Bodhisattva Practice: the Natural Result of Insight into Emptiness

There is a common misunderstanding that insight into emptiness and enlightenment liberate a person from concern about the state of the world.

One Zen teacher recently posted on a Buddhist Facebook page that a report by over a hundred scientists recently indicated that we have entered an era of mass extinctions largely due to climate change. The post encouraged taking care of the planet the way we care for our zendos. Responses were largely positive, but a few people responded that we should not worry but should just sit and become enlightened; everything is impermanent, so essentially, who cares? In other places, I have seen people make the case that since all things are empty of selfhood, there are no beings who suffer, so there is no cause for us to be concerned about beings who are suffering. Another take is that "I just cultivate my own inner peace, and other people need to cultivate theirs. Their suffering is just in their minds (and not in mine)." So there is this idea out there that insight into emptiness liberates a person from caring about people's suffering. This view can lead people to dismiss the suffering caused by climate change, racism, and poverty as fabrications of the imagination. It also elevates a separate sense of self (me versus those who suffer) that is actually born out of privilege. This is not my understanding of emptiness, nor is it my understanding of Buddhism.

The Dalai Lama writes in his wonderful book, Practicing Wisdom, that insight into emptiness deepens one's compassion and that if it does not, then one's "insight" is both misguided and worthless. He writes, "If as an individual meditator you have a sense that your realization of emptiness is deepening yet there is no corresponding increase in your compassion toward others, then this is perhaps an indication that your understanding of emptiness is not really profound or genuine.... If your understanding of emptiness does not contribute positively in any way toward [the development of compassion], there is no worth in it at all.... We should not have the notion that buddhahood is a state of total apathy, devoid of feeling, emotion, and empathy toward other sentient beings. Meditation on emptiness is not some kind of escapism, refusing to deal with the diversity and complexity of the conventional and relative world. The aim is to be able to relate with the phenomenal world in a correct and meaningful way" (27).

The Heart Sutra discusses emptiness at some length. In it, Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion (a bodhisattva is one who vows to awaken and save all beings from suffering), explains to Shariputra that "emptiness is exactly form," and insight into this fact transforms "all suffering and distress." The sutra goes on to say that there is "no eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind..., no suffering [and no] cause of suffering." Those who study Buddhism can be easily confused by these statements and come to believe that Avalokiteshvara means that nothing exists. If taken literally, this is a pretty nihilistic sentiment for a bodhisattva of compassion.

How we understand "no" in the Heart Sutra is important. Avalokiteshvara is pointing to the living truth. When we conceptualize reality, we tend to put things in separate categories that often do not reflect how interwoven and fluid things really are. For example, we might think that we see with the eye alone, that seeing is just a function of the eye, but this is not true. Seeing actually is a "dependent arising" that includes the eye, the mind that processes images, light reflecting off objects, and the objects themselves. If we remove any part of the entirety of seeing, we no longer have any vision. Therefore, we can say that there is no vision, no "eye," without the entirety of creation, just as there is no separate "I" that exists independently from the rest of the world. Our physical bodies are made of the rain, the food we eat, and the air we breathe. Logically, it makes sense that we would therefore care for the environment. Even our minds, which we often think of as entirely independent, are constituted of things that are not the mind -- fleeting thoughts, perceptions of sensory objects, etc. Things, including ourselves, do not exist as stand-alone, permanent entities. Reality is "empty" of unchanging, independent essences. This is not the same as saying things do not exist or that we cannot provisionally distinguish one thing from another. Rather, things exist as dependent arisings.

Insight into emptiness means that we come to see the way things actually exist. When we do, we realize that everything exists in dependence on other factors, and that there are no abiding, separate selves anywhere. To realize emptiness is not just an intellectual process, though we can use our intelligence to inspire practice and point the way. But in meditation, we can realize this interwovenness in a way that is non-conceptual. It is in meditation that we come to a nondual realization of emptiness in which emptiness is exactly form, sometimes described as "suchness." In this realization, there is neither negation nor affirmation. There is neither emptiness nor form. We start to feel some deep sense of intimacy with the world that exists beyond conceptions and with the flow of thought itself, which also has no fixed essence. We have to meditate, to actually look, to realize the way things actually exist.

