God Goes to the Astrodome
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A steady stream of premies-in-service then began to parade by, each one—undaunted by his or her predecessor's failure—requesting the honor of finding me a seat down front. But I managed to hold out against all offers, expressing politely but firmly my preference to stay just where I was.
What they wanted (beyond satisfying a fetish for order) was to get me settled in for the program that was about to begin. But for now all there was to look at was a gold throne with white flowers and behind it a picture of Guru Maharaj Ji that honest-to-God managed to make him look like MarIon Brando.
After some preliminaries, Rennie Davis appeared and launched into one of many ultra-hyperbolic raps we'd hear from him in the next month. He touted the Millennium, happily proclaiming that it would be the "most profound and significant gathering in this nation's history." It would offer us the opportunity to "realize the vision of the Pilgrims." And would put hllmble Hollston into the all-time Hall of Fame: "This city is goIng to be remembered through all the ages of human civilization." Yes, said Rennie, "It boggles the mind. A perfect master is again on this planet."
The Divine Light Dance Ensemble became a whirl of red sarongs and we were treated to a special screening of "Who is Guru Maharaj Ji?", a 60-minute color film produced by Shri Hans Productions—a skillfully executed, pizazzy back-grounder on the Guru and his followers. One sequence from the film stuck with me: Maharaj Ji is frolicking to and fro behind the wheel of a big orange tractor while the sound track intones the lilting "Who is Guru Maharaj Ji?"
I saw Rennie afterwards, we embraced, and he said, "Thorne, when are you going to come over here and try some of this Knowledge? I'm telling you, it's really beautiful..."
The True Path and Other Tendencies
FOR THREE DAYS IN NOVEMBER, Houston's domed temple of athletic worship became the unwitting focal point for esoteric metaphysical struggle.
Jesus freaks of all stripes peddled their wares, offering to save the poor duped premies from the heathen ways of Guru Maharaj Ji. A whispered debate went on among their ranks: "Is the Guru really the anti-Christ? (Shudder.)"
Christian groups—many from out of town—set up head-quarters at spots like the Astroworld Hotel, distributed thousands of pieces of pro-Jesus literature, and laid heavy gospel on anyone who'd lend them an ear. They appeared at they gates with signs ranging from "Jesus Yes, Guru No" to the fascinating "Bhole Ji/Shiva/Dance and Destruction." Houston ministers raised the spectre of the Guru in their places of worship. Rev. Robert Montgomery, pastor of Minnetex Community Church, said, "The Guru claims to be the Messiah, but he is an anti-Christ. There is a spiritual presence about him, but I believe it is demonic."
More than 30 Protestant churches and religious groups—mostly Baptist—pooled their collection plates to purchase large display ads in the Houston dailies. Topped by a bold headline proclaiming, "We Thought You'd Like to Know," the ads proceeded to contrast statements of Guru Maharaj Ji with those of "The Living God."
But despite their numbers and traditional clout, the Christians caused much less of a buzz than the handful of kooky-looking folks from Hare Krishna who danced and chanted and passed out copies of the Bhagavad-gita. They claim the Maharaj Ji is a fraud and a cheat and blot on the name of Lord Krishna.
The Krishnas (actually devotees of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness) pose more of a threat because their spiritual roots and rhetoric are similar to those of the Mission. When these devotees, who live ascetic, meditative lives, shave their heads and wear flowing saffron robes, tell a premie that the Guru is a fraud, he just might listen.
In any event, the Krishnas were not allowed inside the Astrodome by the Guru's security forces (they weren't even granted bathroom privileges), and at times had to don wigs and straight clothes instead of their customary robes to get inside the gates of the parking lot.
Each day they gathered near the main entrance, danced and chanted "Hare Krishna." On Saturday, 31 were arrested after a Divine Light official filed a formal complaint.
We heard there was a confrontation brewing Friday afternoon, so we rushed down from the press area, unabashedly praying for some action to liven up the dreary goings-on. As we arrived, a group of Krishna followers was dancing towards the front of the Dome, their arms in the air and "Hare Krishna" on their breath. Meanwhile, coming from the bowels of the stadium, were multitudes of premies, set loose for the dinner break.
