Ceaseless practice


This an an approximation of a talk I gave on May 31, 2017 at Bright Sea Zen, the sangha led by my dear friend, Kate Hartland.

“The meaning of zazen, the enlightenment and liberation of all living beings, is not brought forth by the power of personal effort and is not brought forth by the power of some other.  Zazen doesn’t start when we start making effort, doesn’t stop when we stop.

We can’t do it by ourselves, and nobody else can do it for us.”

From “Guidance in Shikintaza,” by Reb Anderson

I want to use this passage from one of our chants tonight to talk about the notion of ceaseless practice.

The universe practices ceaselessly.  Everything that’s happening right here, now – everything that’s happening everywhere – is the universe’s practice.  The universe is universing.  This is Buddha’s practice. It is Buddha nature expressing itself.

Buddha nature expresses itself ceaselessly.  The universe practices ceaselessly. E ndlessly flows forth; erupts; gives its all; gives it all up for the sake of . . . giving it all up.

Kate and I just had a nice visit at her house before our sit.  She definitely delivered on her promise to make a wicked grilled cheese sandwich.  The sandwich and time with her were a real treat, yet the main event was a tour of Kate’s beautiful garden.  Kate is an avid gardener, as I suspect you know.  I’ve always appreciated and admired the way so much of her teaching is inspired by what nature teaches her.

Kate’s garden is radiant now.  Many of the flowers are erupting.  The universe erupting as Kate’s flowers.

And, later in the year, when the flowers die, their death is the universe erupting, too.

It’s the same with us.  Each of us is the universe universing.  We are flowers blooming. Our lives – our thoughts, speech and action – are the universe erupting.  And our deaths are the universe erupting, too.

And, yet, many of us, much of the time, don’t seem to regard our lives this way.  We have this gnawing sense of separateness, of isolation, of not-okayness.  And we often, in more or less unconscious ways, respond anxiously to this sense, and often in ways that tend to compound it.  We take refuge in thought, speech or conduct, in situations we create or gravitate toward, that are about escaping from the here-and-now.  That aren’t about nearness to it and intimacy with it.

Why is this?  I don’t know. In some religious worldviews, it’s a mark of our fallen nature.  In some, it’s a pathology; a kind of sickness.

I’m more inclined to see it in the spirit of what Zen types call the “samadhi of play.”  Why shouldn’t the one wish to flow forth and know itself in the many; in and as myriad dharmas, “the 10,000 things”; as you and me?  And why shouldn’t the many, why shouldn’t you and I, truly feel distinct and separate, with the twinge of discomfort that entails (even as it also creates opportunities for joy).  And why shouldn’t all delight in discovering, and constantly rediscovering, oneness-in-manyness and the boundless love manifested in and generated through all this?

But these are just ideas, and, so far as I can tell, the universe universing doesn’t seem to be dependent upon my own or anyone else’s ideas about it.

This is the “we can’t do it for ourselves” part.  We can’t do it for ourselves, because it’s already done.  From this perspective, there’s nothing at all to do. Polishing ourselves – trying to be wiser, more virtuous, more spiritual; shinier, newer or whatever – it’s all futile from this perspective.  This is a come-as-you-are universe.  The universe goes on erupting, despite and as our efforts, whatever our efforts may or may not be.

So why practice?  We practice because of the opportunity it provides to become more and more aware of the universe universing, and to discover ourselves as participants in the universe universing.  It helps us not to resist our participation, just as we are here and now.  To attune.  Zazen tends to help us attune.

This is the “nobody else can do it for us” part.  Nobody else can live our lives, and nobody else can sit for us. Nobody else can practice for us.

Sitting is optional . . . we’re part of it all, no matter what, and the universe goes on practicing as me, whether or not I sit.  Yet this attunement, this particular quality of willing participation, can matter so much personally and collectively.  So much individual and collective suffering is attributable to our resistance; to our attempts to take refuge in someplace other than this.  Someplace we think promises something more.

The quality of our lives – our thought, speech and actions – may begin to change as we attune.  The universe goes on erupting despite our efforts and as our efforts, no matter what, but we do have agency.  We participate.  We have the ability to influence the universe erupting as our efforts.

So what we realize from our practice is simply that we are part of the universe’s ceaseless practice.  We realize that we are already home.  That we are practicing ceaselessly, too.

