The Little Way of Zen

My wife Margaret, a Roman Catholic, had as her spiritual director, the late Mother Superior, Mary Catherine Kenny, RJM at the Bethany Retreat Center in Highland Mills, NY. She was known to all as Mother Catherine. One day Margaret said to Mother Catherine with a little apprehension? “My husband is a Zen-Buddhist Priest.” Then she held her breath. Mother Catherine smiled and responded, “Ah, yes. We have a lot to learn from Zen-Buddhism, don’t we?”

And I say, “Ah yes, we Zen-Buddhists have a lot to learn from Roman Catholicism, and the likes of Mother Catherine.” In particular, one of Mother Catherine’s loved saints: The Little Flower, Thérèse of Lisieux. She is one of the great Zen Masters who informs and inspires me to express my take on Zen. My take is that Zen is, as Thérèse would put it, a Little Way. It is small and insignificant. It is expressed in everyday ordinary things and events of living: moving the lawn, filling the bird-feeders with seeds, washing the dishes, walking with the dogs in the woods, serving and waiting on tables, driving a truck, brushing one’s teeth. All of the everyday ordinary doings of life that we normally don’t notice. It is so simple. There. All the time. The Little Way that is the Way of No Way.

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The Little Way of Thérèse

She entered Carmel convent when she was fifteen years old. Once inside, she never left the convent until she died at the age of twenty-four. She did nothing special during her short life. She spent her time doing simple everyday things: cooking, sewing, eating, sleeping, going to mass, saying the office, making her confession, receiving Holy Communion. She said nothing extraordinary, wrote no great poems, or great religious texts. Her famous autobiography was not for publication. It was written upon the command of the Mother Superior of the convent. Her life was spent doing the little things. Each little event, each little task—she offered to Christ. When she washed dishes, she washed for Christ. When she made her bed, she made it for Christ. When she lay down to rest, she rested for Christ. When she swept the floor, it was for Christ. She found Christ in every little act of her uneventful, momentous life. This is the Little Way of Thérèse.

Thérèse was a Zen master of the stature of Chao-chou, the other great Zen Master who informs my take on Zen-Buddhism and the teachings presented in this book. Each taught the Little Way of Zen.

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The Little Way of Chao-chou

The Little Zen Way is beautifully expressed by Chao-chou in a poem he wrote and in three early koans. The koans are, “Who is your Master,” “Everyday Mind—Ruined and Homeless,” and another version of this koan, “The Way: What is it?”

These koans illuminate and define Chao-chou. He is a simple, modest, and kind man. A man who knows his own self, and is not timid to present it at appropriate times, yet he does not push himself forward in order to gain fame, glory, or recognition. A man who teaches in simple language. Language not fettered with Buddhist clichés. Language that does not begin or end with words. Silence is also the language of Chao-chou. A man who is not interested in “figura,” or the presentation he makes. He is not interested in fine robes, brocade rakusus, silk kesas, fancy furniture. A man who takes no pride in his accomplishments or achievements. He is open to the learning he can receive from others, no matter who they may be, male, female, young, or old, Buddhist or non-Buddhist. Whoever and whatever can teach him, he will receive their learning. And likewise, he is willing to teach anyone who wants to learn from him. He is not interested in theological speculation. He will not tolerate any form of sham and exposes it as such, directly and immediately. However, he does it with kindness. No thirty blows from Chao-chou. No shouting of obscenities. This is Chao-chou. I hope you get to know, respect, and love him as I do. You will be enriched by this great Zen master. Here is his poem.

The cock crows in the early morning;

Sadly I see as I rise how worn out I am;

I haven’t a belt or a shirt.

Just the semblance of a robe.

My loincloth has no seat,

My pants no opening—

On my head are three or five pecks of gray ashes.

Originally I intended to practice to help save others;

Who would have suspected that instead

I would become a fool!

The images of this poem are few and simple: a crowing cock, a belt, a shirt, a robe, a loincloth, a pair of pants, a head, and three or five pecks of gray ashes upon that head. Just one simple, yet wonderful, metaphor: those ashes—for hair—a few gray ones on a balding head.

The images are low-level abstractions. They are common, everyday. The only thing uncommon to our twentieth century thinking is the loincloth, for which we could substitute a torn pair of underpants probably of the brief variety and probably old, torn, and a little soiled. All together they portray a shabby old man in tattered clothes. Utmost simplicity. Utmost poverty. And yet, this is the self-portrait of perhaps the greatest Zen master of all time! This portrait reminds me of the self-deprecating self-portraits of Rembrandt as an old man.

Chao-chou never engaged in fundraising for his little sangha, Kuan Yin monastery, where he lived for the last twenty years of his life. when a leg of his chair broke, he took a piece of wood from the firewood pile and used it as the replacement. He would not allow his students to do better. If the roof leaked, it leaked. The walls were drafty. There was little food available. The life at Kuan Yin monastery must have been severe. And yet, when one considers the feeling of the language of the koans involving Chao-chou, there is undeniable humor there. There is no sense of the grim, the dry ascetic. This man is vibrant and joyous. The metaphor of the three or five pecks of gray ashes on his head give a hint of his humor.

This poem probably was written in Chao-chou’s latter years. The “gray ashes” indicate that. So, in a way, the poem may be Chao-chou’s summing-up of his life. A man who began life with the pretensions of being a bodhisattva and ends realizing that he is a poor, shabby, fool. No opening for his pants and no seat on his loincloth. It is said that Chao-chou always spoke softly. How unlike some of his great peers: Ma-tsu, Lin-chi, and others who shouted and raged and stormed. Chao-chou was just a whisper of a Zen priest. Just a whisper of the Dharma.

