Showing posts with label pilgram. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pilgram. Show all posts

2021/09/08

Perennial Phil Ch 5 CHARITY [11,5695]


Perennial Phil Ch 5 CHARITY [11,5695]

05 최고의 사랑 - 모든 오류는 사랑의 부족에서 생긴다

He that loveth not knoweth not God, for God is love.
i John iv

By love may He be gotten and holden, but by thought never.
The Cloud of Unknowing

Whosoever studies to reach contemplation (i.e. unitive know­ledge) should begin by searchingly enquiring of himself how much he loves. For love is the motive power of the mind (mackina mends), which draws it out of the world and raises it on high.
St. Gregory the Great

The astrolabe of the mysteries of God
is love.
Jalal-uddin Rumi
Astrolabe
An astrolabe is an ancient astronomical instrument that was a handheld model of the universe. Its various functions also make it an elaborate inclinometer and an analogue calculation device capable of working out several kinds of problems in astronomy. Wikipedia

Heavens, deal so still!
Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man
That slaves your ordinance, that will not see
Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly.
Shakespeare

Love is infallible; it has no errors, for all errors are the want of love.
William Law

WE can only love what we know, and we can never know completely what we do not love. Love is a mode of knowledge, and when the love is sufficiently disinterested and sufficiently intense, the knowledge becomes unitive knowledge and so takes on the quality of infallibility. 

Where there is no disinterested love (or, more briefly, no charity), there is only [95 96] biased self-love, and consequently only a partial and distorted knowledge both of the self and of the world of things, lives, minds and spirit outside the self. 

The lust-dieted man 'slaves the ordinances of Heaven'—that is to say, he subordinates the laws of Nature and the spirit to his own cravings
The result is that 'he does not feel' and therefore makes himself incapable of knowledge. 
His ignorance is ultimately voluntary; if he cannot see, it is because 'he will not see.' Such voluntary ignorance inevitably has its negative reward. 

Nemesis follows hubris—sometimes in a spectacular way, as when the self-blinded man (Macbeth, Othello, Lear) falls into the trap which his own ambition or possessiveness or petulant vanity has pre­pared for him; sometimes in a less obvious way, as in the cases where power, prosperity and reputation endure to the end but at the cost of an ever-increasing imperviousness to grace and enlightenment, an ever completer inability to escape, now or hereafter, from the stifling prison of selfness and separateness. 

How profound can be the spiritual ignorance by which such 'enslavers of Heaven's ordinances' are punished is indicated by the behaviour of Cardinal Richelieu on his death-bed. The priest who attended him urged the great man to prepare his soul for its coming ordeal by forgiving all his enemies. 'I have never had any enemies,' the Cardinal replied with the calm sincerity of an ignorance which long years of intrigue and avarice and ambition had rendered as absolute as had been his political power, 'save only those of the State.' Like Napoleon, but in a different way, he was 'feeling heaven's power,' because he had refused to feel charity and therefore refused to know the whole truth about his own soul or anything else.

Cardinal Richelieu
Former Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs of France

Armand Jean du Plessis, Duke of Richelieu, known as Cardinal Richelieu, was a French clergyman and statesman. He was also known as l'Éminence rouge, or "the Red Eminence", a term derived from the title "Eminence" applied to cardinals, and the red robes they customarily wore


Here on earth the love of God is better than the knowledge of God, while it is better to know inferior things than to love them. By knowing them we raise them, in a way, to our intelligence, whereas by loving them we stoop towards them and may become subservient to them, as the miser to his gold.
St. Thomas Aquinas (paraphrased)

[ 97]

This remark seems, at first sight, to be incompatible with what precedes it. But in reality St. Thomas is merely distinguishing between the various forms of love and knowledge. It is better to love-know God than just to know about God, without love, through the reading of a treatise on theology. 

Gold, on the other hand, should never be known with the miser's love, or rather concupiscence, but either abstractly, as the scientific investigator knows it, or else with the disinterested love-know­ledge of the artist in metal, or of the spectator, who love-knows the goldsmith's work, not for its cash value, not for the sake of possessing it, but just because it is beautiful. 

And the same applies to all created things, lives and minds. 
It is bad to love-know them with self-centred attachment and cupidity; it is somewhat better to know them with scientific dispassion; it is best to supplement abstract knowledge-without-cupidity with true disinterested love-knowledge, having the quality of aes­thetic delight, or of charity, or of both combined.

We make an idol of truth itself; for truth apart from charity is not God, but his image and idol, which we must neither love nor worship.
Pascal

By a kind of philological accident (which is probably no acci­dent at all, but one of the more subtle expressions of man's deep-seated will to ignorance and spiritual darkness), the word 'charity' has come, in modem English, to be synonymous with 'almsgiving,' and is almost never used in its original sense, as signifying the highest and most divine form of love

almsgiving 구호, 희사, 자선


Owing to this impoverishment of our, at the best of times, very in­adequate vocabulary of psychological and spiritual terms, the word 'love' has had to assume an added burden. 
'God is love,' we repeat glibly, and that we must 'love our neighbours as our­selves'; but 'love,' unfortunately, stands for everything 
from what happens when, on the screen, two close-ups rapturously collide 
to what happens when a John Woolman or a Peter Claver feels a concern about Negro slaves, 
because they are temples of the Holy Spirit
—from what happens when crowds shout and sing and wave flags in the Sport-Palast or the Red Square 
to what happens when a solitary contemplative becomes absorbed in the prayer of simple regard. 

Ambiguity in vocab­ulary leads to confusion of thought; 
and, in this matter of love, confusion of thought admirably serves the purpose of an un­regenerate and divided human nature that is determined to make the best of both worlds—to say that 
it is serving God, while in fact it is serving Mammon, Mars or Priapus.[98] 
--
Mammon /ˈmæmən/ in the New Testament of the Bible is commonly thought to mean money, material wealth, or any entity that promises wealth, and is associated ..
 Mars was the Roman god of war and second only to Jupiter in the Roman pantheon
In Greek mythology, Priapus is a minor rustic fertility god, protector of livestock, 
--

Systematically or in brief aphorism and parable, 
the masters of the spiritual life have described the nature of true charity 
have distinguished it from the other, lower forms of love. 

Let us consider its principal characteristics in order. 
First, charity is disinterested, seeking no reward, nor allowing itself to be diminished by any return of evil for its good. 
God is to be loved for Himself, not for his gifts, and persons and things are to be loved for God's sake, because they are temples of the Holy Ghost
Moreover, since charity is disinterested, it must of necessity be universal.

Love seeks no cause beyond itself and no fruit; it is its own fruit, its own enjoyment. I love because I love; I love in order that I may love.... Of all the motions and affections of the soul, love is the only one by means of which the creature, though not on equal terms, is able to treat with the Creator and to give back some­thing resembling what has been given to it. . . . When God loves, He only desires to be loved, knowing that love will render all those who love Him happy.
Sr. Bernard

For as love has no by-ends, wills nothing but its own increase, so everything is as oil to its flame; it must have that which it wills and carnxot be disappointed, because everything (including Un­kindness on the part of those loved) naturally helps it to live in its own way and to bring forth its own work.
William Law

[ 99]

Those who speak ill of me are really my good friends. [?]

When, being slandered, I cherish neither enmity nor preference, There grows within me the power of love and humility, which is born of the Unborn.
Kung-ckia Ta-shik

Some people want to see God with their eyes as they see a cow, and to love Him as they love their cow—for the milk and cheese and profit it brings them. This is how it is with people who love God for the sake of outward wealth or inward comfort. They do not rightly love God, when they love Him for their own advan­tage. Indeed, I tell you the truth, any object you have in your mind, however good, will be a barrier between you and the inmost Truth.
Eckhart

A beggar, Lord, I ask of Thee
More than a thousand kings could ask.
Each one wants something, which he asks of Thee.
I come to ask Thee to give me Thyself.
Ansari of Herat

I will have nothing to do with a love which would be for God or in God. This is a love which pure love cannot abide; for pure love is God Himself.
St. Catherine of Genoa

As a mother, even at the risk of her own life, protects her son, her only son, so let there be good will without measure between all beings. Let good will without measure prevail in the whole world, above, below, around, unstinted, unmixed with any feel­ing of differing or opposing interests. If a man remain steadfastly in this state of mind all the time he is awake, then is come to pass the saying, 'Even in this world holiness has been found.'
Metta Sutta

Learn to look with an equal eye upon all beings, seeing the one Self in all.
Sri,nad Bliagavatam

[100]        

The second distinguishing mark of charity is that, unlike the lower forms of love, it is not an emotion. It begins as an act of the will and is consummated as a purely spiritual awareness, a unitive love-knowledge of the essence of its object.

