Zen: Meditation and Simplicity as a "Sacrament"

Zen

Meditation and Simplicity as a "Sacrament"

by Notto R. Thelle

Zen does not transcend the human consciousness in a search for "higher" value, this author says. On the contrary, one is summoned back to the original awareness, to this world.

A student once visited the Zen master Gasan in Tenryuji, one of the five great Zen monasteries in Kyoto, and asked him: "Have you ever read the Christian Bible?" Gasan replied: "No--read it for me."

The student opened the Bible and began to read from the Gospel of Matthew: "And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of them. . . . So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own" (6:28ff.).

Gasan said: "I would say that the man who spoke these words is enlightened."

The student continued his reading: "Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you" (7:7).

Gasan then said: "Wonderful! The man who spoke such words is not far from Buddhahood!" A little over one hundred years ago, a Christian theological student called Seitaro Yoshida knocked at the gate of Gasan's monastery and told him that he was "called by God" to meditate under Gasan's guidance. Initially, he did not get beyond the gate, but he did not acquiesce in this harsh rejection--he returned again and again, and was literally thrown out of the monastery each time. This is how Zen tests the seriousness and perseverance in a person's religious search. At last, the gate opened, and Yoshida shared the strict rhythm of the monastery's life for three years, before he resumed his theological studies and subsequently became a leading pastor in Japan's Protestant church.

We are not told the name of the student who read to Gasan from the Sermon on the Mount, but it is not improbable that it was Yoshida himself.

Zen or zazen--meditation in a seated posture--is the innermost secret of Buddhism. The Buddha himself attained enlightenment in the course of silent meditation. Indeed, many would say that meditation is the very Buddha Way. In the silence of the meditation hall, the body and mind become calm, one breathes more deeply and freely, and thoughts become clearer. The life-transforming insight is sought beyond the artificial boundaries of one's thought.

This was the context that Pastor Yoshida entered. He meditated with the monks, worked in the monastery garden and kitchen, listened to the master, conversed with him, and looked for answers to his questions. After three years, he went back to serving his church.

Naturally, this is not a normal career for a clergyman in Japan, and it was even more unusual in the nineteenth century, when Buddhists and Christians still regarded each other with suspicion and dislike. Nevertheless, Pastor Yoshida was not unique. He attracted attention because he was a clergyman, but we find the same pattern in many other Christians who were impelled by an inner force to put their faith to the test in the encounter with Zen. They became spiritual pilgrims, setting out on their travels in order to discover the hidden connections in their lives. What happened to them? And why were they attracted by Zen?

Some who had converted to Christianity now rediscovered in Buddhism the landscape of their childhood, and they turned their backs on Christianity for good. Their Christian faith became just one phase of a path which was absorbed into larger contexts. Others found Buddhism to be so severe and cold that they returned with a new eagerness to the warmth and human concern in the Christian church.

But many--perhaps most--discovered that Zen changed them. Their Christian faith became receptive to Buddhist experiences and insights, and this was more than merely an aesthetic varnish on the surface: new ideas and expressions made their faith look more Japanese. Some found new perspectives on their faith, when they recognized in Zen elements of their own faith; others found that Zen helped them to understand the Bible better, and they spoke enthusiastically of a "Zen spirituality" in Jesus and Paul. Some noticed an inner transformation: their faith was not only challenged and inspired, but acquired a new dimension. They held fast to Christ and remained members of the church, but they believed in a new way.

Something like this happened to another Japanese clergyman, the Dominican Shigeto Oshida. After many years of priestly ministry, he received permission to leave the normal structures of religious life, and he founded a little community in a mountain village north of Nagoya. He says of himself: "I am a Buddhist who has met Christ." He grew up as a Buddhist, and discovered the meaning of life in Christ. Since then, he has lived in the service of the church; but in the course of the years, he has rediscovered a way of life in which Zen is a natural part of the rhythm of faith. Father Oshida does not say very much about Zen, but it is there in the air one breathes, and the visitor notices how Zen inspires everything from worship and meditation and biblical study to the community's meals and conversations and daily work.

Everywhere in the East, one meets "hyphenated Christians" whose faith is formed in close contact with their inherited religion and culture. It seems that the encounter with Zen creates a particularly large number of hyphenated believers, who become "Zen-Christians" or "Christians inspired by Zen."

The traffic goes in the other direction too. After Japanese Buddhists overcame their skepticism and grasped that Christianity was not an enemy of the East, there has been a continuous stream of spiritual pilgrims to the Christian landscapes. The Christian faith, and not least the Gospel narratives about Jesus, unsettled them and inspired them. They were touched in the very depths of their life-experience, and the Bible became their favorite reading, shaping their way of thinking. There are many "hyphenated Buddhists" in Japan. Their existential attitudes are formed by Buddhism, but they are also friends and disciples of Jesus.

What is it about Zen Buddhism that permits Christians to recognize themselves in its experiences, and inspires them to see larger contexts, receive new insights, and be affected in the depths of their faith? The interest in Zen often begins as a romantic and aesthetic attraction. Zen has an atmosphere all of its own. Even in temples crowded by noisy tourists, one notices the silence behind the external forms; the architecture hints at hidden dimensions, and the miniature gardens in moss and stone and sand point one to a larger cosmos. Zen has penetrated Japanese art through and through, cultivating existential expressions that range from tea drinking and flower arrangements to sport and martial ideals. In the encounter with Zen, a Japanese Christian who has lost contact with his own background is compelled to ask whether God intended that the Christian faith should exclude the richness and simplicity that is at home in the religious world of the East.

Gradually, however, the aesthetic attraction becomes less important, as one concentrates on the life that lies behind the forms--the silence, the meditation, the concentration. One quickly sees that Zen makes demands; discipline, will, and perseverance are necessary for meditation. There is nothing romantic about sitting with your face to the wall while your legs ache and your thoughts are unwilling to concentrate. Aestheticism disappears when you are overpowered by sleep, or when you remain dumb because you cannot find an answer to the master's insoluble questions. How is one to meditate when doubt goes about its corrosive work, and one no longer knows where all this is leading?

And yet, thousands of Christians continue their journey into Zen, because they are nourished by an inner disquiet--which is also an inner certainty. The path into silence does not lead away from their faith, but into deeper dimensions of that faith. All that is superficial is stripped away; one no longer expects dramatic experiences and cosmic breakthroughs, but waits in simple openness. For many Christians, this meditation is a preparation for prayer. Words fall silent, expectations and ambitions disappear, and the mind opens up to perceive a greater presence.

I have helped organize seminars on Zen both for Japanese clergy and for foreign missionaries, and we always met in a Zen monastery. This meant that we not only had lectures and discussions, but could follow the rhythm of the monastery, including the fixed times for Zen meditation. The participants repeatedly confirmed my own observation: Zen can open up paths into silence because it has preserved a unique awareness of the body as an integral part of our spiritual search. Christians speak a great deal about silence and prayer, but they often forget that the body, the breathing, and external circumstances prepare concentration and are themselves a part of the silence. As one participant put it, somewhat paradoxically, "We tend to think that Buddhism despises the body, because it has no place for a Creator. But Zen taught me something about my body that my Christian faith in the Creator ought to have taught me long ago!"

When we hear that Zen is a finger pointing directly to the human heart, and that Zen means discovering one's true self, we naturally ask whether this means that the search in Zen is self-centered. Self-centeredness does in fact flourish in all religions which take the inward path, including Buddhism; but those who are looking for a comfortable ego-trip should seek methods other than Zen, for part of the point about finding oneself in Zen is not to confirm one's egotistic dreams, but to tear away the mask from the false ego so that the "original face" can emerge. The new world is born when we shatter the artificial world we have built up around ourselves. In Zen, we find our true being only when the ego dies.

This awareness that the true human person is born when the ego dies is a bridge that allows a dialogue between Buddhists and Christians. The conversation reaches a dead end when they formulate their insights in philosophical or theological concepts, but they are speaking the same language when they offer a concrete description of the person who has become what he was meant to be. Here is what one of Japan's leading Zen masters, Dogen Kigen (1200-1253), said to his disciples:

To get to know the Buddha Way is to get to know oneself.
To get to know oneself is to forget oneself.
To forget oneself is to be confirmed by all things.
To be confirmed by all things is to let go of one's body and mind, and to let go of others' bodies and minds.
All traces of enlightenment vanish; and these vanishing traces of awakening must be left behind forever.

Let us mention one further paradox: despite all its emphasis on achieving redemption by one's own power, Zen is profoundly aware that the individual's life is borne up by a greater presence.

There is no doubt that Zen is a path that the individual himself must take. Zen is hard work, concentration, discipline, and a journey toward insight that takes many years. One can listen, learn, understand with the intellect, and receive inspiration, but one must take responsibility for one's own destiny. No one can wake up in place of another person; the insight which transforms one's life is granted only to the person who opens his own eyes and sees. The traditional vocabulary calls this "self-redemption."

Nevertheless, those who have genuinely familiarized themselves with Zen have a surprising awareness that enlightenment is ultimately something one receives. The hard work and discipline do not create the insight; their function is to prepare the person and to create a space for the insight. Reality opens up for the one who has let go of his or her own self. There is a link between Zen's demand that one let go of the ego and its awareness that enlightenment is a gift of grace.

The most striking expression I know of this coexistence of hard work and gift is a book of sketches of life in a Japanese Zen monastery. One drawing shows a monk who at last has achieved his spiritual breakthrough. He has meditated for many months and years, and has given everything to attain insight. One day, the world opens up for him: he is awakened! He reacts to the miracle of enlightenment by stretching out his arms in an explosion of joy--and at precisely this moment, he sees something he had never before realized, namely that he is sitting on a huge hand, the hand of the Buddha. It had been there all along, but I imagine that he did not see it until he woke up and received knowledge. Despite all its emphasis on self-redemption, Zen is conscious that life can be received only by the one who has empty hands and an open mind. This idea is familiar to Christians too.

Zen Buddhism begins and ends with the simplest and most difficult questions of all: What does it mean to exist? How does one encounter life? How can one live in harmony with one's innermost nature? Many people come with exaggerated expectations of ecstatic experiences, cosmic breakthroughs, and superhuman abilities. They may indeed have important experiences, and they may be transformed in the course of time; but Zen does not seek extraordinary or super-human things. With ruthless consistency, it calls the individual back to the ordinary sphere where life unfolds in its "suchness" or "thusness," as Buddhists put it. Enlightenment means opening one's eyes in such a way that reality can be seen, untouched by desires, ambitions, dreams, and expectations. Zen means finding one's place in reality, not groping blindly for an unattainable dream world, but in a spontaneous and playful presence.

The title of this essay speaks of simplicity as a "sacrament." It is perhaps somewhat audacious to employ such a theologically loaded word about something as Buddhist as Zen, but I hope the point is clear enough. In the Christian tradition, a sacrament is a visible sign pointing to the presence of invisible grace. The water of baptism and the bread of the eucharist are fundamental elements of life that become the place of the divine presence in the sacred rites. In Zen, it is precisely the simple and everyday things that have a sacramental character. There is nothing special about drinking tea, meeting people, going about one's daily work, playing with children, or taking delight in nature; but it is in the elements of ordinary life that the mystery of existence opens up. A Zen poem puts it as follows:

How excellent!
How miraculous! I carry water. I cut wood.

Zen does not transcend the human consciousness in a search for "higher" values. On the contrary, one is summoned back to the original awareness, to this world. True life finds expression in everyday things. There are plenty of religions in the East that speak of the divinity of the soul and of superhuman experiences, but Zen speaks of something much simpler and much more demanding, namely of realizing one's own humanity.

Ultimately, it is perhaps this radical simplicity that makes the greatest impact on the Christians who journey into the landscapes of Zen Buddhism. In the course of their search, they become more open to the traditions of their own culture; silence and concentration give them a deeper understanding of the divine presence. Above all, however, they have learned something about true humanity. They have discovered the sacrament of simplicity.

Their Christian background alienated them from aspects of Zen. At the same time, their Christian faith gave them certain advantages, since they had already learned some elements of Zen from the Master himself. He too called people to return to the life they were meant to lead. He, more than anyone else, knew that the true life begins when the self dies. His life displayed what the sacrament of simplicity means. All this led these Christians to read the Gospels with a new eagerness, for it was there that they met the true Master who crossed all borders and made the divine presence a reality in people's daily lives.

In very truth, he came from God. But the really miraculous thing about him was his unfailing humanity.

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.

This essay is a translation from the author's 1991 book in Norwegian whose title translates as "Who Can Stop the Wind? Travels in the Borderland between East and West." This article was originally published in the April-June 2007 issue of Dharma World.


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