But we had a couple of "those" Christians, too.
So it was that the thread underneath contained a few protests and dire warnings about EVIL! and SATAN! and THE OCCULT!!! (They caution writers not to use caps lock and multiple punctuation, but it's dishonest not to when expressing the opinions of those who think in them.)
And this got me mulling the difference between real and fake religion.
In a real religion, you're the idiot in the room. Fake religion confers special knowledge, even superpowers, such as the ability to speak in tongues or handle snakes or see auras. Or even to sit in one position for hours, disregard pain, cure bodily ailments, and look into the souls of others.
In contrast, after practicing real religion you know less than you did before. Stuff you've always hated, you're not so sure about. Uncorroborated beliefs, you're less willing to shoulder. Facile explanations, shallow documentation, scriptural lawyerball, saints and saviours, you eschew. Answers at all become suspect.
You become dumb. The world is big, and you're not. You've spent your life flailing in a dark room, your sword helicoptering overhead like everyone else's, and now you just sit down and wait for reliable intel.
That's what happened to me. After a week of zazen, I knew nothing. Because I'd never known anything. My conversion experience left me small, as small as everyone else. And now I can't unsee our identical smallness.
Blessed with a church that prizes spiritual penetration, and a family that meets rubbish with corrosive sarcasm, I never believed any nonsense about parlour games and witches and backward rock music. But these days I'm considering the larger issue.
A true faith practice isn't about becoming an expert in special dimensions or states of consciousness or planes of existence that the uninitiated can't see or understand. We have teachings about that sort of thing in Buddhism, too, and my take on them is a convicted "whatever". Because I won't be distracted by trivia.
And that's the difference.
In fake religion, you strive to fill your mind with as much crap as possible. Those with the most crap, are the most accomplished.
In real religion, you strive to empty your mind of crap.
And the true disciples are those still shoveling.
(Photo of the Sword of Righteousness courtesy of Anthony Appleyard and Wikipedia Commons.)
(This is the resting place of the first US settler in Thurston County, Washington, one George Bush. No, not that George Bush. This one died [at home, of natural causes] during the American Civil War.
He was also African-American.
But he's most remembered for his legendary generosity, lending food, equipment, draught animals, and seed to subsequent arrivals – often not insisting on repayment. He's a man much commented in the historical record, having literally laid the foundations of his community, and of whom I've yet to encounter a single criticism.
He was also the subject of a concerted [though fortunately unsuccessful] effort to deprive him of his vote and property, based solely on his race.
Beside him lies his wife Isabella, here in Thurston County's first public cemetery – which was established on a parcel of the Bush homestead that they donated for the purpose.)
One day Nasrudin was walking down a country road when he saw a group of horsemen riding toward him at great speed. Fearing bandits, he quickly jumped over a nearby wall and found himself in a graveyard.
"Where to hide?" he cried. Looking desperately about, he spied an open grave.
Meanwhile, having seen his troubled behaviour, the riders dismounted and followed Nasrudin into the cemetery. At length they found him trembling with fear at the bottom of the hole.
"Ho, fellow traveller!" they called down. "We were riding this way and saw you flee something. Do you need any help? Why are you in this grave?"
"Well," said Nasrudin, "as to that, simple questions often have complex answers.
"About all I can tell you is, I am here because you are, and you are here because I am."
(Photo of Adolph Schreyer painting courtesy of Sotheby's and Wikimedia Commons.)
"If you think it's hard faking your own death, try faking your own birth."
Steven Wright
(Photo courtesy of André Peltier and Wikimedia Commons.)
My practice tends to veer back and forth between sitting and teachings, and acting and responding. Sometimes mostly one, sometimes the other.
External phenomena are the deciding factor; classic zazen requires specific conditions that I can't consistently guarantee, given my economic status. But I console myself that the effectiveness of zazen alone famously fails to survive triangulation.
Sure, you're Dogen himself when you're shut up in that little room, with no immediate fears and no pressing needs. But what happens when you don't rule the universe? How does your Zen fare in the real one?
You know, the one outside your skull.
The one beyond your teacher's control.
The one that doesn't give a damn about your twee little Zen practice.
This test, cœnobitic Zen often fails.
I still prefer classic meditation practice, and if I had the choice would do nothing else. (So... I'm lucky I don't...?)
All of which came to mind when this article by Carol Kuruvilla – in the Huffington Post, of all things – washed up on the beach. I haven't recently been permitted to steep in koanic literature, not with the steady, stable discipline I prefer. And this article reminded me of that.
The five chosen koans, drawn from the ancestral record, remain as provocative as ever. And the commentary – an important component of eremitical koan practice – is excellent. (Note that one respondent is even a civilian. Welcome innovation.)
So I'm sharing it here.
Newcomers will find the most effective approach is to take just one koan, without commentary, and sit with it for at least a day. (Meaning you carry it around in your head, even when you're not literally sitting, returning to the written koan a few times to refresh the impression. Avoid that scriptural thing where you obsess over the words and try to pry meaning out of them. That's not this.)
You can keep this up for as long as you like. Monastery monks, studying under teachers who claim the right to "certify" their insight, have been known to contemplate one koan for 20 years.
But whatever your case (no pun intended), the next step is to read the commentary and compare it to your own notions. The formal commentary in the ancient literature is itself usually so brief and cryptic as to amount to another koan, implying another sustained cerebral simmer. Modern takes are generally just explications, either "this is what the old master meant" or "this is what it means to me". But both styles are worthwhile, and useful for practice.
When you feel you've chewed that bone enough, move on to the next.
And remember: every time you read a koan is the first. You could probably base a lifetime practice on just these five, rotating back to the first when you've done with the last.
Any road, I offer this hot lead to the Nation of Seekers, with fraternal regard.
Gasshō.
(Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and a generous photographer.)