Chao-chou is a man truly poor in body and spirit. A man whose way is quiet, nondramatic, little. The way of little things. The way of insignificance, of being small, of being, as Emily Dickinson says, “Nobody.”

I’m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you—Nobody—Too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

Don’t tell! They’d advertise—you know!

How dreary—to be—Somebody!

How public—like a Frog—

To tell one’s name—the livelong June—

To an admiring Bog!

In the koan, “Everyday Mind—Ruined and Homeless,” Chao-chou asks Nan-ch’uan, What is the Way?

Your everyday mind is the Way.

Can I reach it?

If you try to reach it, you will miss it.

If I don’t try to reach it, how can I know it?

The Way has nothing to do with knowing it, or not knowing. Knowing is deluded consciousness, and not knowing it is non-differentiation. When you enter the real Way without doubt, it will be like the great sky—like vastness itself. How could it be right to argue within oneself whether it is right or wrong?

Hearing this Chao-chou experienced a deep realization. He was seventeen years old. His description of the experience was: “Suddenly I was ruined and homeless.” Then he went to the Precept-Giving Altar at Shao Lin Monastery on Sung Mountain, where Bodhidharma had lived for nine years, and there he received the precepts. Afterwards he returned to Nan-ch’uan’s monastery.

A similar version of this koan has Nan-ch'uan respond,

The Way has nothing to do with ‘knowing’ or ‘not-knowing.’ Knowing is perceiving but blindly. Not knowing is just blankness. If you have already reached the un-aimed-at Way, like space: absolutely clear, void. You can not force it one way or the other.

And the koan ends with the memorable words,

At that instant Chao-chou was awakened to the profound meaning. His mind was the bright full moon.

The images of the koan are the ordinary, the little things, the low-level abstractions: “way,” “aim,” “missed,” “blindly,” “blankness,” “space,” “clear.” The verbs: “is,” “aim,” “misses,” “know,” “said,” “has,” “reached,” “force,” “was,” “was awakened.” That’s it. Everyday language. Everyday words. No Shakespearean heights here. These are the words and language of a five year old. Everyone can understand these words. No hidden meanings.

And yet like Chao-chou, by aiming, we miss. And we all miss. We all enter the daisan room with the intention of either making a kensho illuminating presentation or receiving a kensho illuminating teaching. We all aim high. We think we can reach the way, crack the heart of the koan with our understanding, with our knowledge, with our answers. And we have a hundred answers. A hundred answers for Mu. We reach for the moon.

Oscar Wilde in one of his quips says, “To do nothing is the most difficult thing in the world to do. The most difficult and the most intellectual.” He was wrong.

It’s not difficult to do nothing. And by no means intellectual. The difficulty is in trying to make something out of nothing! That’s where the intellectual creeps in. It’s crazy, and we do it all the time. Take the self. Shakyamuni teaches that the self is a bundle of what he calls “heaps” or “aggregates.” These heaps correspond to our senses, and the objects of perception of these senses. These heaps—our seeing, feeling, hearing, touching, tasting, et al, are changing constantly. There is nothing static about any of them. Our eyesight is constantly changing. Our hearing constantly changes. Etcetera. This bundle that we call the self has nothing about it that we can really pin down and say, “Hey, that’s it!” “That’s my self!” What’s my self? Is it my seeing, my hearing, my feeling? Is it my nose, my hands, my eyes, my liver, my pelvis, my vagina, my penis? Our attempt to find a self is a fruitless intellectual exercise. For there is no self with a capital “S.” There is nothing there we can rely on. There is nothing there! Can we trust our eyes to really see what we see? Ask five people who see the same thing to tell you what they saw and you get five different visions. The same is true of all of our senses. The same is true of language. We confuse the subject or object of our words with the words themselves. No matter how often we say the words “apple pie” we will not satisfy our hunger for apple pie. No matter how often we say the word “water” we will never quench our thirst.

We need to realize and understand that words are pointers and unreliable ones at that. They are symbols of things that actually have no existence. They point to that which is nothing. You see how ridiculous it gets?

Can I reach it?

If you try to reach it, you will miss it.

That’s the heart of this koan. All our efforts are useless. All our answers miss. All of our knowledge is useless. All our knowledge misses. All our efforts, knowledge, answers will not touch or force it in any way.

Understanding this Chao-chou says that he lost his bearings. He was now without a place. No nail to hang his cloak on. No nail to hang his preconceptions on. Homeless. Ruined. Being so, he became the bright full moon!

The Way of Chao-chou is the way of the ordinary everyday mind. It is the Little Way of Zen. And since each of us has an ordinary mind Zen is for us. We are able to experience the fullness of Zen in our ordinariness. In our everyday thoughts, words, and acts. Like Thérèse and Chao-chou when we do the little things—washing dishes, making the bed, cooking the soup, making the pizza, chopping firewood, bowing across the guts of a violin, spinning the potter’s wheel, painting a wall, mowing the lawn, shoveling snow—whatever it is we do—Zen happens. We are able to experience the fullness and completeness of Zen.

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Atta Dipa

The big bands I used to dance to in my teens, Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Count Basie, Woody Herman, Artie Shaw, etc., all had their own “theme” song—a song that identified and defined the character of the band. In a way, the Zen groups I work with have a theme gatha, or song. It is “Atta Dipa.” This is an ancient gatha I feel close to. It defines what Zen Buddhism means to me. It contains what I believe to be the heart of the teaching of Shakyamuni Buddha. We chant the gatha three times in Pali and once in English, very slowly. The chanting reverberates in my bones.

Atta Dipa

Viharatha

Atta Sharana

Ananna Sharana

Dhamma Dipa

Dhamma Sharana

Ananna Sharana

Look within!

