Betrayal of the Spirit: My Life behind the Headlines of the Hare Krishna Movement - Softcover

Muster, Nori J.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0252065662 ISBN 13: 9780252065668

Publisher: University of Illinois Press, 2001

Synopsis

Combining behind-the-scenes coverage of an often besieged religious group with a personal account of one woman's struggle to find meaning in it, Betrayal of the Spirit takes readers to the center of life in the Hare Krishna movement.

Nori J. Muster joined the International Society of Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON)--the Hare Krishnas--in 1978, shortly after the death of the movement's spiritual master, and worked for ten years as a public relations secretary and editor of the organization's newspaper, the ISKCON World Review. In this candid and critical account, Muster follows the inner workings of the movement and the Hare Krishnas' progressive decline.

Combining personal reminiscences, published articles, and internal documents, Betrayal of the Spirit details the scandals that beset the Krishnas--drug dealing, weapons stockpiling, deceptive fundraising, child abuse, and murder within ISKCON–as well as the dynamics of schisms that forced some 95 percent of the group's original members to leave. In the midst of this institutional disarray, Muster continued her personal search for truth and religious meaning as an ISKCON member until, disillusioned at last with the movement's internal divisions, she quit her job and left the organization.

In a new preface to the paperback edition, Muster discusses the personal circumstances that led her to ISKCON and kept her there as the movement's image worsened. She also talks about "the darkest secret"–child abuse in the ISKCON parochial schools--that was covered up by the public relations office where she worked.

About this title

About the Author

Nori J. Muster, a freelance writer and website designer, lives in Arizona. Larry D. Shinn, president of Berea College, is the author of The Dark Lord: Cult Images and the Hare Krishnas in America.
 

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

BETRAYAL of the SPIRIT

My Life behind the Headlines of the Hare Krishna Movement

By NORI J. MUSTER

UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS PRESS

Copyright © 2001 Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-252-06566-8

Contents

Preface to the Paperback Edition, vii, 
Foreword, by Larry D. Shinn, xi, 
Preface, xvii, 
People in This Volume, xix, 
1 ISKCON: The Krishnas' International Society, 1, 
2 Unexpected Requirements, 10, 
3 Going Solo into ISKCON, 23, 
4 My Zonal Guru, 34, 
5 Jonestown Fallout, 47, 
6 A Spiritual Disneyland, 54, 
7 Drug Busts, Guns, and Gangsters, 61, 
8 Who's Watching the Children?, 72, 
9 The Gurus Start World War III, 78, 
10 The Storm Within: The Guru Issue, 86, 
11 P.R. Publications Promote ISKCON, 95, 
12 Ramesvara Crashes, 105, 
13 The Revolution of Guru Reform, 117, 
14 P.R. Bails Out of L.A., 128, 
15 1986: The Year of Crisis, 137, 
16 The Budget Axe, 146, 
17 The ISKCON World Review Crosses the Line, 155, 
18 Six Months Out of Print, 163, 
19 Women's Lesser Intelligence, 171, 
20 Moving On, 176, 
Appendix: Status of People and Things in This Volume, 183, 
Notes, 185, 
Glossary, 195, 
Bibliography, 197, 
Index, 207, 

CHAPTER 1

ISKCON: The Krishnas'International Society

The Hare Krishnas' Western world headquarters is on a residential street inWest Los Angeles called Watseka Avenue, just off Venice Boulevard nearCulver City. Every weekend the temple holds a gathering, the "Sunday LoveFeast," for the congregation. It was a warm summer evening in 1978. I wastwenty-two and had been a Hare Krishna for about a month. Dozens of peoplemilled on the sidewalk and more cruised Watseka Avenue for parkingplaces. A loudspeaker atop the temple gift store broadcast the rhythmic, fastnotes of an Indian raga over the congregation. I walked up the block, beginningat the church on the corner, past the green, yellow, white, brown, andbrick red apartment houses and bungalows. ISKCON owned buildings onboth sides of the magnolia-lined street.

Beyond the Krishna community, Watseka Avenue was quiet. Non-devoteeneighbors generally ignored the temple. I waited in the shadows at thelast Hare Krishna apartment for two old friends, Pam and Diana, who saidthey would visit. Then in the darkness I spotted a blue Mercedes-Benz withdiminutive, blond Pam behind the wheel. I'd known her since 1970. Theother woman was Diana, a friend since junior high. The last time I'd seenher was the previous summer, when she invited me to her acting class inHollywood. Diana's classmate, the yet unknown Arnold Schwarzenegger,imitated a roaring lion at the instructor's request. His performance was oneI'll never forget.

