,” Jones pointed out.

“Yes, she is very,
very
good,” admitted
Brent.

“So why, in a word, if you can, do people
believe her?”

“Because,” said Brent. “She is believable.
She not only isolates and addresses a spiritual need, she is also
the perfect blend of youth, beauty, intelligence, mysticism, and
charisma to capture the attention of today’s audiences. And she
rides this advantage all the way.”

“All the way to where?” Jones thought, and
then asked before he could check himself.

“Well, that is the question, isn’t it?” said
Brent. “All the way to world collapse, perhaps.”

Which, to Jones, was the perfect answer. And
the excellent lawyer that he was, he knew when to stop.

“No further questions, your honor.”

Judge Moore, more by protocol than anything
else, looked in Ruth’s direction. Ruth smiled and shook her
head.

:

NBC Online was the first channel to openly
declare the prosecution as winner, not in the least because the
defense, by her inactivity, has proven itself utterly incompetent.
The array of convincing witnesses was, one after the other, nailing
the coffin shut (perhaps literally, one reporter added) for Ruth
Marten. At the least, if found guilty—which now was a foregone
conclusion—she would face a long jail time, if not life in jail,
and would be ordered to cease and desist forever; and at the worst,
she could face the death penalty.

Whether such a penalty would ever be carried
out was another question. NBC Online thought not.

::
134 :: (Los Angeles Federal Court)

These days, it would be impossible to do an
online search of “Buddhism” and not find seven or eight out of the
top ten responses mention or reference Sunyata Bodhi.

Sunyata Bodhi was born Warren Holliston in
1987, the only child of a Nebraska farming couple. His parents were
severely Christian, and the young Warren—a precocious and
inquisitive boy—soon came to detest having to go to church at least
once a week, often more frequently, to listen to those fairy tales
over and over. He did, however, know better than to complain to his
parents, one early encounter with the cane had taught him the value
of silence.

It would be fair to say that he discovered
Mahayana Buddhism—Zen in particular—more by accident than anything
else. It was through a book left (forgotten) by the previous
occupant of his College dorm room. It was the only thing left on
the nightstand (which did not even hold a lamp): a white-covered
book clearly contrasted against the black stand. It spoke to him,
he was to relate later (and often).

This book,
The Myth of the Historical
Buddha
, was more an invective against
Theravada Buddhism than an exposition of Mahayana, holding firmly
to the line that there was indeed no single source for Buddhism,
that there had never been a person called Gautama Siddhartha, that
Buddhism was a natural development from the Veda and Upanishads,
and that its source was a string of excellent Brahman meditators,
developing the four noble truths and the eightfold path somewhere
around 500 BCE.

Those selfish, misguided souls, the book
went on to say, who have fallen for the historical Buddha myth and
today subscribe to the inferior Theravada branch (which the book
constantly refers to as Hinayana, or the “deficient vehicle”) and
its Pali Canon are to be pitied, and if possible stirred to coming
to their senses.

Although he did not swallow the book and its
theme hook, line, and sinker, he liked, and was totally absorbed
by, the tone of the treatise. A tone that said that there are
superior people and inferior people. He recognized himself as
superior people. And as superior people of superior intelligence he
found the book’s logic a little too pat, a little too hasty in its
conclusions. Still, he had found his vehicle, that was his
realization, and this vehicle, in short order lead to other books
and then to Zen.

At the age of twenty-six Warren Holliston
legally changed his name to Sunyata Bodhi, at which time he also,
although not then or ever ordained as one, began to wear the
saffron robe of the Buddhist Monk.

Sunyata means “emptiness” and Bodhi means
“awakened.” A little pretentious perhaps of a Nebraska farm boy who
had not really mastered the art of Zen meditation yet, but never
mind.

His breakthrough as a
Buddhist scholar (rather than practitioner) came with his Doctoral
Thesis on The Dangers of Theravada Buddhism, a much quoted work in
Mahayana circles. He later re-wrote (dumbed down) his Thesis for
mass consumption and published it as
The
Buddha Myth
. This book went on to sell
millions since it served the purpose of not only Mahayana Buddhism
in staking its claim to legitimacy, but also the purposes of any
other religion that needed ammunition against the heathen teachings
of this Indian.

As Ruth Marten was openly teaching Theravada
Buddhism and meditation, Sunyata Bodhi was possibly the perfect
last witness for the prosecution.

:

He walks up to the witness stand in the
saffron robe this witness. I have heard of him, of course, who
hasn’t?

Sunyata Bodhi, he calls himself.

To my knowledge he is not ordained, so why
the audacity to wear the robes of the monk. That is, then, the kind
of man he is. I had assumed as much.

He walks, strides, slowly, clearly making a
show of it for the cameras, for the judge, for himself. He believes
himself, that is the tragedy of this man.

He swears to tell the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth, hand on the Christian Bible,
which he disdains, then sits down and arranges his robe just so. I
pity this man.

Otto Jones approaches his witness with a
smile, a smile that to me confirms an understanding between them.
Then says:

“Mister Bodhi. You are a Buddhist, are you
not?”

“I am,” says Sunyata Bodhi.

I know I should not, but he
so rubs me the wrong way, this
Mister
Bodhi that I cannot help but
whisper within him, and loudly enough for him to hear: “I can see
you.”

:

Sunyata Bodhi’s eyes flew wide open, as if
his worst, private fear had just appeared in the flesh. Otto Jones
noticed and wondered whether it was something he had said, then
realized that it could not have been, he had only asked him about
his religion. Ignoring the stare, he pressed on:

“All Buddhists are not the same, are they?”
he asked of this, his final witness.

Who was still staring into empty space,
seemingly unable to hear, or speak.

“Mister Bodhi,” said Jones. “Are you
okay?”

Still no response.

“Mister Bodhi,” said the Judge, a little
concerned. “Is everything all right?”

This finally seemed to reach the man, who
looked up at Judge Moore and then at Otto Jones, re-orienting
himself. “Yes,” he said. “I’m fine. Fine.”