As I was preparing this sermon I came across an inscription inside the cover of a book given to me by one of you, The Wheel of Life and Death: A Practical and Spiritual Guide. Inside the cover are these words, "For Dick Gilbert - Die while alive and be thoroughly dead. Then do what you will, and all will be well. (signed) Philip Kapleau."
The author was Roshi of the Rochester Zen Center and one of the leading practitioners and interpreters of Buddhism in America. When I first came to Rochester, I spent a day at the Zen Center to see what I could learn. There were informative lectures by Roshi Kapleau, a delicious vegetarian lunch, the lovely ambiance of the space itself and, most important, the opportunity to practice Zen Meditation, ZaZen.
We beginners were instructed to count our breaths as a way of purging the mind of all that distracts it. The pattern is to count from one to ten on the exhale, a deceptively simple task that is exceedingly difficult.
To help refocus attention on our meditation, a member of the Center, if we raised our hand, would come and strike us on each shoulder with a wooden bat. That greatly concentrated my attention where it needed to be, but I came home with very sore shoulders. It was both a painful and a powerful experience.
While I confess I have not followed that discipline rigorously since, I do find that deep breathing, counting my breaths, hands cupped as if to receive, is my choice of meditation techniques.
Over the years I have had warm relations with the Center and its members. In May of 1986 I was privileged to speak there on the occasion of its 20th anniversary. But my first contact with a practicing Buddhist was in Ithaca, at Cornell University. Professor George Kahin, a member of the Unitarian Church, Chair of the Southeast Asia Studies Program and staunch anti-Vietnam War activist, invited me to dinner one evening with a small group whose guest of honor was Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist monk living in exile.
I was not prepared for the diminutive figure who stood before me, with shy child-like smile and delicate hands clasped in Oriental bow. Soon, however, it became clear that in this frail body lived a powerful spirit. Most of the peace-makers with whom I have worked are, like myself, politically inclined activists, frenetic, constantly in motion.
What struck me about Nhat Hanh was that though driven from his homeland by the forces of violence, he seemed to be completely centered and at peace with himself. There was a serenity about him that gave him a power I have seen in few others anywhere, anytime. I long to be that centered a self.
I will never forget his words, "Communists want to save us from anti-communists and anti-communists want to save us from communism. The problem is that we are not being saved, we are being destroyed. Now we want to be saved from salvation."
Here in Rochester in the early 1970's, as a member of the peace movement, I remember vividly a gathering here at the church, in Room 110, after the Christmas bombing of Hanoi Harbor. It was an emergency meeting to plan some response. A delegation from the Zen Center entered as we were about to begin. The change in mood was dramatic; they created a totally different tone by their presence, and set the wheels in motion for a peace vigil in downtown Rochester - giving our political movement a deep spiritual dimension.
Other experiences have reinforced the quiet strength of Buddhist-inspired peacefulness, inner and outer. While on Sabbatical at Harvard Divinity School in the spring of 1986, I spent a day in the Boston Museum. It is the compassionate face of the Great Buddha, originally constructed in the 8th century, to which the eyes are drawn. The perfect peace of its features conveys serenity - as if nothing can disturb the concentration of living in the moment. The extended left hand beckons to all suffering creatures. The right hand is raised in welcome to all who suffer.
Frankly, I find this benign Buddha figure far more compelling in its compassion toward human suffering than the cross of Christianity. I find the cross a rather depressing symbol, the emblem of defeat, since I deny resurrection . But there is a sense of gentle strength in the serene Buddha, suggesting that the pain can be endured - the spirit will be transcendent.
Another Buddha figure sits upon a great lotus petal, one of the few remaining parts of the original statue. There are multiple hair-line engravings illustrating the ideal world of compassionate Bodhisattvas - followers of Buddha who found enlightenment, but instead of selfishly entering Nirvana - the state of perfect bliss - returned to ordinary life to teach and heal.
As we walked around Todaiji Temple, we were stopped short by the powerful presence of a solitary monk deeply engaged in meditation despite the swirling currents of activity around him. Everywhere on these temple grounds were Japanese school children being immersed in their culture; tourists were beginning their annual invasion.
There were these three visitors from the West, armed with cameras, who came up behind him on this pristine holy ground. Nonetheless, he sat in perfect composure chanting the sutras in front of yet another Buddha statue. He had a singing bowl beside him, which he would strike with a wooden mallet, the better to concentrate the mind. He seemed oblivious to our presence or to that of the children or the tourists.
How does he do it? I asked myself. Practice, I answered. Discipline. Concentration. I thought of my own scattered self and walked away both humbled and inspired. One of the treasures in my office is a serene Buddha face mask given to me by one of our son's friends in Nara, a constant reminder to me of how much room there is for improvement.
Most recently I find myself captivated by the Tibetan Buddhists who are in our city and will be here for the next six weeks doing a Mandala sand painting at the Memorial Art Gallery. One Tibetan monk was at our church several years ago, telling the sorrowful tale of Chinese oppression in Tibet - though seemingly without anger.
Last Friday night another Tibetan monk spoke here - he had been in Chinese prisons for 20 years. Yet he also seemed devoid of bitterness.
What is it that attracts me so to this living manifestation of Buddhism? Why are Unitarian Universalists so caught up in things Buddhist?
