Trusting Others

A Reflection on the Vimaṃsaka Sutta and the Caṅkī Sutta

Originally published on February 5th, 2024. Light revisions on March 8th, 2024.

There is a collection of stories in the Pāli Canon in which the Buddha discourages “blind faith” in himself and his teachings (and any other religious or spiritual teacher and their teachings, too). Instead, the Buddha outlines methods by which claims to perfect enlightenment and true teachings may be investigated and tested, and then willingly submits himself to examination by those present. The Vimaṃsaka Sutta (Majjhima Nikāya 47) and the Caṅkī Sutta (Majjhima Nikāya 95) are two such stories.

In both stories, the Buddha stresses the central place of faith (or confidence, trust) in the teacher and the teachings. Here, faith is not the beginning and end of spiritual practice; it does not close the door to questioning or scrutiny. Instead, faith is the necessary precondition for the beginnings of practice and inquiry.

The Buddha’s emphasis on faith reverberates throughout the lineage of Buddhas and Ancestors. We read in Dogen Zenji’s Bendowa (On the Endeavor of the Way), for example, that

The realm of all buddhas is inconceivable. It cannot be reached by intellect—much less can those who have no trust or who lack wisdom know it. Only those who have the great capacity of genuine trust can enter this realm. Those who have no trust are unable to accept it, however much they hear it. Even at the assembly on Vulture Peak, there were those who were told by Shakyamuni Buddha, “You may leave if you wish.”

When genuine trust arises, practice and study with a teacher.

The story of the assembly on Vulture Peak is a favorite of mine. One of the Buddha’s senior students pleaded with the Buddha to deliver a teaching on an esoteric topic. The Buddha refused twice, stating it would be too difficult for the assembly. But on the student’s third request, the Buddha agreed to deliver this teaching. As he spoke, large portions of the assembly stood up and left. The Buddha was unfazed. “Let them go,” he told his senior students. “It’s all right—they’ll return when ready.”

That is what stands out to me when I read the Vimaṃsaka Sutta and the Caṅkī Sutta. On their surfaces, the focus is the importance of confidence in accepting a teacher and exploring the teachings. Below, however, is a profound illustration of a willingness to trust others, and in a very general sense. The Buddha trusts others—anyone he meets, regardless of whether they are a disciple—to be capable of discovering the truth about reality for themselves and through themselves. As we read towards the end of the Vimaṃsaka Sutta, “As the Teacher teaches the Dhamma to a monk in this way, through direct knowledge of a certain teaching here in that Dhamma, the monk comes to a conclusion about the teachings. He places confidence in the Teacher […].” And this, I suggest, is because the Teacher had great confidence in the prospective student.

What prevents us from trusting others in the same way that the Buddha trusts others? What gets in the way of great confidence in those we meet? Since I do not know what it is for you, dear reader, I will restrict my response to myself.

The immediate response—the one that leaps directly to the front of my awareness—is a persistent feeling that I know I am right about some such thing. And if I do not know, then I am (overly) confident that I can discover the right thing to say or do.

You notice that in italics are three words: know, right, and what. It is one thing to feel that you know something and quite another to, in fact, know it. This raises questions about what we can know, in what spaces knowledge is possible, and, to address the root of the whole matter, can we really know anything? What is knowledge, and what does it mean to know something? Rightness and being right are subject to the same series of questions.

What, however, is a little different. It points a little less towards us, a little more towards the world. Is there anything out there that can be known? Or, in an effort to capture something in a box and label it, is the result only one side—perhaps just a sliver of one side—of a much larger whole now out of view? Dogen Zenji writes in the Genjokoan that from wherever we are, we see only a sliver of one side of the larger whole.

[…] it is as if we were out in a boat, past the view of any mountains. Then the expanse of the ocean might appear to be round. But it is neither round nor square. Inexpressible virtues still remain as “ocean.” It could even be considered a palace or a necklace of jewels, but for that moment the eye sees only a circle. The experience of phenomena is commonly like this.

Photo by Edward Xu on Unsplash

Why is there this persistent feeling that I know I am right about some such thing? It may not matter very much. It is part of the spirit of Zen practice that we encourage asking How rather than Why. There is a place for scrutiny, indeed, as I wrote above. However, one needs always be careful, for close examination can too quickly become diagnosing, narrative construction, and other mental gymnastics that create additional barriers in practice, for they reinforce the delusion of a separate self rather than seeing through it to one’s true nature. So Dogen Zenji again:

To learn the Buddha way is to learn the self. To learn the self is to forget self. To forget self is to be confirmed by all existence, and to be confirmed by all existence is to effect the dropping off of body-mind identity, and dispersion of identities beyond it as well.

With that sentiment in mind, I will ask: How do I practice with that persistent feeling, which gets in the way of my extending genuine trust to others in the same way that the whole lineage of Buddhas and Ancestors extends genuine trust to me?

Rainer Maria Rilke writes in his first letter to the young poet Franz Xaver Kappus, who asks very much the same question: “There is only one way: Go within.” Rilke elaborates:

If, as a result of this turning inward, of this sinking into your own world, poetry should emerge, you will not think to ask someone whether it is good poetry. And you will not try to interest publishers of magazines in these works. For you will hear in them your own voice; you will see in them a piece of your life, a natural possession of yours. A piece of art is good if it is born of necessity. This, its source, is its criterion; there is no other.

While I am not, as Kappus is, interested in becoming an accomplished poet and winning favor in literary circles and their magazines, I am interested in living a life serving others. And such a life depends very little on knowing a great deal or being right about an arbitrary number of things. These are the concerns of the Post-It Note self. A life of service requires being authentically, genuinely one’s self. That is precisely what Rilke offers the young poet here: encouragement to seek and find the inner flame that directs their life.

I know of no other advice than this: Go within and scale the depth of your being from which your very life springs forth.

Set aside concerns of recognition and turn inward. Set aside the worldly cares of knowing and being right. Where can fear find a foothold when there is no feeling of competition? Discover what must be expressed within you, that to which voice must be given, and share it—without hesitation and reservation.

The quotation from Dogen Zenji’s “Bendowa” is taken from “The Treasury of the True Dharma Eye,” edited by Kazuaki Tanahashi.

The quotations from Dogen Zenji’s “Genjokoan” are taken from the Abe & Waddell translation of the text, revised by Shoho Michael Newhall Roshi.

The quotations of Rainer Maira Rilke are taken from “Letters to a Young Poet,” translated by Joan M. Burnham.