You are The Light.

Take refuge in yourself.

Do not take refuge in others.

Look within!

The Light is The Dharma.

Take refuge in The Dharma.

Do not take refuge in anything,

Other than The Dharma.

I remember, many years ago, when I was a young Zen student in Los Angeles. I was filled with the first flush of enthusiasm for Zen practice. I felt an overwhelming need to commit myself. To give myself. To abandon myself. In that state I entered the Dokusan room (private interview room) of the late Maezumi Roshi. I expressed all of the above to him, and told him I pledged my whole body, heart, and loyalty to him. Outraged, he shouted,

NOOOOOOOOOO!

Be loyal to no man!

Be loyal only to the Dharma!

Give yourself to no man!

Give yourself only to the Dharma!

Abandon yourself to no man!

Abandon yourself only to the Dharma!

To this day, his words ring in my ears and beat in my heart. Then I found the early sutra from which Atta Dipa comes. It is part of the Early writings of Buddhism known as the Pali Canon. It is contained in a collection of sutras in a volume called the Digha Nikaya. The sutra describes the very last days and death of Shakyamuni Buddha. It is called the Mahaparinibbana Sutta. In this sutra, Ananda, the Buddha’s attendant, asks the Buddha what will happen to the order of monks after his death. The Buddha responds.

But Ananda, what does the order of monks expect of me? I have taught the dhamma, Ananda, making no “inner” and “outer”: the Tathagata has no “teacher’s fist” in respect of doctrines. If there is anyone who thinks: “I shall take charge of the order,” or “The order should refer to me,” let him make some statement about the order, but the Tathagata does not think in such terms. So why should the Tathagata make a statement about the order?

Ananda, I am an old, worn out, venerable, one who has traversed life’s path, I have reached the term of life, which is eighty. Just as an old cart is made to go by being held together with straps, so the Tathagata’s body is kept going by being strapped up. It is only when the Tathagata withdraws his attention from outward signs, and by the cessation of certain feelings, enters into the signless concentration of mind, that his body knows comfort.

Therefore, Ananda, you should live as islands unto yourselves, being your own refuge, with no one else as your refuge, with the Dhamma as an island, with the Dhamma as your refuge, with no other refuge.

In the Denkoroku, or Transmission of the Light, a book that recounts the enlightenment experiences of the early Zen masters, Shakyamuni’s enlightenment experience is described in the following words:

Shakyamuni Buddha saw the morning star and was enlightened, and he said, “I, and the great earth and all beings, simultaneously achieve the Way.”

Shakyamuni saw all beings as reflections of the morning star. All beings are the Light. All beings are complete. Just as we are. Right now. All beings, and all things: all rocks and trees, and grasses, flowers, and mountains, rivers, and streams. And the weeds, the slugs, and the snakes. Nothing and nobody is excluded: the sick, the criminals, the rich, the poor, the blind, the beggars, the homeless, lawyers, politicians, blacks, whites, Asians, and Latinos. All beings are, to use a Christian word, “saved.” Not that all beings contain or have a glimmer of the Light within them. They have the Light entire and complete. Not that all beings “contain” the Light. They are the Light. Everyone! No exceptions!

And that is why there is no other way but to take refuge in oneself. That’s why when we do zazen it doesn’t matter if we’re “good” at it. It doesn’t matter if we can’t manage to sit still for a full forty-five minutes. It doesn’t matter if we have an itch and need to scratch it away. It doesn’t matter if we’re drowsy and have to snap ourselves awake from time to time. For we are complete, just as we are. Perfection does not mean “macho Zen.” Sitting like a stone. Enduring unendurable pain in the legs until we’re ready to scream! Perfection means what we are as we are. The Sixth Ancestor, Huineng, said that Zen is the non-separation of subject and object. Being there. Being present. Often Zen Teachers use the qualifier “complete,” or “completely” in Huineng’s definition. They say the “complete” non-separation of subject and object. They say that one must be “completely” there. Completely present. Completely still while sitting in zazen, without moving a muscle, or twitching, or scratching, or whatever.

I have a problem with such qualifiers as “complete” and “completely.” The absolutism of it. The perfectionism of it. The major issue here is: Is it really possible? Is it really so? Can anyone ever be “completely” present at anything? Is not the everyday state of our mind the distracted state of mind? Is not the ordinary condition of humans, such as you and I, distracted, diffuse, ambivalent, and ambiguous? I know mine is. I don’t think I can point to a single moment when I have been “completely” anything. When I have been “totally” anything. Even in the most precious, revelatory, inspirational, possibly even enlightening moments of zazen. In fact I would go further to say that the ordinary everyday mind is the distracted mind.

We don’t have to become macho robots in order to practice Zen. Shakyamuni said we are perfect as we are. No alteration needed. Just as we are. With all of our imperfections. With all of our fatheadedness. With all of our faults. With all of our distractions. With all of our neuroses. With all of our idiosyncrasies. With all of our weakness. Thérèse says,

I need a heart burning with tenderness,

Who will be my support forever,

Who loves everything in me, even my weakness...

And who never leaves me day or night.

I could find no creature

Who could always love me and never die.

I must have a God who takes on my nature

And becomes my brother and is able to suffer.

We are perfect! If we are blind, we are perfect! If we are paraplegic, and have lost the use of our legs, we are perfect! If we are overweight, we are perfect! If we are underweight, we are perfect! If we have committed a terrible crime, we are perfect! If we have never committed a crime—in fact never even stolen an apple, we are perfect! We are perfect, just as we are, whatever and wherever we happen to be—be it a vacation resort, a palace, a mud hut, a cave, an upper East Side apartment in New York City, a palatial home in Palos Verdes, California, a prison cell, a monk’s cell, a nun’s cell—wherever and whatever. We are perfect, and the Little Way leads us to the experience of complete perfect enlightenment, what the early Buddhas called aññutarsamyaksambodhi.