Let everyone understand that real love of God does not consist in tear-shedding, nor in that sweetness and tenderness for which usually we long, just because they console us, but in serving God in justice, fortitude of soul and humility.
St. Teresa

The worth of love does not consist in high feelings, but in detach­ment, in patience under all trials for the sake of God whom we love.
St. John of the Cross

By love I do not mean any natural tenderness, which is more or less in people according to their constitution; but I mean a larger principle of the soul, founded in reason and piety, which makes us tender, kind and gentle to all our fellow creatures as creatures of God, and for his sake.
William Law

The nature of charity, or the love-knowledge of God, is defined by Shankara, the great Vedantist saint and philosopher of the ninth century, in the thirty-second couplet of his Viveka-Cliudamani.

Among the instruments of emancipation the supreme is devotion
Contemplation of the true form of the real Self (the Atman which is identical with Brahman) is said to be devotion.

In other words, the highest form of the love of God is an im­mediate spiritual intuition, by which 'knower, known and knowledge are made one.
[ 101]
The means to, and earlier stages of, this supreme love-knowledge of Spirit by spirit are described by Shankara in the preceding verses of his philosophical poem, and consist in acts of a will directed 
  • towards the denial of self-ness in thought, feeling and action, 
  • towards desirelessness and non-attachment or (to use the corresponding Christian term) 'holy indifference,' 
  • towards a cheerful acceptance of affliction, without self-pity and without thought of returning evil for evil, and finally 
  • towards unsleeping and one-pointed mindful­ness of the Godhead who is at once transcendent and, because transcendent, immanent in every soul.

It is plain that no distinct object whatever that pleases the will can be God; and, for that reason, if the will is to be united with Him, it must empty itself, cast away every disorderly affection of the desire, every satisfaction it may distinctly have, high and low, temporal and spiritual, so that, purified and cleansed from all unrully satisfactions, joys and desires, it may be wholly occupied, with all its affections, in loving God.
For if the will can in any way comprehend God and be united with Him, it cannot be through any capacity of the desire, but only by love; and as all the delight, sweetness and joy, of which the will is sensible, is not love, it follows that ione of these pleasing impressions can be the adequate means of uniting the will to God. These adequate means consist in an act of the will.
And because an act of the will is quite distinct from feeling, it is by an act that the will is united with God and rests in Him; that act is love. This union is never wrought by feeling or exertion of the desire; for these remain in the soul as aims and ends. It is only as motives of love that feelings can be of service, if the will is bent on going onwards, and for nothing else....

He, then, is very unwise who, when sweetness and spiritual delight fail him, thinks for that reason that God has abandoned him; and when he finds them again, rejoices and is glad, thinking that he has in that way come to possess God.

More unwise still is he who goes about seeking for sweetness in God, rejoices in it, and dwells upon it; for in so doing he is not seeking after God with the will grounded in the emptiness of faith and charity, but only in spiritual sweetness and delight, which is a created thing, following herein in his own will and fond pleasure. . . . It is impossible for the will to attain to the sweetness and bliss of the divine union otherwise than- in detach­ment, in refusing to the desire every pleasure in the things of heaven and earth.
St. John of the Cross

Love (the sensible love of the emotions) does not unify.
True, it unites in act; but it does not unite in essence.
Eckhart

The reason why sensible love even of the highest object cannot unite the soul to its divine Ground in spiritual essence is that, like all other emotions of the heart, sensible love intensifies that selfness, which is the final obstacle in the way of such union. 'The damned are in eternal movement without any mixture of rest; 
we mortals, who are yet in this pilgrimage, have now movement, now rest.. . . Only God has repose without move­ment.' 

Consequently it is only if we abide in the peace of God that passes all understanding that we can abide in the knowledge and love of God. 
And to the peace that passes under­standing 
we have to go by way of the humble and very ordi­nary peace which can be understood by everybody
- peace between nations and within them (for wars and violent revo­lutions have the effect of more or less totally eclipsing God for the majority of those involved in them); 
- peace between individuals and within the individual soul (for personal quarrels and private fears, loves, hates, ambitions and distrac­tions are, in their petty way, no less fatal to the develop­ment of the spiritual life than are the greater calamities).

 We have to will the peace that it is within our power to get for ourselves and others, in order that we may be fit to receive that other peace, which is a fruit of the Spirit and the con­dition, as St. Paul implied, of the unitive knowledge-love of God.[ 103]

It is by means of tranquillity of mind that you are able to trans­mute this false mind of death and rebirth into the clear Intuitive Mind and, by so doing, to realize the primal and enlightening Essence of Mind. You should make this your starting point for spiritual practices. Having harmonized your starting point with your goal, you will be able by right practice to attain your true end of perfect Enlightenment.

If you wish to tranquilize your mind and restore its original purity, you must proceed as you would do if you were purifying a jar of muddy water. You first let it stand, until the sediment settles at the bottom, when the water will become clear, which corresponds with the state of the mind before it was troubled by defiling passions. Then you carefully strain off the pure water. When the mind becomes tranquillized and concentrated into perfect unity, then all things will be seen, not in their separate­ness, but in their unity, wherein there is no place for the passions to enter, and which is in full conformity with the mysterious and indescribable purity of Nirvana.
Surangama Sutra

This identity out of the One into the One and with the One is the source and fountainhead and breaking forth of glowing Love.
Eckhart

Spiritual progress, as we have had occasion to discover in several other contexts, is always spiral and reciprocal. 
Peace from dis­tractions and emotional agitations is the way to charity; and charity, or unitive love-knowledge, is the way to the higher peace of God. 
And the same is true of humility, which is the third characteristic mark of charity. Humility is a necessary condition of the highest form of love, and the highest form of love makes possible the consummation of humility in a total self-naughting.

Would you become a pilgrim on the road of Love?
The first condition is that you make yourself humble as dust and ashes.
Ansari of Herat

[104]

I have but one word to say to you concerning love for your neighbour, namely that nothing save humility can mould you to it; nothing but the consciousness of your own weakness can make you indulgent and pitiful to that of others. You will answer, I quite understand that humility should produce for­bearance towards others, but how am I first to acquire humility? Two things combined will bring that about; you must never separate them. The first is contemplation of the deep gulf; whence God's all-powerful hand has drawn you out, and over which He ever holds you, so to say, suspended. The second is the presence of that all-penetrating God. It is only in beholding and loving God that we can learn forgetfulness of self, measure duly the nothingness which has dazzled us, and accustom our­selves thankfully to decrease beneath that great Majesty which absorbs all things. Love God and you will be humble; love God and you will throw off the love of self; love God and you will love all that He gives you to love for love of Him.
Fénelon

Feelings,
as we have seen, may be of service as motives of charity
but charity as charity has its beginning in the will
  • —will to peace and humility in oneself, 
  • will to patience and kind­ness towards one's fellow-creatures, 
  • will to that disinterested love of God which 'asks nothing and refuses nothing.' 
But the will can be strengthened by exercise and confirmed by perseverance. 
This is very clearly brought out in the follow­ing record—delightful for its Boswellian vividness—of a con­versation between the young Bishop of Belley and his beloved friend and master, François de Sales.

I once asked the Bishop of Geneva what one must do to attain perfection. 'You must love God with all your heart,' he answered, 'and your neighbour as yourself.' [ 105]
'I did not ask wherein perfection lies,' I rejoined, 'but how to attain it.' 'Charity,' he said again, 'that is both the means and the end,
the only way by which we can reach that perfection 
which is, after all, but Charity itself. . . .
Just as the soul is the life of the body, so charity is the life of the soul.'

'I know all that,' I said. 'But I want to know how one is to love God with all one's heart and one's neighbour as oneself.'

