Christianity And Buddhism Essay, Research Paper
Several times toward the end of Zen retreats we have made together, you
have asked, “But what does my Christianity add to my Buddhism?” And the
answer you received was, “Nothing. It’s all going the other way right now.”
I understand that skepticism about Christianity’s “adding” to Buddhism.
Both of us know many fellow-Christians who are drawn to Buddhist practice,
either because of an alienation from the church, or, as I believe is true
for ourselves, because we find in the zendo something we believe we cannot
find in the church.
I would not call myself a “Buddhist”; even “Buddhist-Christian” has its
difficulties. Although Thich Nhat Hanh has statues of Buddha and Jesus on
his altar, the Dalai Lama has said that mixing Buddhism and Christianity is
like “trying to put a yak’s head on a cow’s body.” Even Thomas Merton, who
did so much to foster Buddhist-Christian dialogue, says in Zen and the
Birds of Appetite that “studied as structures, as systems and religions,
Zen and Catholicism don’t mix any better than oil and water.”
Despite these and other cautions, I believe that my efforts at Buddhist
practice, and my reading in Buddhist literature, have subtly and
significantly influenced my Christian faith–and, I would say, for the
better. In moving from church to zendo and back again, I know that I have
been able to respond more and more “heartily” to the gospel. It is not that
I have set up a parallel religious practice (no statues of Jesus and Buddha
side by side on my altar–no statues at all, come to think of it), but in
“Buddhist” practice I have somehow come home in a new way to my Christian
faith.
What I have found in the zendo is a deeper silence than I expect to find in
the church, at least in my lifetime.
As you know, for Buddhists, especially in the Zen tradition, the first step
in “just sitting” is to let go of all “views,” that is, quietly but firmly
to set aside all spontaneous and not-so-spontaneous discriminating
judgments of right and wrong, good and bad–all judgments whatsoever, even
those which might make up “Buddhism.” (This, I think, is the basic meaning
of the notorious Buddhist dictum, “If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill
him.”) I would not say that this “emptying of the mind” is the essence of
Buddhism, but Thich Nhat Hanh would certainly put as the first step for the
mindfulness practice which is at the heart of Zen living.
As our own Empty Hand Zendo (zen community) manual describes it, “Seated
meditation is the core of our practice. This involves working with the
body, breath, and mind, entering into deep silence and stillness, and
opening to a fresh awareness moment after moment.” In short, no “views” to
be clung to here!
It is this silence that many of us, including practicing Christians, have
experienced as a “coming home.” On one level, having set aside so much of
our usual busyness, one might say that we have come home just to ourselves,
or to what some folks would call our “center.” That is certainly true, but
in the Buddhist tradition I think it would be more accurate to say that we
seek to become “decentered,” less concerned with ourselves and with the
judgments, convictions, illusions, and prejudices that we so often use to
prop up those “selves.”
Raimondo Panikkar titled his major study of Buddhism The Silence of God:
The Answer of the Buddha (Orbis), and one of the things the Buddha was most
silent about was “God.” I think the Buddha has something to teach us on
that point. I was introduced at an early age into the tradition of
“negative theology,” which stresses the limits, or even the breakdown, of
all our concepts of God. And it is still a very important part of my
religious outlook. If anything, I have become over time more convinced that
our ecclesial talkativeness, and especially our all-too-facile “God-talk,”
can become a real obstacle to personal faith. (No one can say that we
haven’t been cautioned about the dangers of talkativeness. As early as the
third century, Origen warned that “to say even true things about God
involves no small risk,” and Henri de Lubac emphasized that risk again.
Even earlier, Ignatius of Antioch described God as “the silence out of
which the word comes forth.” When Karl Rahner began speaking of God as
“Mystery,” he was urging us to be more cautious. And yet we keep talking
about “God” with unseemly ease. No wonder T. S. Eliot protested in “Ash
Wednesday” that there is not enough silence for the word to be heard.)
I would not say that one has to go to a Buddhist zendo to recover an
appropriate religious silence, nor would I say that all the changes that
have taken place in my faith are the result of “just sitting.” But, in
fact, the Buddhists are better at this religious silence than we
Christians. Regularly going into this silence has made my faith freer, more
exploratory, and more personal. I have become more of a “listener” to our
own tradition, somehow more receptive to it and surely less defensive about
it.
What I have come to listen to in this way is, quite simply, “the Christian
story.” More and more I have come to think of Christian faith not primarily
as a creed or as a mystical journey but as responsibility for a story: the
story of “God,” with all its ins and outs, even as Jack Miles has most
recently retold it in God: A Biography (Knopf), and the story of Jesus, in
all its New Testament versions, even as deconstructed by John Dominic
Crossan and Marcus Borg. It is a very old story. It has been told again and
again–at Nicaea and Chalcedon; by Athanasius and Augustine and Aquinas; by
Eckhart and Ignatius and Newman. I like some versions better than others,
but I respect all the versions, even as I realize I must take
responsibility for my own deconstruction and retelling of the story. In all
the reflective writing Thomas Merton has done on Buddhism (especially Zen)
and Christianity, the recurring line is, “I live, now not I, but Christ
lives in me.” The “story,” God help us, is now incarnate in me. Or so Saint
Paul claims, and I’m willing to test it out with him.
Even as I describe a faith still in progress, I also find myself in
agreement with the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith’s scolding
1989 letter on “Some Aspects of Christian Meditation.” I don’t see the
dangers of Eastern mysticism that worry the congregation, but I do see that
the words of Scripture are the bearers of the Christian story and the
sacraments are the dramatic reenactment of the continuing story. If you let
Scripture, liturgy, and sacraments go and try to “disappear into the sea of
the Absolute,” as the congregation worries, you may still be part of some
story but not any longer the Christian one. So I find that even as I get
deeper into Buddhist practice, Scripture study, the liturgy, and especially
the Eucharist become not less but more important to me. That’s exactly what
I listen to and somehow “hear” in a new way across the silence.
In trying to hold Scripture, sacraments, and Buddhist silence together, I
have found the writings of John P. Keenan, a Buddhist scholar and an
Episcopal priest, very helpful. He has shown how, in at least one Buddhist
framework, the Mahayana (the mystical “Great Vehicle” tradition of Indian
Buddhism, of which Zen is in a special way “the meditation school”), it
might be possible to read Christology (”the Word”) in a way that respects
“the silence” about which Ignatius of Antioch speaks. Keenan has proposed
that reading the Christian tradition through a Buddhist lens will enable
theologians to locate the doctrine of the Incarnation in the context of
God’s ultimate “unknowability”–the divine darkness–which is also part of
the authentic Christian mystical tradition (The Meaning of Christ: A
Mahayana Theology, Orbis; and The Gospel of Mark: A Mahayana Reading,
Orbis).
Keenan makes use of two themes: the identity between “emptiness” and
“dependent co-arising” and the “differentiation between the two truths of
ultimate meaning and worldly convention.” The first of these themes applies
“horizontally” to our being in the world and says that nothing we
experience in our ordinary lives has a reality independent of the fragile
network of “causes and conditions” that bring our experienced realities
about. The second theme is “vertical” and
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