I gave this talk at our Full Moon Zen Sunrise Sit this morning. A recording follows the text.

This is Case 20 in the Gateless Gate:

Master Shôgen said, “Why is it that a person of great strength does not lift up his or her leg?”

He also said, “It is not with the tongue that we speak.”

The longer I practice, the more aware I become of Zen’s “bait and switch” quality.

Many of us come to practice seeking some sort of superpower we’re certain we lack. Enlightenment and all it connotes—insight, wisdom, equanimity, and more. Enlightenment is the umbrella term for that superpower, I suppose.

We think we’ll be a different sort of person once we have it: a Buddha. Shakyamuni, the historical Buddha, is a pardigmatic wisdom figure to whom volumes of brilliant and transformative teachings are attributed. By some especially idealized accounts, he also was all-seeing and all-knowing, and he even had magical powers and visibly used them. This is not just a person of great strength, but some sort of super-person.

So why does Shôgen say a person of great strength doesn’t display it; that he speaks, but not with his tongue?

He’s offering us a different image of spiritual maturity. Practice does make us stronger, but we develop a quiet strength that manifests as gentleness and humility, not necessarily a gusher of insights and words to go with them and noteworthy acts that attract attention.

The wisdom that practice cultivates is more earthy than philosophical. It’s more about simplicity than sophistication. 

The compassion that practice cultivates is more about basic kindness and quiet, genuine presence than showy efforts to save souls or save the world. Any visible, big effort to save souls and save the world that isn’t grounded in basic kindness and that quiet, genuine presence is bound to miss the mark—if it’s propelled by some different sort of energy, especially anger in the guise of goodness. 

The longer I practice, the more inspired I am by solid, simple people, many of whom would struggle to preach the Dharma with their tongue—who lack the gift of gab—but who transmit it in the ten directions by the loving care with which they prepare a meal and by their warmth, openness, and attentiveness that make others feel welcome and accepted.

For those of us who do have the gift of gab, or who otherwise are inclined to speak, Keizan Jokin’s line in At Ease and in Harmony points toward a mark of the spiritual maturity and strength of character I’m talking about, “If you wish to speak ten times, keep quiet nine.”  Show, don’t tell, as the saying goes.

So the next time you’re inclined to compare yourself to Shakyamuni or Dōgen or any of the great teachers in our koan collections, and to tell yourself you don’t measure up, remember Shôgen’s encouragement. The person of great strength doesn’t lift a leg or speak with their tongue, at least not loudly or often.