The following is an approximate transcript of the Dharma Talk I offer on Sunday, June 9th, as part of O-An Zendo’s Sunday program. You can also listen to a live recording of the talk.
Enjoy.
Precepts—that is what I want us to explore this morning. What are the precepts? How do we work with the precepts? How do we incorporate them into daily practice and our everyday lives?
Roshi offered one response to these questions in her talk last Sunday. (You can listen to that talk here.) She spoke about "spontaneity" and the uselessness of the precepts when there is a need for immediate or near-immediate action.
Consider the following scenario. You are walking through a park one morning. You are on your way to a job interview and dressed in your best outfit. "Dressed to impress!" as the anonymous they say. Your outfit includes a nice pair of shoes, by the way.
As you round some bushes and approach a shallow pond, you notice a small child in the pond. Only the small child is not simply in the pond; it is drowning in the pond! And its guardians are nowhere in sight, and neither is anyone else.
At this moment, you have a choice. You can either continue walking to your job interview and leave the small child to (likely) drown in the shallow pond. Or you can wade into the pond and save the small child from drowning, but you will ruin your nice shoes. And I will stipulate that there is no time to take your shoes off or change your shoes before the job interview. In fact, you will be late for the interview if you do not miss it altogether.
What would you do?
I do not know what you would do. I am confident, however, that to decide what to do, you would not remove a list of the Sixteen Bodhisattva Precepts from your bag or pocket and begin reviewing them. And I will guess that you would, without any thought or hesitation, wade into the shallow pond and save the small child from drowning. Without any thought or hesitation—never mind your shoes, the job interview, or anything else than responding appropriately to what is in front of you.
This scenario, fanciful though it is, illustrates one of Roshi's main points from last week's Dharma Talk: that the precepts are useless in the moment. We could say that intellectual engagement with the precepts hinders an appropriate response; the situation requires immediate or near-immediate action. It is better to heed Roshi's advice and "forget the precepts." Trust that you see what is needed and act to meet that need.
Yet, some of us keep a Precept Journal. Precept Journals can take many forms, but one common feature is that we do not forget—we remember—the precepts and work with them in various ways.
Sometimes, we explore how the precepts were embodied in a specific situation. Other times, we outline the relation between two or more precepts and notice how the precepts show up together and everywhere in our lives. At still other times, we investigate what obstructed a particular response. What "got in the way" of that response? Was it greed, anger, or ignorance? Was I concerned with securing pleasure and avoiding pain? Was I seeking praise and attempting to dodge blame? These are appropriate questions to entertain, whether by yourself, with a wise friend or teacher, or in a group—just not when a small child is drowning in front of you in a shallow pond.
Zen Questions. How do you hear this expression? Is it as an adjective followed by a noun, together identifying a particular group of questions? "These are not home-economic questions, but Zen questions," someone says. Or as a noun followed by a verb, something that Zen does? "What does Zen do?" a curious person inquires. "Zen questions," replies the teacher. Or, perhaps, as the title of a book by Taigen Dan Leighton, Roshi? That is another possibility, too.
Questioning. Inquiry. Investigation. These are essential ingredients—or, we might say, ever-present invitations—in Zen practice.
The riddles or short stories called "koans" extend them. One of the more well-known koans and often the first case a student receives is "Joshu's Dog," Case 1 of the Mumonkan (The Gateless Gate). The case is:
A monk asked Joshu in all earnestness, "Does a dog have Buddha nature or not?"
Joshu said, "Mu!"
As you meet this exchange for the first time, the tenth time, the ten-thousandth time, you might ask: What has happened between the monk and Joshu? What is Buddha nature? Why a dog? What is "Mu"? What is going on in this case? Although only two lines long, the case is pregnant with invitations for exploration.
The same invitations are present in the precepts, although that may not be obvious because of how you relate to the precepts and the form in which we usually see the precepts.