I think that Unitarian Universalists and Buddhists share a faith in the individual working out his or her own salvation - shall we call it building our own theology? - without ultimate reliance on outside help. One of my favorite Buddhist sayings is "If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him!"
That is, the true Buddhist - or Unitarian Universalist - does not depend on another's advice to determine right from wrong, true from false. We rely on our own life experiences to ascertain truth and goodness. While we live in community, while we live in history - ultimately it is we who must fashion a faith. No one else - not even the Buddha - can do it for us.
Tradition has it that Buddha said on his death bed. "Be ye lamps unto yourselves; work out your own salvation."
A young man came to the Buddha's teachings for many years, but did not change. In a conversation with the Master he asked why he and others did not seem to make progress. Buddha noted that he had to travel back and forth from his hometown to the teaching and asked if he knew the way, and could teach others the way. The young man said yes to both questions. But not all of them reach the town because they do not exert themselves to do it. Buddha replied, "I do not carry anyone on my shoulders to take them to the final goal. Nobody can carry anyone else on their shoulders to the final goal....You have to walk the path yourself."
Buddhism focuses on the practical life more than on endless metaphysical speculation, which scratches our Unitarian Universalist itch for pragmatism in religion. What intrigues me about Buddhism and surprises most people who learn it, is that Buddhism in its historic and pure form is a non-theistic religion.
The Buddha rejected a creator god on grounds of the doctrine of impermanence - there is no such thing as ultimate reality. He denied he himself was a god or savior, though some Buddhists have made him one.
This rejection of a permanent ultimate reality is why when the monks, after a painstaking six-week period of creating a mandala, will dismantle it. They will spend their days at a raised wooden platform, pouring colored grains of sand in a pattern called a Kalachakra, Sanskrit for the wheel of time.
That pattern signifies the beauty and the complexity of being - personal and cosmic. The work must be done just so - with infinite patience. When it is completed - when they have what we would call a product - they will sweep it into an urn, take it to the river and pour out its contents which will take yet another form, symbolizing the impermanence of all things - including our lives. This ritual art is a visual scripture - transcending metaphysical speculation.
There is a Buddhist story of a learned scholar who set forth on a long and difficult sea voyage. Desiring to impress the crew with his learning, he would stop and question the simple sailors as they went about their duties, asking them if they had studied philosophy. When he learned they hadn't, he replied proudly, "You poor man, you have wasted half your life!" On and on it went until one night the ship foundered in a storm. The scholar was frightened, and watched the crashing waves as he held tightly to the mast. A sailor approached and asked him, "Have you, my good man, by any chance studied swimology?" In puzzlement the scholar could only shake his head. "That really is too bad," said the sailor. "You have wasted your whole life, for the ship is sinking."
There is a gentle humility in Buddhism which is - or should be - shared by liberal religion. This is a most difficult lesson for us. According to a Buddhist tale there were three young pupils whose Master instructed them that they must spend a time in complete silence if they are to be enlightened. "Remember, not a word from any of you," he admonished.
Immediately, the first pupil said, "I shall not speak at all." "How stupid you are," said the second. "Why did you talk?" "I am the only one who has not spoken," concluded the third pupil. This is a prototypical Unitarian Universalist story.
But I have evaded commenting on the title of this sermon, the words of Zen Master Shunryu Suzuki. What could he mean, "everything is perfect, but there is a lot of room for improvement"? I doubt there is an official interpretation of these words, so mine will have to do. Everything is perfect. Existence is exquisite.
It was easy to think this yesterday as I made a quick trip to Boston and back to consult with the Unitarian Universalist Service Committee about financing the struggle for justice. It was a glorious day; the Finger Lakes were never more lovely - I had wisely chosen the window seat on the right side to get a better view. The Berkshires and Boston Harbor were enchanting, as was flying into the sunset on my return. However exhausting the trip was, I was revived by that rich and rare perspective from the air. It felt good to be alive.
I have been living in frenetic, if not frantic mode these past few weeks - too many projects, too little time - too little ability to say "no." Friday, I took a break, as I often do, and walked around the church grounds, through the Memorial Garden, taking in my favorite view from down the hill, the church silhouetted against the sky like some modern Acropolis. I walked quietly past the scattered ashes of the deceased, now mingled in the soil of our Memorial Garden with its inscription - "to live in hearts that love is not to die." On that resurgent spring day I could say "yes" to life. With all its nagging troubles, with all I had yet to do, everything was perfect.
We are guests of existence for a precious short time and need to remember the words of the Zen teachers: Takuan said, "This day will not come again. Each minute is worth a priceless gem." Mumon said, "Lightning flashes, sparks shower. In one blink of your eyes you have missed seeing."
At the same time we relish that we are what we are, we know we are free creatures, privileged to grow in our understanding of the beauty and grace of the world.
There is a great deal of room for improvement on our way to becoming a still center that nothing can disturb. I live too often on the busy circumference of the circle. There is important work to be done there - but only if from time to time I can return to the center. I’m trying hard to learn the motions of solitude and action, the ritual of being and doing. There is a great deal of room for improvement.
If Buddhism taught me nothing else, if the mandala were only to remind me of this rhythm of self and cosmos, of living and dying - it would have been enough. In it lies the meaning of what Roshi Philip Kapleau inscribed in my book on the wheel of life and death, "Die while alive and be thoroughly dead. Then do what you will, and all will be well."
May we become truly alive so that our death will merely mark the end of a long and meaningful journey. So be it.
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