Interfaith Dialogue

-Vinati DeVane

I feel like part of practice is continually unlearning our inclination to label, categorize, or contain our zazen. It is easy to give our practice a “name” – verbally, experientially, or emotionally, even – to feel “I am doing this kind of zazen now; I was doing a different kind of zazen yesterday.” I suppose this is a natural way we understand our practice, but it can also launch us into the world of “things,” ideas, fabrications, separation. All this verbalizing instead of just sitting…

Yet, before we are seated on that proverbial airplane and the hypothetical passenger seated next to us observes we are reading a book on Zen and asks, “So, what is Zen about?” we need to cultivate some measure of understanding our practice in order to respond. Smacking the armrest or yelling “Mu!” isn’t going to cut it.

This is the challenge I faced recently in auditing Sensei’s team-taught class, “Religions in Dialogue,” at the Lutheran Seminary this past fall. I was not directly asked the question, “What is Zen?” so much, but the experience was more about steeping in an array of these sorts of questions: “What does Buddhism say about sin?” or “Is there no god in Buddhism?” or “What is karma?” Further, the diverse class was asking reciprocal sorts of questions about the other religions represented, Christianity and Islam.

At the heart of our weekly discussion, our mission was to learn about and practice respectful engagement in interreligious dialogue. Short of summarizing the experience, I just want to mention a few issues I unearthed.

First, I think it is important to be tender with our uncertainty. There is a temptation for any dialoguer to offer concrete definitions of faith or belief as a religious “position” instead of recognizing one is still “in progress.” Perhaps we feel we shouldn’t engage in dialogue unless we are somehow “finished.” But staking out a personal position is the fastest way to become defensive and paint oneself into the “us v. them” corner. Yet, there are times when boundaries have to be recognized in establishing difference. Figuring out in dialogue what is called for and when is a delicate dance, and one doesn’t always know when one has stepped on one’s partner’s toes. The best I can offer is to dance with open uncertainty, not only toward the vast and wide teachings of Zen, but toward Islam, Christianity, Judaism. I’m in trouble if I can wrap up my understanding of Islam, put it on the shelf, and stamp “finished” on it. And I’m equally in trouble if I can package my understanding of Zen, complete with label.

Second, I feel in this dialogue all parties have to become “we” to actually hear what is being said – the “we” of a dancing couple, the “we” we experience side by side in the zendo. If we fix our discriminating mind against what we hear of other religions – by parsing its details, for instance – we haven’t really listened. On one of our class outings it was a great lesson to cover my hair for iftar dinner at the American College of Islam – an experience that needed to be felt more than understood. In the absence of the opportunity to join in the practice of a given religion, we have to feel our dialogue partner’s words as if we are saying them. Otherwise I don’t think we’re really listening.

Also, our view of interreligious dialogue is predicated on our view of our own religion. The kinds of questions we ask, the way we listen, what we hope to understand about ourselves and our neighbors, all these things are flying around the room in a dialogue situation. What we bring to the table is based on our own feeling. If we are insecure in our practice, we will too easily absorb, adopt, or agree with whatever our neighbor says – or there will be an indistinct but palpable resistance to true engagement. The fellow on the airplane really wants to know! And it won’t help if we shrug our shoulders. Our willingness to engage must come from our experience of truth, from whatever path we are apt to seek it, from whatever step we are taking on that path. I feel we owe it to ourselves and our partners not to fall back on our labels.

One’s teachers come at different times and places, and in this vein, I offer deep bows to my classmates at LSTC.

Four Haiku

-Jon Laux



in this incensepot
endless blind passions burn up
releasing fragrance


tell me, Shitou, why
when "the dark makes all things one",
still i stub my toes


without thought of gain
the radiator spreads warmth
in shivering limbs


last year's dancing leaves
now, only stains on the stone
do we have more time?

Dancing on the Wires

-Jody Wilson

On Tuesday, November 4, at the stroke of 7:00 pm., I stepped out into a promising Evanston evening and called loudly, “Hear ye, hear ye, the polls are now closed,” and burst into tears.