The two dozen Krishnas began a kirtan or extended musical chant. They danced in a circle praising God: "Hare Krishna/Hare Krishna/Krishna Krishna/Hare Hare." They were surrounded by premies, news hounds and the curious. The premies almost seemed to enjoy the heresy, but whenever there was a lull in the chanting, they would raise their arms and proclaim, as one: "Bolie Shri Satgurudev Maharaj Ki Jai!" ("All Praise and Honor to the Perfect Master.")
A bearded premie from Boston, though no Krishna-symp, voiced disillusionment with the Divine Light treatment of the Krishnas. "Rennie Davis, who is supposed to be such an advocate of free speech, isn't letting these folks have theirs. He's working with the police against these people."
Someone in the crowd held up a picture of Maharaj Ji and the Krishnas responded with likenesses of Krishna and of their spiritual master, A. C. Bhaktivedanta.
The sky over the Dome had turned a threatening grey and a chilling breeze had whipped up. Suddenly there was an electric undercurrent among the premies, and all eyes turned toward the sky. Their concern, however, was other than the weather. Maharaj Ji and his Holy Family had appeared in the windows on the top level of the Dome; the Guru raised his arms to his followers and they chanted his name, blissed-out by this unexpected long-distance audience with the Perfect Master.
Now it was the Krishnas' turn to escalate this spiritual battle of wits. Two devotees quickly climbed atop the roof of a small ticket-sales building, placing themselves in the line of sight of the Guru. They danced and chanted above the spot where Houston Oiler fans pick up their tickets to the next defeat, until one of Houston's finest sent them scrambling.
I later visited the Radha Krishna Temple and talked with Suhotra Das, a member of a traveling troupe of Krishnas who came to Houston, he said, at the invitation of Divine Light premies. Suhotra Das, who was once a Detroit hippie named Roger Terrence Crowley, told us why his people are down on the Guru.
"In India they have organizations that our spiritual master describes as Mystic Factories. These are places where they manufacture Gods. Yoga aspirants will go to school and they learn methods of, like, how to put someone in a trance. They learn a smattering of scriptures, so they can quote whatever they want.
"Guru Maharaj Ji has obviously been trained up in some hypnosis and things like that, and he's come over from India to make a lot of money off the Americans. He's dragging real spiritual life through the dirt."
Suhotra Das said that Maharaj Ji's methods are not authorized in the Bahagvad-gita, the basic Hindi spiritual text. "What he is doing has nothing to do with the knowledge Krishna describes. These rascals go on for a while cheating people but gradually—just like John Lennon, he wised up to the Maharishi and wrote that song Sexy Sadie—they'll get bitter, and turn sour on this guy and his mystic bag of tricks."
Rock Me, Maharaj Ji
WHEN HE WAS 12, GURU Maharaj Ji told more than a million people, "I am the source of peace in this world. All I ask of you is your love, and what I can give you is such peace as will never die. I declare I will establish peace in this world."
This grandiose proclamation was issued exactly three years before the Houston Millennium, during the Hans Javanti celebration Nov. 8-10, 1970, in New Delhi, India. Those words became known as the Guru's Peace Bomb.
And the fulfillment of that prophecy, they told us, was to begin in Houston's Astrodome in 1973 and stretch out for a thousand years. Typical of the promotional hype was I this, on a slick mass-produced flyer: "Now the turning point in human civilization is here. At the colossal Houston Astrodome on Nov. 8-10, Guru Maharaj Ji will bring in the age of peace. This gathering in Houston is more than just a large festival. It is a world assemblage to save humanity. The Dawn of the New Age."
The Millennium experience would do our heads and then some. More people than the stadium could hold, marvelous technological occurrences, The Show of Shows. The festival promised to inaugurate an "international agency to feed and shelter the world's hungry," and basically layout a concrete practical path towards world peace. The first step in the cosmic design would be the planning and construction of a utopian Divine City.