Roshi said last week that the precepts are not commandments or rules. That is correct, according to our best and shared understanding of the Buddha's teachings. No omniscient, omnipotent being formulated them; no one received them from such a being through a mystical experience. They do not reside somewhere else, over and above your life, hovering and watching with a critical and, perhaps, condemning eye. You cannot "break" a precept or "violate" it partly because the precepts do not demand obedience. And even if they did—suppose the precepts came alive and, as a group, held up signs that read, "Obey us!"—you are free to ignore their plea (and without fear of punishment). Perhaps you should ignore their plea, too.
Yet, most of us tend to relate to the precepts in at least one of these ways. I leave it to you to investigate why if you find that you do. I used to relate to the precepts in all of these ways. Some of that stems from my childhood and adolescent environment; some stems from the kind of person I am. For these and other reasons, I had some "unlearning by learning" to do, which allowed for possibilities once only merely possible to change my way of relating to the precepts.
However, I also said that the form in which we usually see the precepts contributes to a particular way of relating to them. Of course it does, by the way, as nothing is any thing or any kind of thing all on its own; everything is what it is owing to the totality of relations at any given time.
Consider the first of the Ten Clear Mind Precepts. Often, we see it stated as:
Do not kill
Or
Refrain from killing
Its form is simple, straightforward, and direct. There are no "ifs," "ands," or "buts," only three words: Do not kill. It looks a lot like a commandment, something that you can either do or not do, fail to do, or act contrary to and, since it is an imperative, demands that you do.
It is no wonder that Kobun Chino Roshi thought to offer a few more words. We read in our liturgy:
No killing life / Cultivating and encouraging life
The precept is no longer purely prohibitive but also positively prescriptive, which dulls some of the sharp edges.
There are other expressions of the precept, too. Thich Nhat Hanh articulates the first Clear Mind Precept in this way:
Aware of the suffering caused by the destruction of life, I vow to cultivate compassion and learn ways to protect the lives of people, animals, plants, and minerals. I am determined not to kill, not to let others kill, and not to condone any act of killing in the world, in my thinking, and in my way of life.
I want to stay with Thich Nhat Hanh's expression for a while. Specifically, the words, "I vow to cultivate compassion and learn ways to protect the lives of people, animals, plants, and minerals."
What does it mean to "cultivate compassion"? How do we understand this refrain, and how do we do it?
The word "compassion" translates from the Pali and Sanskrit word Karuna, and Thich Nhat Hanh describes Karuna as "the intention and capacity to relieve and transform suffering and lighten sorrows."
We see this intention and capacity in the opening lines of the Heart Sutra.
The noble Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva while practicing the deep practice of Prajnaparamita looked upon the five skandhas and seeing they were empty of self-existence transformed all suffering. "Here, Shariputra …
Avalokiteshvara's seeing the five skandhas for what they are—void, hollow, and insubstantial, or, in a word, empty—and sharing this insight with others—in the Heart Sutra, it is Shariputra—is karuna. The bodhisattva desires to relieve and transform suffering and has the means. Aware of the suffering of others, they proceed to teach that
form is emptiness, emptiness is form; emptiness is not separate from form, form is not separate from emptiness; whatever is form is emptiness, whatever is emptiness is form. The same holds for sensation and perception, volition and consciousness.
But was Avalokiteshvara suffering when they saw the emptiness of the five skandhas? Were they suffering when sharing this insight with Shariputra? (You may recall that "compassion" means "to suffer with." Com means "together with," and passion means "to suffer.") We cannot know, but there is a possibility that they were not also suffering. "Doctors, for instance, can relieve their patients' suffering without experiencing the same disease in themselves," writes Thich Nhat Hanh.
Is "compassion" an appropriate translation for karuna? Or does it bring unnecessary baggage with it, specifically, the requirement that I also need to be suffering to relieve the suffering of others? And if I am not suffering yet still relieving suffering, does this mean I am not acting compassionately? Should we leave karuna untranslated, use the word "compassion" less frequently, and avoid the impression that we can only alleviate suffering if we also suffer?