When we awaken, the result is not apathy or a nihilistic understanding based on notions of emptiness, impermanence, or non-existence. Awakening involves a remarkable appreciation of the aliveness of each moment and the deeply interpenetrating nature of reality itself. When we hear the song of a bird, it floats through our own hearts. We are not separate from the bird's song. Sometimes this recognition is called "no self," but it does not mean there is nothing. This intimacy and fluidity is so moving, we call it awakening. As Torei Enji wrote, "Everything reveals the mysterious truth of the Tathagata. Things can’t help but shine with this light."

But here's the key: awakening is not limited to beautiful experiences. When we see suffering in the world, and when we feel the way all beings reside in our hearts, this suffering touches our own being. To realize emptiness is not some aloof state of negation; it is actually quite a vulnerable enterprise. 

This appreciation of how interwoven we are -- or of dependent arising -- is the root of compassion. Being interconnected, we are touched by the suffering in the world. Since suffering lacks fixed essence but arises out of specific causes and conditions, we need not identify with it or get caught up in reified conceptions of it, and this is liberating. This is one way insight into emptiness alleviates suffering. But there is still pain in the world and pain that touches our hearts. And since pain is not a fixed essence, pain can also be alleviated if we are able to remove its causes. Of course not all causes of suffering can be removed, but many can. So insight into the emptiness of phenomena often brings with it a sense of possibility and motivates us to take compassionate action to alleviate suffering whenever we can.

There are many beings who are suffering in this world. In paying attention and not turning away, we will see that climate change has already led to refugee crises and may cause the mass extinction of species. In America, there is great suffering caused by white supremacy, including historic and ongoing systemic racism, the disproportionate use of force by police, and the often unacknowledged biases and blindnesses we perpetuate within our own heart-minds. The notion that we should not care about these and other problems because we are somehow "enlightened" is contrary to the lived experience of realization. This is why Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion who offers the teachings of the Heart Sutra, is depicted as having tears running down her face and a thousand arms and hands with which to save the many beings of the world.

We personally don’t have a thousand hands. And we can’t work 24-7. The point isn’t to burn out. But we can see what speaks to our hearts, and do something.

The term "emptiness" as used in the Heart Sutra does not mean that nothing matters. Nor does it mean that there is some separate metaphysical entity outside phenomena in which we take refuge. On the contrary, it suggests that we are so interwoven that we care for all beings as ourselves, and there is the real possibility of alleviating suffering. It is this compassion that led the enlightened one, Buddha, to rise from under the Bodhi tree, return to his sangha, and teach them. "Bodhisattva practice," or activism inspired by the compassionate witnessing of suffering in the world, is a natural result of our deepening insight into emptiness. We can't do everything, but compassion inspires us to do what we can.

Is Zen a Spiritual Practice or a Religion?

Zen as Spiritual Practice

“Once religious rites and dogmas have become so rigid that religiosity cannot move them or no longer wants to comply with them, religion becomes uncreative and therefore untrue." Martin Buber

Many people today would describe themselves as spiritual but not religious. For many, there seems to be something off-putting about religion. Though raised Christian, as a teenager I came to feel like attending church meant someone would "preach" at me about what I should believe and do in order to avoid going to hell when I die. Seemed pretty "top-down." There was not much room in that for me to have an opinion.

Also, religious traditions seemed steeped in the past. While science moves forward offering new rational explanations for different aspects of reality, religions can seem stuck with old stories that can appear irrational. While the teachings of the Bible may have felt relevant in the times of old, people change. Societies change.

I think many people today often feel more comfortable calling themselves "spiritual" because it preserves a sense of independence from the doctrinal and dogmatic. People want something less hierarchical and more participatory, even democratic. People want something rational. In this society that values independence and freedom, fewer and fewer people want to submit to externally developed codes of behavior or beliefs. For many, to paraphrase Nietzsche, "the old God is dead."

During this time of religious decline, self-help and spirituality book sales have thrived. While people don't want to have to toe the line and adhere to some middle-man's interpretation of God's commandments, we still seem to want some sort of support in living a meaningful, spiritually satisfying life. In a sense, many yearn for what has been lost in the rejection of religious traditions. We want to experience for ourselves the living Mystery.

One reason I was drawn to Zen practice is because of how the teachings are offered. Most of us have heard the cliche, "if you meet the Buddha on the road, kill the Buddha." In other words, don't believe in a Buddha outside yourself. And it is common knowledge that Buddha said, in short, "don't take my word for it. Test these teachings out, and only embrace what you can verify for yourself." For American rugged individualists, this has a kind of On the Road Jack Kerouac appeal. Set out on a journey to find yourself. "I don't need anybody but me." Buddhist teachings even have appeal to rationalists. The arguments about non-self, for example, can be expressed as rigorous philosophical claims.