This isn’t exactly a destination, at least not in the way we’re accustomed to thinking about destinations.  The universe’s practice is completely open-ended.  And our practice must take on this open-ended quality, too.

Time and again in our practice, we must confront the idea that there is a goal, a destination, an ultimate point.  This idea can arise in many different ways, sometimes with a positive, sometimes with a negative tinge: a belief that there’s something wrong with my sitting practice, or that my practice is going really well; a belief that I’m virtuous or not virtuous; a belief that I’m not enlightened and never will be or that I’m finally realized.

However this idea arises time and time again, time and time again we must let it go.

So it’s all sort of like the line in that old folk spiritual:  “My life goes on in endless song. How can I stop from singing?”  The universe goes on universing as me no matter what.  Goes on in endless song.  So why not sing in tune?

As we let go of our gaining ideas over and over and over again (including our gaining ideas about supposedly losing), we tend to begin to manifest a positive quality of poverty of spirit.  By this I mean simply that we become more at ease with our practice and with ourselves and our lives.  We tend to increasingly practice without striving.

Another word for this quality of practice with poverty of spirit is reverence.  Simple reverence.  Reverence with a light touch.  Reverence with a sense of humor.  Reverence that is loving, but not too precious.

Reverence for the 10,000 things.  Reverence for your own life and experience.  Reverence for others’ lives and experiences.

Experiencing things this way is a cue that our personal practice is aligning with the ceaseless practice of the whole universe.

The universe, you and me practicing together.  Each breath.  Each step.  Each supernova bursting.  Each grilled cheese sandwich.  Each flower blooming.  Ceaselessly.


Email to HDS Spiritual Formation for Transformative Leadership Class Participants

This is the text of an email I sent last week to the students in the Spiritual Formation for Transformative Leadership course I’m co-leading at Harvard Divinity School with the amazing Liz Ruqaiyyah Lee-Hood.  I’m posting it here because this course has offered me the opportunity to reflect a bit more upon my experiences in both the Christian contemplative tradition and the Zen tradition, as well as some of the similarities and differences I see between them.  I remain deeply appreciative of, and still feel intimately connected to, the Christian contemplative tradition, even though I’m firmly grounded (and only engaged) in Zen practice today.  Note that I asked our students to read Markings, the (posthumously published) spiritual journal kept by Dag Hammarksjold, the second Secretary General of the United Nations.



I hope you’re having a great experience so far in the Spiritual Formation for Transformative Leadership course. I also hope to see you at the end of your October 3rd session, when I plan to visit again.

I began this note on a return flight to Boston, having spent the past week in Jerusalem. I am thinking of all of you, and about our brief visit a few weeks ago. I did not manage to say most of what I intended to say, so I thought I would send this email with some follow-up thoughts. I was supposed to talk mainly about contemplative practice, and I particularly wanted to follow up with a few more thoughts on that topic.

Picking up from where I left off when we were together . . .

Don’t Spare the Dharma Assets

I shared with you a verse from my Zen community’s version of the Shorter Precepts Recitation. This is the series of vows one traditionally makes when one becomes a committed practitioner on the Zen path. In my community, we also have a Longer Precepts Recitation, but its content is essentially the same, and both the shorter and longer versions of the precepts are recited by lay people and priests alike. Monks and nuns in Asia typically must make a much longer series of vows, but my emerging western Zen school does not currently have a true monastic element – and, in any event, we find these more compact sets of precepts to be sufficient expressions of our core commitments.

The precept I shared with you has been a living koan for me for many years:

Using all the ingredients of my life, I vow to take up the way of not sparing the Dharma Assets.

“Dharma” variously means teachings (as in the recording teachings of the Buddha), truth, and “ants, sticks and grizzly bears.”

(Stop and think about that for a moment.)

Or, as the towering 13th century Zen teacher Eihei Dogen said,

Entreat trees and rocks to preach,

and ask rice fields and gardens for the Truth;

ask pillars for the Dharma,

and learn from hedges and walls.