I flagged down the Mercedes and directed my friends into the driveway,saying, "Park back here."

I met them under the building, and Diana hugged me and looked me over."Is that a sari?" she asked. The traditional garment was a single piece of clothdraped all around, covering my head.

"I knew you would like it," I said, noting her soft brown curls falling overher black velvet vintage dress and black leather vest. Pam was barefoot, wearingcut-off jeans and a skimpy halter top, and she looked like an underfedmodel.

"Let's go to the temple," I suggested, hoping to show them the Radha-Krishnadeities I worshipped. My friends were vegetarian and they both likedmusic and art, so I felt sure they would appreciate the temple. As I led themdown the crowded sidewalk, the music blared louder, many hearty conversationsadding to the clamor. The services had ended, and people pouredfrom the temple to locate their shoes and go off to look around.

"Do you want to see inside?" I asked my friends.

"Not if I have to take my cowboy boots off," Diana said. "You don't knowwhat a hassle that can be."

"I just want to sit down somewhere," Pam said, turning away from thecrowd.

I didn't want to force my new enthusiasm on my guests, so I led them backto the building where they had parked. My office upstairs was a convenient,quiet place to talk. We went up the steps in a narrow hallway, and I looseneda key from the chain around my neck to let us in.

"Does someone live here?" Pam asked, glancing inside one of the roomsas she followed me to the kitchen.

"No one's here," I said, turning on the lights. We stopped at my desk, whichwas wedged into the hall. House plants hung everywhere and sat on all thetiled counter tops. My boss liked to keep them around for atmosphere.

Pam and Diana sat in comfortable conference room chairs, while I sat onthe edge of my desk. "How do you like it? This is where I work," I said.

"I don't get what you do here," Diana said.

"This place is creepy," Pam said. "You don't belong here." Her usuallydreamy eyes had become serious and compassionate. "Did they make yougive them your money? What about your car?"

"I use my car for my service," I said, my heart suddenly pounding, "andmoney is material. They didn't make me give it to them—I wanted to becausethey use it to serve Krishna."

Diana and Pam looked at each other. "Oh sure," Pam said.

"Come on, what's happening Nori?" Diana asked.

"You seem so different," Pam said.

"People are worried," Diana added. "Think about how your old friends feel."

"We're going to get something to eat," Pam said. "Can you come with us?Will they let you out for one night?"

"But they're serving dinner at the temple," I said, feeling dizzied by theironslaught.

"That food smelled awful," Pam said.

"Please come with us," Diana said.

Both of them looked at me, and there was a silence.

"But this is my home now," I said, gripping my desk. "I'm here because Iwant to be. I like to start the day by seeing Krishna, and I like to meditate. Idon't take drugs anymore, and I have a good job. This is my life now."

They gazed at me while I talked on.

"Haven't you ever wondered what it's all about, or why we're here? I alwayswanted to know if life had a purpose. Now I know that I'm a soul, thatI'm meant to serve God. I don't have to search anymore because I've foundit." I caught my breath and waited, hoping they might approve.

"It's stuffy in here," Pam said after an uncomfortable silence. She turnedto Diana and said, "Let's go."

I sighed and hopped down from the desk. As I followed them back to thecarport I tried to explain myself again, but they didn't want to listen. I walkedalongside as Pam backed the Mercedes out of the driveway. The top was down,so when we reached the sidewalk she stopped and took my hand.

"Call me," she said. "I hate to see you fuck up your life in a place like this."

"You don't want to be a Hare Krishna. Think about it," Diana added.

Pam sat there, the radio blaring louder than the ritual music from thetemple, and then she squealed out of the driveway and roared off into thedarkness of Watseka. I watched until the taillights faded. I hoped my friendswould come back someday, but feared I'd lost them forever.

"I can't believe a nice girl like you has friends like that," someone behindme said.

I turned quickly to see who was speaking. It was the temple president, whohad been standing nearby. I was sure he totally misunderstood me. A lot ofdevotees thought I was naive and innocent when I joined, but it was just thesari that made me look that way. I'd been on my own for eight years, sincemy parents' divorce. When my mother moved to Phoenix, Arizona, to marrymy stepfather in 1970, my brother moved with the family. Even though Iwas only fourteen, I refused.