And generally, when the precepts, or moral guidelines, are offered, they are not offered as an absolute set of rules that Buddhists have to follow. Diane Rissoetto's book Waking up to What You Do says it all: practicing the precepts is not about adhering to commands but is about waking up. While the precepts do caution us regarding not killing, for example, there is this recognition that we have to kill to survive. We have to kill plants at a minimum. Our bodies kill off viruses in order to survive. There is no escape from killing. So while the precepts encourage us to minimize harm, there is some recognition that these precepts cannot be taken too literally. We need not be fundamentalists.

Also, we will all interpret the precepts differently depending on our life circumstances. There is not a single dogma that we all should embrace. This is because Buddhists tend to recognize something called "dependent origination." Contexts matter. While minimizing harm is the central ethic and requires that we no longer place ourselves at the center of the universe (this is the key to any ethical system), Buddhist ethics tend not to be deontological. We can't necessarily say that any "rule" is absolute, though some might come close. One might find that it is necessary to steal in order to save a life. One would try to avoid doing so, but I can imagine circumstances where it might seem necessary. So long as we are doing all we can to minimize harm, perhaps such choices are occasionally necessary. The key is being awake to our actions and living consciously and choicefully.

None of this is to say that Buddhism is "better" than any other religion, though Buddhism is my chosen tradition. I trust that every tradition has its aliveness and that most traditions are born of our yearning to touch what we might call the divine. But I do appreciate the way Buddhist teachings tend to help us avoid the pitfall of dogmatism. Americans can get behind a practice that allows us to maintain our sense of rationality, individuality and freedom, so Buddhism has great curb appeal.

Still, this self-reliance casts different shadows. Buddhism's curb appeal can also fuel a kind of self-seeking that misses the depths of the Dharma.

Zen as a Religion

Practicing Zen for many years has shown me that there is also a depth in Buddhist practice that I would call "religious." The flexibility in Buddhist teachings helps prevent it from becoming dogmatic or fundamentalist and breathes a quality of personal responsibility into a Buddhist life. But Buddhism simultaneously challenges the very same rugged individualism that draws many people through the door in the first place.

First of all, "spiritualists," as multiple book titles suggest, tend to seek liberation and appreciation of life's depths for themselves, but Mahayana Buddhism asks us to seek it for all beings. In my view, this is one of the most essential, challenging, and transformative teachings of Buddhism that makes it more of a religion than just spiritual practice. The longer one practices Zen, the more one realizes that we are all deeply interwoven and interdependent, and we do not exist as separate entities. We actually come to see that we cannot save only ourselves. We can't exist as separate, rugged individualists after all. This "failure" in our spiritual quest for personal happiness is our first success in our religious practice. Now we are truly living for something greater than ourselves, and this, to me, is what characterizes the religious enterprise.

Second, we may come to value the very "traditions" that at first repulsed us in religious practices. Things like bowing are often done only begrudgingly by initiates. They may feel like they do not want to bow to something other than themselves. "I came here to find the truth within, not to bow to some external god. In fact, I am here out of avoidance of such a thing!" More than a few who walk through the door come only once because of the practice of bowing. But if we keep showing up, bowing has a way of growing on us. At some point, we may begin to feel that when we fight reality, we lose. Things are as they are. This does not mean that we cannot also take action to change things, but the first step is seeing things as they are, and this requires accepting what is. Bowing is a kind of submission that in time feels beautiful. How lovely to bow, to simply accept what is, then go from there.

And then along comes a religious feeling. A feeling of opening and recognizing the intimacy of all beings. This easily misunderstood pointer does not mean that "I" am "one with everything" (a conceptual, self-centered understanding), nor that the relative truth of separate existences is erased, but that there is a way that all things are boundless, are interpenetrating, and can only exist together. Language points to this realization, but awakening itself cannot be realized by the rational mind alone. Here, our separate, fixed selves dissolve into a thusness that might best be described as a "religious experience" and that cares not for rugged individualism or rationale. Here we find that all beings reside in our hearts.

There are different kinds of freedom in this world. Sometimes we feel the freedom of going it alone. But sometimes we feel the freedom of opening our hearts to the vast, interpenetrating boundlessness that is our true nature in which we seek nothing, gain nothing for ourselves, and still, taste the deepest meaning of existence. For me, this is the heart of religious experience and is why I characterize Zen not only as a spiritual practice but also as a religious tradition.