The Dharma Assets are simply “all of the ingredients of my life.” As you travel together in (and beyond) this course, I encourage you to take up one of the following questions (which are just different ways of asking the same thing):

  • How can I best make use of what’s here, now, including what’s inside me – whatever troubles or confounds me; whatever seems risky and real to me; whatever I genuinely would care to do that is not for show?
  • You’ve read Dag Hammarskjold’s reflections. What would/does living this precept look like for you?
  • If, as Hammarskjold claims, the path to holiness in this era necessarily leads through action, what action(s) do you feel compelled to take?

Contemplative Practice

“Contemplation” is a term that initially was associated most closely with the prayer practices and theology of the Christian mystics, as it arguably still is today, at least within academic circles. Because the practices, experiences, and ideas about which some of them wrote have analogues in other traditions, however, the term is often used to describe similar, and sometimes even very different practices, outside Christianity. For example, the silent prayer practice described by the anonymous 14th century Christian author of The Cloud of Unknowing is very different from Sufi dance and many of the practices of the Jewish Kabbalists, but you will hear one describing all of these practices as contemplative today. Of course, Islam and Judaism have their silent prayer practices, too.

As I explained when we met, I initially learned to meditate nearly 30 years ago from Tibetan Buddhist monks, and I continued to use various Buddhist meditation practices outside the Zen tradition for perhaps two years. I was still a Roman Catholic, but I was not attending mass regularly during that particular interlude. Somewhat ironically, I learned about Christian contemplative prayer in 1992, while reading a book by D.T. Suzuki, who introduced a generation of westerners to Zen. I soon sought teaching in Christian contemplative prayer from the Trappist Monk Thomas Keating, who (with others) has done the Christian world an incredible service by exposing non-monastics (ordained and lay) to contemplative prayer through the organization Contemplative Outreach.

I still cannot believe I did not initially learn of this wonderful practice by people in my own birth tradition. There are a couple of reasons for that. First, the Christian tradition of contemplative (i.e., silent) prayer was kept alive for centuries in monastic communities (Trappists, Carmelites, etc.), and most Catholics (and perhaps even most priests) never spend a significant period of time in a monastery or otherwise interacting with monks. Second, there are many other types of prayer practice in Catholicism (e.g., petitionary prayer, prayers of adoration, and praying the rosary) that are universally known and accepted, and there have been times and places in both the pre-modern and the modern eras when contemplative prayer has been discouraged or even challenged by some church leaders. Some Christian mystics write about direct communion with God or even the possibility of union with God, and this notion is theologically contentious for some Christians.

I practiced Christian contemplative prayer for roughly the same period of time (about 15 years) that I have practiced Buddhist forms of meditation, including Zen. I know both the Catholic and the Zen traditions well, and draw inspiration from both. Although I am no longer a practicing Catholic, there are some Christian Zen practitioners, and even some priests who have become fully authorized Zen teachers, like the Jesuit Robert Kennedy.

Centering Prayer, as the particular form of contemplative prayer taught by Contemplative Outreach is known, involves returning to a chosen sacred word or to one’s breath when one is lost in thought. The first form of Zen meditation most people encounter involves returning to one’s breath when one is lost in thought. Needless to say, these practices are very similar in terms of what one does during a prayer/meditation period. Generally speaking, one is attentive to whatever arises, and one gently returns to a reference point, like the breath or a sacred word, when one discovers one has been focused exclusively on a thought or sensation. In my form of Zen practice, one eventually drops the reference point device, adopting a form of practice called “shikantaza” in Japanese, which is often translated as “just sitting.”

The main difference between these practices is how they are conceptualized, or theologized, in each tradition. Christianity obviously is a theistic tradition, and Zen is nontheistic (my word). You will hear some Christians (including Father Keating himself) say that Zen meditation is a practice of attention, whereas contemplative prayer is a practice of intention (to be nearer to God and to “let go and let God,” as Centering Prayer practitioners often say). Having practiced intensively in both traditions, I do not think that is quite right. We sit with a particular orientation, if not exactly an ardent intention, in the Zen tradition, too. And we also “let go”; we eventually come to sit without expectation, or even use of a device, like a word or the breath.

Zen is a relatively “concept light” tradition, at least compared to the Abrahamic religions, but there is a central metaphor: We live in a realm of the Relative (teacups and tears, jazz and joys) and the Absolute (?), of Form and Emptiness, and, as we hear in the Heart Sutra, “form is exactly emptiness, emptiness is exactly form.” (Even this ? is too much.  Nothing extra.  And, yet, our questions are part of the Dharma!)  Or, as Zen folk say, the nature of reality is “not one, not two.”

