Monday, May 5, 2025
Via Dhamma Wheel | Right View: Understanding the Noble Truth of the Way to the Cessation of Suffering
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Via Daily Dharma: No Absolute Truth
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Sunday, May 4, 2025
Via FB \\ "A Hindu man, Vinod Sekar, has written one of THE most moving and beautiful tributes every written for anyone... for the late Pope Francis." Shared by Shalini Tuscano.
"A Hindu man, Vinod Sekar, has written one of THE most moving and beautiful tributes every written for anyone... for the late Pope Francis." Shared by Shalini Tuscano.
The Loss of a Good Man: A Tribute to Pope Francis and the Power of Universal Faith
I only met Pope Francis once. It was brief. Just a few moments in a crowded room filled with dignitaries and seekers, some there out of duty, others out of belief. I was neither Catholic nor there on some divine pilgrimage. I was just a man in need of a little hope. And somehow, in that fleeting encounter, I received it.
It’s hard to explain without sounding overly romantic, but when you’re in the presence of someone truly good — not performatively good, not “publicly moral” or selectively kind — but genuinely, deeply, relentlessly good… something shifts in you. You feel lighter. You feel braver. You feel like humanity, for all its wounds and wickedness, is still worth fighting for.
That was the gift Pope Francis gave me. And I imagine, from the tears I’ve seen today and the aching silences of millions across faiths, races, and borders, that he gave that same gift to many.
Today, we mourn not just the passing of a Pope. We mourn the loss of one of the strongest chess pieces humanity had on this plain of existence.
He was a man who made kindness radical again. Who reminded the powerful that humility was not weakness. Who spoke of love not as doctrine but as duty. He was not just a religious man. He was something far more rare — he was universally spiritual.
I am a Hindu. My God wears different names. My prayers come in different rhythms. But I would have followed this man through fire. Because in his belief in God, he carried a belief in all of us. His eyes didn’t see denominations — they saw dignity. His voice, always soft but never weak, carried the weight of truth even when it unsettled the comfortable. Especially when it unsettled the comfortable.
This world has a way of chipping away at your soul. The noise, the greed, the hate, the empty rituals that masquerade as faith or patriotism or family values. It’s easy to go numb. It’s easy to give in to cynicism. But once in a while, someone comes along who reminds us that the better angels of our nature are still within reach. That goodness is still possible. That we don’t need to be perfect to do good — we just need to be brave.
Pope Francis was that man.
He chose love over doctrine. He chose compassion over judgment. And most remarkably, he chose action over applause. He walked with the poor. He knelt before the discarded. He challenged the powerful not with anger, but with moral courage. And he did all of this with a smile that felt like a prayer.
He understood something many religious leaders forget: that God doesn’t reside only in temples or churches or mosques. That holiness isn’t a place — it’s a way of living. A way of seeing others. A way of choosing kindness, over and over, even when it hurts.
So yes, today we mourn. I mourn. Not just for the Catholic world, but for all of us. Because when a man like this leaves, it feels like a light has been dimmed.
But maybe — just maybe — the way we honour him is by becoming the light ourselves.
Let us remember his faith in humanity, and let it fuel our own. Let us keep making the right chess moves in this complicated, brutal, beautiful game of life. Let us speak truth with grace. Let us protect the vulnerable, question the powerful, and lift each other up not because of who we are, but because we are here — together.
Pope Francis believed in a world where dignity wasn’t conditional. Where faith was lived, not just preached. That world can still exist — if we build it.
And maybe that’s the final gift he’s given us. A call not to despair, but to duty.
Because as long as we carry his belief in each other, then truly, he has not left us at all.
Vinod Sekhar
Via FB \\ Fear and Loathing: Closer to the Edge
EDITOR'S NOTE:
This sermon wasn’t delivered by Jesus Christ. Not literally. But in the wake of Donald Trump’s AI-generated photo posing as pope — just days after the death of Pope Francis — we couldn’t help but wonder: What would Jesus actually say about all this? Not the soft-focus, TV-pastor Jesus. The real one. The one who flipped tables, called out hypocrites, and warned the powerful to humble themselves or be humbled. If He saw Trump’s meme and JD Vance’s defense of it, this is what we imagine it might sound like..
JESUS SPEAKS:
I’m going to say this once — and clearly.
You are not the Pope.
You are not holy.
You are not even trying.
You are a man who mistook attention for anointing, applause for absolution, and Photoshop for the power of God.
I walked this earth with no throne, no title, no marketing team. I preached from boats, hillsides, and borrowed homes. I entered the city on a donkey, not a jet. When I wore white, it was linen. When I raised my hand, it was to heal — not to brand.
And now here you are — in robes you never earned, raising a finger you use for lawsuits, posing as a shepherd when you wouldn’t last five minutes with real sheep.
You don’t know the weight of that vestment. You couldn’t carry it. Not because it’s heavy, but because it’s honest.
And you, the man who defended him — you saw this circus, this mockery, this holy parody, and you said, “Well, I’m fine with jokes.”
Of course you are.
You’d be fine with golden calves if the lighting was good.
You’d be fine with selling prayer oil if the margins looked decent.
You would laugh in the courtyard while they hammered the nails — and then tweet about how misunderstood you are.
Let me be clear:
I’m not angry that you joked. I’m not afraid of jokes.
I invented irony.
I once said it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven — and you all thought I was talking about actual camels.
What offends me is the hollow theater.
What offends me is using death as a costume change.
What offends me is borrowing the symbols of a sacred calling to prop up a brand.
You didn’t honor Pope Francis.You hijacked his funeral and made it a campaign stop.
You saw the smoke rising from St. Peter’s and thought,
“What if it spelled my name?”
You turned mourning into marketing.
You turned Truth into Truth Social.
You turned the papacy into a punchline — and then dared the grieving to laugh.
You have confused virality with divinity.
You think because millions saw it, it must matter.
Let me tell you something about crowds:
I had them too.
They shouted my name.
And then they shouted for my execution.
Crowds are not disciples.
Retweets are not resurrection.
And memes are not miracles.
You want to wear the robe? Try washing feet.
You want the ring? Feed the poor.
You want to lead? Start by kneeling.And not on a golf green.
You treat the Church like a prop.
You hold up Bibles like trophies.
You speak of faith like it’s a flavor of ice cream.
Something to sample, then discard.
Let me ask you something:
Would you recognize me if I came back tomorrow?
Or would you photoshop me too?
Would I be the radical you ignore?
The refugee you deport?
The poor man you step over?
Would you accuse me of socialism for flipping your tables?
Would you call me “woke” for feeding the hungry?
Would you say, “He’s not very presidential”?
Here’s what I want to say to you, both of you, all of you who stood by that image — who reposted it, excused it, laughed with it,who turned My Father’s house into a punchline:
Get out.
Get out of My house with your photo ops.
Get out of My name with your merch drops.
Get out of My Gospel with your golden thrones and grievance theater.
The robe does not sanctify you.
The likes do not absolve you.
The silence of your pastors does not protect you.
You stood at the altar of your own ego and called it church.
I have seen enough.
And when the time comes, when the veil tears and the stage lights fall…
Do not say you weren’t warned.
Because I told you.
I told you loudly.
I told you clearly.
I told you with love, yes — but this time, with volume:
You are not the Pope.
You are not the truth.
And I do not know you.
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