The Death and Resurrection of Our Words

The Death and Resurrection of Our Words

by Notto R. Thelle

It is said that the Buddha proclaimed his teaching for fifty years but never said one single word. When words crumble away, we can find the silence wherein God's mystery is vibrantly alive.

During my time at high school, I was fascinated by Ibsen's description of the emperor Julian the Apostate in his play Emperor and Galilean. The young ruler is portrayed as a zealous witness to the faith who seeks to defeat the old religion by undermining it from within. He wanted to conquer the teachers of pagan wisdom by sitting at their feet, following them into their own world, and wresting the weapons from their grasp.

Wrestling with the lions! . . . It is God's will that I should seek out Libanios [the teacher of wisdom]--worm from him his arts and his learning--strike the unbelievers with their own weapons--strike, strike like Paul--conquer like Paul in the cause of the Lord!

I myself had been interested in Buddhism for many years. The Norwegian missionary Karl Ludvig Reichelt did pioneering work in establishing a new attitude to the religions of the Far East. He saw Buddhists as searchers for the truth and friends on the "path" (Tao). He entered fully into their world, adopted their way of living, and admired their ideals. He was convinced that the deepest ideas and expectations in Buddhism pointed to Christ, and he believed that his vocation was to lead Buddhists "on internal paths" to him who was the Way and the Life.

Reichelt's visions became an integral dimension of my dreams. Like the young prince Julian, I wanted to enter the world of Buddhist wisdom, wrest their skill and learning from the Buddhists, and "strike them down" with their own weapons. In my youthful zeal, I did not reflect all that much on the historical fact that it was Julian himself who was conquered by the pagan wisdom and became "the Apostate."

It was a shock to discover that I was completely unprepared for my encounter with Buddhism. It is of course true that there is a lot of watered-down piety in Japan, a Buddhism based only on customs and superstition--if you want to write about "the darkness of paganism," there are rich materials on which to draw! But if you possess eyes and ears, you gradually also discover depths of faith and religious experience that not only present a positive challenge to your faith but also amount to an onslaught on it.

When I arrived in Japan, I brought with me much of the best in Norwegian Christian life. I had grown up in the strict tradition of the church's pietism, which was, nevertheless, fairly generous and tolerant. My own home had been permeated by a genuine faith and commitment to missionary work. I went to Sunday school and attended services in the local church. A number of years of intense activity in the Christian union in my school were complemented by perspectives from the Student Christian Federation, which was open to a broader cultural inspiration. This was followed by solid theological studies, accompanied by the usual crises--doubt, uncertainty, and finally clarity.

Like most students, however, I was "unfinished" and immature when I left the theological faculty. I was able to expound scripture, I was familiar with the church's history and teaching, I had a basic theological training, and I was capable of developing all of these resources. I also possessed a number of weapons with which to respond to objections and criticism. But I still had a long way to go.

I quickly discovered that my Norwegian background had not equipped me to encounter Buddhism in a meaningful way. It was not that I lacked theological knowledge; as a matter of fact, I knew quite a lot about Buddhism, and further studies would deepen this knowledge. What was missing was the dimension of depth in my faith, something that would be capable of encountering what Rudolf Otto has called the "almost incomprehensible experiential world" of Mahayana Buddhism.

The only way forward was to set out on my travels, seeking to penetrate more deeply into Buddhism, hearing the meaning that lay behind the words, and grasping the life behind the outward forms. I sought closer contact through conversations and studies. I have had overwhelming experiences both in spiritual dialogues with Buddhist friends and in simply being present in silence while they worshiped. From time to time, I myself took part in meditation under Buddhist masters. I shall never forget my first meeting with a Zen master in Kyoto.

"Why have you come here?" he asked. "You Christians, too, have meditation and prayer!"

I answered that we did indeed possess these things, but that I wanted to see Buddhism from within and that Buddhism surely had something to teach us Christians too.

"But why on earth are you so keen to learn about Buddhism--or indeed about Christianity?"

I must admit that I no longer felt quite so self-assured. . . .

"It is raining outside tonight," continued the master.

We sat in silence and listened. The rain fell gently on the moss and herbs in the monastery garden. Then, suddenly, there came the impossible question:

"Is it Buddhism or Christianity that is raining?"

My thoughts darted around in the silence. But the rain gave me no answer.

"It is quite simply raining," he observed. "This is a question of being. All your theoretical thoughts about Buddhism and Christianity are separating you from the simple and fundamental matter: to be."

This was the first time it dawned upon me that faith could separate me from life, or rather, that speculations and pious explanations could build walls that shut out reality. Perhaps my faith would have to be demolished if I was to become a true Christian? And if the encounter with Christ did not help me to be in a way that was true, had I in fact encountered him?