I couldn't live with my father that year because he traveled continuouslyfor business. As president of Greene Line Steamers of Cincinnati, he and vice-presidentBetty Blake had to defend the Delta Queen steamboat against congressionalSafety at Sea legislation that would have put it out of business. Theyexecuted an ingenious P.R. campaign to "Save the Delta Queen" and win acongressional exemption from the legislation. Thousands greeted the Mississippipaddle wheeler when it passed through river towns, its calliope playing.The Delta Queen made headlines throughout the year because it seemedthe boat was doomed to retirement. My dad and Betty were always in thenews, especially in the river towns. An estimated quarter of a million Americanssigned petitions and wrote to legislators, and the boat won a last-minutereprieve, signed into law December 31 by Richard Nixon. The campaign keptmy father too busy to pay attention to me.

Rather than live with either parent, I moved in with a family in the SanFernando Valley that was also going through a divorce. The children smokedpot, took harder drugs, and used the house for parties whenever their motherwent away. I don't know if it was the case all over Southern California or justin my parents' circle of friends, but by the time I joined my blended familyin Phoenix three months later it seemed as if every adult in the world wasgetting a divorce. I was glad to be living with my family again but regrettedthat it didn't include my father.

The 1960s and early 1970s were times of social change and experimentation.Writers Allen Ginsberg and Alan Watts and Harvard researchers suchas Timothy Leary believed that LSD could open doors to religious experiences.Some people thought their experiments should have stayed in the laboratory,but hundreds of thousands of others tried LSD. At age fifteen I wasone of them. The drug opened my mind to questions about the nature ofreality, especially the possibility that I had lived before. Unfortunately, I hadno one with whom I could talk, and I became confused. For the next six yearsI pushed the questions out of my mind with antispiritual drugs such as alcohol,cocaine, codeine, and prescription tranquilizers.

When I was twenty, in my junior year of college, a renewed spiritual longingsurfaced. Just when my history professor had us read St. Augustine andparts of the Bible, I became fascinated with religion and spiritual identity.Along with my school books, I began reading metaphysical and Eastern philosophies.Then an internal alarm clock went off, telling me to give up drugs,become vegetarian, and practice celibacy to progress on the spiritual path. Ileft Humboldt State University for the University of California, Santa Barbara,where I believed my destiny would find me.

At first I had trouble making friends because it seemed all the studentsused alcohol or drugs. Then I met Phillip, a mystic Christian who worked atthe Starlight Bookstore. I took a class there and ended up spending time withPhil, discussing God and the purpose of life. He suggested that I look intoKrishna consciousness because my beliefs sounded similar to theirs. He metsome Hare Krishnas a few weeks later and asked them to open a "preachingcenter," a missionary outpost, near the UCSB campus. Soon they did.

I had seen the saffron-robed men chanting on Hollywood Boulevard andin Trafalgar Square in London and had bought an occasional Back to Godheadmagazine at the airport. Their books were in the UCSB library, and Iread one passage that said that just by seeing a pure devotee one could experience"ecstatic symptoms" such as standing of the hair, shivering, laughing,and rolling on the ground. I wanted to find out whether that was true. Icouldn't wait to meet a devotee face to face.

When the preaching center was about to open with a Sunday feast, Phillipasked me to go early and make the Hare Krishna visitors feel welcome.Their place was half-way between my apartment and campus, so I walked tothe address and knocked. A man with white Indian clothes and a shaven headanswered. He had a steady, strong gaze and a contented smile. "Yes?" he said.

Maybe it was my imagination, but I felt an inner excitement, a recognition,a deja vu that filled me with expectation. He told me his name wasRadha-vallabha, but I could call him Radha. Then he asked me to wait in theliving room while he finished preparing the food. The apartment was almostcompletely bare except for a makeshift altar draped with cloth, a bookshelfwith Hare Krishna books, and a wicker basket of tambourines and brasscymbals. Although it was ordinary and empty, light filled the apartment alongwith the smells of food, incense, and fresh flowers, and harmonious musicplayed on a portable cassette player. I listened to the gentle conversation andjoking of the men in the kitchen as they worked.

Several cars full of Hare Krishna men and women pulled up, then Phillipand his friends from the bookstore arrived. Suddenly the bare apartment wasalive with conversation and laughter. Radha-vallabha sat down in the livingroom and started playing brass cymbals, chanting Hare Krishna. Everyonejoined in, singing responsively. I had heard the mantra in the musical Hair,in George Harrison's song "My Sweet Lord," and on another album calledThe Radha-Krsna Temple, so I happily chanted along. After the meditationcame food and a philosophical talk.

