Even the Father was surprised: he had listened to many confessions, his whole life had been just listening to confessions, but this was something new – twenty-five times since the morning?
He asked, “Are you married?”
The man said, “Yes, Father, to the same woman.” So the Father relaxed and he said, “There is no problem; it is your wife, you can make love.”
He said, “I know. And moreover, I’m not a Christian, nor am I a Catholic: I am a Jew. But I had to tell somebody!”
If something is burdening you, overburdening you, you have to tell somebody. You can ask me; let them be foolish.
So when I say that all questions are foolish, I am not saying to stop asking. Otherwise, old Paritosh would be in trouble – he has to bring questions. You continue asking….
…And by not asking you will not be able to understand that questions are foolish, but by asking, and by my constant answering and yet not answering them. This is the whole process of awareness. You ask the question; when you ask a question you think it is very serious, you ask a question and you think it is very profound, and then I answer it and I answer it with a joke. The whole profundity, the seriousness is gone; you start laughing. A great possibility is there that you will start laughing at your question, at the ridiculousness of it.
Life is there to be lived. Life has no question mark; it is a mystery, there is no explanation. And it is good that there is none: it would be a great misfortune if there were an explanation. If there were an answer that could satisfy you, just think how flat things would become, how boring, how monotonous – because no answer can answer your questions. Life remains an adventure, it remains a constant search.
Searching, one day you come to a point where you understand that you are wasting your energies in searching. The same energies can be put to celebration. You can enjoy.
These are two approaches towards life: the approach of the questioner, the seeker, the thinker, the philosopher; and the approach of the religious person, the mystic, the poet, the painter, the man of the heart. When a thinker enters into a garden he starts asking questions: “Why are trees green? Why are roses red?” When a poet enters he starts singing a song about the red roses and the green trees. When a painter comes, he paints. When a mystic comes, he simply stands there in tremendous awe. His breathing stops, time stops; it is so ecstatic. The question does not arise at all.
The philosopher goes on asking. The artist goes on painting, creating the same beauty again and again. The mystic does neither, neither does he ask nor does he create the flower. He is simply there, standing in deep meditation, enjoying. The mystic knows the way of joy.