submitted by Chris O’Hare

Ron Erlandson
Born - Aug 21, 1937
Died - Died - Nov 30, 2009

Ron, at 70 years old, living with prostate cancer in temporary remission, started his journey on the Shambhala Buddhist path. In June 2009, he completed “The Sacred Path of the Warrior.” In that same year, he joined the Kasung, taking shifts until his illness prevented it.

After college, Ron attended seminary and became an Episcopal parish priest. His career had many chapters, including being counselor at a Catholic social service agency, being a chaplain at a home for the aging & dying, and being the attending clergy at numerous funerals and memorial services.

During the Summer of 2009, Ron was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He related to this with equanimity. With the help of his dear friend and care giver, Orlando Campbell, he travelled to Berlin, the one major city in Europe he had not visited. He came home and did what he needed to do to get his legal situation in order. During this time, he also celebrated his 72nd birthday, with “heart connected” friends, good food and laughter.

During his last few months, Ron was visited by numerous friends, clergy and Shambhala sangha members. He was generous with his attention, and interested in relating to people as they were, neither more nor less. Up to the end, he continued to be curious about living and dying. His often present soft dry wit and sparkling eyes elicited many smiles and heart felt chuckles from his visitors.

On August 28, 2009, Ron took Refuge with Lama Gyatso in Los Feliz, L.A., California, at which time he received his refuge name, Padma Dorje, i.e., Indestructible Lotus.

In his last ten days, he requested and received appropriate pain management. On November 30, 2009, Ron died peacefully at home in his own bed, with friends present and sangha practicing.

Ron’s Sukhavati was held December 11, 2009. Acharya Allyn Lyon officiated. At the Sukhavati, Ron’s brother, Barry Erlandson, with a chuckle, noted that he and Ron were born to a Swede father and a Hillbilly mother. Barry characterized the two brothers as being complete opposites, Ron left of left, Barry right of right, and Ron’s livelihood being priest and spiritual seeker, Barry being an engineer. They shared a good sense of humor and a commitment to doing what needed to be done.

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[Ron’s requested that at his Sukhavati he wanted read his “Statement to Friends.” What follows is a moderately edited version.]

Ron Erlandson’s Statement to His Friends

One afternoon while I was still a young priest, a man approached me at a church function having been brought there by a mutual friend from Chicago. His name was Ken Bailey, and our mutual friend had told me Ken was living with cancer. Taking me aside and bringing up his situation, he said, “If anyone ever tells you he’s going to beat something like this, you can tell that person it isn’t necessary. When I encouraged Ken to continue, he insisted that taking a combative stance toward cancer or any serious disease is inconsistent with trying to follow a spiritual path.

That was the only time I ever met Ken. I suspect he died shortly after, but his message has remained with me over all these years. “Tell them they don’t have to beat it.” The idea that serious illness must be battled is strikingly evident in our culture, as we’re all aware, and the use of euphemisms to avoid the word “death” is firmly entrenched. A favorite saying of my mother was “if something happens to so-and-so”, meaning, of course, “if so and so were to die”. The allopathic medical profession, whose approach sometimes seems more about curing the disease than attempting to assist the healing of the whole person, speaks of looking for magic bullets or knocking out viruses. It speaks of a war on cancer like our recent administration spoke, and still tries to speak, of the war on terror. A website called cancercenter.com touts the shrill motto, “We are fighters, and fighters win.”

Back in the 60’s, while a student at the University of Chicago, I listened to a talk by Kubler-Ross, who was just then getting her start. She told how hospital administrators responded to her request to interview terminal patients by insisting there were none, only patients who were said to be “beyond medical help.”

The media regularly speaks of battling as the experience of people living with cancer. As I write this, the expression is being applied on TV to Elizabeth Edwards and Farrah Fawcett.

An obituary will often read that the deceased died after a long battle with cancer, suggesting to me the writer’s belief that the person might possibly have failed by not battling enough.

An April 20 edition of the LA Times Health Section reviewed a recently published book, “Anticancer: A New Way of Life.” Though the book prescribes a more gentle regimen of diet, meditation and exercise as complementary to aggressive medical treatment, the story’s headline nevertheless referred to these as “Daily Attacks Against Cancer.”

My curiosity about death began during childhood when I discovered a dead bird in the road which passed by our house. Being the oldest kid in the neighborhood, I had no difficulty enlisting playmates to join me in mounting a proper funeral for the poor creature. Decked out in a bedspread as a makeshift “Cope,” I led the entourage up the long driveway and into the garage where the last rights occurred. The body, encased in a cigar box coffin, was laid to rest in a nearby field and covered with flowers stolen from a neighbor’s garden.

