The Same Old Zen

In less than a month, I'll be inducted as a Lay Minister in the Bright Dawn Center of Oneness Buddhism .  After the ceremony, I'll have a new Dharma name, and be authorized to use the title Sensei . I'll give Dharma talks, teach meditation, and assist in training the next group of Buddhist Lay Ministers who are working their way through the ranks. Depending on the day, my feelings about the ceremony alternate between awe and terror.  This is a very serious responsibility, and I don't know if I'm ready.  I stay up at night pondering questions like, "How should we teach Dharma in the West?"  and "Should Buddhist teachers be involved in politics?" In addition, there are many mundane tasks that need to be addressed.  For example, this past week I booked a pet hotel for my cat.  I bought a train ticket.  And I purchased a set of Buddhist robes. The robes are much heavier (both literally and figuratively) than I thought they'd b

I was raised to be to be a fighter.  My father felt it was his duty to ensure his sons knew how to "use their hands."  So my brothers and I were enrolled in Jiu Jitsu and Karate classes as soon as we could walk.   While other kids were playing stick ball in the street, we were in the house practicing jabs and right hooks. "Don't come home crying," he used to warn us before we left to go play with friends.  We were told to never start fights, but if things went sideways, we were expected to finish them.   That being said, at the age of 10 I made the mistake of letting a bully chase me home from the bus stop.  My dad came home from work, and found me sitting in our living room; covered in sweat and panting from my run.  As soon as I told him what happened, I knew what was coming next. "Where does he live," my father growled as he pulled me off the couch.  Then he walked down the street with me to the bully's house.  That kid was

When we examine the human body, the default setting is one of good health.  That is to say, we assume that people are supposed to be healthy, and then we go from there.   We wake each morning with the expectation that we'll be able to breathe without trouble, that our eyesight will be clear, that our limbs will move freely, etc. However, if something in our bodies doesn't operate as we expect (e.g. our stomach hurts or we have a fever), then we have a name for that.  It's called being sick , and depending on the severity of our sickness we may go to a doctor in order to find a remedy. Naturally, the doctor will do an examination, diagnose the cause of our sickness, and then prescribe a treatment so that our bodies will return to their default settings of good health.  In terms of our spiritual health, Buddhism operates in much the same way. We start with the assumption that human beings are basically good. We expect them to make wise, loving decisions i

When I started practicing Buddhism, I had one goal.  I wanted to attain enlightenment.  I wanted the spiritual maturity, unshakable confidence, and endless calm that I envisioned the Buddha having 2,600 years ago.   I spent endless hours scouring the internet and pouring through books in search of a Buddhist school to dedicate myself to.  Eventually, I settled on Zen because it seemed like the most direct, no-nonsense approach.   I practiced faithfully for several years, and I slowly started to make progress.  My mind became calmer, my heart became gentler, and the world didn't seem like such a dark place.  But I didn't feel any closer to enlightenment.   Then I heard the practice described as walking through a fog , and suddenly realizing that you're soaking wet.  That seemed logical.  Buddha practiced for 6 years before having his awakening under the Bodhi tree, so why should I be any different?  I just needed to sit, and keep sitting until something "