One day the master told me how I should enter the hall of meditation: "When you go into the hall, you must lay aside all your thoughts and ideas and concepts. Leave your theology behind you. Forget God!"

I pondered these words. Is this possible? And is it right? Eventually, I concluded that this paradoxical action could be profoundly Christian. A Buddhist too must lay aside all of his ideas--about the Buddha, about enlightenment, about the path to salvation. He must (as it were) abandon the Buddha at the entrance to the meditation hall. But the first thing he does on entering is to bow reverently before the statue of the Buddha in the hall: he must forget the Buddha, but the Buddha is there. A Christian must lay aside all his theology and bid God farewell outside the meditation hall. But he is there when one enters--as near to us as our own breathing and heartbeat.

This master had studied the Bible, and one day he put me to the test:

"The Sermon on the Mount says that we are not to worry about tomorrow. What does that really mean?"

Innocently, I began to tell him about God's loving care for us. He is our father, and we are the children he looks after.

"I know that," he interrupted. "But what does it mean?"

I attempted to express myself more clearly: "We believe in God's providence. We have nothing to fear. Jesus compared this to the lilies in the field and the birds of heaven--"

Again he interrupted me: "Yes, I know all that, but what does it mean?"

Gently but ruthlessly, the surface of all of my explanations was peeled back to reveal mere theology, theories and empty words. He was not interested in explanations, but in the reality itself. How could I express without words the Christian's lack of worry?

Suddenly I recalled the first Christian testimony I had ever made. I was about fourteen years old and assistant leader of a patrol in the boy scouts. My older brother was in high school and had begun to master the pious vocabulary, since he was an active member of the school's Christian union.

"It isn't difficult at all," he said. "Just read a verse of scripture and say a few words."

I believed him and selected a verse that I liked and read it to the patrol: "Consider the lilies of the field. Look at the birds of the air. Do not worry about tomorrow." Now I was supposed to say something, but the words would not come. All I managed was a helpless mumbling, to the effect that: "Um . . . the Bible says . . . ah . . . that we are not to get worried . . . that means . . . um . . . ah . . . I think . . ." I had fallen a victim to a pious deception on the part of my brother! I was not much more than a child, but I was expected to be an adult and to represent God. . . . "It's easy, just say a few words."

And once again, now in the Zen temple in Japan, I experienced the collapse of my words. But this time, it was not just the pitiful and embarrassing experience of a fourteen-year-old. What was at stake was nothing less than my Christian faith!

In the course of many years of study, I had learned how to use words and concepts and to combine them to form a theological whole. This house had a beautiful facade, but its furnishings were borrowed from others--from my childhood home, from churches and meetinghouses, from theological libraries and lecture halls, or from books. I had built a house for others, but only a part of me lived in it. How incredibly naive to believe that I could bear witness to this Buddhist master about the Christian's lack of worry and about God's fatherly care! He saw through me. He knew that I was uttering words that were fully alive only in my brain, and to some extent in my heart--but they did not live at all in my kidneys and intestines and heartbeat and respiration! Nevertheless, it was good to experience this, since the master did not intend to expose either me or my Christian faith. All he wanted to do was to scrape away the hollow explanations and pious words in order to get into the very marrow and uncover the naked heart.

In Zen, words must collapse if we are to encounter reality. This is a painful process because it opens the door to fear and despair. Zen speaks of "the great doubt" and "the great death"; it is only after these that "the great faith" comes. Some Buddhists whom I have met believe that this is the same as "the dark night of the soul" in the writings of St. John of the Cross. After you have experienced the crumbling and disintegration of your words, you can no longer frolic in words and figures of speech with the same superficial enthusiasm. And you become attuned to the silent dimension of faith.

Buddhism too is full of words. The collection of its sacred writings in Chinese runs to one hundred enormous volumes, and it is impossible for any one person to get an overview of all of this material. The foundations here are the narratives of the Buddha's life, but there are so many versions and legends and apocryphal stories that it is not easy to identify the historical kernel. In addition, there are philosophical speculations and discussions, commentaries on these texts, and an endless series of commentaries on the commentaries. There are also guidelines for ethical conduct, and guides to meditation and spiritual exercises.

Despite all of these written documents, Buddhism remains unshakably aware that what really matters cannot be said in words. "The Buddha proclaimed his teaching for fifty years but never said one single word," it is claimed; we are told of the Buddha's "thunderous silence" when he refused to answer those who were curious about the reality that lies beyond the realm of sense perceptions. The Buddha did not teach a knowledge that is primarily accessible to the intellect. He taught a truth that can be grasped only in an illumination that breaks through all barriers and transforms the person's life. Taoist wisdom makes the point with exaggerated emphasis: "The one who knows does not speak. The one who speaks does not know." In the words of D. T. Suzuki, the great missionary of Zen Buddhism in the West, "The crux is how to communicate the silence without abandoning it." He himself wrote tens of thousands of pages about Zen, but he never forgot that, on the deepest level, all of this was merely beating about the bush.