My earliest memory of a people funeral was the one held for my oldest uncle’s wife, Lizzie, who had died of lung cancer. Her demise was considered to be most unfair as she’d been a devout Nazarene who never smoked. I was unable to see Lizzie’s body, since my uncle had opted for a closed casket. I was taken to the house for the reception, where I was warned by my mother not to touch anything because I might catch the cancer.

Years later, now being a person who’s been present at many deaths and conducted countless funerals, I was in my doctor’s office for a routine yearly physical. When he attempted to prescribe a new medication, I resisted, reminding him I was already taking several other medications and was beginning to feel like a geriatric patient. “But don’t we all have to accept our mortality?” was his abrupt reply. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I sighed. “And how can I connect with those facing death if I haven’t begun preparation for my own?”

Then, advancing this story to the year 2003 and in the office of another doctor, I was catapulted into my own mortality by the discovery that I had prostate cancer. A mandatory drug screening for employees detected some red-flag concerns. This led to tests for possible infection, kidney stones, and cancer. Disclosure of the results was to launch a dramatic change in my life. As the doctor prepared to reveal the results, I noticed a definite shift in his demeanor, which told me what was to come. I began to feel like a butterfly specimen about to be pinned to a felt board.

There was a surrealistic air about the room as he told me I had a particularly aggressive cancer and then went on to declare my options. Dressed in his white jacket, the doctor’s outline appeared to flow into the stark whiteness of the wall behind him, and now it seemed like the wall itself was speaking. “Are you hearing me?” he asked. I answered that I was trying to listen through my fear and anxiety.

At home, I called a close friend, Gail (not her real name): “I’ve just found out I have aggressive prostate cancer.” Without leaving any space, she exclaimed, “Ron, you’re going to be OK”. As she continued her reassurances, I felt more and more isolated. “How does she know I’ll be OK? After all, the doctor doesn’t even know that.” Somehow it seemed she could not be OK, now that I wasn’t OK. Did it mean that she could only be OK with me, if I was OK? Her response to my call was like telling parents who just lost a child that they’re fortunate to still have another one.

I was scheduled to leave for Sweden in a few weeks. The doctor told me to go ahead. He would do the surgery after I returned. Following the surgery I would go on a regimen of hormonal therapy and receive injections of Lupron every three months. Chemotherapy was offered, and I declined. “How long will I have to take this stuff”, I asked. “As long as it works for you”, was the cryptic reply.

Three years later, I was in Vroman’s, a large Pasadena bookstore, where a book, as they say, jumped off the shelves – a book that led to a new dimension of my Spiritual Path. The book was titled “When Things Fall Apart” written by Pema Chodron, a 72 year old former Roman Catholic. She is now a Buddhist nun, spiritual director of Gampo Abbey in Nova Scotia, the author of many books, and has appeared several times with Bill MoyRoners. She is one of the foremost students of Chogyam Trungpa, a revered Tibetan meditation master and author of many books on Buddhism and the path of meditation.

In 1970, he moved to the U.S., settling in Boulder, Co. He was a dynamic teacher, establishing meditation centers around the world. In 1976, inspired by the ancient Asian Shambhala vision of enlightened society and spiritual warriorship, he developed a series of contemplative workshops called Shambhala Training - non denominational and open to people of all persuasions. Besides learning meditation, Shambhala Training deepens ones relationship with the total environment, helping the student to experience their embededness in the always present Sacred World, and the ever present opportunities for practicing loving kindness to self and others.

Shambhala Training is designed to awaken to ones true nature, as described either by Buddhism or Christianity. Chogyam Trungpa calls the Shambhala journey, “The Sacred Path of the Warrior,” to emphasize its counter-culture quality, its approach to conquering this world, not through violence or aggression, but through gentleness, courage and self-knowledge.

Now, before saying more, Yes, I’m aware of the controversy about the bishop-elect of Northern Michigan. Some of you may wonder if I’m on a slippery slope. If the Michigan priest’s experience has any parallel to my own, it has only deepened his Christian faith. No one has pressured me to take Buddhist vows. I have no intent to take vows which would place me in denial of my Christian roots. [Editor’s note: Ron requested and received Buddhist Refuge Vows about three months ago.]

During Shambhala Training, I learned the ancient Buddhist practice of Tonglen. This profound practice has changed my life. In contrast with meditation, it actively uses concepts, images and emotions to develop compassion for oneself and others. It has a universality that for me is the secret heart and meeting place of Buddhism and Christianity. It helps connect us with our suffering, rather than attempting to fight it or to escape it. Paradoxically, this dissolves the armor around our heart and awakens us to the compassion that has always already been there. Tonglen cuts through our habitual patterns of spinning a cocoon to defend against past hurts and future anxieties.

This practice begins by breathing in someone’s suffering. First you breathe in the person’s pain, fear, greed, hate, denial, whatever. As you breathe out, you send out whatever you imagine would mitigate their pain.

As you can see, Tonglen goes against the grain of how we usually hold ourselves together. It goes against the grain of wanting life on our own terms. It cuts the habitual reaction of trying to beat obstacles rather than first giving them space, getting a fresh perspective. It goes against our efforts to keep our mortality under wraps. It enables us to let go of self-centeredness - the ME PLAN - which is the source of all our suffering. Connecting to the vast, open dimension of our being that Buddhists call “shunyata” and Christians call the Kingdom of God, we find that painful things are no longer a big deal, nor are they as solid as they first appeared.

Now 6½ years later, I still visit the clinic in Pasadena for the monitoring of the monthly tests. I call this the “reading of the tea leaves.” The most critical test goes up and down; however there’s no longer any anticipatory anxiety as I walk from the parking building to the examination room. There’s curiosity, of course, but not anxiety. This is because I’ve moved beyond hope and fear, into a larger reality that can’t be found by the medical numbers game.

In the waiting room, I sit among many others, a motley group of those sharing membership in a club to which none of us aspired. I breathe in my suffering and breathe out peace and compassion to the others. I breathe in their suffering and breathe it back to them as peace and compassion. Last, I breathe in the suffering of all persons living in these circumstances anywhere in the world and breathe it out to them as peace and compassion.

I have come to notice how the embracing of my illness rather than fighting it has gradually brought new meaning and sense of purpose to my life. I feel such a strong sense of communion with all these people at the time even though I don’t know most of them, and without any sense of needing to be OK in the sense my friend Gail had meant it.

At last month’s “reading of the tea leaves,” the oncologist observed a rise in the my PSA level. When I asked about the implications, he reminded me that the hormonal therapy can’t fool the cancer indefinitely. “Nor,” said I, “can one fool oneself forever.” Whether we’ve accepted the truth of it or not, we know that the sand castles we’ve constructed at the beach will be washed away without a trace when the tide changes.

Sir Thomas Moore said before his beheading, “We are all in the same cart going to an execution.” So how can I hate anyone or wish anyone harm? To feel the full force of mortality, and to open our hearts to it, is indeed to recognize we’re in the same cart, to experience our interbeing with all beings, and from this will arise a determination to help alleviate their suffering; even to consider them as more important than our cherished self.

One modern figure who dedicated her life to seeing the sick and dying and who radiated the joy of giving and receiving was Mother Theresa. There’s no more inspiring statement of the spiritual essence of Tonglen than these familiar words of hers. (Editor’s note: three words [in parentheses] are added to the last line.)

“We all long for heaven where God is, but we have it in our power to be in heaven with him at this very moment, but being happy with him now means:

Loving as he loves
Helping as he helps
Giving as he gives
Serving as he serves
Rescuing as he rescues
Being with him 24 hours
Touching him [NOW] in [whatever is] his distressing disguise.

The end…

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[Three days after Ron’s Sukhavati, our sangha received this letter from Orlando Campbell, Ron’s friend and care giver.]

Shambhala Meditation Center
12/14/2009

To Ron’s Sangha Family,

I’d like to personally thank you for the warm and loving support you all provided to Ron and me during the final sacred months of his life. Rather than my attempting to single out individuals and run the risk of leaving someone out, I will simply refer to you collectively as his “sangha family.” He cherished the many wonderful friendships built including the heart filled visits from so many of you to his home. We were both very impressed by the way you opened your hearts from the time he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in August until his very peaceful end. You responded to his dying as “sangha family” by sitting with him during his active dying at the end and for some time thereafter, including having a Sukhavati Liturgy & Ceremony to help him in this transition on his spiritual path. Ron and I discussed donating to the building fund on a number of occasions, but only in concept. Knowing him as I did so well, he is resting comfortably knowing that I gave generously to a cause very dear to his heart. I did what he would have wanted. As an expression of our gratitude, I’d like to say thanks to all of you and gift the Shambhala Meditation Center $10,000 to support the building fund. You have made an imprint on my heart that will last forever.

Respectfully,
Orlando
Orlando L. Campbell
ol.campbell@cox.net

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May Ron’s death, his sharing of his dying, and his & Orlando’s gift be of benefit to all sentient beings.

Tags: Los Angeles, Sangha, Sukhavati

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