Shortly after 5 pm last Thursday, outside a large white
house 45 minutes southeast of Portland, a familiar chant
could be heard: "Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna,
Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare."
Here in Eagle Creek, on a 1.4-acre lot buried off Highway
224 and surrounded by, of all things, thousands of future
Christmas trees, revelers came to celebrate Krishna
Janmasthami, the Appearance Day of Sri Krishna, namesake
of the religious movement brought to this country in
the 1960s by a man named Prabhupada. Here, fueled by
huge helpings of tofu, beans, veggies and curry, dozens
of believers and nonbelievers alike chanted and danced
the night away in a large yard separating the house,
which serves as a temple, from an old barn. And here,
a small group of twentysomethings is bringing the Hare
Krishna movement back to the Pacific Northwest.
"Where we are now is the result of three years' work,"
says Devaprastha, a 29-year-old devotee, born David
Willard, who serves as president of the local temple.
"We didn't just come in here and get this big house."
The group that now occupies the modest home in Clackamas
County moved to the Pacific Northwest from Berkeley
in 1996, originally settling in Eugene. "When we came
to Oregon, it started off with three people, a VW van
and $7," says Devaprastha. A year ago, the clan, which
had grown to a dozen, flocked to Northeast Portland
to take on a bigger city.
The Krishnas have never had a big presence here. The
group had a run-in with the Port of Portland over its
airport recruiting in the late '70s but hasn't drawn
much attention since.
Until last year, Portland's Krishna operation was run
by a couple who recently moved to Corvallis. With the
arrival of younger leaders, the city now boasts the
region's largest temple--with a regular congregation
of 50 followers, including 22 monks who live at the
Eagle Creek house and several more who live in a small
house in Seattle but regularly make the commute.
"All of a sudden there are all these Hare Krishna devotees
around," Devaprastha says, "and many times people are
like, 'Wow, I haven't seen you guys in years.' So it
is kind of an upswing."
The hosts of the Thursday celebration wore their youth
as noticeably as their dhotis, the familiar cloth skirts
the Orange Ones have made famous. Tattoos, jewelry and
cell phones were all in evidence during the celebration.
There's even a satellite dish bolted to the deck of
the ashram for Internet access.
Separating these monks from their peers, though, are
their beliefs and strict principles: no meat, no gambling,
no intoxicants and no sex. "We are more like religious
fanatics," laughs Jayananda, a 22-year-old who serves
as the unofficial spokesman for the group.
Born Jonathan Banks to a Jewish family in Massachusetts,
Jayananda is representative of the current Krishna movement:
He's young and articulate, and you might never know
he was a devotee if his bald head and orange garb didn't
give him away. He says he became a devotee while at
The Evergreen State College, though it was a slow transformation.
"Back then, I wasn't so willing to give up my college
lifestyle," he says of his early days of involvement,
a smile crossing his face. "You know: sex, drugs and
rock and roll."
He eventually did, though, and like his peers he is
chanting new life into the movement, a needed boost
after it stuttered in the late '80s amid allegations
of drug use and child abuse.
Devaprastha, who at 29 is by far the temple's elder,
says that in some ways it's easier for young people
to get involved. "Sometimes when people come to the
temple when they are over 25, it's difficult to take
on the process because they are set in their ways and
have so many preconceived ideas," he says. "This is
a time of learning. You are starting to form your identity,
ask questions about things. It's a time for people to
explore. I look at someone moving into the temple as
the same type of thing as a person going to college."
Part of the "college experience" for the group is flanking
downtown intersections or parts of Southeast Hawthorne
Boulevard or distributing books at regular spots at
Saturday Market, Sea-Tac Airport and, occasionally,
Portland International Airport.
"In a way it is recruiting," Jayananda says of book
distribution, which is the group's main source of income.
"We do want people to join and live in a Hare Krishna
temple for a period of time and get trained in spiritual
techniques--and then take that for what it's worth."
The pressure of living full-time in a Krishna temple--which
sometimes draws charges of cult status--comes from practical
considerations, Devaprastha says. Followers are expected
to wake at 4:30 am, devote at least two hours a day
to meditation and live by the strict principles of the
religion. "I find it would be somewhat difficult to
follow the principles not living in the temple," he
says. "Being in contact with the other devotees, it
keeps you spiritually strong."
On the upper floor of the Eagle Creek temple, a small
room serves as the ceremony spot, where most of the
chanting and dancing takes place, while the rest of
the floor is dedicated to food preparation. Downstairs,
the devotees cram into several small rooms that serve
as sleeping quarters. Celebrations like last week's
usually take place outdoors.
Old-timers in Clackamas County don't seem to mind their
new, colorful neighbors. "I heard some comments from
around the horn, but all those went away," says Harold
West, who rents the property to the Krishnas. "If you
have rental property and somebody pays rent on time,
I don't see a problem."
Rent, however, is something the Krishnas want to stop
paying. They would like to buy the rural property. "If
they came along with an attractive offer," says West,
"I'd probably sell."
In a state that still remembers the fallout of the
Rajneeshee ranch in Eastern Oregon, the prospect of
a compound of young "religious fanatics" in brightly
colored garb may set off some bells.
There's probably no cause for alarm just yet, though.
All Krishna temples are expected to be financially self-sufficient,
says Devaprastha. But with their rented temple boasting
a market value of $240,000, the group will have to sell
a lot of books to become homeowners.
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Willamette Week | originally
published September 8,
1999