Zazen (sitting meditation) is one practice in which we non-discursively meet this reality; we attend to what arises here and now not just to cultivate a more calm, undistracted mind (for whatever utility that might have psychologically or in daily life), but because we may find that we begin to lose that sense of separation between ourselves and the rest of life – that sense of isolation that drives so much manufactured earthly suffering – and because we believe that the here-and-now is (to borrow a theistic word) sacred. Utterly mundane, and utterly sacred.

We are marinating in the stew of life-and-death. Learning to savor the stew and accept that we are the stew/one of its ingredients.

A Zen practitioner walks through the mist. At what precise moment does her robe become wet?

And more: A Zen practitioner sits inside on his cushion. Another Zen practitioner walks through the mist. At what precise moment does the first Zen adept’s robe become wet?

I mentioned the Ten Ox Herding Pictures when we met. These are a famous series of drawings in the Zen tradition that, together, are a metaphor for the spiritual journey. The ninth picture is often labeled “The Unity of Form and Emptiness.” As my Zen teacher, Josh Bartok, explains this image, we realize:

The source. And yet . . . and yet . . .. Though form is indeed emptiness, form is also form. The one bright pearl manifests through the myriad things. From the beginning, just this has always been it. Time after time, there is nothing but this. This universe of emptiness arises thus.

The final picture is “Returning to the Marketplace.” Again in Josh’s words:

Returning. Here, we dive back into the great fertilizing muddle of life-and-death. We partake and participate. Our debt to the Buddhas and ancestors, and to our own teachers, can never be paid back – all we will ever be able to do is pay it forward.

Although the contemplative orientation to spirituality sometimes is criticized for being solipsistic and quietistic, here we see (in its Zen expression) that it ultimately points us to the here-and-now, but with a vivified perspective on it. The here-and-now matters all the more, and it is no longer self-referential. Mystics in other traditions make a similar case. I provided a bit of background reading on one of my favorite Christian mystics, Meister Eckhart, as one example.

We can debate whether or not Zen is a strong expression of the Via Negativa/apophatic theology. I will tell you to make your bows and chop wood, carry water.

As you know, we encourage you to take up and maintain a contemplative practice during this course, if you do not have one already. It does not need to be a silent prayer/eastern meditation practice, but it hopefully will not be a purely cognitive/discursive form of practice either. Thinking is important – and cannot, and should not, be stopped! – but thinking alone seldom “marinates” one well from a spiritual perspective. Our critical/cognitive capacity is an incredible gift that is useful in all sorts of important ways . . . and, yet, thinking often reinforces that sense of existential isolation that seems to be a “default mode” feature of the human condition. Thinking is very useful for pulling Humpty Dumpty apart; less useful for putting Humpty Dumpty back together again – or, rather, realizing that Humpty Dumpty is always, everywhere together in its distinctions. Contemplative practices can help us make contact with life in ways discursive practices seldom can.

So, take up a contemplative practice, and alongside it, take up the “koan” Dag Hammarskjold offers us: If the path to holiness in the contemporary era necessarily leads through action, what action am I called to take?


In closing, I will share one final thing from the Zen tradition. It is our evening/bedtime gatha (prayer), which one hears on sesshin (retreats) at the end of long days of meditation practice:

Let me respectfully remind you,

Life and death are of supreme importance.

Time swiftly passes by and opportunity is lost.

Each of us should strive to awaken . . . awaken . . .

Take heed: Do not squander your life.

I look forward to seeing you all again soon.



Jerusalem’s Holy Esplanade

I was in the Middle East last week for meetings and work related to a project exploring the recent tensions regarding the Holy Esplanade (the Noble Sancturay to Muslims and the Temple Mount to Jews) and the ways in which this holy site figures into the broader Israeli-Palestinian conflict and possibilities for its resolution. It was a fantastic, intense productive week, which included many related activities, like visits to the site and time spent in the Balata refugee camp in the West Bank, from which the first and second Intifadas began. The Second Intifada was sparked by Ariel Sharon’s visit to the Holy Esplanade. 

A (Zen) Valentine’s Day Reflection

Love is the frequency of the universe.

We vibrate to it whether we know it or not.

