I. THE RISKS OF A WESTERN MINDSET

A. An Analysis of the present situation
Once upon a time there was an anguished lover who, over the course of many years, sent passionate love letters to his beloved in a far distant land. At long last she wrote back to say she had married the mailman!

Like her, the West has fallen in love with the messenger. It has become infatuated with a rational approach to reality. But reason, the reign of rationality, is only an intermediary. Religion in the West has sacrificed too much for it. It is time to realize that our task is to forget the letter and hold fast to the Lord.

The West has also insisted on the importance of history. We see missionaries trying to convince Hindus that Christianity is true because Jesus is an historical person, while Krishna is only a myth. But for a devout Hindu this way of thinking makes no sense at all. Napoleon was also an historical figure—but what of it? “Krishna is alive in my heart!” Different cultures have different understandings of time. In Sanskrit the same word can mean yesterday or tomorrow!

In like manner, the West has all but deified law. But a lawmaker God has little meaning for the non-Westerner.

We in the West try to pinpoint what is essential and specific. The advantage of such a reductionist approach to reality is that we can then dominate it. The success of Western culture shows how effective this method is. But what is the sense of monks trying to pinpoint “the specificity of monastic interreligious dialogue”?

Finally, we need to point out the risk of always emphasizing the measurable and the quantitative. Does it really make any sense to report on an encounter in terms of percentages? “My thinking is now 50% Buddhist!”

B. What is at stake in this way of thinking
It is absolutely necessary to take account of the risks involved in a way of thinking that has been used to justify cultural imperialism and that excludes the very possibility of dialogue.

To believe that our Western categories make it possible for us to understand everything is a flagrant manifestation of cultural imperialism, even cultural colonialism. This sort of violence has become widespread; we must constantly ask ourselves whether or not it still has influence over us.

When we say that Brahman is the God of the Hindus, we imply that we know perfectly well what a god is. However, for the Hindus Brahman is neither a creator nor a provider; Brahman is not masculine, is not transcendent. Is it possible for us to admit that there are limits to the understanding of God we received from the Semitic and Greco-Roman traditions? Can we admit that there are also limits to our understanding of religion (“Is Buddhism a religion?”) and prayer (“Can we pray with those who do not believe that God is a person?”).

As should be clear, the interreligious and the intercultural are inseparable.

In addition, in spite of all its good qualities, the Western way of thinking has impeded the development of certain features of Christianity. When the “symbol” of the Apostles became the “teaching” of the Apostles, Christianity was on its way to becoming an ideology.

A critical reflection on the meaning and the risks of our Western way of thinking is therefore necessary when we take part in interreligious dialogue.

II. THE TASK OF CONTEMPLATIVES IN THE THIRD MILLENNIUM
Monastics have an historic mission. Today their task, like that of all contemplatives, is to free the Christian faith from the bonds of Western culture. This task is not a new form of iconoclasm, but rather the continuation of what was begun at the Council of Jerusalem. We will only be able to go beyond Western culture if reason, which has so dominated it, is put in its place.

In any event, the practice of interreligious dialogue takes place within a cultural context. Before becoming more specific about the method of this form of dialogue, we need to recall some basics.

A. Embracing the whole of reality
A “reformation” is not enough; we must commit ourselves to a “transformation” (even more, that is, to a change of mind and heart—literally, to a surpassing of rationality.

The mystics of the West are fully aware of what is involved. The Victorines of the 12th century already said that alongside the oculus sensuum and the oculus rationis there is the oculus fidei. It is true that the word “mysticism” carries negative connotations. But until we find a better way of expressing this reality, we cannot put it aside. Mysticism is not a substitute for truth or something extra—a luxury for people with leisure time on their hands. It is an integral part of reality; without it reality is deformed.

God is not a monad, a substance, but a Trinity, a relation. That is why we have to go beyond a monotheism that would express itself by means of a simplistic reductio ad unum. Meister Eckhart said that God is at one and the same time innominabilis and omninominabilis. If the mystical “third eye” is open, one can encounter God everywhere.

For this reason we can say that pluralism, correctly understood, is one of the best features of mysticism.

If emphasizing and isolating what is specific simply means identifying that which distinguishes one thing from another—for example, what distinguishes monastic interreligious dialogue from other kinds of dialogue—there is very little to be gained from it. The essence of something does not consist in that which makes it different, but rather in its aroma, in that which makes it unique—and that is ineffable. If you insist on speaking about the specificity of monks, then I would have to say that it consists in the fact that monasticism surpasses all specificity!

The unity for which we thirst is that of “blessed simplicity” and “new innocence.”

Advaita is not “non duality” (a refusal of duality, which would imply that there is still something “out there”!), but aduality (the “a” here is an “a” privative). That is why speaking of “double belonging” in certain religious settings is not a very good way of stating the case, because the point of departure is still dualistic. Wisdom is to be found in transforming destructive tensions into fruitful polarities. “But if you feel that your belonging is two-fold, then decide for one or the other. You can’t hang out in the middle.”