But again he answered, 'We must love God with all our hearts, and our neighbour as ourselves.'

'I am no further than I was,' I replied. 'Tell me how to acquire such love.'

'The best way, the shortest and easiest way of loving God with all one's heart is to love Him wholly and heartily!'

He would give no other answer. At last, however, the Bishop said, 'There are many besides you who want me to tell them of methods and systems and secret ways of becoming perfect, and I can only tell them that the sole secret is a hearty love of God, and the only way of attaining that love is by loving.

 You learn to speak by speaking, to study by studying, to run by running, to work by working; and just so you learn to love God and man by loving.

 All those who think to learn in any other way deceive themselves. If you want to love God, go on loving Him more and more. Begin as a mere apprentice, and the very power of love will lead you on to become a master in the art. Those who have made most progress will continually press on, never believ­ing themselves to have reached their end; for charity should go on increasing until we draw our last breath.'

Jean Pierre Camus

The passage 
from what St. Bernard calls the 'carnal love' of the sacred humanity to the spiritual love of the Godhead
from the emotional love that can only unite lover and beloved in act to the perfect charity which unifies them in spiritual substance, 
is reflected in religious practice as the passage from meditation, discursive and affective, to infused contemplation. 

All Chris­tian writers insist that the spiritual love of the Godhead is superior to the carnal love of the humanity, 
which serves as introduction and means to man's final end in unitive love-knowledge of the divine Ground; 
but all insist no less strongly that carnal love is a necessary introduction and an indispensable means. 
Oriental writers would agree that this is true for many persons, but not for all, since there are some born contem-platives who are able to 'harmonize their starting point with their goal' and to embark directly upon the Yoga of Know­ledge. It is from the point of view of the born contemplative that the greatest of Taoist philosophers writes in the following passage.[106] 

Those men who in a special way regard Heaven as Father and have, as it were, a personal love for it, how much more should they love what is above Heaven as Father! Other men in a special way regard their rulers as better than themselves and they, as it were, personally die for them. How much more should they die for what is truer than a ruler! When the springs dry up, the fish are all together on dry land. They then moisten each other with their dampness and keep each other wet with their slime. But this is not to be compared with forgetting each other in a river or lake.
Chuang Tsu

The slime of personal and emotional love is remotely similar to the water of the Godhead's spiritual being, but of inferior quality and (precisely because the love is emotional and there­fore personal) of insufficient quantity. Having, by their volun­tary ignorance, wrong-doing and wrong being, caused the divine springs to dry up, human beings can do something to mitigate the horrors of their situation by 'keeping one another wet with their slime.' But there can be no happiness or safety in time and no deliverance into eternity, until they give up thinking that slime is enough and, by abandoning themselves to what is in fact their element, call back the eternal waters. 
To those who seek first the Kingdom of God, all the rest will be added. From those who, like the modern idolaters of pro­gress, seek first all the rest in the expectation that (after the harnessing of atomic power and the next revolution but three) the Kingdom of God will be added, everything will be taken away. And yet we continue to trust in progress, to regard personal slime as the highest form of spiritual moisture and to prefer an agonizing and impossible existence on dry land to love, joy and peace in our native ocean.[ 107]

The sect of lovers is distinct from all others;
Lovers have a religion and a faith all their own.
Jolal-uddin Rumi

The soul lives by that which it loves rather than in the body which it animates. For it has not its life in the body, but rather gives it to the body and lives in that which it loves.
St. John of the Cross

Temperance is love surrendering itself wholly to Him who is its object; courage is love bearing all things gladly for the sake of Him who is its object; justice is love serving only Him who is its object, and therefore rightly ruling; prudence is love making wise distinctions between what hinders and what helps itself.
St. Augustine

The distinguishing marks of charity are disinterestedness, tranquillity and humility. But where there is disinterestedness there is neither greed for personal advantage nor fear for per­sonal loss or punishment; where there is tranquillity, there is neither craving nor aversion, but a steady will to conform to the divine Tao or Logos on every level of existence and a steady awareness of the divine Suchness and what should be one's own relations to it; and where there is humility there is no censoriousness and no glorification of the ego or any pro­jected alter-ego at the expense of others, who are recognized as having the same weaknesses and faults, but also the same cap­acity for transcending them in the unitive knowledge of God, as one has oneself. From all this it follows that charity is the root and substance of morality, and that where there is little charity there will be much avoidable evil. All this has been summed up in Augustine's formula: 'Love, and do what you like.'
[108]  

Among the later elaborations of the Augustinian theme we may cite the following from the writings of John Everard, one of those spiritually minded seventeenth-century divines whose teachings fell on the deaf ears of warring factions and, when the revolution and the military dictatorship were at an end, on the even deafer ears of Restoration clergymen and their successors in the Augustan age. (Just how deaf those ears could be we may judge by what Swift wrote of his beloved and morally perfect Houyhnhnms. The subject matter of their conversations, as of their poetry, consisted of such things as 'friendship and benevolence, the visible operations of nature or ancient traditions; the bounds and limits of virtue, the unerring rules of reason.' Never once do the ideas of God, or charity, or deliverance engage their minds. Which shows sufficiently clearly what the Dean of St. Patrick's thought of the religion by which he made his money.)

Turn the man loose who has found the living Guide within him, and then let him neglect the outward if he can! Just as you would say to a man who loves his wife with all tenderness, "You are at liberty to beat her, hurt her or kill her, if you want to.'
Jo/in Everara'

From this it follows that, where there is charity, there can be no coercion.

God forces no one, for love cannot compel, and God's service, therefore, is a thing of perfect freedom.
Hans Den/i

But just because it cannot compel, charity has a kind of author­ity, a non-coercive power, by means of which it defends itself and gets its beneficent will done in the world—not always, of course, not inevitably or automatically (for individuals and, still more, organizations can be impenetrably armoured against divine influence), but in a surprisingly large number of cases.


Heaven arms with pity those whom it would not see destroyed.
Lao Tu

'He abused me, he beat me, he defeated me, he robbed me'—in those who harbour such thoughts hatred will never cease.
'He abused me, he beat me, he defeated me, he robbed me'—in those who do not harbour such thoughts hatred will cease.
For hatred does not cease by hatred at any time—this is an old rule.
D/zammapada

----

Our present economic, social and international arrangements are based, in large measure, upon organized lovelessness. 

We begin by lacking charity towards Nature, so that instead of trying to co-operate with Tao or the Logos on the inanimate and sub-human levels, we try to dominate and exploit, we waste the earth's mineral resources, ruin its soil, ravage its forests, pour filth into its rivers and poisonous fumes into its air. 

From lovelessness in relation to Nature we advance to lovelessness in relation to art—a lovelessness so extreme that we have effec­tively killed all the fundamental or useful arts and set up various kinds of mass-production by machines in their place. 
And of course this lovelessness in regard to art is at the same time a lovelessness in regard to the human beings who have to per­form the fool-proof and grace-proof tasks imposed by our mechanical art-surrogates and by the interminable paper work connected with mass-production and mass-distribution. 
With mass-production and mass-distribution go mass-financing
and the three have conspired to expropriate ever-increasing num­bers of small owners of land and productive equipment, 
thus reducing the sum of freedom among the majority and increas­ing the power of a minority to exercise a coercive control over the lives of their fellows. 
This coercively controlling minority is composed of private capitalists or governmental bureaucrats or of both classes of bosses acting in collaboration—and, of course, the coercive and therefore essentially loveless nature of the control remains the same, whether the bosses call them‑selves 'company directors' or 'civil servants.' [110] 

The only differ­ence between these two kinds of oligarchical rulers is 
that the first derive more of their power from wealth than from posi­tion within a conventionally respected hierarchy, 
while the second derive more power from position than from wealth. 

