Every year we offer some heartfelt words of appreciation to our founding spiritual teacher. For me, the lives of the saints settle all the doubts. Their stories are tangible proof that God really does exist. Dear Srila Prabhupada I close my eyes and picture the scene. It’s April 1966. Homeless, penniless and alone, you’ve relocated to the Lower East Side in search of “better opportunities” to preach. This is Skid row; the lowest of the low. Here you live, worship, study and teach. Its early evening, and your new residence, the rat-ridden 94 Bowery, is filled with buzzing acidheads, bearded bohemians, ruined alcoholics and disillusioned dropouts. The assembled participants have wandered into this makeshift temple in living protest against America's good life of materialism. Sex, music, LSD, and meditation is what makes them tick. Half-a-dozen unconscious bums block up the foyer. A few of them have urinated on the floor while one is actually dead. You nonchalantly step by them, enter the room and seat yourself at the front. These confused souls are looking for real love, real happiness and real spiritual experience. Your expression exudes bottomless depth. You are not phased in the slightest. You know your mission. You know you have what they’re looking for. You know Krishna is on your side.
Tangible Proof
Tangible Proof
Tangible Proof
Every year we offer some heartfelt words of appreciation to our founding spiritual teacher. For me, the lives of the saints settle all the doubts. Their stories are tangible proof that God really does exist. Dear Srila Prabhupada I close my eyes and picture the scene. It’s April 1966. Homeless, penniless and alone, you’ve relocated to the Lower East Side in search of “better opportunities” to preach. This is Skid row; the lowest of the low. Here you live, worship, study and teach. Its early evening, and your new residence, the rat-ridden 94 Bowery, is filled with buzzing acidheads, bearded bohemians, ruined alcoholics and disillusioned dropouts. The assembled participants have wandered into this makeshift temple in living protest against America's good life of materialism. Sex, music, LSD, and meditation is what makes them tick. Half-a-dozen unconscious bums block up the foyer. A few of them have urinated on the floor while one is actually dead. You nonchalantly step by them, enter the room and seat yourself at the front. These confused souls are looking for real love, real happiness and real spiritual experience. Your expression exudes bottomless depth. You are not phased in the slightest. You know your mission. You know you have what they’re looking for. You know Krishna is on your side.