"I'm going to die for God. I'll go to paradise where I'll enjoy lots of sex and unlimited alcoholic drink and drugs of all kinds." This kind of thinking was in the heads of the terrorists who hijacked airplanes on September 11, 2001 resulting in thousands of unnecessary deaths of innocents.
“My first experience spending time on Skid Row was in 1972 when I stood on street corners chanting Hare Krishna,” Nrsimhananda says. “We used to visit the area once a week and distribute prasadam (spiritual food) to the “less fortunate.” We were outsiders, and so were they. We opted out of the 9-5 rat race; so had they. We slept on the floor; they were asleep on the sidewalk. We liked to get high on chanting the names of God; they had their drug of choice.
We don't like to find the word 'death' staring down at us from the wall. If we do, we'll hang it on somebody else, shrouding it behind a screen of medical abbreviations, and then we'll be gone. The word's still there — it follows us, of course, as the moon follows a moving car — but as long as we don't have to keep looking at it, we're 'okay'.