Upon this fairly uniform groundwork of loveless relationships are imposed 
others, which vary widely from one society to another, according to local conditions and local habits of thought and feeling. 
Here are a few examples: contempt and exploitation of coloured minorities living among white majori­ties, or of coloured majorities governed by minorities of white imperialists; hatred of Jews, Catholics, Freemasons or of any other minority whose language, habits, appearance or religion happens to differ from those of the local majority. 
And the crowning superstructure of uncharity is the organized loveless­ness of the relations between state and sovereign state—a love­lessness that expresses itself in the axiomatic assumption that 
it is right and natural for national organizations to behave like thieves and murderers, armed to the teeth and ready, at the first favourable opportunity, to be and kill. 
(Just how axiomatic is this assumption about the nature of nationhood is shown by the history of Central America. So long as the arbitrarily delimited territories of Central America were called provinces of the Spanish colonial empire, there was peace between their inhabitants. 
But early in the nineteenth century the various administrative districts of the Spanish empire broke from their allegiance to the 'mother country' and de­cided to become nations on the European model. 

Result: they immediately went to war with one another. 
Why? Because, by definition, a sovereign national state is an organ­ization that has the right and duty to coerce its members to steal and kill on the largest possible scale.)

'Lead us not into temptation' must be the guiding principle of all social organization, and the temptations to be guarded against and, so far as possible, eliminated by means of appro­priate economic and political arrangements are temptations against charity, that is to say, 
against the disinterested love of  God, Nature and man[111]

First, the dissemination and general acceptance of any form of the Perennial Philosophy will do something to preserve men and women from the temptation to idolatrous worship of things in time
church-worship, state-worship, revolutionary future-worship, humanistic self-worship
all of them essentially and necessarily opposed to charity. 

Next come decentralization, widespread private ownership of land and the means of production on a small scale, discouragement of monopoly by state or corporation, division of economic and political power (the only guarantee, as Lord Acton was never tired of insisting, of civil liberty under law).

 These social rearrangements would do much to prevent ambitious individuals, organizations and governments from being led into the temptation of behaving tyrannously; while co-operatives, democratically controlled professional organizations and town meetings would deliver the masses of the people from the temptation of making their decentralized individualism too rugged

But of course none of these intrinsi­cally desirable reforms can possibly be carried out, so long as it is thought right and natural that sovereign states should prepare to make war on one another. 
For modern war cannot be waged except by countries with an over-developed capital goods industry; countries in which economic power is wielded either by the state or by a few monopolistic corporations which it is easy to tax and, 
if necessary, temporarily to nationalize; countries where the labouring masses, being without property, are rootless, easily transferable from one place to another, highly regimented by factory discipline. 

Any decentralized society of free, uncoerced small owners, with a properly balanced economy must, in a war-making world such as ours, be at the mercy of one whose production is highly mechanized and centralized, whose people are without property and there­fore easily coercible, and whose economy is lop-sided. 

This is why the one desire of industrially undeveloped countries like Mexico and China is to become like Germany, or England, or the United States. So long as the organized lovelessness of war and preparation for war remains, there can be no mitigation, on any large, nation-wide or world-wide scale, of the organized lovelessness of our economic and political relation­ships.[iii]  
War and preparation for war are standing temptations to make the present bad, God-eclipsing arrangements of society progressively worse as technology becomes progressively more efficient.  

2021/09/06

Buddhist Christianity from Christian Alternative Books

Buddhist Christianity 




Buddhist Christianity

A wide-ranging, searching and partly autobiographical argument that it is reasonable and beneficial to combine definitely Christian and Buddhist commitments.
Synopsis | Reviews (7)
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Aug 27, 2010
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Ross Thompson

Synopsis


It is possible to be a Christian Buddhist in the context of a universal belief that sits fairly lightly on both traditions. Ross Thompson takes especially seriously the aspects of each faith that seem incompatible with the other, no God and no soul in Buddhism, for example, and the need for grace and the historical atonement on the cross in Christianity. Buddhist Christianity can be no bland blend of the tamer aspects of both faiths, but must result from a wrestling of the seeming incompatibles, allowing each faith to shake the other to its very foundations. The author traces his personal journey through which his need for both faiths became painfully apparent. He explores the Buddha and Jesus through their teachings and the varied communities that flow from them, investigating their different understandings of suffering and wrong, self and liberation, meditation and prayer, cosmology and God or not? He concludes with a bold commitment to both faiths.
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Cynthia Nichols
5.0 out of 5 stars Clear, potent, terrific writing
Reviewed in the United States on April 6, 2013
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For anyone who finds vital meaning in both Christianity and Buddhism, anyone interested in intelligent ways to reconcile their differences while foregrounding their real affinities, this is a great read. Not for fundamentalists--Thompson's understanding of Christianity is more from the mystical and nonliteral traditions.
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warlock
5.0 out of 5 stars Five Stars
Reviewed in the United States on January 1, 2018
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this book got me back on my first path--bhuddism
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Hayo B.E.D. Krombach
1.0 out of 5 stars Title and content are different and do not match.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on September 18, 2020
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I received a book today with the title 'Buddhist Christianity: A Passionate Openness', by Ross Thompson. This title I had ordered. However, inside the cover is another book with the title 'Cromwell was Framed: Ireland 1649'. It is a different book, which I hadn't ordered from you.

Please provide me with a new book where the text matches the title: Buddhist Christianity.... I request this new item without incurring further costs or having to return the useless one I got today.

I am sure there are more of these misprinted copies.

I hope Amazon can agree to this.

Best,

Hayo B.E.D. Krombach
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Ray
4.0 out of 5 stars Interesting perspective
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on December 3, 2013
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This is a very interesting book, especially being written by a CofE clergyman. It is such a complex subject, that it is always good to have perceptions challenged, and to look at the issues from a different viewpoint, so I found it very valuable, even if I did find that there are a number of non sequiturs in parts of the book. It is also very readable, so I would recommend it to anyone who is even mildly interested in the subject
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Ray V
3.0 out of 5 stars Informative and Thought-provoking
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on December 7, 2012
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This is a personal account of the author's spiritual pilgrimage. I liked his thoughts about the basic identity of the spiritual heart of both faiths. I found parts of it tedious, mainly because I am not very interested in deep philosophical theology either of the Buddhist or of the Christian variety. However, I found myself warming to the more emotional and instinctive parts, and also learning a bit more about Buddhism.
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==

Double belonging: Buddhism and Christian faith

(NCR photo/Teresa Malcolm

Paul F. Knitter, author of Without Buddha I Could Not Be a Christian, is Paul Tillich Professor of Theology, World Religions and Culture at Union Theological Seminary in New York City. He is a leading advocate of globally responsible interreligious dialogue and author of more than 10 books on the subject. In this, his newest book, he writes very personally, sharing his struggles with his Christian faith while relating how his study of Buddhism -- and his own Zen practice -- has helped him through this struggle.

NCR readers familiar with Buddhism or other Eastern practices and religions will find this book both refreshing and rewarding. It is unusual for a Catholic theologian to write as personally as Knitter has done in this book. I spoke with him recently about his Catholic faith and the Buddhist thought and practice that have entered into his thinking and life as he has worked in the field of interreligious dialogue.

Fox: Do you consider yourself to be a Christian?

Knitter: Oh, I definitely do. I was born a Catholic in Chicago, grew up and entered the seminary. I consider myself to be a Christian, especially in its Roman Catholic form.

Would you say that you’re a Buddhist Catholic or a Catholic Buddhist?

Definitely the noun is Catholic or Christian; the adjective is Buddhist. My primary identity is Christian.

As a Catholic theologian, what is your relationship officially with the church?

I think I’m a pretty reputable member of the Catholic Theological Society of America. I’m a practicing Catholic. My relationship with the church is, as far as I can judge, good.

To be straightforward and honest, I have received some general admonitions from Pope Benedict when he was Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger. In a book on dealing with other religions, he mentioned me as one of the people who represent a tendency that could easily slip into relativism. I’m working in an area that is quite controversial, namely how Christianity can understand itself in the light of other religions.

In your book you speak of “double belonging.” Just what does that mean?

Double belonging is being talked about more and more now, both in the theological academy and in the area of Christian spirituality. I think it’s the term that is used when more and more people are finding that they can be genuinely nourished by more than one religious tradition, by more than their home tradition or their native tradition.

How widespread is double belonging?

I wouldn’t say it is for general consumption, but in areas of Europe and North America, I think that the number of people who are serious about practicing their faith are finding that some degree of double belonging is becoming more and more a part of their lives.

Why such a broad interest today in Buddhism among Christians?