The women in my hatha-yoga class had warned me that Hare Krishnaswere chauvinistic, so during the question-and-answer period I made sure toask how women were viewed within the group. Radha-vallabha, who gavethe lecture, enthusiastically explained that because men and women wereeternal spirit souls, sparks of God's energy, they were completely equal. Ibelieved that too, so I was glad his explanation was so simple. After the lecturehe told me that he was the general manager of the Bhaktivedanta BookTrust (BBT), the organization's publishing arm. Everyone I met that nightworked for the BBT Press as proofreaders, Sanskrit experts, production managers,secretaries, typesetters, or graphic artists. They told me it was a multimillion-dollar enterprise and gave me one of their paperbacks, a lecture bytheir guru.

The devotees got out a movie projector and showed a film about theworldwide International Society for Krishna Consciousness (known by itsacronym of ISKCON) organization's temples, schools, and rural communities.Their guru Prabhupada had become a fixture of the hippie scene in NewYork in 1966, and from there ISKCON spread all over the world with morethan 108 branches. Prabhupada, a descendant in a line of gurus in India, carriedon an ancient tradition of Krishna worship and already had disciples inhis homeland. After the movie I talked to Radha-vallabha and Phillip foranother hour. Radha-vallabha said he'd been wanting to open a preachingcenter for some months, but it took that extra nudge from Phillip to makehim do it. We all agreed that the center would be successful because of theuniversity nearby.

Walking home that night, I thought about the devotees and decided thatthey were great. They seemed serious about their spiritual practices and happyin their alternative life-style. They told me they followed four regulativeprinciples: no meat-eating, no intoxication, no illicit sex, and no gambling,which meant they were the friends I was hoping to meet. I was also interestedin the BBT. Their publications were completely professional, with colorillustrations of oil paintings produced by devotees at the BBT art departmentin Los Angeles.

Radha-vallabha and his friends drove up every weekend for the Sundayfeast through the fall. I didn't know why, but they stopped coming in November.I thought it could be a lack of interest from the college students, butthen I read in the newspaper that their guru Prabhupada had died.

Whenever I walked to class I stopped at the preaching center to knock onthe door and peer in the window before continuing on my way. Fall becamewinter, and the first quarter was almost over. Then one day while riding thebus to school I saw some Hare Krishna men in front of a market. After classI went to the preaching center and knocked.

"Hare Krishna," said the man who came to the door. "Who are you?" Ididn't recognize him, either. His eyes were dark and penetrating. He woresaffron robes and had short black hair and glasses.

"My name is Nori. I used to come here for the Sunday feast."

"I'm Subhananda. But today is Wednesday. Why have you come today?"

"I want to learn more about Krishna consciousness," I said.

He invited me in. There were several men in the apartment, but Subhanandaand I sat in the living room undisturbed. He told me his service was to writefor the BBT and that he had written the introductions to some of Prabhupada'sbooks. He also assisted college professors who wanted to study the organization.He said his guru had given him an order to write a book on the psychologicalaspects of devotion, and he planned to stay in Santa Barbara to write.

"I want to ask you something," I said, taking a deep breath. "I read in theLos Angeles Times that your guru died. Is that true?"

Subhananda's smile faded. "My friends and I have just come from India.We were with Srila Prabhupada when he left his body."

Prabhupada was eighty-one and had been frail from many months of illness.Death had come on November 14, 1977, so recently that it had only beena matter of days. Subhananda read from his journal notes about Prabhupada'spassing: "For several minutes there was complete pandemonium. Devoteeslay on the ground sobbing or, blinded by tears, wandered aimlessly,wailing and crying unashamedly, falling into walls and into each other. Thesadness was monumental, but there was also exultation. We'd witnessed, afterall, a cosmic drama. To the loving eye of a disciple, Prabhupada had lefthis mortal body in a blaze of glory: a triumphant warrior exiting the battlefield,a sage departing to distant lands."

Subhananda read to me for a long time. Within his candid manner I felthis deep sadness and believed that what he had witnessed and written aboutwas a rare, mystical event. The great soul Prabhupada had left his body inKrishna's birthplace, Vrindavana, transcending this material world of darknessand duality.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from BETRAYAL of the SPIRIT by NORI J. MUSTER. Copyright © 2001 Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois. Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS PRESS.
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Edition details

• Publisher: University of Illinois Press
• Publication date: 2001
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0252065662
• ISBN 13: 9780252065668
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 256