Too zen for my shirt

Today I met a smug Buddhist monk.

Which, until today, I had thought of as a contradiction in terms.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if it were just some regular Joe who was now proclaiming himself to be Buddhist, but a monk?

Maybe this is my lesson for the year. About six months ago, in a volunteer group, I met this woman who told me she’s a Unitarian Universalist minister. I myself was raised Unitarian Universalist, and was kind of excited to meet someone else who shared my liberal humanistic spiritual blah-de-blah.

But things got weird as the weeks and months went on, because it was revealed Ms. Minister was really...the Anti-Minister.

In any religion, (oh! Can you hear the sweeping generalization coming?) with the possibility of a few of the homegrown varieties from here in the Belt o’ the Bible, I usually think I can count on ministers to be, oh, at least slightly compassionate. Meaning, at the very least, that they won’t be the ones who make fun of people as soon as they’re out of earshot. Or who seize every possible opportunity to harp loudly about how Their religion is Superior to your Christian one, because of this or that.

But I found myself cringing like Old Money toward the Nouveau-Riche whenever this woman opened her mouth. I was, after all, raised a UU. Lady Anti-Minister was a converted Baptist-—and had not yet removed every last splinter of that particular chip from her shoulder. For example, another woman in our group would tell us about her church choir concert, right? And Anti-Minister would choose that moment to start making fun of Christianity. Yes, you heard right: a person who had engaged in religious studies. Making fun. Of the whole of Christianity.

(Yes: Hello? Liberal religion? Acceptance? Tolerance? This means you, um, Rev.)

Besides which, she was often downright mean.
Not to everyone, but particularly to one woman in our volunteer group with unusual fashion sensibilities, like fluorescent miniskirts (She was in her late 40s) and to whose heel I swear toilet paper was strangely attracted. Oh, and her lipstick tended to range out of the usual lip-range and she was really, really (really really) talkative.

Anti-minister and this other woman would make fun of Ms. Unusual Fashion with a sneaky cruelty that carried me all the way back to the very depths of sixth grade.

The fact that this is a person you’re supposed to be able to come to with your problems still floors me. What does she do, call up a friend to make fun of you as soon as you leave her office?

Which of course makes me think: Exactly how easy is it to become a monk or a minister? I always imagined at some point, there’d be some sort of rigorous test that would somehow prove your spiritual convictions--and your compassion. And I’m not even taking into consideration, here, the whole business with the Catholic priests and the molestation charges. That’s a whole other matter, really. Right now I’m just thinking about how much it bothers me that no, you can’t count on someone you’d normally think you could automatically count on, not to be a jerk. No amount of official training can fix some people.
And--I should know--you find saints in the most unexpected clothing as well, so.