SAFFRON DAYS IN L.A.: Tales of a Buddhist Monk in America
by Bhante Walpola Piyananda
Los Angeles Times, June 23, 2001

I thought about my late father often as I read this book. Like the author Bhante Walpola Piyananda, he was "a man of the cloth"-though separated by a vast cultural divide from the Sri Lankan who has been abbot of the Dharma Vijaya Buddhist meditation center in Los Angeles for the past quarter century. My father habitually wore the black cassock of an Anglican minister; Piyananda writes of his experiences wearing the saffron of a Buddhist monk. For both, to judge from Piyananda's tales, the cloth was an external mark of difference that distinguished them from other mortals, whether sometimes for special respect, or sometimes for ridicule or hostility from the ignorant. In Piyananda's case, this means being mistaken frequently for a Hare Krishna, with often hilarious, often humiliating consequences.

But I thought about my father mostly because he saw his work as a priest in an English country parish in much the same way as Piyananda in the metropolis of Los Angeles, as a pastoral practice of ministering not only to the spiritual needs of a particular community but also, often, to their emotional, psychological, and moral needs as well. Surprisingly-or then, perhaps not-these needs turn out to be not much different for the cultural and geographical divide: a marriage falling victim to alcoholism, an unfaithful wife and an emotionally distant father, a rebellious teenager acting up, a colleague of the faith confronting self-doubt or spiritual crisis. At times of such deep need, the cloth attracts the faithful and skeptics alike for comfort, reassurance, or forgiveness, whether in the cool aisles of church or temple or on the streets and by-ways.

A story-teller gifted with great compassion, wisdom, and humor, Piyananda engages us in his pastoral adventures: a trio of punks, drawn by the saffron, assails him with distinctly unfriendly intention on Venice Beach, only to end up fascinated by his discourse on the ocean as a teaching aid. A "lady of the night" first gains his innocent attention with an astounding gift of money, then reforms her life in response to his gentle chiding once his embarrassed fellow monks enlighten him as to how she actually makes her living. And so on. The cast of characters is as diverse as the population of the city, red-blooded, true to life-and hurting. They speak to us out of a humanity which is instantly recognizable because it is also our own.

Piyananda, it turns out, is also a canny teacher of the dharma. He grabs our attention with his stories, but as we read further, we realize that there is pedagogical method and organization in his book: it teaches the basics of Buddhism in an orderly progression, from the life story of the Buddha and his discovery of the Four Noble Truths and the eight-fold path to enlightenment, to the "four efforts" and "five precepts" that lie at the heart of Buddhist practice, and so on. No, I'm not about to attempt elucidation of the finer points in this short space. Those curious to know more will find ample satisfaction in Piyananda's book. Enough to say that each point arises from a particular story, which prompts a parable judiciously chosen from the sutras, the sacred texts, or a sermon: thus, the case of an interfering mother-in-law affords the opportunity to explore the "sublime states" (sometimes called the Four Immeasurables) of loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity.

There is a downside to this kind of writing: it can get preachy, and Piyananda does not escape entirely from this pitfall. At times, he becomes so deeply engrossed in his exegesis that the story-and its subject-seem for a while to have been forgotten. But not to worry: to compensate, there's a kind of rapturous engagement in the gloss which, if it does not lose us, can carry us along by its almost Talmudic passion for moral argument. By the same token, drawing on the ancient source of centuries-old Buddhist texts, Piyananda's wisdom can seem at times naïve or simplistic in his solutions to complex contemporary social problems. But then, I suppose, so can Christian, or any other religious teaching, to the reader who brings along the baggage of an ingrained skepticism toward moral principles. The advice he offers remains fundamentally sound.

One last quibble: as a non-native speaker, Piyananda occasionally misses on the cadences of idiomatic language. His punks, for example, do not truly sound much like today's street kids. But these are minor distractions in the generally smooth flow of his stories. "Saffron Days" otherwise offers an unusual and charming glimpse into the life of one of those smiling men in saffron robes, and his pastoral mission in the heart of a modern Western city.