There’s no one answer. In the book, I quote a friend of mine, Fr. Michael O’Halloran, who is formerly a Carthusian monk and now a priest here in the New York archdiocese. He is also a Zen teacher. Michael once told me that Christianity is long on content but short on method and technique. So I think Buddhism is providing Christians with practices, with techniques, by which they can enter more experientially into the content of what they believe.

What are the needs among Christian believers that you think Buddhism is addressing?

I hope I’m not generalizing here too much, but I think a lot of it has to do with the dissatisfaction that many of us Christians feel with a God who is all out there, a God who is totally other than I, the God who stands outside of me and confronts me. I think we’re searching for ways of realizing the mystery of the divine of God in a way in which it is more a part of our very selves.

I think Christians are searching more for a way of experiencing and understanding God in a unitive way, or what I say in the book is a “non-dual way,” where God becomes a reality that is certainly different than I am, but is part of my very being.

Buddhism does not affirm the existence of God. It has been described as an “atheistic” religion. How can it have significance for a theistic religion like Christianity?

We’ve got to be really careful with how we use the term “atheistic.” Clearly Buddhism does not affirm the existence of a personal God, but I think the better term would be “non-theistic” rather than “atheistic.” It’s not denying God, but if I may put it this way, the Buddha and so much of Buddhism is much more concerned with experiencing ultimate reality rather than defining and naming it.

When you ask a Buddha, “What is it that you are part of when you are enlightened, or when you experience nirvana?” one of the terms or images that are used is sunyata, which means emptiness. That’s not a very good translation but it’s the word they use to identify that ultimate reality is not an entity, a being, but rather it is what they call the interconnectedness of everything. Or as the Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh uses the term for ultimate reality, “interbeing.”

Buddhism has helped me to rediscover, to deepen what it means when, in the New Testament -- maybe it’s the only definition of God that we find in the New Testament -- when it says that “God is love.”

I think what Buddhism means by “interbeing” helps me appropriate what in our Christian terminology we mean when we say divine reality is love, and then that sets the stage for me -- and I think for many Christians -- for reappropriating one of our central symbols for God, spirit.

So for me now when I say the word God, what I image, what I feel, thanks to Buddhism, is the interconnecting spirit -- this ever-present spirit, this ever-present, interconnecting energy that is not a person, but is very personal, that this is the mystery that surrounds me, that contains me, and which I am in contact with in the Eucharist, in liturgies, and especially in meditation.

Buddha was enlightened; Jesus was divine. That’s a big difference, isn’t it?

Yes. It’s a big difference. When one looks at, first of all, the language that we Christians use to talk about the mystery of Jesus the Christ, perhaps the two primary words that we use -- or doctrines that we attest to -- are Jesus is Son of God and Jesus is Savior. Now those two terms, Son of God, Savior, are beliefs. These expressions are our attempt to put into words what is the mystery of God.

All of our words are our efforts to try to say in words what can never be fully said in words. In other words, we’re using symbols, we’re using metaphors, we’re using analogies. This goes straight back to St. Thomas Aquinas and to my teacher, Karl Rahner. All of our language is symbolic.

So when the Catholics say that Jesus came to save us, we are not saying just that?

We’re saying something that is very true, something that tries to express what we have experienced, but we can never capture the full reality of it in those words. Again, to use the Buddhist image that is often used, our words are like fingers pointing to the moon -- not the moon itself. Words can never be fully identified with the reality that they are indicating.

You write that Catholics need an eighth sacrament. Explain that.

This has been perhaps one of the key elements that I and many others have learned from Buddhism: the importance of silence. It is in some form of meditation we recognize that the mystery of God is something that cannot be appropriated simply by thought.

This fits into our Catholic sacramental theology. We say that every sacrament contains matter and form. So the matter in the sacrament of silence is our breath, being aware of our breath, being one with our breath, doing nothing else but breathing.

A number of times in the book, you quote Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese monk. You write, echoing Nhat Hanh, that in order to make peace, we have to be peace. Reversing Pope Paul VI’s statement, you state that if we want justice, we have to seek peace. Is that right?

My wife and I spent much of the ’80s and the ’90s working in El Salvador for peace during the war. So we have been activists throughout our lives -- peace activists, social activists. But when I look back at that activism I am aware of how so often our actions were filled with a certain verbal violence.

We had to resist, we had to confront the evil structures. And there are evil structures, but something was missing for me. What was missing was captured in an experience I had back in 1986 or ’87 when I did a Zen retreat with Roshi Bernie Glassman.

I said to him during this retreat that we were going down to El Salvador to try to do something to stop the terrible death squads. He said: “Right, you have to stop the death squads, but you also have to meditate because you will never stop the death squads until you realize your oneness with them.”

That is the experience that Buddhism calls us to, this deep, personal experience of our interconnectedness with all beings, even those whom we have to oppose as oppressors, as perpetrators of evil. We are one with them. This is what Thich Nhat Hanh means when he says that we have to be peace within ourselves. We have to overcome our egos and realize our connectedness with all beings.

You’ve written, “For Buddhists, selfishness is not so much sinful as it is stupid.” Explain.

This is an aspect, I think, that is especially appreciated, or needed, by many Christians. For Buddhism, and I would want to say for Catholicism as well, our fundamental nature is good. Our fundamental nature is the Buddha nature, namely we are part of the interconnected whole, called to be aware of it, and to act out of compassion.

But our problem is that we are not aware of this. Because we’re not aware of this, because we think we are separate individuals rather than part of the interconnected whole, we think we have to protect ourselves. We think we have to gain things in order to establish our identity and, therefore, we act selfishly. We’re acting selfishly, not because we are fallen, not because we are evil in our natures, but because we are ignorant.

You’ve written that in the future, Christians will be mystics or they will not be anything at all. What do you mean?

That is a loose quotation from my teacher, Karl Rahner. What he was getting at is this: There are so many challenges and so many difficulties that we face that unless our identities are based on our own personal experience of God, as part of them, of Christ, as their very being, they are not going to be able to find the strength and the stamina and the wisdom to hang in there.

You’ve written that Buddhism has helped you peer into the mystery beyond death. What about death and life afterwards?

That was perhaps, for me, the most helpful, but maybe the most controversial part of my book. Buddhism tells us that here in this life our true identity, our true happiness, is to move beyond our individuality. I think that resonates with the word, “Unless a grain of wheat genuinely falls into the ground and dies, it will not bear fruit.” Buddhism has led me to look more deeply into what that passage means or what Jesus means when he said, “You will not find yourself unless you lose yourself.”

This has brought me to recognize something that for me seems to be more satisfying, namely that the life that awaits me after I die is going to be an existence that is going to be beyond my individual existence as Paul Knitter. I will live on, but I will not live on probably as Paul Knitter. In other words, our life in the future life after death is a form of existence that is beyond individuality. That doesn’t mean we’re annihilated; that doesn’t mean we don’t exist, but we will exist in a totally transformed, trans-individual existence.

[Thomas C. Fox is NCR editor and can be reached at tfox@ncronline.org.]





===



How the Buddha became a Christian saintJuly 13, 2020 5.58am AEST


Author
Philip C. Almond

Emeritus Professor in the History of Religious Thought, The University of Queensland
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From the 11th century onwards, the Legend of Barlaam and Josaphat enjoyed a popularity in the medieval West attained perhaps by no other legend. It was available in over 60 versions in the main languages of Europe, the Christian East and Africa. It was most familiar to English leaders from its inclusion in William Caxton’s 1483 translation of the Golden Legend.

Little did European readers know that the story they loved of the life of Saint Josaphat was in fact that of Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, the founder of Buddhism.
The ascetic life

According to the legend, there reigned in India a king called Abenner, immersed in the pleasures of the world. When the king had a son, Josaphat, an astrologer predicted he would forsake the world. To forestall this outcome, the king ordered a city to be built for his son from which were excluded poverty, disease, old age and death.

But Josaphat made journeys outside of the city where he encountered, on one occasion, a blind man and a horribly deformed one and, on another occasion, an old man weighed down by illness. He realised the impermanence of all things:

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No longer is there any sweetness in this transitory life now that I have seen these things […] Gradual and sudden death are in league together.