Perfection does not mean perfection. Perfection means the ordinary everyday mind. Perfection means the everyday mind that is the distracted mind. Taking a cue from the great Bankei, who once admonished the monitors of his monastery for beating and waking sleeping monks in the zendo, “Why do you beat and wake them?” He said to them, “Do you think Buddha-nature is not present when a monk is asleep? Do you think it goes away when they sleep? Leave them alone.”

Similarly, I say, Buddha-nature is present in the distracted mind! Whatever state we are in is Buddha-nature. Whether we are completely or incompletely present. Whether we are distracted, or in a state of pin-point concentration and focus. I feel we should leave both extremes, and not worry about them. Turn instead to the Little Way. The great secret, the great treasure, is that It is here, now, present. In the blue sky, in the whisper of the wind, the opening and shutting of doors, in bowing, kinhin, or walking meditation, eating, sleeping. It is in zazen done without purpose, aim, gain, or even meaning. Shikantaza. Just sitting. Jesus insisted that the Kingdom of Heaven is within the human heart. Within each person’s heart. Just as he or she is. Now. Right here.

A couple of stories nail this down.

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The Parable of the Great Pearl

In the Lotus Sutra the Buddha tells a story about two men who spent the night in a hostel. One was very rich and the other very poor. The rich man decided to surprise the poor man. While the poor man slept, the rich man sewed a valuable pearl in the lining of the other’s coat. Next morning he would surprise the poor man with his gift. The rich man went to sleep. Next morning, the poor man was not there. The rich man asked the innkeeper where the poor man had gone. The innkeeper didn’t know. The rich man searched everywhere for the poor man. He couldn’t find him. Eventually, he gave up his search and went about his way.

The poor man, in the meantime was well away and continued his life as poor as ever. Often he went to bed very hungry. He spent many nights in despair, wishing for stale bread to eat, wishing for something better. Many years later, by chance, the rich and the poor man met again. The rich man was overjoyed and told the poor man what he had done that night. The poor man was aghast. He turned his coat inside out, ripped apart the lining and out popped the precious pearl. He had had it during all those years of poverty and despair!

Martin Buber tells a similar story. It is found in his wonderful series of books of Hasidic Tales.

The Treasure

Rabbi Burnam used to tell young men who came to him for the first time the story of Rabbi Eisik, son of Rabbi Yekel in Cracow. After many years of great poverty that had never shaken his faith in God, he dreamed someone bade him look for a treasure in Prague, under the bridge which leads to the king’s palace. When the dream recurred a third time, Rabbi Eisik prepared for the journey and set out for Prague. But the bridge was guarded day and night and he did not dare to start digging. Nevertheless he went to the bridge every morning and kept walking around it until evening.

Finally the captain of the guards, who had been watching him, asked in a kindly way whether he was looking for something or waiting for somebody. Rabbi Eisik told him of the dream which had brought him here from a faraway country. The captain laughed: “And so to please the dream, you poor fellow wore out your shoes to come here! As for having faith in dreams, if I had had it, I should have had to get going when a dream once told me to go to Cracow and dig for treasure under the stove in the room of a Jew—Eisik, son of Yekel, that was the name! Eisik, son of Yekel! I can just imagine what it would be like, how I should have to try every house over there, where one half of the Jews are named Eisik, and the other Yekel!” And he laughed again. Rabbi Eisik bowed, traveled home, dug up the treasure from under the stove, and built the House of Prayer which is called “Reb Eisik’s Shul.”

“Take this story to heart,” Rabbi Burnam used to add, “and make what it says your own: There is something you cannot find anywhere in the world, not even at the zaddik’s and there is, nevertheless, a place where you can find it.”

So ends this wonderful story.

And what is that something you cannot find anywhere else in the world? And where is that place where you can nevertheless find it? It’s the great jewel. It’s your own heartbeat. Feel your heartbeat. It’s the Buddha! It’s Christ! It’s the Unborn! And what is the Unborn? The word, “Unborn,” is first found in one of the old Pali Texts, the Uddana. It is a teaching of Shakyamuni Buddha

There is, monks, an Unborn, Unbecome, Unmade, Uncompounded (ajata, abhuta, akata, ashankhatam). If there were not this Unborn..., then there would be no deliverance here visible from that which is born, become, made, compounded. But since there is this Unborn, Unbecome, Unmade, Uncompounded, therefore a deliverance is visible from that which is born, become, made, compounded.

Nagarjuna also, somewhere, writes of the Unborn. He says, “Enlightened Nature is not large or small, not wide or narrow. It has no blessing, no retribution; it is undying and unborn.”

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Bankei

And then we have the great Rinzai Zen Master, Bankei Butchi Kosai, which means Bankei of Beneficent Enlightened Wisdom, an honorary title given to him by the Imperial Court in 1690. Bankei lived in the seventeenth century from 1622 to 1693. His teachings can be found in two books, The Unborn, and Bankei Zen.The following selections, which present Bankei’s teaching of the Unborn are from these two books. Please, if you read no other Zen books, do read these books.

