ttle 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.

"No, rabbi," explained my brother. "We are studying spiritual
mysticism."

"We're just learning to meditate," I added.

"I see," he said. He mentioned an obscure mystical sect within the
Jewish religion known as Cabalism. But Judaism, he explained, slowly,
as though measuring each word, was based upon laws--not direct
mystical experience. As he spoke, I recalled that Jewish law had been
passed down through the generations since the time of Abraham and
Isaac. Chinmoy's teachings, I realized, also stemmed from a tradition
dating back thousands of years. I found myself picturing Chinmoy and
Atmananda. "They are such colorful characters," I thought.

I glanced at the rabbi. He was saying something about the dangers of
mind control. "The rabbi is so... plain," I decided. I felt certain
that he had never read the Castaneda books.

My mother said little during the meeting. She was hoping that the
rabbi would build for my brother and me a framework through which we
could view our mystical quest. When the meeting was over, I went home
and stared at the underexposed Transcendental photo of Chinmoy.

The next day I tried to meditate, but my mind dwelt on familiar
thoughts: "As soon as I graduate, I'm going to leave my tired,
depressed fathe