While experiencing this spiritual crisis, the sage Barlaam from Sri Lanka reached Josaphat and told him of the rejection of worldly pursuits and the acceptance of the Christian ideal of the ascetic life. Prince Josaphat was converted to Christianity and began to practise the ideal of the spiritual life of poverty, simplicity and devotion to God.
Scenes from the Story of Jehosophat from the Bible. Augsburg, G. Zainer, c.1475. Harvard Art Museums/Fogg Museum, Gift of Paul J. Sachs

To forestall his quest, his father surrounded him with seductive maidens who “tantalised him with every kind of temptation with which they sought to arouse his appetites”.

Josaphat resisted them all.

After the death of his father, Josaphat remained determined to continue his ascetic life and abdicated the throne. He journeyed to Sri Lanka in search of Barlaam. After a quest lasting two years, Josaphat found Barlaam living in the mountains and joined him there in a life of asceticism until his death.
A great saint

Barlaam and Josaphat were included in the calendars of saints in both the Western and Eastern churches. By the 10th century, they were included in the calendars of the Eastern churches, and by the end of the 13th century in those of the Catholic church.
Saints Barlaam and Josaphat, Jacques Callot’s Calendar of Saints, c.17th century. Harvard Art Museums/Fogg Museum, Gift of William Gray from the collection of Francis Calley Gray, by exchange

In the book we know as The Travels of Marco Polo, published around the year 1300, Marco gave the West its first account of the life of the Buddha. He declared that — were the Buddha a Christian — “he would have been a great saint […] for the good life and pure which he led”.

Read more: Netflix ‘Chinese Game of Thrones’ charts the life of Marco Polo – so who was he?

In 1446, an astute editor of the Travels noticed the similarity. “This is like the life of Saint Iosaphat”, he declared.

It was, however, only in the 19th century the West became aware of Buddhism as a religion in its own right. As a result of editing and translating of the Buddhist scriptures (dating from the first century BCE) from the 1830s onwards, reliable information about the life of the founder of Buddhism began to grow in the West.The Sacred Bodhi Tree. Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Chicago Society of Etchers

Then the West came to know the story of the young Indian prince, Gautama, whose father – fearful his son would forsake the world – kept him secluded in his palace. Like Josaphat, Gautama eventually encountered old age, disease and death. And, like Josaphat, he left the palace to live an ascetic life in quest of the meaning of suffering.

After many trials, Gautama sat beneath the Bodhi tree and finally attained enlightenment, thereby becoming a Buddha.

Only in 1869 did this new-found knowledge in the West about the life of the Buddha lead inescapably to the realisation that, in his guise as Saint Josaphat, the Buddha had been a saint in Christendom for some 900 years.
Intimate connections

How did the story of the Buddha become that of Josaphat? The process was long and complicated. Essentially, the story of the Buddha that began in India in the Sanskrit language travelled east to China, then west along the Silk Road where it was influenced by the asceticism of the religion of the Manichees.

It was then transposed into Arabic, Greek and Latin. From these Latin versions it would be translated into various European languages.

Years before the West knew anything about the Buddha, his life and the ascetic ideal which it symbolised were a positive force in the spiritual life of Christians.
Gautama Buddha seated on a lotus throne, c.1573-1612. © The Trustees of the British Museum, CC BY-NC-SA

The Legend of Barlaam and Josaphat demonstrates powerfully the intimate connections between Buddhism and Christianity in their commitment to the ascetic, meditative and mystical religious life.

Few Christian saints have a better claim to that title than the Buddha.

In an era where the Buddhist spirituality of “mindfulness” is very much on the Western agenda, we need to be mindful of the long and positive history of the influence of Buddhism on the West. Through the story of Barlaam and Josaphat, Buddhist spirituality has played a significant role in our Western heritage for the last one thousand years.

History
Religion
Christianity
Silk Road
Saints
Buddha
Sainthood

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===
CAN A CHRISTIAN BELIEVE IN NO-SELF?
ON BEING ENGLISH TEACHER FOR A ZEN MASTER

​Can a Christian be a Buddhist, Too?
Jay McDaniel


Many years ago, when I was in seminary, I had the unusual experience of living in two religious worlds simultaneously: one Christian and one Buddhist.

In the mornings I would take classes on Christianity under the guidance of gifted seminary professors, all of whom were preparing me to become a minister.  And then, in the afternoons, I would serve as the English teacher for a Zen Buddhist monk from Japan, who had recently completed his monastic training in Kyoto, having had the satori (enlightenment) experience with help from his Zen master.

For a young seminarian fresh out of college, my year as an English teacher for this Zen monk – now my good friend - was a very intense year.   I would leave morning classes thinking about the self's relation to God as understood in the Gospel of John, deeply steeped in the richness of a Christian path.  Then I would visit with a Zen monk in the afternoon, talking about Zen, and wondering if the self and God even existed.  He is pictured below.

One day in seminary illustrates the whole year.  I remember going to chapel in the morning, before class, and singing Amazing Grace along with my fellow seminarians.   I felt enveloped in God’s love.  That afternoon I then discussed with my Zen friend the meaning of the well-known koan "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"  He explained that there is no rational or formulaic answer, but that there is an "answer" and that it has to do with not having a self separated from the world.  He and I were always talking about the Buddhist idea of no-separate-self, or 
anatman.

I left our discussion wondering if Jesus had a self in the first place, and if God had one as well.  Maybe they, too, exemplifiedanatman.  Maybe they could hear the sound of one hand clapping because their selves, like that of a good Zen Buddhist, were empty of substance and completed by the world.  It seemed to me that the whole year was like this: trying to link the amazing grace of God’s love with the sound of one hand clapping.  

Of course this year did not emerge in a vacuum.  For me, it emerged as the outcome of a rather deep search, not simply for Christian identity, but for a living Christian faith.  I was myself surprised to find that Buddhism might help me find that faith.

I had first become interested in Buddhism during my senior year in college.   I was looking for an alternative to a form of fundamentalist Christianity into which I had briefly fallen; and I found that alternative in the writings of the late Catholic writer, Thomas Merton.   You will see photos of him on the right.  He was a monk living in a monastery in Gethsemane, Kentucky, who wrote voluminously on many topics, including war and peace, social justice, contemplative prayer, mysticism, and Buddhism.  Merton’s interest in Buddhism struck a chord in me because I, like he, was drawn to forms of spirituality that emphasize "letting go of words" and "being aware in the present moment."   Protestant Christianity often seemed too wordy to me.  Buddhism pointed to a world beyond words.

One reason I especially liked Merton was that he was sensitive to the fact that Christianity, too, points to a world beyond words.  It points to the world of other living beings who are to be loved on their own terms and for their own sakes, who cannot be reduced to the names we attach to them; and it also points to the world of divine silence as experienced in the depths of contemplative prayer.  Merton turned to Buddhism as a way of deepening his own understanding of the wordless, trans-theological dimensions of Christianity, and with his help I did the same. 

Under the influence of Merton's writings, then, I began to take courses in world religions during my first year in seminary, even as I also took course in biblical studies, the history of Christianity, and Christian theology.   At this stage, my interest in Buddhism was satisfied primarily through books and lectures in these courses.  Growing up in a middle-class Protestant setting in Texas, I had not really known a Buddhist, much less a Zen Buddhist, in a personal way.  I had known cowboys.

All this changed when I was asked by one of my professors to be the English teacher for the monk from Japan.  My professor was a professor of world religions named Margaret Dornish, and I was taking a course on Buddhism under her.   Her request, and my acceptance of it, changed my life.  The monk’s name was Keido Fukushima, and he was being sent to the United States by his master in Japan to learn English and to learn about America.   My assignment was to meet with him every day for one full year, teach him English, and also take him to numerous sites throughout southern California, from malls to monasteries.  Indeed, I myself was to be part of the experience for him.  In meeting me and getting to know how young people think, he would be meeting an "American."  I tried my best to be an “American” for him, but I am sure that I was, at best, a middle-class Texan.   I worried, along with Dr. Dornish, that I would be teaching Keido Fukushima to speak English with a Texas accent.

