That was Zen; This is Tao Rev. Rod Richards Unitarian Universalist Church of Southeastern Arizona 12/27/09

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1 Rev. Rod Richards Unitarian Universalist Church of Southeastern Arizona 12/27/09 Reading 1. From The Tao of Pooh (1982) by Benjamin Hoff, pgs 97-99: Our religions, sciences, and business ethics have tried their hardest to convince us that there is a Great Reward waiting for us somewhere, and that what we have to do is spend our lives working like lunatics to catch up with it. Whether it s up in the sky, behind the next molecule, or in the executive suite, it s somehow always farther along than we are just down the road, on the other side of the world, past the moon, beyond the stars A way of life that keeps saying, Around the next corner, above the next step, works against the natural order of things and makes it so difficult to be happy and good that only a few get to where they would naturally have been in the first place Happy and Good and the rest give up and fall by the side of the road, cursing the world, which is not to blame but which is there to help show the way. Those who think that the rewarding things in life are somewhere beyond the rainbow Burn their toast a lot, said Pooh. 2. From In This Very Moment: A Simple Guide to Zen Buddhism by James Ishmael Ford, pgs : I think about driving through the countryside of southeast Wisconsin, on our way to a great marsh, allegedly the resting place of a hundred thousand migrating geese. Since we found no geese, our quest for the multitude of wild geese became our wild goose chase. A chase where we found nothing As I reflect on it, I see our nothing was filled with somethings, all sorts of somethings. There was the drive itself, filled with out companionship, our conversations. There were the fading colors of late autumn and small lakes so incredibly blue they should defy all but the greatest artists The sky was filled with another blue simply beyond my ability to word-paint. And clouds the changing dance of each making my heart dance with them. We drove by people buying from outdoor vendors and farms with cows standing near fences, staring at us while chewing their cuds. Our nothing was filled with some-things, many precious and wonderful somethings I was just being with the cows and the pumpkin patches and the dry corn stalks filling the fields as we drove by. Nothing big, no big deal. Yet, it was a nothing allowing everything, a nothing that allowed joy. Sermon That was Zen. This is Tao. It s a fun little phrase emblazoned on a bumper sticker on my old Corolla. It s a take-off, obviously, on the phrase: That was then, this is now. And it takes on a whole new meaning to me as I grapple with the subject of this sermon. First of all, I am faced with the paradox of trying to describe Zen and Tao with words--two traditions that are notoriously mistrustful of the capabilities of words to capture truth. Existence, says Lao-Tse in our Opening Words, is beyond the power of words to define.

2 Richards / 2 of 5 But I am used to using words for just that task--defining. This is that, and that is this. That goes here, and this goes there. That is Zen, and this is Tao. In my urge to define and categorize, I may start by saying Zen and Taoism are religions. Zen is a form of Buddhism, right? Zen Buddhism. And since Buddhism is a religion, with particular teachings and rituals and practices, then Zen must be a religion. Taoism, too, is practiced as a religion by many. It is, in part, according to some scholars, a response to Confucianism, another religion. And Taoism is associated with particular religious symbols (such as the Yin/Yang symbol), sacred texts (such as the Tao te Ching), and particular spiritual principles and virtues that help in one s relationship with the world (such as Wu Wei, which is sometimes translated as without action or effortless doing). Thus, Taoism is a religion. But while looking at Taoism and Zen as religions can be helpful in charting their histories and their various expressions throughout the world, we should not kid ourselves that such a perspective gives us their true flavors. When we think of religion, we think of belief systems; a particular cosmology; precepts that are accepted by faith. But neither Zen nor Taoism put much stock in beliefs. What you believe is far less important than what is. And, in fact, what you believe can keep you from encountering what is. So, okay, maybe religion is not the right category. How about schools of thought? Zen and Taoism, maybe more philosophical than religious, provide particular ways to view the world. They are not bound by any particular creeds, but rather seek to explore the world from a particular perspective. They inspire us, not to believe, but to think about things. Well, no. Again, neither is big on the importance of our thoughts. Thoughts are something one seeks to quiet; to detach oneself from; thoughts, rather than pointing one toward, often lead away from awareness. So, okay, they re about awareness. That s it. Zen and Taoism are not best described as religions or schools of thought, but rather as paths to enlightenment. Hmmm, a little better maybe, but Zen and Taoism both challenge the notion of goal-setting, too; of trying to get somewhere other than where we are; of following paths. Taoism advises us, rather than finding the path to enlightenment, to get lost in the Tao. And so I, with my Western mind, eager to please, believing in the truths of Taoism, say yes, I would like to get lost in the Tao, so if you can just point me the way to the Tao, or show me on this map here where the Tao is, I will wander within it until I am lost. If you can just explain to me how I will recognize the Tao, I will know it when I see it and I will know I am on the right path toward getting lost within it. And there are teachers who will do that, in both Zen and Taoism. They will point the way, and they will tell you what it is, but when I listen to them and just about the time I feel like I am making some progress, I hear Lao-Tse, the great Taoist teacher, say this: The tao we call "tao" is not the Tao;

