Last Thursday morning the United State Senate was opened with a prayer by one Rajad Zed of Nevada, said to be a Hindu chaplain. The prayer, briefly interrupted by three folks who were hustled off by the cops, went like this:
"We meditate on the transcendental glory of the deity supreme, who is inside the heart of the Earth, inside the life of the sky and inside the soul of the heaven. May he stimulate and illuminate our minds."
To which one does not respond with an "amen" but rather with a "huh?"
Look, I don't know anything about Hinduism, okay? But I don't think this guy does either.
Is this really a prayer, or a left-over Jethro-meets-some-hippies skit from The Beverly Hillbillies? I mean, "inside the life of the sky?" Does the sky have a life? Says who? Why?
One imagines our august senators assembled pondering this assemblage of words preparatory to dealing soberly and judiciously with the nation's business. But one imagines in vain. Only two senators were present, Harry Reid of the Hindu chaplain's home state, and James Inhofe of Oklahoma.
Three protestors, two senators, one Hindu holy person, and an otherwise empty, echoing chamber -- our United States Senate in wartime. Sleep secure, America.
In the USA religion enjoys minimal relevance; even the disparate bands of Christians ("I am of Apollos!" and "I follow Paul!") can't agree on what Christianity means. One group of Christians shows up at the funerals of our war dead to gloat, and last spring another group of Christians felt free to violate that commandment about bearing false witness by altering a Beaumont school document. In my little town some fellow with an Old Testament beard and store-bought clothes occasionally stands on the street corner with signs proclaiming (with his Christian bull-horn) whom God hates, and employs vulgarities in doing so.
To the best of my admittedly limited knowledge, God, even when severe, does not address any of His children as f(oxtrot)s.
Our senate is becoming fashionably panthetistic. What next? The Fellowship of Pagan Athletes?
"Hey, Bubba, see ya at The Pole tomorrow morning to sacrifice a goat to Zeus, okay?"
Maybe the Voodoo Club can get together to turn a math teacher into a zombie.
Not that anyone could tell the difference.
A cult could toss a cheerleader into a volcano to appease the football gods ("Gee, Tiffany, show a little team spirit, okay...?"), the Future Mithraians of America might bathe in the blood of a bull (after a fund-raiser selling little made-in-China chocolate bulls door-to-door), the chess-club worshippers of Ahura-Mazda could stare into a light bulb, and the existentialists could deny that anything exists at all, only perceptions.
The X-treeme Suicide Bomber Youth Group. Get the kids off the streets and into these cute matching club vests. As someone said, children blow up so fast.
The Men's Downtown Bhagavad-Gita Meeting. Se habla Espanol.
A Gideons chicken-for-sacrifice in every hotel room.
After the, um, Senate prayer last Thursday, Senator Reid assured the Hindu chaplain that he keeps a statue of Gandhi on his desk.
Whoa! I'll bet that makes Al-Qaeda re-think stuff, eh?
Gandhi. Hmmmmph. I would feel just a whole lot better if the Senate Majority Leader displayed a statue of John Wayne instead. Or at least Bob Newhart.
Meet me at the pole. And bring a senator.
1 comment:
Go get 'em!
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