his source, often uses the image of medicine, as he did when receiving his honorary doctorate at Christ Church Cathedral in Vancouver, and tells people that there is no “right” religion for anyone, though some find Buddhism helpful, some Christianity, the way some patients choose radiation therapy, some chemotherapy, and some, perhaps, Chinese herbs. Besides, as he told an interviewer in 1989, “we have enough religions. Enough religions, but not enough real human beings…. Don’t let us talk too much of religion. Let us talk of what is human.”
Like any doctor, he’s not concerned with pressing on strangers his view of the universe; the important thing is diagnosing what the problem is and suggesting a possible cure. If there’s no problem, then, as he often says, he can go home; there’s no need of a house call. Ideally, he prescribes the kind of preventive medicine that might be called meditation or philosophical training. But, however charming or lovable or intelligent he is, a doctor’s presence is only as good, really, as his ability to heal our pain.
If someone asks the Dalai Lama about a problem in her sexual life, he is likely to say, as many a doctor might, “That’s out of my domain. You’ll have to consult a specialist.” If he is about to join in a discussion with an abbot in Nara and he spots a girl sitting in a wheelchair nearby, he will instantly break from his discussion the way a physician, if suddenly there is a car crash outside, will leave his dinner companions and see if he can be of help. Though trained in the technical and complicated history and implications of disease, his job is to take that recondite learning and translate it into simple, concrete instruction for his patients. The most important thing we ask of a doctor is that he not hide the truth from us, out of kindness or sympathy, not dress it up in euphemisms or periphrases, but just tell it to us straight, so we know where we stand.
A doctor is not presumed to be all-powerful. He has a private life, we know, and though his part in our life is to give us the fruits of his specialized training, we do not expect him to be an expert when it comes to playing tennis or taking photographs or being a father. “If you have come here with expectations of the Dalai Lama,” I heard the Dalai Lama say before a large public audience in Switzerland, “you’re likely to be disappointed. If you think the Dalai Lama has special powers, you’re wrong, unfortunately. If I had healing powers”—he broke into a series of coughs—“I wouldn’t have this sore throat right now.” A doctor has sides of his life that are not covered by his training, but at some level every doctor is on twenty-four-hour call for life.
Like any doctor, the Dalai Lama tries to remain abreast of all the latest discoveries and breakthroughs in the field, and travels constantly to interfaith meetings and labs around the world. Often, even on social occasions, he is asked for his advice—as we, when meeting a doctor, may say, “I’m sorry to bother you, but my cousin’s wife has this pain…”—and he has to be careful not to offer advice in those fields where he’s not qualified. To a physician who takes seriously the Hippocratic oath, the notion of a celebrity doctor is a little comical. He may have a good bedside manner, he may be called in on TV shows as a pundit, he may have published many books, but all he is doing, really, is applying a knowledge that is universal, outside of him, and available to anyone who works in the same field. When he retires, another doctor comes along and, generally, offers us the same diagnoses and prescriptions (not least because medicine is an objective science where diagnoses are arrived at through empirical tests, records of famous cases, and statistical probability).
Most of all, a doctor has to be clear-eyed; he cannot avert death forever—sooner or later he will lose many of his patients—and all he can do is to
Like any doctor, he’s not concerned with pressing on strangers his view of the universe; the important thing is diagnosing what the problem is and suggesting a possible cure. If there’s no problem, then, as he often says, he can go home; there’s no need of a house call. Ideally, he prescribes the kind of preventive medicine that might be called meditation or philosophical training. But, however charming or lovable or intelligent he is, a doctor’s presence is only as good, really, as his ability to heal our pain.
If someone asks the Dalai Lama about a problem in her sexual life, he is likely to say, as many a doctor might, “That’s out of my domain. You’ll have to consult a specialist.” If he is about to join in a discussion with an abbot in Nara and he spots a girl sitting in a wheelchair nearby, he will instantly break from his discussion the way a physician, if suddenly there is a car crash outside, will leave his dinner companions and see if he can be of help. Though trained in the technical and complicated history and implications of disease, his job is to take that recondite learning and translate it into simple, concrete instruction for his patients. The most important thing we ask of a doctor is that he not hide the truth from us, out of kindness or sympathy, not dress it up in euphemisms or periphrases, but just tell it to us straight, so we know where we stand.
A doctor is not presumed to be all-powerful. He has a private life, we know, and though his part in our life is to give us the fruits of his specialized training, we do not expect him to be an expert when it comes to playing tennis or taking photographs or being a father. “If you have come here with expectations of the Dalai Lama,” I heard the Dalai Lama say before a large public audience in Switzerland, “you’re likely to be disappointed. If you think the Dalai Lama has special powers, you’re wrong, unfortunately. If I had healing powers”—he broke into a series of coughs—“I wouldn’t have this sore throat right now.” A doctor has sides of his life that are not covered by his training, but at some level every doctor is on twenty-four-hour call for life.
Like any doctor, the Dalai Lama tries to remain abreast of all the latest discoveries and breakthroughs in the field, and travels constantly to interfaith meetings and labs around the world. Often, even on social occasions, he is asked for his advice—as we, when meeting a doctor, may say, “I’m sorry to bother you, but my cousin’s wife has this pain…”—and he has to be careful not to offer advice in those fields where he’s not qualified. To a physician who takes seriously the Hippocratic oath, the notion of a celebrity doctor is a little comical. He may have a good bedside manner, he may be called in on TV shows as a pundit, he may have published many books, but all he is doing, really, is applying a knowledge that is universal, outside of him, and available to anyone who works in the same field. When he retires, another doctor comes along and, generally, offers us the same diagnoses and prescriptions (not least because medicine is an objective science where diagnoses are arrived at through empirical tests, records of famous cases, and statistical probability).
Most of all, a doctor has to be clear-eyed; he cannot avert death forever—sooner or later he will lose many of his patients—and all he can do is to
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