He struck me as being extremely reasonable, if not a little dull.
In all the years I studied, sang, and prayed in his congregation,
not once, as I recall, did he capture my imagination.
"I don't want to talk to the rabbi," I had replied.
Now I told my mother that I wanted to become a disciple.
She grew quiet and pale.
I told her that I had had mystical experiences while meditating
with Chinmoy. I did not tell her, nor did I acknowledge, that the
mystical experiences mostly occurred after I crossed or squinted
my eyes, or after I gazed at Chinmoy for two minutes or more.
I told her that Chinmoy was an enlightened guru, and that I
respected him greatly. I did not tell her, nor did I acknowledge,
that my respect--my reverence--was shaped largely by Atmananda
and the other disciples.
I was convinced by these reasons. So was my brother. My parents
were not.
"Mark, would you please talk to the rabbi?"
I finally agreed to go.
When my brother, my mother, and I entered the book-filled office,
the rabbi's expression, accentuated by a bulbous nose and glasses,
was anything but humorous.
"Hello, Mrs. Laxer," he said. "Hello, boys."
"Hello, rabbi."
He asked us if we were getting involved in another religion.
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