What do you think?
I do not raise these questions because I desire to find some answer. Instead, I raise them because I want the freedom to look around and see other alternatives.
Zen Questions.
When we "cultivate" something, sometimes we mean that we are "trying to acquire or develop" something that we either do not possess or do but is only nascent. I am not sure about you, but it does not seem to me that I lack—and so need to acquire—the capacity to suffer with others, nor has that capacity only just come into existence and could benefit from development. I suffer well, with others, and a lot, thank you very much.
And how much does the capacity to suffer with others need to be developed, anyway? Thich Nhat Hanh shares that, when he was a novice monk, he "could not understand why, if the world is filled with suffering, the Buddha has such a beautiful smile." Continuing, he writes:
Later I discovered that the Buddha has enough understanding, calm, and strength; that is why the suffering does not overwhelm him. He is able to smile to suffering because he knows how to take care of it and to help transform it. We need to be aware of the suffering, but retain our clarity, calmness, and strength so we can help transform the situation. The ocean of tears cannot drown us if karuna is there. That is why the Buddha's smile is possible.
This desire and capacity to "relieve and transform suffering and lighten sorrows"—that we can develop continuously. How? By learning ways to "protect the lives of people, animals, plants, and minerals." Right there, at the heart of the precept, is an invitation to exploration and investigation.
I am, as you are, familiar with some ways of relieving and transforming my own and others' suffering—and I can learn new ways, too.
So, from one point of view, when we receive the Sixteen Bodhisattva Precepts, we commit—we vow—to continue acting in ways that we already act and learn new ways, all to benefit others. But if that is the vow, how can you possibly fail? What could it mean to "break" or "violate" this commitment?
As you can see, once the form in which we see the precepts changes, how we relate to the precepts also changes—in this case, invitations for exploration appear everywhere.
Now, I want to step backward and with the aid of Dogen Zenji. Dogen writes the following in Shobogenzo Genjokoan:
[…] when you sail out in a boat to the middle of the ocean where no land is in sight, and view the four directions, the ocean looks circular, and does not look any other way. But the ocean is neither round nor square; its features are infinite in variety. It is like a palace. It is like a jewel. It only looks circular as far as you can see at that time. All things are like this.
Although there are many features in the dusty world and the world beyond conditions, you see and understand only what your eye of practice can reach. In order to learn the nature of the myriad things, you must know that although they may look round or square, the other features of oceans and mountains are infinite in variety; whole worlds are there. It is so not only around you, but also directly beneath your feet, or in a drop of water.
The whole of my talk this morning is in these words. I am encouraging you to loosen your grip on how the oceans and mountains look from where you are sitting. That is, how you relate to the precepts from wherever you are and in whatever position you find yourself.
Sometimes, we forget about them. Sometimes, we remember them. Sometimes, we regard them as rules and feel a great weight, as if they were resting on our shoulders. Other times, we feel their support, as though they were underneath our feet, and their presence marks a path of inquiry before us.
There may be times when we cannot see them because our surroundings are too unfamiliar. Then, suddenly, their presence becomes apparent. Our position shifts; it feels as though we discovered a new world.
The reason is simple. It is not just oceans and mountains whose features are infinite in variety. The precepts' features are infinite in variety, too. And to see this, it is sometimes skillful to ask questions. That is part of what it is to be a Zen practitioner: to ask questions. Not, however, because we seek answers, but to see what else is around us, beneath our feet and in a drop of water.
Please feel confident that you can let go of what feels certain. Please trust yourself to navigate what appears misty and murky. And please have faith that, though you leave many questions unanswered, you can respond appropriately to whatever arises.
Thank you very much.
If you benefitted from this offering, you might consider these, too:
I’ve also wondered about the translation of compassion. Sometimes it seems to me that what actually is being described is simply a feeling of goodwill. Thank you for bringing this up in your talk!