A Non-Buddhist Questions the Buddha

(from a talk given by Roshi Eve on May 27, 2023)

Koan: A non-Buddhist once asked the World-Honored One: “I do not ask for words, not do I ask for no-words.” The World-Honored One remained seated. The non-Buddhist praised him, saying, “The great compassion of the world-Honored One has dispelled the clouds of my ignorance and enabled me to be enlightened.” Making a bow of gratitude, he departed. Ananda then asked Buddha, “What realization did the non-Buddhist have that made him praise you like that?” The World-Honored One replied, “He is like a high-mettled horse which starts at even the shadow of the whip.”

Mumon’s Poem: He walks along the edge of a sword And runs over the sharp ridges of an ice floe. You need to take no steps, Let go your hold on the cliff!

The non-Buddhist asks a classic question: How do we arrive at the truth of our life? If we go too far in the direction of duality, our life isn’t satisfactory because things constantly change and there’s nothing to depend on. If we go too far in the direction of nonduality, which transcends the dual, we leave our day-to-day life behind and don’t engage with the world. What do we do?

The Buddha sits there, totally aware, fully present here and now, showing the fundamental truth of the emptiness of subject and object.

Sometimes people think that his silence is what’s important here, as if silence is the best language. I’m not sure of that. I just see the Buddha sitting, looking straight at the non-Buddhist, not reacting, not bending this way or that.

Sometimes we call that the Middle Way. When people start to practice, they encounter nonduality, the absolute that is there in all things, embodied in emptiness, and they think that’s the entire path. But not in Zen.

It’s true that we deconstruct things, break things into categories of absolute and relative. In Zen we steer away from dualism, from good and bad, bitter and sweet, but rather than trying to transcend these things, like certain ascetic traditions, or pretend those differences don’t exist or are unimportant, we awaken to the great truth through radical acceptance of reality as it is: complex, perplexing, often paradoxical.

In living such a life fully and completely, we are free. That’s the only freedom there really is. That’s what the Buddha exemplified by just sitting. He could just as well have been just standing or just drinking tea.

This spring and summer we are studying the ingredients of a simple life. I’m mostly interested in what we do with our mind because that is so key to living a simple life. Sit like a mountain. Be a mountain. Fully occupy your position in life. Each moment, you are actualizing the potential of that moment because that’s the karma of that moment.

The Buddha doesn’t struggle for an answer, he doesn’t go into absolute or relative, it doesn’t say that he goes into zazen. He simply sits there. If you get up, you just get up; that’s sitting like a mountain. If you pour yourself a cup of coffee, you’re just pouring yourself coffee and that’s sitting like a mountain.

Ananda, the Buddha’s attendant, asked the Buddha: “What realization did the non-Buddhist have that made him praise you like that?” The Buddha replied, “He is like a high-mettled horse which starts at even the shadow of the whip.”

There are many ways of looking at his answer. Today I thought of how the whip strikes in our life. Illness, old age, losing our job or our loved ones, violence—those are the strikes of a whip. We respond, go to see the doctor, eat better and work out more, get another job, find support, find refuge from violence.

But many of us startle at the shadow of a whip. We are so conditioned by the past that it’s hard to get free. We fear something imaginary, we imagine scenarios from past and future that cause us to rear up. Even if we don’t rear up, we still get anxious, and we use our precious energy to distract ourselves from the shadow of the threat: Internet, social media, TV, lots of talk.

Henry, the little Chihuahua mix who lives in my home, barks at everything: the flutter of a leaf, the shadow of a branch, the sound of raindrops. I depend on Aussie, my dog, to let me know about intruders; Henry lets me know about the shadow of intruders, the shadow of the whip.

People sometimes despair. Past karma haunts them, they feel they’ll never be free. Freedom is manifested by many things, including just sitting there, just eating breakfast, just taking care of things. And if there’s something on our mind—fear about a relationship, about the future, family, money, we can go in circles trying to figure it all out, or we can wait. We can have patience. That’s also part of sitting like a mountain. Not strategizing, not imagining the worst that can happen, not thinking miles ahead. Just life as it is.

Householders live a busy life on different fronts, with many decisions to make, and sometimes the answer isn’t clear. I have learned to wait and listen, take care of what’s in front of me. If something troubles you about the future, don’t torment yourself needlessly. Don’t try to figure out the rules of a game that has no discernible rules. If we wait long enough, if we sit like a mountain, answers come.

As I get older, I’ve become more aware of how much I fill up my mind needlessly instead of emptying it, pushing the envelope, trying to anticipate and protect myself, trying to solve questions and problems. If the problem doesn’t find an answer naturally and quickly, then it’s not ripe to be answered. Or I’m asking the wrong question.

Everything is here. Emptiness manifests through perpetual change, taking this form and that form, changing all the time, in constant movement. We say: Sit. Purify the mind from obstructions of all kinds (the third Pure Precept), empty it, become pure awareness. When we do that, we are practicing patience. Faith and trust, but mostly patience.
​
Earlier this spring I wrote in my blog about a family of four, including two very young children, who had to flee their home in Honduras and make a very long and dangerous trek into the United States, separating in the process, putting their children’s lives at risk. At the end I asked Frankie, the father who told me the story, what he would say to Americans, gringos, living here. He said: “Appreciate what you have. Trust God.”