The most beautiful expression of this insight is the narrative of how the Buddha found the one who would bring "the light of the teaching" to others. One day the Buddha sat in front of his disciples, lifted up a lotus blossom, and spun it around silently in his fingers. They all waited eagerly for the message he would give them; only Maha-Kashyapa smiled at this revelation, for he had grasped the wordless truth that lies beyond all doctrinal propositions and traditions. And it was he who received the commission to bring the light to others.

As a Christian, I believe in the Word. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. . . . And the Word became flesh and lived among us" (Jn 1). I read God's Word and preach the Word. I believe that, for all their poverty, human words can express divine things that shatter the narrow frameworks of our words. But the Word who was in the beginning, Christ who is the heart and the true meaning of God's love and wisdom, did not come to us as a word: the Word became flesh and blood. The Word did not come as theories and explanations and abstractions: the Word was a child in a manger, one human being among others. He healed the sick, proclaimed freedom to captives, ate with sinners, gave the poor a new dignity, died on a cross, and rose again from the dead. He told parables and stories. He laughed and cried. He shook his fist against hypocrisy, and he danced with children. His "kingdom of God" was no theory, but a new reality that came into being among the people he encountered.

Jesus' disciples followed the tradition he had begun. They proclaimed God's love by telling about what Jesus had done. In this way, the early church continued a Jewish biblical tradition: just as Israel had borne witness to God's greatness by telling the story of how the Israelites were liberated from the house of slavery in Egypt and entered the promised land, the Christians told about God's love by relating the story of Jesus. The Gospels were not written as texts to be interpreted and expounded by preachers and scholars: they are themselves the message about God's deeds. In their utterly simple stories of deeds and events, in symbols and images and parables, the Gospels reveal how God is.

In our Norwegian Lutheran Church, many people have seen that the Word has been transformed into words--the "church of the Word" became a church that produces huge quantities of words. Sometimes we speak as if we knew everything about God. We describe God's being and his characteristics. Theologians walk a tightrope between various heresies when they seek to define the Trinity or analyze the two natures of Christ. Priests and preachers speak of "God's will," though others can discern only a struggle for power, an opinionated insistence on the correctness of one's own positions, and personal ambitions. Carl Gustav Jung once observed that theologians talk about God in a "shameless" manner, and I believe that there is a similar bashfulness deep in the souls of our own people, when it is a question of the things of God. We theologians employ too many words; we "know" too much.

I am not saying that words are meaningless. Language is a wonderful instrument that can point to a reality beyond the boundaries of words. But it is too easy for us to succumb to a superstition about words and concepts, forgetting that there is indeed an unutterable dimension that lies beyond all of our words. The mystery is situated between the word and that which is unsaid. It cannot be contained within our systems, it can only be praised in stuttering human words. If we are too keen to analyze it and define it, it crumbles away between our fingers.

The true problem for the Christian church is not that our words are crumbling into dust, but that our innumerable words are choking and killing the mystery. Perhaps it is the grace of God that lets our words die, in order that we may seek that which is real.

It is of course true that some people find that their faith crumbles away when words lose their meaning, but often this indicates that their faith had already disintegrated; it was merely held together by a tight corset of words and formulas. Many people experience the exact opposite, namely, that although the words may die, the mystery itself lives. Indeed, both occur simultaneously: the words crumble away, and the mystery is revealed in a new clarity. And subsequently, there is a profound joy when the words rise up from the dead! This resurrection of our words need not mean that it is easy for us to find the words we seek; our words may perhaps become fewer than before. Now that we are more attuned to the mystery, we know that no words can explain it--all they can do is point to it.

Among the things I found most fascinating in my encounter with Japanese culture were the simple black-and-white brush drawings. A few strokes of the brush created a full picture, lacking nothing--a flower, a reed, or bamboo--simple yet vibrantly alive. The picture is created not only by the strokes of the brush but also by the untouched white surfaces of the paper.

When we describe our faith, we often want to fill out every last detail of the picture. Perhaps we ought to take the risk of simplicity: a few strokes of the pen, a few words and hints, so that the white surfaces can come alive and the words can bear us further out, across the boundary of our words, into that silence wherein God's mystery is vibrantly alive.

Notto R. Thelle, D.Th., is a professor in the Faculty of Theology, the University of Oslo, Norway. Having studied Buddhism at Otani University in Kyoto, he acted as associate director of the NCC (National Christian Council) Center for the Study of Japanese Religions in Kyoto from 1974 to 1985, where he was a visiting scholar in 1999 and 2000. He is the author of numerous books and articles. This essay is a translation of part of his book, which was published in Norwegian.

This article was originally published in the October-December 2006 issue of Dharma World.


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