Dharma and The Mad Farmer

This semester I am teaching a course entitled "Won't You Be My Neighbor?" The course combines a few of my favorite things:
1) the insights from theologies of religious diversity and interreligious studies,
2) reflections on the biblical and theological category of “neighbor” with special attention to the ministry of Fred Rogers and the biblical texts of Leviticus 19:18 & Luke 10:25-37, and
3) visits to local religious communities including temples, synagogues, and mosques.

So, today I share part of a longer story from one of our local visits.

We exit the interstate around Carrollton near the highway marker memorializing the tragic May 14, 1988 bus accident. That portion of north-central Kentucky, the Outer Bluegrass, is near the Ohio and Kentucky Rivers and not much else. Our exit doesn’t even feature a convenience store. We barely start down the country road before turning right then left and passing through a short tunnel under railroad tracks. A student declares we have entered a portal. I believe it. We are on a one-lane road climbing through the woods with a dry creek beside us. West Virginians would call it a holler. Another student wonders what happens if we meet another car. I say a silent prayer that we are alone. Eventually, we find a gravel road with the name Zen Forest Road. I’m driving my wife’s Toyota Prius with four passengers – two of my students, both of whom have brought a traveling friend, i.e., a boyfriend and a mom. We’ve been chatting about life for an hour or so but now we can’t help but comment on the surroundings. They trust me, their professor, but let’s be honest: this road is not taking us anywhere fast. The Prius is not happy about the washed-out gravel and the hilly terrain.

“Don’t tell my wife about this road," I say, trying to lighten the mood as I keep to myself doubts about our location and the car’s ability to offroad.  

We bottom out a few times, and it takes several nerve-racking minutes to get to the address on the GPS. It’s the first house we've seen on the gravel road, and there's a white man out front working on his house. This is clearly not our contact, Nam Do, a Vietnamese American and retired Ford engineer. But he’s the only person we see and, more importantly, he’s looking at the car like he’s never seen a hybrid vehicle make it this far off the highway.  

I pull my car into his grass yard. Do you need a driveway when you live here?

“I’m looking for Nam Do,” I say.

“Nam Do. Right.” He looks around his yard and into the surrounding woods like Nam might appear if only we check. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere,” he replies.

At least I have found the right road. But this guy is not a talker, not a socializer, and it’s not clear to me that he is going to be helpful.  

So, I say, “OK. Is there a main center or building where he might be? I’m with a group, and he is expecting us at 11. I don’t know where we are supposed to meet him.” I am fishing for more information, perhaps a direction we might go. We have not seen another structure. Nam Do is nearby but where?

“Not really…. Let’s see. Are you looking to buy some land? Can you call him? ... I actually have something I want to discuss with him. So, let me go call him, and I’ll tell him what I need to tell him, and then I’ll let him know you are here looking for him.”

Progress! Nam Do and I have only been emailing.

I go back to the car and relay the conversation, and the gentlemen disappears into his house. For a slight second, my imagination alerts me to the possibility that I am participating in the plot of a horror movie. But the man seems normal enough for someone who lives this far into the woods. I grew up in a small rural town, and plenty of good folks live down gravel roads.

When I see the man step outside his house talking on the phone, I approach him again and hear him say into the phone, “Oh, and while I've got you here, I got this fella right here that just pulled up. He and his group are supposed to meet you at 11. Where do you want them to meet you? ... OK, I'll tell him.”

We are sent back to the rocky way we came to meet our contact. Soon, we see a black Ford truck on the side of the road with a gentleman’s arm motioning forward out the driver’s window. I understand that we are to follow him. Except he speeds off in the truck, and I’m lucky to hit 10 mph in the Prius. After a few hundred feet, we turn into a field. Not a driveway or dirt road, straight into a pasture. We all pile out of the car a little confused about why we are standing in a field. I see nothing of interest that would bring a group of visitors to Carroll County.

I approach Nam and introduce myself. He says, “You interested in buying some land?”

And that’s when I realize he has forgotten about our appointment. I had called several weeks ago and set up this time to bring my seminary class to tour BuddhaLand, his 200-acre piece of land we are currently standing on. Nam purchased it two decades ago to develop into a retreat center and retirement place for Buddhist monks worldwide.

“We're from the Presbyterian seminary. We're here to see BuddhaLand. We wanted to see what you have done here.”

“Oh, the stupa! I remember. Get back in your car and follow me. It's a quarter mile down the road.”

So, we return to the car, circle around to the gravel road, and find BuddhaLand Road. We missed this road on our first pass through. Now, we crest a hill to the highest part of his land, and there’s the Stupa of Enlightenment, a Buddhist commemorative monument. 25-foot white concrete structure. In rural Kentucky.

“Wow!” one student says.

“That’s so pretty!” another student says.

I check Google maps afterwards, and, as the crow flies, we are standing about 4 miles from Wendell Berry’s farm, Lane’s Landing, in neighboring Henry County. Kentucky’s most famous rural farmer and environmental activist has Buddhist neighbors. The author obsessed with the importance of place lives near an obvious example of America’s growing religious diversity.

Buddha and Berry. All along the Kentucky River.

A Benediction (Or Miscellaneous Thoughts)

1. If you know someone who might like to read this newsletter, forward this email to them.
2. You can read an online version of this newsletter here.