Dalai Lama: (n) formerly the ruler and chief monk of Tibet
Religion reminds me of taking a machine gun to battle house flies, the premise being that the more bullets you have to destroy the varmints, the greater your chance for success.
Unfortunately, you destroy everything in sight with your machine gun, just to dispel some annoying fly-bys.
As a human being, I am fully aware what qualities I appreciate in other human beings—and what I do not.
I don’t like to be cussed out.
I don’t want to grovel for attention.
I like to be able to speak my opinion and have it heard, if not honored.
I can survive a bit of grumpiness as long as it’s followed by a season of smiles.
I like to be right.
I like to feel healthy.
I like someone to notice when I’ve done good work.
And I like people to forgive me when I’ve stunk up the joint.
What I’ve just shared with you is a summary of the true value found in religion. Everything else is legalism, prejudice, ritual, outlandish oversight, and rules and regulation—frequently about issues that have not been pertinent since the fifteenth century.
They say there is a man in Tibet called the Dalai Lama who is full of wisdom.
I don’t doubt that.
If you climb into my van, I’ll drive you down the street to the nursing home, where we will walk through holy ground and meet many such men and women.
These are the traveling souls who have worn human skin and discovered much foolishness and settled on simple things, like a small squirt of whipped cream on top of their tapioca pudding.
The Dalai Lama may be just fine.
I don’t disfavor him because he is not of my faith.
But I do not believe that his mere lineage from some dude grants him the license for a holy genetic order.
I think we should listen to the Dalai Lama just as intensely and feverishly as we do the Dolly Parton.