The emotional release was deeper than my exhaustion from the long day just passed and my anxiety about dealing with the complexities of closing the polls that was ahead. I had been caught up in anxiety and anticipation of this election for months. Not just for the conclusion of that endless campaign, but for the only possible outcome, the outcome I was sure the country needed and I passionately wanted. And now — at least in Evanston township, ward 8, precinct 4 — it was finally beyond the reach of all spinning, tweaking, winking, fluffing, framing and maverick-y top of the ticket Valentino suits; beyond million dollar info-mercials, auto-dialing and laugh-out-loud bumper stickers — “Republicans for Voldemort,” surprising yard signs — “Rednecks for Obama – even we've had enough! And even beyond U-Tube — “Hockey Mama for Obama” sung to the tune of “Don't Cry for Me Argentina,” accompanied on the piano by a guy wearing a moose hat.

Jacta alea est. The die was cast, you betcha.

In September, my practice started to become sporadic and uneven. My 20 – 30 minutes on the mat each morning was gradually reduced and finally surrendered completely to an obsessive checking of e-mail, RSS feeds, The New York Times and The Washington Post. And when I finally and infrequently did get my butt down on the zafu, I squirmed and plotted and obsessed. As Election Day approached, I wasn't sitting at all. The future of the world hinges on this election. This is different. This is really important. I was completely gone.

At first I tried to justify this situation as “engaged Buddhism.” But the truth is that just because I am a Buddhist and an activist doesn't make me an “engaged Buddhist.” Truly engaged Buddhists follow the Eight-Fold path into the world and bring their practice wholly into the fray. I wasn't doing any of that. I was simply “engaging” at a very low level in the political process. There was very little Buddhism about it.

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, no one I knew was or even aspired to “be peace.” We were militantly against the war in Viet Nam, violently opposed to the draft and aggressively against everyone who didn't agree with us. “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today” is not Right Speech. Chant it like a mantra and pretty soon you've got hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of angry kids. Chant it — or something like it — long enough and you've got Kent State. And now, thirty and more years later, I was at it again. Churning the same kind of disdain, righteously convinced of my own rightness and obsessing endlessly over an outcome I had little hope of effecting.

It was especially disappointing because a few months before, I had an experience that led me to hope I had come a bit farther. One evening, just before the April primary, I was filling up my car when the man who was at the neighboring pump came over and, gesturing at my “Gore and Obama” bumper sticker said in the friendliest possible way, “That's an interesting combination.” I agreed. “Better than Hillary,” he says. Again, I agree, adding, “I think she's great, but she's too much of a hawk for me.” Smiling at each other, we both return to our pumps. “What do you think is going to happen?” he semi-shouts to me across our respective cars. And I know that he's talking about the results of the upcoming primary. “I don't know,” I semi-shout back. Then I walk over to him and confide, “Essentially, the outcome doesn't matter to me. Whoever the Democrats nominate will get my vote. I'll never vote for a Republican as long as I live.” He smiles as he says, “And I won't ever vote for a Democrat.”

“Really,” I say, “why is that?” I notice that I'm more curious than defensive.

“I work hard for my money,” he says. “I grew up in Europe and we didn't have much. I work hard for myself and my family and the Democrats always want to take my money and give it to others.”

I say, “I also work hard for myself and my family. And for you.”

He blinks. We smile.

“Almost 85% of Americans think Bush is on the wrong track,” I say.

“I think he's one of the greatest presidents we've ever had,” he replies. “He and Richard Nixon.”

Before I could even think about what I was doing, I reached out my hand and introduced myself. “We could talk for a long time and never agree,” I said, smiling. Smiling back he says, “That's right, but we're friends, aren't we?”

“Yes,” I confirm as we shake hands, “we are.”

I almost broke my arm patting myself on the back on my drive home.

So where did all of that freshly realized equanimity and heart felt good humor disappear to?

No mystery. It disappeared when I stopped sitting regularly.

“Upholding the precepts,
repentance and giving,
the countless good deeds
and the way of right living all come from zazen.”

Duh.

I become angry with myself for not knowing this. But I do know it. Of course I do. And then my ego is captivated or my imagination enchanted by a situation, a personality, an idea, whatever. And the temporary novelty fools me into believing that this is different, this is really important. That this — whatever this is — is more worthy of my attention than, well, than my attention. And I'm completely gone. Again.

I'm so glad we call what we do practice — and not mastery.