Some people seem to oscillate (in their own ways) in that frequency without knowing it, and without needing to know it.

Some people, at some points in their lives, seem to feel out of sync.

Zen practice is one way to tune in if we feel out of sync, if we doubt.

(Deep bows to great doubt!  Doubt that softens hard hearts, helps timid hearts find courage.)

Zen practice helps us deepen that sense of synchrony and to celebrate and honor this once the feeling passes (and even if it doesn’t).

If and as we tune in . . . no separation.

Buddhahood, Enlightenment, Awakening: a quality of the universe, not something we attain.

So lovely, so reassuring, to know it, if ever we’ve doubted.





Cultivating the Empty Field

My dear friend Kate Hartland gave a wonderful Dharma Talk at the Greater Boston Zen Center last night.  She spoke about the writing/poetry of Master Hongzhi collected in the text, Cultivating the Empty Field.  Hongzhi was first to spell out the approach to meditation we know was shikantaza, or “just sitting.”  He was a major source of inspiration for Master Dogen, founder of the Soto stream of Zen.

(Kate is a Dharma Holder in Boundless Way Zen.  You can learn more about what that means here, if you’re curious.  Part of what it means for me, practically speaking, is that I see her less often these days . . . and I miss her!  Kate and I sat together for many years as part of the former Ralph Waldo Emerson Zen Sangha (affectionately known as “Waldo,” which was the name of the dog my family had when I was a kid), and then as part of the GBZC, once we got our permanent digs in Cambridge.  A couple of years ago, Kate started, and she continues to lead, Bright Sea Zen in Weymouth.)

One of the many golden nuggets in Kate’s talk was her take on this notion of cultivation – of human agency.

Weeds will grown in an empty field, of course.  Indeed, fields full of “weeds” often look really lovely.  There truly is nothing we must become; nothing we must do.

This goes on happening, regardless.

And, yet . . .

We have this wonderful opportunity to act, to influence, and to do so intentionally.  (In fact, we leave a mark whether we act intentionally or not.)  We can plant flowers, so to speak, and so help shape the field into something it might not otherwise become.  Not something “better,” mind you, but something else to behold.  Something in which we’re participating, and know we’re participating.

Something expressing and reflecting our best intentions.

It’s so lovely when our own best intentions are sensitively and skillfully integrated or aligned with others’ best intentions.  The field becomes yet something else to behold.  Something in which you and I are participating together, and in which we know we’re participating together.

Shaping and being shaped by it.

Shaping and being shaped by one another.

That’s what Zen practice is about, really.

And that’s what work life, and home life, and all else are about – with a Zen heart.

Thank you, Kate.


Harvard Divinity School with the Pastor and the Imam from Nigeria

I’ve been teaching a graduate seminar on religion and peacebuilding at Harvard Divinity School one night a month this year (as HDS’s first Lecturer on the Practice of Peace). The course is connected with the public speaker series that is part of the school’s new Religions and the Practice of Peace Initiative.

Our most recent speakers were Pastor James Wuye and Imam Muhammad Ashafa, founders of the Interfaith Mediation Center in Nigeria. They once led rival youth militias and tried to kill one another. James lost his hand in combat. Muhammad lost his teacher and two cousins. They ultimately made peace and now help others do the same.

I’m pictured here with them, and with Dean David Hampton, Professor Diana Eck (one of my teachers when I studied at HDS years ago), and Professor Darren Kew of UMass Boston (who I know from my student days, and who now focuses his academic work on Nigeria).



Dedicating our practice

This is an approximation of a Dharma talk I gave at the Boundless Way Temple on February 19, 2015, during our annual Coming and Going Retreat. It is the next in a series of talks I have been giving about the major elements of our liturgy.  A recording of the talk, along with many other lovely talks from the retreat, can be found here.

I went skiing with two Swedes a few weeks ago. At the end of the day, I asked them – rather innocently, I thought – “Did you have a nice time?”

One of the two, who has become a close friend over the past five years, and who now lives in the U.S., said, “It was a great day.”

Our other companion, who I’d just met, said nothing. I looked at my friend, wondering whether he’d had a bad day, despite outward appearances.

My friend explained that this is an awkward question for Swedes. Theirs is a fairly collectivist culture, and yet also a fairly competitive culture. This question puts Swedes in a bind.