3 Richards / 3 of 5 The name we call "Holy" is not the Holy Name. We love to categorize and define things and I would love it if I could simply point and tell you: That was Zen and this is Tao. But it s not that easy. A Zen master, a Taoist teacher, might say: It s not that easy; it s easier. It s easier than your complicated thoughts, your definitions, your descriptions, your words. They all take you away from what s right there before you. Alan Watts has written extensively on both Taoism and Zen, and he suggests that indeed Zen Buddhism, with its roots in China, owes as much to Taoism as Buddhism in the way that it approaches the nameless, the Tao. In a book entitled, The Way of Zen, he begins with a chapter on the Tao, and sheds some light on simplicity and complexity in our search for the Way. It should be noted that we call [life] complex as a result of trying to understand [it] in terms of linear thought, of words and concepts. But the complexity is not so much in [life] as in the task of trying to understand [it] by this means of thinking. It is like trying to make out the features of a large room with no other light than a single bright ray. It is as complicated as trying to drink water with a fork instead of a cup. Watts points out that finding out what Zen and Taoism are about cannot be done in our usual thoughtheavy, comparative-religion, academically-philosophical ways. The desire is to make Taoism and Zen into things of some kind that we can describe and put on a shelf next to other similar things. But if we see them only as things (religions, philosophies, schools of thought, paths) we will miss what they have to offer us as processes. Alan Watts again: In English the differences between things and actions are clearly, if not always logically, distinguished, but a great number of Chinese words do duty for both nouns and verbs so that one who thinks Chinese has little difficulty in seeing that objects are also events, that our world is a collection of processes rather than entities. And the precepts of Taoism and Zen tell me that we often stifle the natural processes that make up our lives with our thoughts, our ambitions, our opinions, our fears, our actions and our efforts. We belittle those things that we do naturally. Breathing, right? Who can t do that? Yet, Zen places great value on just that: breathing. People learn to breathe in a certain way; count their breaths; follow their breaths; breathing provides a way to awareness. We judge the value of an action in proportion to the amount of effort we put into it. How hard did we try? What did we need to overcome? Yet Taoism lifts up the principle of Wu Wei: effortless doing. How do we work in harmony with what is rather than struggle against it? What if we strove to be rather than to do? And what if we found out we could get there by not striving? Taoism and Zen turn the Big Pronouncements of Western Religion on their head, promising no Great Reward up ahead, around the next corner, if we re good enough or smart enough or pious enough or

4 Richards / 4 of 5 ambitious enough. They promise, rather, what Unitarian Universalist minister James Ishmael Ford found in the midst of his wild goose chase: Nothing big, no big deal. Just cows and pumpkin patches and sky and dry corn stalks and nothing, really but a nothing that allowed everything. Taoism and Zen turn the Big Metaphors of Western Religion on their head, promising not to fill us up with love or with God or with anticipation or with faith, but rather to empty us; to create more space within us; to help us understand that all the somethings are really nothing, and that it is only the nothing that allows us to be aware of something. An earnest student of religion comes to a teacher to learn Zen. The teacher invites him to have some tea. The student tells the teacher of his studies, elaborating on all of the details of the philosophies and beliefs, while the master pours tea. And continues to pour and continues to pour the cup is soon full, then overflowing onto the table. Stop! The cup is full! It won t hold any more tea, cries the student. If you want me to show you Zen, says the teacher, you must first empty your cup. But how do we empty ourselves? How do we break the thought-habit that seeks to complicate and accumulate rather than simplify and detach? How do we enter into awareness rather than assessment? Well, it turns out that we may take a tip from the cows that showed up earlier. Just as they showed up in the reading from James Ishmael Ford as part of the somethings that populated the nothing that allowed for joy, they also entered through a less apparent door. But before I tell you how, let me ask you: what is the sound that a cow makes? Moooo. Yes, well, and a cow who speaks succinctly might say, simply: Moo. Right? Okay, hold onto that thought. A direct realization of emptiness and interdependence is absolutely necessary in Zen, says Ford. It is sometimes revealed through meditation, just sitting. It is also sometimes found in koans. Koans take the form of stories; single questions; unexpected answer. Koans, says Ford, are often misunderstood. They are not meant to be stories with morals, teaching tales, per se. They are not riddles that test our cleverness. They are not meant to be answered, and they do not tell us about enlightenment so much as they attempt to shock us, to rip away our assumptions about any answers. One of the most famous koans is the simple question: What is the sound of one hand clapping? We have turned that into a puzzle. (Is it really clapping if it s only one hand?) We have turned it into a joke. (This is the sound of one hand clapping.) We let our minds run and our thoughts get tangled up in knots. Questions are meant to be answered, we think, and the answer will lead us to something. But that s not Zen, and that s not Tao. Another famous koan illustrates this as it does provide an answer (of sorts). A monk asks Chao-chou, Has the dog Buddha nature or not? Now let me stop here for a moment. In classical Buddhism, this has an obvious answer: yes. According to Buddhism, all things have Buddha nature, true nature. So in this koan (which seems to have a predictable conclusion), the monk asks Chao-chou, Has the dog Buddha nature or not?

5 Richards / 5 of 5 Chao-chou answers, Mu. Mu. Was he imitating a cow? Well, knowing the playful and sly Zen masters, that is not out of the realm of possibility. But, as it turns out, mu is a Japanese word that means no. But from what I can gather, it is not the no that is the opposite of yes. It is more like no answer. One writer describes it as a way of unmasking the question. No answer because that s not what s important. No answer because you will then be under the mistaken impression that you ve gained something. No answer because an answer to your question will just lead you further toward an illusory goal of learning your way to the truth. Mu. No. No answer. No question anymore. No thought. No Zen. No Tao. That was Zen. This is Tao. That was when. This is now. And now is all there is not the concept of now, just now. So I invite you, in the face of the big questions, to mu. I invite you, in the spirit of Tao and Zen, of now and then, of how and when, to mu. While we are urged to live the questions, what would happen if we unasked the questions themselves? If we respond with a mu. What would we be left with then? Nothing? Perhaps. Perhaps the nothing that allows everything

Now, Tao Sermon by Audette Fulbright Sunday, October 15, 2017 All Souls Church, New York City

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