In the early summer of 2018, there was an incident in the Zendo at Green Gulch Farm. Roshi Ed Brown, during a daylong meditation retreat, said something to offend a person who describes herself as a queer woman and a survivor of sexual violence. The incident appears to have been thoughtless, perhaps with a rough edge, but we mostly know about it through the backlash, which, frankly, seemed disproportionate. There are, or were, tapes of Ed’s talk, but I lack the patience to sift through them to hear precisely what was said. It is essential to remain impartial when assigning blame. Perhaps someone should take the blame (and apparently, Ed did try at some point), but that doesn’t interest me.
As a person who was sexually assaulted, I was encouraged that another person had found meditation as a source of healing, but I am not surprised that Ed could not heal the wound. Zen has no silver bullet, and Ed is not a therapist. I am also saddened that the woman felt unsafe. I am sympathetic to both parties. What disappoints me is the decision of Zen worthies to ban Ed from teaching at any of the Zen Center’s Temples. He is among the oldest of Suzuki Roshi’s disciples, and his practice has demonstrated selfless dedication to the Way.
All Zen Centers, like most religions, need to create a congregation, the crowd that will return. It is crucial. Zen is stealthy, and it may take some time to reveal itself, but most administrators of Zen Centers also have to keep an eye on the collection plate. I have been in that unenviable position. Hartford Street was set up as a neighborhood temple that shared the attitudes of its mostly gay neighbors.
The richest, privileged liberal white clientele in California does not want to be subjected to bathroom gender brawls. The Zennist authorities felt that they had to take a stand. And thus the unenviable task of defining what is politically correct in Zen. I want to be clear. Zendos should be welcoming and safe for human beings facing any of life’s challenges. That has not always been the case, but the way that all the assembled roshis tried to smooth things over in Ed’s case destroyed the immediacy and the power of the moment. Not only did they throw the baby out with the bathwater, they murdered the helpless soul.
I can say with certainty that one of the keys to Zen practice is the student-teacher relationship. It is not an unequal relationship. In fact, the closer it is to equal, the closer to real friendship, and we touch the magic of Zen. It is a listening and response. It is not psychotherapy with the aim of getting better, better adjusted, or happier. Those things may happen, but it ain’t necessarily Zen. It has another overtone, a sacred one. It evades definition. It is not necessarily religious, even though it touches on the numinous. It also includes all of life. And that is where the danger lies.
If I were Ed, perhaps a solution might be to pass out a disclaimer to cover my ass when people entered the hall. (Of course, I have never been invited to speak at ZC, and at least one of the reasons might become clear if you make it to the end.)
“Friends, we have gathered to practice one of the most essential, perhaps the most crucial, even sacred pieces of our work together. We listen and respond, all the while realizing that the perfect dharma is imperfect in our hands. We chant occasionally and make seemingly impossible promises to dedicate our efforts to the liberation of all beings, but then comes a presentation of the dharma. Suppose the leader does his or her job; hopefully, you will be intrigued, inspired, puzzled, or even offended. If you come with a mindset that can only hear what you’d like to hear, it seems that a political rally is where you should be. I am no mind reader. I am not quite sure where my own mind will lead me, but occasionally, with any luck, it will be down a dark alley that needs light. If you’re at least willing to stay with me, sit still, and follow your own mind, you are welcome. If not, it might be appropriate to leave.
“If you are willing, your mind and mine can start to dance, like an introspective call-and-response in the Black Church, allowing us to see ourselves. I say something; you respond. There’s a mysterious formula here like treading the well-known words of "The Old Rugged Cross."
On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross,
the emblem of suffering and shame;
and I love that old cross where the dearest and best
for a world of lost sinners was slain.
Following the script of most Zen Center talks I’ve heard, I might open by telling a personal story and painting a picture of the inadvertent hero of my story, stumbling along through life. Despite my sincere intention, I got distracted; I stumbled, cracked my head, stepped in shit, mindlessly crushed a frog or even a snake, heard a madperson screaming incoherent truth in the center divide on Market Street, thoughtlessly dropped the fiver that was intended for Mother Theresa in the gutter, but I use the occasion to turn my attention inward, examine myself, realize that in this fleeting instant the dharmakaya opened with unmistakable brilliance. I resolve to dive in more deeply, to apply Buddhist principles more generously, plus any number of other worthwhile ways in which I might lessen my suffering and the suffering of others in the world. I am not disparaging any of these aims or outcomes. In a word, they are lovely; it’s very genial. We smile over cookies and tea.
But now we come to the part in my talk where you ask, Why is he saying that? How dare he go there? That tone. That language. We can talk about sex and drugs and rock and roll as long as we use the prescribed politically correct language and (at least pretend) that it’s all in the past. We left those experiences as we emerged from the Summer of Love with a drug hangover that lasted a few weeks, or years if we are honest. Thank god it cleared up.
Most talks are, at least to some degree, commentary on Buddhist Scripture, sutra, or Koan. And if it gets real, it gets real, but the chances are 50/50 that it might go astray. I recall hearing a public talk by the Dalai Lama when he attempted to bring an esoteric distinction from a Gelugpa text into a bedroom fight between a husband and wife. He was not successful, but not because of the bedroom part. He turned it into an Ozzie and Harriet squabble and avoided a serious discussion about sexuality and the inequality of power and consent. He opened the door, but then didn't walk through. He played it for the laugh. Ed Brown’s accuser would have little to complain about.
I promise that if I am lucky enough to open a door, I will try to walk in. I certainly will not shy away due to some prudery or elevated sense of myself. That is the attitude I try to bring to the conversations I have with my teacher.
Now, just to be clear, my mother taught me well, and I reserve profanity for private moments. I will also try to frame what I say in a way that you are at least open to listening. I certainly will not encourage you to break the precepts even if I am commenting on the “Kill the Buddha” koan, but neither will I try to explain it away or give an answer I don’t have—certainly not one that you want to believe but is just a pack of lies.
The choir invokes the image of the old rugged cross. It is imaginary. It makes no sense. In our case, the only part that does make sense is that it is an emblem of suffering. Somehow, the hymnist manages to drag love into the picture of sin and shame. I’m sorry, that is the best I can do with it without wandering into a make-believe world of elevated, sacred lies. Sometimes the dharma is like that, rudely breaking into our world with no formal introduction, not making any sense.
It seems hit or miss. Sometimes a teaching will get you to first base, and sometimes the fly ball will be caught and you’re out. But we still honor the dharma. We cannot retreat. It is in the very nature of the dharma. If you can't hear that and are going to feel affronted, please leave. Zen is not politically correct.
No comments:
Post a Comment