On the one hand, everyone is supposed to have an equivalent experience.   That’s the ideal. On the other hand, people really don’t have precisely equivalent experiences, and people do desire to have a comparatively good experience.

My friend has known me long enough, and been immersed in U.S. culture long enough, to have felt compelled to respond to my question. Not so for the other Swede.

From this cultural frame of reference, revealing how he felt about the day – good, bad, or in-between – would have been to engage in a comparison of experiences, which is verboten.

Because we do have different experiences, and experience things differently, my skiing companions explained that this taboo often leaves Swedes feeling jealous, but not having any way to contend with that feeling. As a result, they said, it can be hard for Swedes to take joy in others’ joy.

My friend tried to explain how these cultural patterns are born of the cold and darkness that makes life up north so hard. They’re a recipe for group survival in harsh conditions.

I told them that the ideal I’m more acclimated to, at least in my little corner of the U.S., is taking joy in other’s joy, even though most of us probably practice it quite unevenly. It’s a nice idea, they agreed.

I was also thinking, of course, of one of the closing dedications for our sutra services:

Buddha nature pervades the whole universe, existing right here, now. The wind blows, waves fall on the shore, and Guanyin finds us in the dark and broken roads. We give thanks to all the ancestors of meditation in the still halls, the unknown women and men, centuries of enlightened women and men, ants and sticks and grizzly bears. Let wisdom go to every corner of the house. Let people have joy in each other’s joy.

I really appreciate our dedications. For me, they answer the “So what?” question about our practice. What is our practice about?

And I’ve always loved this particular verse.

Buddha nature pervades the whole universe, existing right here, now.

Other dedication verses also open with this reminder. I find it so interesting that this verse, which is about dedicating our practice, opens with something akin to a statement of fact; some might also say an article of faith:

We’re alive. All is alive. And all is blessed.

Notice this! Wake up!

After this or another opening reminder, other verses tend to transition into what we might think of as more clear cut dedications: to all being; to those who suffer from calamity, cruelty and war; to specific people who we know are suffering.

With this verse, we chant:

The wind blows, waves fall on the shore . . .

The alarm clock rings.

The dog scratches its neck.

An email arrives.

Buddha nature pervades the whole day.

. . . and Guanyin finds us in the dark and broken roads.

Compassion does have a way of finding us in our “dark and broken roads.” We may be particularly open to others’ helping hands and the compassion that fills the universe, including our own broken hearts, in moments when we feel lost or down. And, of course, that’s precisely the same love available, and that we may feel, in the wind blowing on our face; the surf pounding against our chest on a warm summer day; that email arriving. Whatever our current life circumstance and disposition.

We give thanks to all the ancestors of meditation in the still halls, the unknown women and men, centuries of enlightened women and men . . .

We dedicate ourselves to this practice, for all it gives us, and enables us to offer to others, with gratitude to those who have sustained it and transmitted it to us. It’s truly something to be cherished, preserved, and developed.

And we dedicate ourselves to . . .

. . . ants and sticks and grizzly bears.

Chanting and hearing this for this first time was one of the moments when I knew Zen was for me. I remember laughing out loud. I was hooked.

This is both playful and serious, of course. Matter of fact. Buddha nature pervades the whole universe, ants, sticks and bears included. The 10,000 things.

And it is our animal nature; the baser parts of our human nature. We, too, are crawling on the ground, like ants. We are dirt and sticks. We can be grumpy and brutish, like bears. We dedicate ourselves to these parts of ourselves, too. We’d might as well face them. We’re enmeshed in it all. We’re in the stew.

Let wisdom go to every corner of the house.

I hear this less as an expansionist, missionary aspiration, than as yet another reminder of what’s here already. This practice is so much about just noticing, I find; about letting be; about getting out of the way – or, rather, coming to know in our bones that we are part of this, and this is the way.

Let people have joy in each other’s joy.

Can there be any doubt that we’d all be happier if we could learn to practice this collectively and consistently? This is the pithiest little ethical mandate I know.

And, like the phrase before it, I think it’s as much descriptive as it is prescriptive. People taking joy in others’ joy. This is the way. The motion and frequency of the universe, to which we can tune in and with which we’re invited to cooperate.

Such a simple principle.

Yet, it’s the work of a lifetime, it seems.

And of generations, across cultures.