B. Consenting to Kenosis
Over the course of two millennia the Christian tradition in the West has worked out a symbiosis of two or three cultures. We can rightfully be proud of this accomplishment. But at the beginning of this third millennium, even if the majority of humanity is barraged by the American way of life, we know that three quarters of the world’s population remains basically a stranger to this Christian and post-Christian culture. And so, if we believe in the mystery of Christ, then the time has come to become truly “catholic,” that is to say, to belong to the entire world. For that to happen it is not necessary to come up with new ways of giving expression to the mystery, but rather to consent to an impoverishment and even a stripping away. We have to begin by stripping Christ of all the Western garments we have clothed him with. We will then be able to bring about a change analogous to that which the Apostles dared to enact when they did away with circumcision at the first council of Jerusalem. It’s time to prepare for Jerusalem II!

But the way of “kenosis” is extremely demanding. To go beyond deeply anchored convictions involves a harsh spiritual asceticism. You risk losing everything. To be more precise, kenosis demands that one commit oneself to a radical reassessment of one’s faith.

At this stage it is important to distinguish between faith and belief. Beliefs are many and often incompatible (We might note in passing that even if they are incommensurable—like the radius of a circle with its circumference—they are still related to one another, as in the case of the example given, and therefore a dialogue can be established between them.) As for faith, it is beyond these incompatibilities because it does not have any object properly speaking; it is, rather, an act of adhering.

To become truly free we have to develop a faithfulness that knows no limits.

However, a refusal to absolutize our beliefs does not imply an intention to absolutize our doubts! Faith and doubt are not incompatible as fire and water are. Both are part of life.

C. Working out a Method for Dialogue
So what kind of dialogue are monks called to? It would be good to recall the way of dialogue that many monastics have already been involved in:

First of all, one has to agree to an out-and-out conversion in order really to accept the otherness of the other. The other is not just another—one in a series—but an other, someone who is different, unique.

In these times we can no longer pretend to know our own religion if we do not know another religion. As is so often said today, in order to be religious one has to be interreligious.

Words can deceive us. Translations are often approximations and terms evolve over the course of history. The teaching of Confucius on the politics of words is still valid today. We know how often our misunderstanding—worse yet, our caricatures—have disfigured other religions. The first thing we have to do is remedy this situation and avoid every sort of distortion.

While it is obvious that we have to study other religions, it is especially important to remember that the essence of dialogue is a meeting of persons. In order to under-stand the other we have to listen with humility. A meeting happens when persons are vulnerable. Such meetings lead to friendship. It would even be more correct to say that without friendly and trusting interpersonal contacts, dialogue cannot even begin.

The particular characteristic of the interreligious dialogue of monastic men and women is that it is a “dialogue of experience.” Coming together in silence, working together without expecting any personal gain, participating in intrareligious dialogue—every form of dialogue that is not exclusively intellectual is an experience, a common experience. There is no such thing as experience pure and simple, but sometimes it is possible to experience profound communion in silence. What is the meaning of such experiences? There comes a time when we have to try to explain them, but we know that the heart of such experiences—which cannot be expressed in words—is that they bind us together more closely. This kind of dialogue needs a special “methodology” that is still to be worked out.

Finally, it must be said that this kind of dialogue takes time, many years. Those who sense that they are called to become more deeply involved in the work of interreligious dialogue will have to become immersed in another religion. Lest this immersion simply become a form of spiritual tourism—worse yet, a form of colonialist “inculturation”—at least a year would be required.

There are not many who would be able to make such a commitment. But let us not give in to the tyranny of numbers. History shows us that a few pioneers can do wonders.

III. RECOLLECTIONS OF PERE HENRI LE SAUX—SWAMI ABHISHIKTANANDA
I am reluctant to speak about my friend Abhishiktananda, because to speak about him is also to speak about myself. I will try to be discreet.

Together we made two major pilgrimages—to Arunachala (Tiruvanamalai) and to Gangotri, at the source of the Ganges. These common experiences drew us very close to one another.

We talked together at great length. (He loved to talk.) In the course of these conversations I was able to help him become reconciled with himself. He needed to bounce his doubts and questions off someone else, especially since he tended to be a little scrupulous. As a theologian I helped him relate our experience to the Christian tradition. In this way he was able to bring together his initial intuitions—which were often at odds with those of Père Monchanin—and his later insights.

I think it is possible to say that a great transformation took place in the cave of Arunachala in 1952. There he understood that what was demanded of him was not simply being “open to the other”—something he had control over—but letting the other convert him.

When he finally had two disciples, he realized what it means to be a father. It was moving to see him recognize that he was a man capable of forming intense and transformative relationships.

In spite of all the progress he made, I sensed that he remained torn right up to the very end of his life, at least until his heart attack in July 1973. It was then that he “found the Grail,” as he put it in a letter to me. The image of the Grail says much about his inculturation in Indian religion. In order to speak about his discovery of interior unity within the Indian tradition of advaita, he used an expression that he received from the culture of his childhood in Brittany. He was no longer alienated from himself.

He died believing that his life was a failure. In fact, he was a genius without knowing it.