I quickly learned that my student, whom I was told to call Gensho, had already had seven years of English as a student in Japan.   I later learned that Gensho means young monk and that I was calling him "young monk" the whole time.  This was odd, because he was ten years my senior, but it never seemed to bother him.   In any case, he was being sent to the United States, not to learn English, but rather to brush up on English, so that he could return to Japan and field questions from Americans about Zen.  Given his facility with the language, our agreement was that I would teach him English by having him explain Zen to me.  Thus, we spent hours upon hours talking about Zen and Buddhism. 

As soon as we began talking about Zen, he explained to me that the best way to understand Zen is to undertake a daily practice of Zen meditation, or zazen.  Under his guidance I did take up that practice, and I have been doing it ever sense.   It introduced me to that world beyond words -- the world of pure listening -- that had led me to be interested in Zen in the first place.  Twenty years of Zen meditation is at least part of the experience that I bring to this website.  The other part is twenty years of teaching Buddhism and Asian religions to college undergraduates.

But Gensho's explanations of Zen did not stop with discussions or with zazen.   The wisest teachings he gave me in those days were the gleam in his eye, his ever-present sense of humor, and his kindness.  These activities were for me then, and are for me now, living Zen.  Dead Zen is what you get in books, and perhaps even books like this.  Living Zen is what you get when you are face to face with a Zen person or, still more deeply, with life itself.  As Gensho would often say, the ultimate koan is not the question: "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"   It is life itself.  It is how you respond to what presents itself: the birth of children, the death of loved ones, the caress of your beloved, the beauty of sunsets, the murder of innocents, the laughter of friends, the hunger of the child.    When you respond with wisdom and compassion in the immediacy of the moment, you have become living Zen.  Your life is your sermon.  You are like the dog and cat in the photo: present in the present moment, true to your Buddha-nature in all its particularity.

With his help, then, I came to realize that Zen is not about arriving at another place called nirvana, but rather about arriving at the place where we start -- namely the present moment -- and living freely in the here-and-now of daily life.  Zen is among the most down to earth and concrete religions I know.  It is very bodily and practical.  For this reason I think Zen can enrich the incarnational emphasis of Christianity, which likewise finds the infinite in the finite, the sacred in the ordinary, the word in the enfleshedness of daily life.   Living Zen can help Christians enter more deeply into that form of living to which we aspire: life in Christ.

As I was spending my afternoons and many an evening with Gensho, my more conservative friends in seminary worried a little about me.  They knew that Zen Buddhists do not often speak of God and that faith in God is not part of the Zen world.   And they worried that I myself was falling into a dual religious identity.  One of them called it "double religious belonging."

I was not comfortable with this phrase.  Even as I felt like I was experiencing two different worlds each day, I did not feel that I belonged to two countries and had two passports.  Rather I felt like one person who was receiving nourishment from two intravenous tubes: one the dharma of Buddhism and the other the wisdom of Christ.   I borrow this metaphor from a wonderful Zen teacher in the United States, Susan Jion Postal.  Intuitively I knew the two medicines were compatible, but I was trying to figure out how they were compatible with my mind.  Moreover, I knew that if I had to choose one medicine over another, I would choose Christ.  I was not all Buddhist and all Christian, or half Buddhist and half Christian, but rather a Christian influenced by Buddhism.  Fortunately, the two fluids did indeed feel compatible and mutually enriching, so I wasn't forced to choose.  Each had a healing quality that could add to the other.

What, then, was the healing quality of Christianity?   Of course it has a lot to do with God and with the healing power of faith in God.  Part of this healing quality can be described if I go into greater detail about the chapel service in seminary, when we sangAmazing Grace.   When I sang along with the others, I felt that there was indeed a grace at hand, both in the lyrics and the melody and in the people singing it.   We were somehow together in a communion of love, even as we were different persons.  I sensed that there is a mysterious and encircling presence -- a sky-like mind -- in which we live and breathe and have our being, and that this mind is amazingly graceful.  We can live from this grace and even add to it.

For my part, I felt this grace most vividly, not in ideas learned from books, but in the gifts of personal relationships, in the beauty of the natural world, in the depths of dreams, in hopes for peace, in the silence of the soul, in the eyes of animals, in the mysteries of music, and in acts of lovingkindness.  There is something beautiful in our world, even amid its tragedies.  For me, this beauty is God.  God is the lure toward beauty in the universe, plus more.  And God is in the beauty, too.  The beauty of the world is God's body.

Admittedly, even in seminary, I did not always envision God as a male deity residing off the planet.  Neither did my professors, especially those who were process theologians.  With their help I arrived at a way of thinking about God that has made sense to me ever since.  They helped me see that the universe is not outside God, like a servant seated far beneath a throne on which sits a king; but rather inside God, like developing embryos are inside a womb, or schools of fish are inside an ocean, or clouds are inside the sky. 

My professors called this perspective pan-en-theism: a phrase which was coined in the nineteenth century, and which literally means that everything-is-in-God even as God is more than everything.  It seemed to me then and seems to me now that pan-en-theism is closer to the truth of amazing grace.   Grace is not something we approach from afar, like a throne on which sits a king, but rather something that is "always already here" as pure gift.  Just as the ocean is "always already here" for a fish swimming in it, so grace is "always already here" for human beings.  Our task, as humans, is to awaken to what is always already here.

I have said that from a pan-en-theistic perspective God is more than everything added together.   This is certainly the case for process theologians.  Just as an ocean is more than all the fish swimming in it, so God is more than our experience of God.  Imagine a fish swimming off the coast of the Gulf of Mexico in North America, and imagining that he knew everything about the ocean, including what it is like off the coast of New Zealand and South Africa and the Arctic.  This fish would be equating its own experience of God with the whole of God. 

Unfortunately, this is what I did during my senior year in college when I was a fundamentalist.  I was pretty sure that I knew the whole of God and that others who disagreed with me were wrong.   And this is why I am so glad to have discovered Thomas Merton, who helped me realize that the divine ocean is always more than our experience of it and we can lie back gently into its waters.   From Merton I learned about God the more-ness, and about how silent listening was profound way to be connected with this God.

Oftentimes in seminary before I went to sleep at night, I would pray to the divine more-ness.   Not only the contemplative prayer that Thomas Merton describe, but also the more traditional prayer of address that is at the heart of so much lived religion.   I would open my heart to the divine ocean and say “Please be with them O Lord” or "I am so sorry, God" or "Thank you, it is so beautiful" or "May all beings be happy."    Indeed, in times of sadness, I would also pray the harder prayers, the lamentations and protests, such as "Why did you let this happen?" and "Where are you, anyway?" and "Why have you forsaken me?"  These were for me a kind of primal speech of the heart, more like poetry than prose.   They were reaching out into the vastness of a mystery beyond my imagination, yet present even in its absence.

At first I felt a little guilty about these harder prayers.  I knew that you find this kind of praying in the Bible quite often, in the Psalms for example, but for some reason I thought I was supposed to be nicer to God than the biblical authors.  Thankfully, my professors explained that all these ways of praying are authentic if they come from the heart, because the divine ocean is big enough and powerful enough to receive and absorb all doubts, pains, sufferings and even all sins. 

How did they know this?  Most of them appealed to experience and also to Jesus.  In the minds of most of my teachers, Jesus was not a supernatural figure who descended to the earth from above, but rather a man among men whose opened heart revealed a special aspect of God: namely God's open-hearted reception of the world into the divine life, with a tender care that nothing be lost.  If we imagine God as an ocean, they said, then let us imagine Jesus as a fish among fish, whose opened heart reveals the Empathy and Eros of ocean itself.  Jesus was, as it were, a window to the divine.  I liked to think of Jesus as one of those fish with especially shining eyes.   You would look into his eyes and see the ocean.  Its name was not power or control or fear.  Its name was compassion.   You could feel this ocean every time you listened to other fish and cared for them.  You could feel it when you had compassion for yourself, too.  It was a very wide ocean, without boundaries, and somehow people saw it in the eyes of Jesus.   Not his alone, of course, but also in the eyes of others.

Of course not all eyes reveal compassion.  Some are all about power and control.  People with power-hungry eyes have somehow lost sight of their capacities for vulnerable love.  Their victims need our special love and care, and our hope that somehow the journey of live continues afterwards, so that their hearts find peace.  And those with power-hungry eyes need our love, too.  This is a teaching of Buddha and Jesus.  We must not draw boundaries around love.