Definition and Proof of the Unborn

Well then, what does it mean, you’re endowed with a Buddha-mind? Each of you now present decided to come here from your home in the desire to hear what I have to say. Now if a dog barked beyond the temple walls while you’re listening to me, you’d hear it and know it was a dog barking. If a crow cawed, you’d hear it and know it was a crow. You’d hear an adult’s voice as an adult’s and a child’s as a child’s. You didn’t come here in order to hear a dog bark, a crow caw, or any of the other sounds which might come from outside the temple during my talk. Yet while you’re here, you’d hear those sounds. Your eyes see and distinguish reds and whites and other colors and your nose can tell good smells from bad. You could have had no way of knowing beforehand of any of the sights, sounds, or smells you might encounter at this meeting, yet you’re able nevertheless to recognize these unforeseen sights and sounds as you encounter them, without premeditation. That’s because you’re seeing and hearing in the Unborn.

That you do see and hear and smell in this way without giving rise to the thought that you will, is the proof that this inherent Buddha-mind is unborn and possessed of a wonderful illuminative wisdom. The Unborn manifests itself in the thought “I want to see” or “I want to hear” not being born. When a dog howls, even if ten million people said in chorus that it was the sound of a crow crying, I doubt if you’d be convinced. It’s highly unlikely there would be any way they could delude you into believing what they said. That’s owing to the marvelous awareness and unbornness of your Buddha-mind. The reason I say it’s in the “Unborn” that you see and hear in this way, is because the mind doesn’t give “birth” to any thought or inclination to see or hear. Therefore it is unborn. Being Unborn, it’s also undying: It’s not possible for what is not born to perish. This is the sense in which I say that all people have an unborn Buddha-mind.

Meister Eckhart spoke of God, using words very similar to the words used by Shakyamuni Buddha, of the unborn, the unbecome, the unmade, the uncompounded. He says “...that which God intrinsically is in the undifferentiated Godhead is unqualified, strictly unconditioned, beyond distinctions and determinations, and in relation to it the entire order of manifestation as such is nothing.” (P. 7)

Kelley further goes on to say, “The essential doctrine, in the name of which Eckhart speaks and which determines all particular aspects of his teaching, is the doctrine of Divine Knowledge. It is the doctrine of ‘unrestricted knowledge itself’ which, being unconditioned and beyond distinctions, transcends all manifest acts of intellection, just as it transcends every possible mode of experience.” (P. 1).

He also speaks of Divine Knowledge as “unknowing knowledge.” (P. 2)

The great Paul of Tarsus, wrote about a nameless affliction. He prayed that his affliction may be taken from him so that he may greater serve God. He writes about the response to his prayer. Jesus appeared to him and said, “No, in thy weakness is my strength.”

What a response! What a comfort! We don’t need to be perfect! We don’t need to get rid of our afflictions, imperfections, diseases, illnesses, disabilities, or whatever. These stories and all of the great teachers and Zen masters, the great Hasidic Rabbis, Jesus, Shakyamuni, Bankei, and Eckhart—all point to the same thing. We’re fine as we are! Just as we are is OK!

Please note, however, I am not saying anything about ethics and about our past, present, or future thoughts, words, or acts. Being OK as we are doesn’t mean we can now go ahead and do what we want. That anything goes. This is the mistake the Beat Zen movement of the fifties made. We are OK as we are. And we need to live and govern our lives according to the very best that is within us. To Buddhists, this means to guide our lives according to the Precepts. To Christians and Jews, according to the Ten Commandments. And so forth. But as we are is OK. We are complete. Everything is there.

Therefore, no perfection is needed! Therefore, no macho Zen is needed!

Down with perfectionism!

Down with the Saints!

Away with the Arahats!

Kill the Buddha!

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Why Bother?

Well if this is all so what about the sutras? What about liturgical service? What about the Sacraments? Mass? Practice? The practice of zazen? What about all of the many “Buddhist Teachings?” What are we to make of them? How are we to deal with them? What about the long hard years I spent studying? The long hard years of koan study? Trying to penetrate the meaning of complex, irrational, imponderable koans? The stabs into the absolute? Teachings about the absolute and relative? About the interpenetration of the relative and absolute? Are they all unnecessary? All extra? Is none of it needed? What about the years I spent studying how to perform Soto-Zen Buddhist Services. Copying kirigami—documents of transmission? Memorizing sutras in Japanese? It took me an entire year to learn the “Heart Sutra” in Japanese! During all those same years I studied various mnemonic mantras and dharanis. All those years I studied endlessly long Theravadin and Great Vehicle Buddhist texts and sutras. Endless psychological, theological tomes of Buddhist hermeneutics and metaphysics. Was it all unnecessary and extra? How are we to deal with the phenomenal corpus of Buddhist literature? It is said that no one person can actually read the thousands of books of Buddhist literature. What about all this? Why go through all this if it’s extra? If it’s unnecessary do we simply chuck it all? These questions are similar to the dilemma that drove Dogen Zenji, the great founder of Soto-Zen. The question that troubled him was, if, as the sutras say, all human beings are endowed with Buddha-nature, why is it that one must train oneself so strenuously to realize that very same Buddha-nature? Dogen went from teacher to teacher with his question and did not receive a satisfactory answer. The Zen Rinzai Master Eisai gave him a partial answer. He said “...all the Buddhas in the three stages of time are unaware that they are endowed with Buddha-nature, but cats and oxen are well aware of it indeed!” In other words, the Buddhas, because they are Buddhas, do not think of having or not having Buddha-nature; only the deluded (in this case represented by the animals) think in such terms. This answer partially satisfied Dogen Zenji. But it was not until he met Zen Master Ju-ching, that he experienced the answer to his question. There he realized that he practiced and studied not to gain Buddha-nature, but that he practiced and studied because he was Buddha-nature. He was perfect. Therefore because of his perfection, he practiced. This goes beyond sectarianism. This goes beyond Buddhism, Catholicism, Islamism, Judaism, etc. Because I am perfect, I practice Zen-Buddhism. Because you are perfect you practice Catholicism. Because you are perfect you practice Islam, or Judaism, or whatever religious persuasion meets your spirit and condition. Yes, it is extra. And it is unnecessary in and of itself. And we should realize that all the practice in the world will not make us better Buddhists, Catholics, Jews, Muslims etc. To use a Christian term, it is not practice, but Grace, which perfects us. And grace is something that is given—is inborn—is unborn.

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The Teachings of Shakyamuni Buddha

Jesus was once asked to sum up the teachings of the Commandments. He responded with two. Love God and love your neighbor as yourself. Or, more simply, Love God, Love people.

For me, the teaching of Shakyamuni can be given in three simple sentences:

Try to think kind thoughts.

Try to speak kind words.

Try not to hurt any living thing.

Notice the use of the transitive verb “try.” Shakyamuni’s great compassion is here. He understands that we are fractured, failing, stumbling, barely competent, prone to error—human beings. So he directs us to at least point in the direction of kindness. To at least make the attempt. Then, there may be some follow-through. Shakyamuni’s great understanding of our flawed nature is again demonstrated in his poignant words, spoken to Ananda, in the Dharmapada.

As an elephant endures the arrows of battle,

I will patiently endure harsh words. For such is the way of the world: Human beings are often cruel.

To introduce the teachings of Shakyamuni, here are his own words.

The Raft

“Bhikkhus, I shall show you how the Dhamma is similar to a raft, being for the purpose of crossing over, not for the purpose of grasping. Listen and attend closely to what I shall say.”

“Yes, venerable sir,” the Bhikkhus replied. The Blessed One said this:

“Bhikkhus, suppose a man in the course of a journey saw a great expanse of water, whose near shore was dangerous and fearful and whose further shore was safe and free from fear, but there was no ferryboat or bridge going to the far shore. Then he thought: ‘There is this great expanse of water, whose near shore is dangerous and fearful and whose further shore is safe and free from fear, but there is no ferryboat or bridge going to the far shore. Suppose I collect grass, twigs, branches, and leaves and bind them together into a raft, and supported by the raft and making an effort with my hands and feet, I got safely across to the far shore.’ And then the man collected grass, twigs, branches, and leaves and bound them together into a raft, and supported by the raft and making an effort with his hands and feet, he got safely across to the farther shore. Then, when he had got across and had arrived at the far shore, he might think thus: ‘This raft has been very helpful to me, since supported by it and making an effort with my hands and feet, I got safely across to the far shore. Suppose I were to hoist it on my head or load it on my shoulder, and then go wherever I want.’ Now. Bhikkhus, what do you think? By doing so, would that man be doing what should be done with that raft?”

“No, venerable sir.”

“By doing what would that man be doing what should be done with that raft? Here Bhikkhus, when that man got across and had arrived at the far shore, he might think thus: ‘This raft has been very helpful to me, since supported by it and making an effort with my hands and feet, I got safely across to the far shore. Suppose I were to haul it onto the dry land or set it adrift in the water, and then go wherever I want.’ Now Bhikkhus, it is by so doing that that man would be doing what should be done with that raft. So I have shown how the Dhamma is similar to a raft, being for the purpose of crossing over, not for the purpose of grasping.

“Bhikkhus, when you know the Dhamma to be similar to a raft, you should abandon even good states, how much more so bad states.”

In other words, the teachings of Shakyamuni are tools not rules. They are not static. They change according to circumstance. We need to fashion a different set of tools under different conditions. Depending on time, place, people concerned, amounts of money, or other value oriented quantity involved. When we look at Shakyamuni’s teachings in this light, they become alive.

First, I would like to get away from the terms “Hinayana,” and “Mahayana.” The word “yana” means “vehicle.” “Maha,” means great, and “Hina,” means “lesser.” And guess who invented these terms? Yes, those who gave themselves the term “Mahayana,” So instead of Hinayana and Mahayana I will use the terms Teachings of the Pali Canon and Teachings of the Great Vehicle. In this connection, I came across a quote from Keiji Nichitani recently that illustrates how connected the two “vehicles” or teachings are. He says that the famous formula of the “Heart Sutra” is a summation of both teachings. Form is emptiness represents the teachings of the Pali Canon; Emptiness is Form represents the teachings of the Great Vehicle.

Form is Emptiness = Pali Canon Teachings

Emptiness is Form = Great Vehicle Teachings.

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The Teachings of the Pali Canon

We don’t really know what Shakyamuni taught. He left no writings. Nothing had been written about him by anyone during his lifetime. In fact the earliest written record containing teachings of Shakyamuni Buddha, in which he is personally quoted, were written many hundreds of years after his death.

From the time of his death around 500 B.C., until the first Century his teachings were preserved orally. Groups of monks specialized in memorizing different teachings and preserved these teachings within their order. Then around the first century a group of monks settled in Shri Lanka and in their splendid isolation they began to put the teachings into writing, using the language of Pali that they spoke, and gave birth to the wonderful collection of teachings known as the Pali Canon.

Interestingly, around about the same time, between 500 B.C. and 300 A.D. another great literary outburst created what has come to be known as the teachings of the Great Vehicle, and the monumental Lotus Sutra, Vimalakirti Sutra, and the Prajãparamita Sutras, and many other sutras, were born. Unfortunately, the writers of both sets of documents, the Pali Canon and the Great Vehicle documents were not interested in dates. So none of the works written by these two groups were dated.

However, Chinese Buddhists came to India at around 500 A.D. and they began to copy the new writings of both groups and the Chinese were scrupulous about dating. They completed the Tripitaka in 518 A.D. Tripitaka means “Three Baskets,” and refers to the Pali Canon. These writings were the Teaching Sutras, the Vinaya, or Rules of the order of monks and nuns, and the Abidharma, or Commentary on the Teachings and just about everything else.

In addition, there was another great translation project done by the Tibetans. They completed translating the entire corpus of both groups by 1411.

So we have a vast body of written material that presents the teachings of Shakyamuni Buddha. There are many ways to try to get at “core” or “essential” or “genuine” teachings of Shakyamuni. One such method is that when a teaching is found in each of the various translations one can usually assume some authenticity to that teaching. The interesting thing is that the Chinese translations sometimes contain teachings not found in any of the extant Sanskrit, or Pali texts. This leads one to suspect that they used texts no longer in existence, or of an “Ur-Text.” All of which is very interesting and somewhat confusing. In addition there is the problem of the scribes who were copying down the teachings.

When one reads the sutras one is not only reading the teachings of Shakyamuni Buddha, one is also reading interpretations and understandings of these teachings made by the scribes and editors who wrote the words. So how do we deal with the issue of presenting Shakyamuni’s teachings? How do we know which teachings are his true teachings and which are not? My personal answer is found in one of the old stories.

The Buddha visited a village in India. The people of the village went to him and told him that many teachers had come to them teaching this doctrine and that doctrine. Then other teachers would come and said that those teachers were wrong and only their doctrines were right. And the people said that they didn’t know who is right and who is wrong and that they were full of perplexity and doubt.

The Buddha said: “... It is proper that you have doubt, that you have perplexity ... Do not be led by reports, or tradition or hearsay. Be not led by the authority of religious texts, nor by mere logic or inference, nor by considering appearances, nor by the delight in speculative opinions, nor by seeming possibilities, nor by the idea: 'this is our teacher’... But, when you know for yourselves that certain things are unwholesome and wrong and bad, then give them up .... And when you know for yourselves that certain things are wholesome and good, then accept them and follow them.”

In other words, the teachings, the sutras, the truth, the Unborn, the Buddha-mind is within our own beings, minds, self, and hearts. We have it within. That is the reason Shakyamuni said he gave no teachings. That is the reason Zen teaching is both easy and difficult. Easy because there is nothing to teach. Difficult because the job of the teacher of Zen is to turn his or her students to their hearts—to help them realize and manifest the power that is within them. This is Zen teaching.

So the teachings of Shakyamuni Buddha I present are my take on the Teachings. They are those teachings that have touched my heart—that resonate within me. However, in a very real sense, whenever I, or anybody says, this is a teaching of Shakyamuni, or of Jesus, or of Socrates, or of Meister Eckhart, or of whomever, we lie. For whatever comes out of my mouth is filtered by the totality that is Mui. Whatever comes out of me is no longer Shakyamuni’s teaching. It has been informed by everything that makes up that which is me. By my background, by my Italian heritage, by my growing up in Brooklyn, by my years as a Catholic, my years as a Quaker, my years as a fundraiser, my years as a jazz musician, by my playing of the Recorder, by my love of Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Giotto, Leonardo da Vinci, Don Quixote, James Joyce, P. G. Woodhouse, Rex Stout, and his Nero Wolfe and Archie—and more—much more—more than I can ever enumerate—by my relationships, by my mother, father, sister, my daughters, the inmates of the prisons I went to. All of this, and more, informs, influences, directs, contaminates, refines, and complicates that which I present, ostensibly, as the teaching of Shakyamuni Buddha. The same is true of each person in the universe. One sees another dimension of the teaching of one body here.

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Impermanence and Change

This was said by the Exalted One ...

“Monks, this body is corruptible, consciousness is of a nature to fade, all substrates are impermanent, ill, and subject to change and decay.”...

“O Brahmana, it is just like a mountain river, flowing far and swift, taking everything along with it; there is no moment, no instant, no second when it stops flowing, but it goes on flowing and continuing. So Brahmana, is human life, like a mountain river.” As the Buddha told Ratthapala: “The world is in continuous flux and is impermanent.”

Very simply, the teaching of impermanence is that everything changes. Nothing from the most microscopic to the most gargantuan is exempt. Everything changes. Nothing remains the same. Everything is in motion. It is interesting that in sixth century Greece, a near contemporary of Shakyamuni, Heraclites, came up with a similar teaching. He came to his conclusion by looking at a stream and made the observation that one cannot step into the same stream twice. Whenever one steps into the stream it is different. That is because of the flow of the stream. So is it with all things. Everything changes. Everything is in process. And there are no exceptions.

I find this teaching to be freeing and liberating—the fact that no matter what circumstance we find ourselves in, it will change. If we are sick, we know that our sickness will change. We either will get better or worse. But the miserable cold in the head will not be a permanent condition. It will change. Hopefully, we will get better and not worse. That’s because all things are impermanent. Similarly, we should be careful of situations that are pleasant. They too will change. They may get better, or they may get worse. They will change. All things change. A mountain changes. The great seas change. A grain of sand changes. A blade of grass changes. All things change. This is the teaching of impermanence. Nothing is permanent. There is nothing that will remain as it is.

Since everything is subject to change, including our physical being, it is nonsense to say that there is a discrete being or self. Now, don’t get me wrong! There is a self! But it is a changing self. There is a Mui. He’s always changing, from day to day, from moment to moment. But there is a Mui. There is a Mui who sees, hears, eats, smells, farts, and whatever. There is a Mui. Buddhism does not say there is no such thing as existence. There is existence. But it is a changing existence. It is never static. It is existence that is always new.

This teaching of impermanence has many ramifications. For instance, you may have noted in some of the quotes from the sutras that the old Buddhists would say that since everything is subject to change, it is nonsense to attach to anything—to try to hold on to things. Try to make things be as they are—without ever changing. This is nonsense. We get into trouble when we try to keep things as they are. There’s a wonderful song, written by Jerome Kern, “The Way You Look Tonight.” I have an old recording of the song played by a small group of Benny Goodman’s, sung by the great Peggy Lee. Here are the lyrics.

Some day When I’m awfully low.

When the world is cold

I will feel a glow

Just thinking of you

And the way you look tonight.

Oh but you’re lovely

With your smile so warm

And your cheeks so soft

There is nothing for me

But to love you

Just the way you look tonight.

With each word Your tenderness grows

Tearing my fear apart.

And that lamp

That wrinkles your nose

Touches my foolish heart.

Lovely Never, never change

Keep that breathless charm

Won’t you please

Arrange it

For I love you

Just the way you look tonight.

I cannot convey how beautifully Peggy Lee sings this song. But the wish of the song impossible! The song is nothing but trouble! It will bring nothing but misery. Because we all change. It’s impossible to “keep that breathless charm.” It’s impossible to “arrange it.” There is no such thing as, “Just the way you look tonight!” Because change occurs every moment, not just every night, or day. We are changing right now, before our very eyes. No two moments—no two nanoseconds are the same.

Trying to keep the “same” love we had when we first met our love is crazy. Let the lovers grow. Let the lovers mature with a new love each new loving day of their loving lives. Don’t try to keep it “Just the way you look tonight.” That’s crazy! We regret that, “Things Ain’t What They Used To Be,” another great song, this time by Duke Ellington. They can’t be. Things are constantly new, fresh, vital, alive, and stimulating to the one who is open to life as it is and as it changes. By hanging on to the past we rob ourselves of the present. We rob ourselves of the beauties, wonders, and joys that are at hand right now. The old Buddhists made another ramification of this teaching. They argued, since everything is subject to change, since there is no permanent self, all things are therefore disagreeable, and lead to sorrow, sadness, and unhappiness. This is all wrapped up and bundled in the Sanskrit word duhkha. The old Buddhists particularly found the human body repulsive.

Consider the following quote.

Now, Aggivessana, this body made of material form, consisting of the four great elements, procreated by a mother and father, and built up out of boiled rice and porridge, is subject to impermanence, to being worn and rubbed away, to dissolution and disintegration. It should be regarded as impermanent, as suffering, as a disease, as a tumor, as a dart, as a calamity, as an affliction, as alien, as disintegrating, as void, as not self. When one regards this body thus, one abandons desire for the body, affection for the body, subservience to the body.

I think this is nonsense! I think this is an interpretation the old scribes placed on the teachings of Shakyamuni Buddha. I think this is a cultural egg-white accretion that the old Indians placed upon Shakyamuni’s teachings. Somehow, somewhere, the idea that the body is ugly and that life is miserable because it is impermanent came into being. It’s hard to pinpoint how and where this negativity began. We find it not only in the East, we in the West have gone through centuries of this abominable affliction, especially during the Middle Ages. This idea is bundled with the idea that sexuality is wrong, base, evil, and so forth. And the old Buddhists looked upon the teaching of impermanence and change as proof of their negative outlook on life. Sheer nonsense! This is the way the old Buddhists described the body.

This filthy body stinks outright Like ordure, like a privy’s site; This body men that have insight Condemn, is object of a fool’s delight.

A tumor where nine holes abide Wrapped in a coat of clammy hide And trickling filth on every side, Polluting the air with stenches far and wide.

If it perchance should come about That what is inside it came out, Surely a man would need a knout With which to put the crows and dogs to rout.

***

No one who searches throughout the whole of this fathom long carcass, starting upwards from the soles of the feet, starting downwards from the top of the head, and starting from the skin all round, ever finds even the minutest atom at all beautiful in it, such as a pearl, or a gem, or beryl, or aloes, or saffron, or camphor, or talcum powder; on the contrary he finds nothing but the very malodorous, offensive, drab-looking sort of filth consisting of the head hairs, body hairs, and the rest. ...

I, on the other hand, feel that the very functioning of the body is a beautiful continuing miracle. Just think of the circulation of the blood pumping through our veins, pumping through our heart, our arteries, giving life and support systems to our entire body. Just think of the complicated structure of the nervous system. How it reaches into every inch of our body, informing it, directing it, assisting it. Just think of the regenerative abilities of our body that restores itself after being hurt and wounded. Just think of the miracles of any part of the body: our hearing, our seeing, our tasting. Just think of the growing of hair. Jesus said it. All of our wisdom, all of our knowledge, cannot duplicate the growth of a single strand of hair! I don’t think the body is vile. I think it’s beautiful—including the snot, bile, feces, and urine. It’s all beautiful. And I especially think sex is beautiful. The sexuality of the body is beautiful. The idea that sex is evil is revolting. I do not agree with the old Buddhists in this interpretation of the teaching of impermanence.

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The Four Noble Truths

After the Buddha received his enlightenment, it is said he then went straight away to the five hermits with whom he practiced his austerities and “Turned the First Wheel of the Dharma.” He presented the teaching of the Four Noble Truths. Here is a modern translation.

This, O bhikkhus is the Noble Truth of suffering (duhkha): Birth is suffering, aging is suffering, death is suffering, sorrow, and lamentation, pain, grief, and despair are suffering, association with the unloved or unpleasant condition is suffering, separation from the beloved or pleasant condition is suffering, not to get what one wants is suffering. In brief, the five aggregates of attachment are suffering.

This, O bhikkhus, is the Noble Truth of the origin of suffering: It is craving which produces rebirth, bound up with pleasure and greed. It finds delight in this and that, in other words, craving for sense pleasures, craving for existence or becoming and craving for nonexistence or self-annihilation.