I think that the ocean of compassion is also an ocean of listening.  It is affected by everything that happens all the time: omni-vulnerable, like a man on a cross.  I had a few friends in seminary, and I have many friends now, who do not believe in prayer.  Some of my friends in the college where I teach don't believe there is a divine ocean in the first place.  They believe that the great receptacle in which the universe unfolds is an empty space rather than an amazing grace, more like a vacuum than an opened heart.  And, of course, they may be right.  When it comes to the mystery within which we all swim like fish in the sea, we all see through a glass darkly.   No one can grasp the ocean, not even Christians.

Additionally, I have more religious friends who do indeed believe in a divine mystery of sorts, but who do not believe it receives prayers.  They see the mystery more like an energy or force which can act upon things, but which cannot be acted upon.  It has the power to give, but not to receive.  Our task, they say, is to do the will of God, they say, cognizant that God does not need us in any way.  For these friends, God is more like the male deity residing off the planet than an ocean of compassion.  He stands above the earth, watching from time to time, and intervening from time to time, but he would do just fine if the earth and the whole universe ceased to exist.

For my part, I have no objection to other people imagining God as a male deity residing off the planet.   I think we need many different images of God in our imaginations, and that this image is one among many that can help us.   I have met people whose lives have been empowered to deal with great suffering, with great courage, through this image of God.  But I do indeed have a problem with people who imagine this male deity as having the power to give but not to receive; the power to issue commands but not to empathize; the power to act in the world, but not to be acted upon by the world.   When God is imagined in this way, we have, as the philosopher Whitehead once put it, rendered unto God that which belongs to Caesar.   

I'm with Whitehead.  A God who lacks the power to receive, who doesn't need the world in any way, is too monarchical.  He is a lot like Caesar but not much like Christ.   When I say "God" in this column I mean the Christ-like God as opposed to the Caesar-like God.   I mean the God who is present to each living being on our planet and throughout the universe with a tender care that nothing be lost.   I mean the God who is filled by the universe, just as an embryo fills a womb, or stars fill a dark and starlit sky, or fish fill the sea.  I mean the God whose face is compassion not power, whose body is the world itself.  I mean the God who is an ocean.  The God whom Christians see revealed, but not exhausted, in the healing ministry of Jesus.

Faith in God is trust in the availability of fresh possibilities.  And life in God lies in being present to each situation in a kindly way, open to surprise, honest about suffering, and seeking wisdom for daily life.   I saw this kind of faith in "Gensho."  He did not have an image of God in whom he placed that faith.  When God becomes an ocean, we must sit loose with images, too, lest we make idols of them.  Still we can have faith in something more, maybe even someone more: someone who listens and seeks our well-being.   This is a faith to which I am drawn, moment by moment, as I try to walk with Christ, with help from Zen.

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A Look at Christianity, Through a Buddhist Lens

By Peter Steinfels
Oct. 9, 2009

https://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/10/us/10beliefs.html

Five decades ago, Paul F. Knitter, then a novice studying to become a Roman Catholic priest, would be in the seminary chapel at 5:30 every morning, trying to stay awake and spend time in meditation before Mass.

Last Wednesday, at the same hour, he was sitting on his Zen cushion meditating in the Claremont Avenue apartment he occupies as the Paul Tillich Professor of Theology, World Religions and Culture at Union Theological Seminary in New York.

A few hours later he was talking about his pointedly titled new book, “Without Buddha I Could Not Be a Christian” (Oneworld). The book is the outcome of decades of encounters with Buddhism — and of struggles with his own faith.

Born in 1939, Mr. Knitter began his path to the Catholic priesthood at age 13, studied theology in Rome during the years of the Second Vatican Council, was ordained in 1966, completed a doctorate in Germany and began a long and influential career as a scholar addressing questions of the relationship between Christianity and other world religions.


He received permission to leave the priesthood in 1975, taught for many years at Xavier University in Cincinnati and after his retirement was invited to Union Theological.

“Am I still a Christian?” he asks in his new book. It is a question posed over the years by others, including some unhappy officials in the Vatican. But the question, he writes, is also “one I have felt in my own mind and heart.”

“Has my dialogue with Buddhism made me a Buddhist Christian?” he writes. “Or a Christian Buddhist? Am I a Christian who has understood his own identity more deeply with the help of Buddhism? Or have I become a Buddhist who still retains a stock of Christian leftovers.”

The struggles Mr. Knitter is writing about are not the familiar ones about sexual ethics, the role of women or the failures of church leaders.

His focus here is on what he calls “the big stuff”: What does it really mean for Christians to profess belief in an almighty “God the Father” personally active in the world, or in Jesus, “his only-begotten Son” who saved humanity through his death and bodily resurrection, or in eternal life, heaven and hell?

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However much he tried, Mr. Knitter found that certain longstanding Christian formulations of faith “just didn’t make sense”: God as a person separate from creation and intervening in it as an external agent; individualized life after death for all and eternal punishment for some; Jesus as God’s “only Son” and the only savior of humankind; prayers that ask God to favor some people over others.

Mr. Knitter’s response, based on his long interaction with Buddhist teachers, was to “pass over” to Buddhism’s approach to each of these problems and then “pass back” to Christian tradition to see if he could retrieve or re-imagine aspects of it with this “Buddhist flashlight.”

He was not asserting, as some people have, that religions like Christianity and Buddhism are merely superficially different expressions of one underlying faith.

On the contrary, he insists they differ profoundly. Yet “Buddhism has helped me take another and deeper look at what I believe as a Christian,” he writes. “Many of the words that I had repeated or read throughout my life started to glow with new meaning.”

Those new meanings will unsettle many Christians, as Mr. Knitter recognizes, even as they address difficulties felt by many others. This will vary, of course, from issue to issue. Mr. Knitter’s translation of Buddhist meditation into a call for a Christian “sacrament of silence” may be readily welcomed. His search for a “non-dualistic” understanding of God and the world may be only leading him through Buddhism back to Thomas Aquinas.

“Perhaps I could have come onto these insights without Buddhism,” he said Wednesday. Yet even in those cases he often expresses these insights in language that will be debated, like God as “InterBeing” or “Connecting Spirit.”

When his comparison between “Jesus the Christ and Gautama the Buddha” leads him to conclude that both are “unique” saviors but not sole or final ones, he is treading, as he well knows, in a theological minefield.

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One can predict that this book will receive instant condemnation from people who feel their duty is to protect Christian doctrine from wandering off course.

One can also predict that those condemnations will, in turn, make others hesitant to voice more nuanced, thoughtful criticism out of fear of piling on.

Mr. Knitter and his book deserve better. It is easy to draw up a list of substantial criticisms. For one thing, Mr. Knitter’s Christianity comes laden with all the impurities of popular piety and workaday theology while his Buddhism seems to be that of the best and the brightest.

Some readers may detect the reflex of the lifelong recovering cleric in his recoiling from whatever might appear to be patriarchal or excluding. And most important are questions about the nature and use of religious language for pointing to a mystery that can never be captured in human words.

Yet serious critics, no matter how major their differences, will not be able to ignore the enormous, almost disarming honesty of this book. Mr. Knitter admits his painful puzzlements and conducts his search for answers out in the open. He does not hide behind academic abstraction but writes clearly and personally and leaves himself open to correction.

Although he argues for a kind of religious “double-belonging,” he does not hesitate to ask whether this is ultimately a kind of promiscuity — or, as one of his students put it, “spiritual sleeping around.”

Mr. Knitter doesn’t believe so. But he has written his book in part to see whether fellow Christians agree.

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Will his “double-belonging” resonate sufficiently within his own faith community that he can continue to consider himself a Buddhist Christian? Or if not, as he explained this week, will he feel obliged to recognize himself as a Christian Buddhist?

One need not have a stake in that outcome to find “Without Buddha I Could Not Be a Christian” a compelling example of religious inquiry.

A version of this article appears in print on Oct. 10, 2009, Section A, Page 20 of the New York edition with the headline: A Look at Christianity, Through a Buddhist Lens. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe