Quote of the Day

It is a wonderful thing to discover a new saint. For God is greatly magnified and marvelous in each one of His saints: differently in each individual one. There are no two saints alike: but all of them are like God, like Him in a different special way. In fact, if Adam had never fallen, the whole human race would have been a series of magnificently different and splendid images of God, each one of all the millions of men showing forth His glories and perfections in an astonishing new way, and each one shining with his own particular sanctity, a sanctity destined for him from all eternity as the most complete and unimaginable supernatural perfection of his human personality. --Thomas Merton, The Seven Story Mountain pg. 387.

Bodhisattva Christs

I've decided to gather all the interesting images that arise from the depths of Google when you search for things like "Bodhisattva Jesus" and "Jesus Buddha" and silly things like this. I try to attribute authorship where I can.

Jesus Was a Buddha by Ann Huey



Siddhartha and Jesus by Don Mak



This one has a certain squashy charm.



I wasn't able to find the authors of the following works:
















This last piece (painter unknown) is actually John the Baptist being beheaded, but I love the way the artist captured a real sense of resignation in the face of imminent death. What could bring a man to such a state?

Quote of the Day

How incapable I was of understanding anything like the ideals of a William Blake! How could I possibly realize that his rebellion, for all its strange heterodoxies, was fundamentally the rebellion of the saints. It was the rebellion of the lover of the living God, the rebellion of one whose desire of God was so intense and irresistible that it condemned, with all its might, all the hypocrisy and petty sensuality and skepticism and materialism which cold and trivial minds set up as unpassable barriers between God and the souls of men. -- Thomas Merton, The Seven Story Mountain pg. 96.

I Love You and Buddha Too!

Today I broke my uposatha precepts (no adornments or entertainment) to turn you on to a great song and musician. Here are two versions of I Love You and Buddha Too by Mason Jennings. In the great tradition of Sufi or Sant poetry, the songs on Jennings' new album In the Ever "can be interpreted [as being] about an individual or the longing for God..." (masonjennings.com)

Oh Jesus I love you
And I love Buddha too
Ramakrishna, Guru Dev
Tao Te Ching and Mohammed
Why do some people say
That there is just one way
To love you God and come to you
We are all a part of you
You are un-nameable
You are unknowable
All we have is metaphor
That’s what time and space are for
Is the universe your thought
You are and you are not
You are many, You are one
Ever ending, Just begun
Alright, alright, alright
I love you and Buddha too

First up is Jack Johnson's short accoustic version.



And here is Jennings himself live in concert. Listen for the new verse. Learn it and sing along!

Ah...Mr. Obama, can I um...have your email address?

It's Sunday, which means Meet the Press, This Week and Religion and Ethics Newsweekly in the morning and then 60 Minutes at night. I've always liked 60 Minutes, but I became hooked on the Sunday morning chat shows during the year long election marathon. This morning I woke up today with the excited thought: "I wonder if Barack Obama will be on any of the talk shows." This was followed by the odd realization that I actually miss Barack Obama. That's right, I miss Obama like a fourteen year old girl with a crush misses her cool civics teacher over summer break.


For an entire year I watched the man on television and saw him a few times in person. I read his second book and spent far too many hours glued to blogs and on-line news outlets sifting through all sorts of Obama related content. I miss the guy's cool, unearthly cadences, his sharp suits and the sense you get when you see him that finally,
someone with a brain and a soul is in charge of this place.

It's not that we haven't seen him in the last few weeks, we have. He's given half a dozen press conferences to introduce his staff, but somehow, it's not the same. I miss the soaring rhetoric and the chanting and the huge, huge smiles. I wonder if watching Obama govern is going to be a bit like seeing your dad siting behind a desk in his office on take your child to work day.

This reminds me of the Buddha's second noble truth, that the root of all suffering is craving, or thirst (Pl. tanhā). There are three types of tanhā: the thirst for what you desire, the thirst for being and the thirst for non-being. Each of these three will inevitably result in suffering.

Now, it's important not to leave all these Buddhist concepts at the level of abstraction, but to try to see them cropping up in your everyday circumstances. So I am in the habit of asking myself, in what way am I experiencing tanhā right now? Today, the answer would be: in the inexplicable longing to have another "meeting" with someone that I've never met. And does this feeling lead to suffering? Yes, to be honest. A very, low-grade, silly kind of suffering that is easily brushed aside, but suffering nonetheless.

Question of the Day

Why does it take one minute and forty-five seconds to cook a Hot Pocket, but only ten seconds to turn a Pop-tart into a molten mass of scalding sugar?

Better question: Why am I eating Pop-tarts and Hot Pockets?

Pause Taken

One of the things I wanted to do on the Faithbook blog but never got around to was responding to some of the comments. Lo and behold, not two days after I began The Impermanent Record, I received a very nice note from NellaLou telling me not to worry about some imaginary future employer and whether they think speaking openly about my personal life is something that religious studies scholars should or should not do.

She was kind enough to remind me that many professors are open about their religious practices and that many "big shots" like Robert Thurman are not exactly shy about where they stand on a wide range of issues.



You can read her entire thoughtful comment on my Maharashtra State of Mind post. Especially noteworthy is her advice that there's "no need to duck if no one's actually throwing stuff at you." Thank you NellaLou, I'm honored to have you as a reader.

To clarify, I know that my fellow grad students and future colleagues will be respectful of my spiritual practices and even my struggle with mental illness. What I am afraid they will not be as forgiving of is the fact that the bulk of my interests lie primarily outside academe. Perhaps I am a bit nervous of "outing" myself as someone who would rather watch a movie with my wife than pour over old documents in an archive or learn how to form the past participle in yet another language.

I have already been told by one professor that if I really want a tenure track job, I should never write anything that couldn't be published (after several re-writes of course), and never read anything that couldn't be cited without embarrassment in a peer reviewed journal. In other words, blogging about personal matters is a waste of time for an academic. I am not saying I agree with this attitude, I'm just noting that it is out there, and is enough to give one pause.

Pause taken.

Let's put a smile on that face(book)

For the last year I have been supposed to be blogging on the Faithbook page of the Newsweek/Washington Post's On Faith site. I have to admit that I have been doing a horrible job. In the last year (or nine months or so) I have only sent in four pieces. I just can't seem to get into the flow of writing about myself regularly. I also don't like the fact that when I write something I have to send it to an editor who then posts it to the blog. This little barrier between myself and my "audience" is enough to produce writer's block. If I was publishing a book it would be perfectly acceptable to go through an editor first, but the point of blogging seems is to be as spontaneous as possible, to record your thoughts or memories of the day and then not look back. Faithbook doesn't facilitate that process as well as I had hoped.

Other downsides of Faithbook: I can't post anything but text; no pictures, links or music. Also, my last few posts haven't even gone to the main page, but to my own personal part of the site, so if you're not specifically looking for me, you won't find me.

It’s not that I don't like blogging. I think it's a fascinating new form of media with a huge amount of potential for changing the way we communicate with each other. I like the way that Brad Warner and my pal James have created such interesting, personal websites. So I am trying again with my own blog. If I write something I think is worth posting to Faithbook, I might. If not, who will know about it anyway?

As for the Dōkō thing. This is the name that Shoken gave me at the Jukai ceremony. At first I didn't like it (it sounds like George Costanza's nickname!), but it has been growing on me over the last few weeks. I did a little research and found that Doko is the name of a Japanese video game, a Mexican dogfood, a new pog-like trading game and an Obaku Zen master from the 17th century.







The name Dōkō means Path of Illumination, and Shoken told me that he saw that I was on two paths, one academic, the other "spiritual," and if I stuck to both I could do a lot of good in the world. So I decided that The Impermanent Record will be Dōkō's blog.

Now I'm even talking like Costanza!

Sounds and Colors

I was born in 1978, just a few short years before MTV launched their spaceman. In the years since, one of my greatest lamentations has been the long slow death of the music video (which has been replaced on MTV by game shows for horny teens). Now, the miracle of Youtube has resurrected the short-form video format for all the world to see and share.

Here is a stunning ads from Sony Bravia with music by José Gonzalez. Watch it on a cloudy day.

Some Words About the Weather

Here is my fifth, and so far last Faithbook post from September 12th, 2008.

Rain is falling here and there. Here, a late summer shower. There, a devastating Hurricane. Before zazen I reach towards the bookshelf and pick up my copy of The Roaring Stream: A New Zen Reader. I flip to a random page and my attention falls on this appropriate slogan. A haiku of sorts, written by 14th century Rinzai master Daitō, it reads:

No umbrella, getting soaked,
I'll just use the rain as my raincoat.

Over the summer I struggled with an expensive umbrella that my parents-in-law had given me for Christmas. At first, the umbrella seemed sturdy enough, taking the worst of the Iowa City winds and rain. Then, while in India, it didn't last three days in the monsoon before it became a twisted wreck.

Now, I have no umbrella and no raincoat. So...I'll just use the rain as my raincoat.

I wonder if the wisdom of this passage would find me if my home was destroyed by a storm named Ike?

A Maharashtra State of Mind: Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Blog!

Here is my fourth Faithbook post from August 22nd, 2008.

It's been exactly six month since I last posted to Faithbook. So, where have I been since February? Where am I now? Where am I going? These questions and more will be answered in our next thrilling episode.

Item one: where am I now? In India. Pune to be exact. Three hours from Bombay, in the great state of Maharashtra. I'm typing away in a cyber café that just re-opened after being closed due to the vague threat that terrorists would use it to send intimidating emails around the world.

Believe it or not, I have been thinking a lot about this blog over the last several months. I felt terribly guilty that I agreed to write regular entries and then only made it a few weeks before various pressures led me to abandon it. Some of these pressures are hard to explain. Some are too personal and some are merely lame excuses. The bottom line is, I should have honored my commitment and I didn't. I sincerely apologize for this.

Item two: Where have I been? Well...I've been where I have always been: in a less than New York State of Mind. Truth be told, I was diagnosed several years ago with Dysthymia, or chronic, low-grade depression. It seems that as far back as I can remember, I've just always felt a little bummed. With the onset of adulthood, what was once just a negative attitude or a sour disposition or a case of the blues began to flare up into full blown panic attacks and depressive episodes. Over the last five years, these blues were too often turning midnight black.



The paradox of depression is this: when you're feeling fine, you don't consider yourself sick enough to seek out professional help, and when you're in the grip of a monstrous case of fear and anxiety, you're too beaten down to do anything about it. So, things get worse.

I knew that if I continued writing in this blog I would eventually spill the beans about my depression, my colleagues would read it and I would face the possibility of being deeply stigmatized. In the same way, I feared that writing about my own personal spirituality may have the same results as writing about my precarious mental state (not that the two can ever be separated).

I'm supposed to be training as a scholar of religion, and writing about my own spiritual journey is not exactly de rigueur in my field. I am expected to be an objective observer of ritual activity, professions of faith, doctrinal disputes and other sundry phenomena that falls under the heading of religion. On multiple occasions I have been warned by my peers and superiors that I wouldn't want potential employers googling my name and reading a blog about my own personal Buddhist practice. I don't want to be seen as being too personally invested in my field of inquiry, and thus somehow unfit for a faculty position. Frankly, graduate school is stressful enough, and the looming threat of holding a Ph.D. and still having to work behind the counter at McDonald's is real enough, that I let cowardice get in the way of personal expression. Stephen Dedalus would not be proud.

So to summarize, I haven't been writing due to the following: cowardice, nervous break-down, pressure (real or imagined) from colleagues (present and future), buying and moving into a new house, spending the summer in India learning Pali. I think that's enough for one year, don't you?

"But," you may be asking, "where does Buddhism fit into any of this?"

Well, to put it succinctly, when I look at life through my physical eyes I too often see nothing but stress and suffering in my past, in my future and in my present. But when I look through the eyes of wisdom or what Dōgen calls "The True Dharma Eye," I see all things as Buddha things. I perceive things as they really are: an impermanent collection of parts and impulses. And seeing things in this way makes me much less likely to care what my current cohort or future employees or anyone else may or may not say about my writing.

So now my motto is (not really, but bare with me): "When the going gets tough, the blog gets going." Anyway, by the time I'm on the job market (Fall Semester, 2012) either the current world epoch will have come to a close in a ragnarokian conflagration or (only slightly less likely) blogging will be so passé that potential employers will not even bother to read the thing, or care a whit if they do.

Medication has not brought me to these insights. Meditation has. The next step, the next thrilling adventure, will be to combine the two.

Stay tuned.

The Cow Says Mu!

Here is my third Faithbook post from February 21st, 2008.

Today was my favorite day so far in Living Religions of the East. Dr. Smith (Fred) and I have been lecturing for the last week on Chinese religions and today he had us sit with our eyes closed for two minutes of meditation. I'm not sure what the other students thought of this but I fully appreciated it.

All day I had been feeling grouchy and I think I have finally caught the flu. I've had a serious headache since this morning and I just wanted to go home and lie down until tomorrow. Those two minutes of informal sitting were just what I needed. I was reminded that even though my head is throbbing, the pain is only being felt in a fraction of my body, the rest of which feels fine and normal. Why should I let a pain in five percent of my body cause me to ignore the ninety-five percent that is feeling no pain? And why should I let my attitude about the pain devolve into outright suffering? The equation seems to go something like this: pain + bad attitude = suffering. And like my mom always told me while I was growing up: "change your attitude!"

Two other interesting things happened in class today. The first was a seemingly off the cuff statement by Dr. Smith that I thought was absolutely brilliant. He was explaining how meditation can help you see beyond the seemingly ordered and permanent Self that you identify with into all the chaotic non-self elements underneath. Fred said, "Order is just a quarter of an inch thick, but chaos goes all the way to the bone." Take that Lao Tzu!

A few minutes later, Fred mentioned koans. He explained to the students that Koans are something like Zen riddles or phrases to meditate on such as: "what is the sound of one hand?" or "why did Bodhidharma come to the east?" Dr. Smith said the most paradigmatic Koan was "Does a dog have Buddha nature?" He looked at me and asked, "Well? Does a dog have Buddha nature?" And without thinking I yelled the traditional answer to the Koan: "Mu!"
Dr. Smith responded, "I don't think they got that," so I said in a louder voice: "MU!"
This display left me feeling very pleased with myself. (Oh Ego, you idiot!)

Dr. Smith turned towards me again and asked, "Now what does Mu really mean?" I replied: "In Japanese it means not or without."

"No," said Dr. Smith in a complete dead-pan, "Mu just means Mu!"

On Teaching Buddhism

Here is my second Faithbook post from February 16th 2008.

In the religious studies department of the University of Iowa, the graduate students are required to take a series of four foundational courses regardless of their area of specialization. During my first semester at UIowa I took Teaching Religious Studies; the next semester it was Western Religious Traditions; then Methods and Theories; and finally, this semester I am finishing up with Asian Religious Traditions.

What makes these classes a bit strange is that students who have devoted a great deal of time to becoming experts in a particular field sit next to other grad students for whom the material is brand new. I struggled through much of Methods and Theories (reading Bourdieu, Asad and Gadamer) while my friends specializing in Biblical Studies or Modern Religious Thought are now struggling through Asian Traditions.

The other day, our professor was away at a conference so we watched a wonderful documentary called Footprint of the Buddha from The Long Search series. After the video, we had instructions to "discuss Theravāda Buddhism," but I quickly realized that there were only two of us in the room (out of twenty students) who knew enough about the material to even thrash out the basics. My classmate P.J. and I made our way to the front of the room--dry-erase markers in hand--and began taking questions from the class.

Where does one begin when teaching about this thing that we call Buddhism? Do you start with names, dates and controversies? Was the Buddha an actual person, or the name we ascribe to a tradition of teachers? If he was in fact a real individual, what are the accurate dates of his birth, ministry and death? Which text best reflects the "actual" or "authentic" teachings of the Buddha? Was the Buddha's attitude towards the nun's order sexist or cautious? Is Theravāda Buddhism really a selfish path to individual salvation as many Mahāyānists believe, or does the Pali Canon contain all the seeds of later teachings as is averred by monks like Thich Nhat Hahn? Why does the Theravāda path seem to reject (or limit) the use of iconography, ritual, and devotion to deities and gurus, while the Vajrayāna path makes these practices central?

P.J. and I decided that it was best not to delve into these issues until our fellow grad-students had a grounding (however shallow) in the basic doctrinal tenants shared by the majority of Buddhist denominations across time and geography. We began to fill the board with descriptions of the four noble truths, the eight-fold path, the three jewels, the ten precepts, the five skandas, the three characteristics and the three poisonous roots. We explained the words Theravāda, Buddha, Bodhisattva, Dalai Lama and Tulku. It wasn't long before the white-board looked as if we were trying to solve the world's strangest mathematical equation. Or like Jackson Pollock had been reincarnated in Iowa City and decided to take up his action-paintings again. Either way, it was a total mess and a thing of beauty.



On the one hand, I can see how all these lists and details can be overwhelming to the newcomer to Buddhism. (Or to the seasoned practitioner who just wants to "sit"). On the other hand, I am constantly struck by the beauty and symmetry of all these interrelated concepts. The four noble truths only really begin to make sense when one knows that suffering is driven by the three poisons (ignorance, greed and hatred). One's ability to bravely walk the eightfold path is deepened by an understanding of monastic law and the precepts. Right Mindfulness and Right Concentration (noble path #7-8) becomes easier when you know what to take as your object of meditation, namely the three characteristics of all things: non-self, impermanence and suffering.

It's as if the Buddha Dharma is ecological in both its form and content. The content of the Dharma stresses the fact that everything in the world is intimately interconnected, with all things arising and falling in tandem with everything else. While the actual form of the Dharma makes the same point in a more iconographic way, by expressing a conceptual ecology: ideas in sympathetic relationship with each other. The form of the Dharma, when graphically mapped resembles a mandala in which every teaching is dependent on all the others and only when the parts are taken together do they form a balanced and organic whole.

A recent book that tackles the idea of Buddhism's "conceptual ecology" is Mapping the Dharma: A Concise Guide to the Middle Way of the Buddha, by Paul Gerhards. I recommend this book to those who feel that the teachings must by definition get in the way of practice. I like to think that one should neither have teaching without practice or practice without teaching. Neither should you have compassion without wisdom or wisdom without compassion. To ignore either means to take a part for the whole, and that, I believe is the problem of suffering in a nutshell.

On Being and Not Being A Buddhist

The following was my original Faithbook post from February 15th 2008. If you want to read it in its original context (and check out the interesting responses), you can do so here.

I am not a Buddhist. I've never told anyone that I am a Buddhist and have in fact denied the title on more than one occasion. Even though I have been circling around the stupa for the last ten years, I have never made any formal or official commitment to the Buddha sāsana. I've never sown a rakusu or received a "dharma name." I am, as of this moment, a freelance wanderer through the six realms of samsara.

I was raised in West Michigan to a small family of born-again evangelical protestants. As early as a few weeks after my birth I was sitting on my mom's lap in one of the world's first mega-churches. (Although at the time I'm sure it wasn't as mega as it is now). I loved felt-boards and summer bible camp. I memorized the books of the Old and New Testaments. I attended Awana and filled up my little plastic crown pin with little plastic jewels. This cheap trinket that I wore on a bright red vest represented the authentic crown that I would wear when I finally entered into the presence of God, my dead grandparents and all my recently expired turtles. I anticipated the rapture and feared the Devil. I sang "Jesus loves me this I know" and I did know it. I believed in the literal truth of the Bible before I knew what a metaphor was, and I can remember feeling guilty because I loved my heavenly father more than my earthly one. Over the years I was baptized and rebaptized, committed and recommitted. If there was an alter call, I was answering.

Then one day, while attending a student-oriented bible study, the youth pastor's wife said something that changed my life. I was eighteen at the time and just about to begin my first semester at Calvin College when a woman I hardly knew said (apropos of what, I don't recall): "When I can't sleep, I start to pray and in five minutes, I'm out like a light." This was followed by nods of affirmation and a hand shot up from the crowd. A very sincere young woman replied, "Just before I came here, I lost my keys. I prayed and five minutes later I found them."

These two seemingly innocuous statements by semi-strangers planted tiny seeds of doubt in what I thought was a fertile field of Christian faith and piety. Over the next year I replayed these statements over and over and eventually came to two conclusions. 1) I did not want any part of a religion that used God as a sleep aid or as a butler to find lost keys, and 2) there was no reason to believe that God as I currently envisioned him was anything other than a figment of my imagination. It was only a matter of months before I was telling my parents that I was no longer a Christian.

The journey from born-again Christian to wanna-be Buddhist was both long and short. It was short because Buddhism was the first religious tradition I turned to after I ceased to believe in God. It was long because I did not immediately adopt Buddhism as my re-bound faith. I casually flirted with Islam and Hinduism, and had a more serious relationship with Reform Judaism. At my most desperate moments I have to admit I read Ekhart Tolle and even sent away for some Rosicrucian pamphlets. Obviously, I've got a lot of faith to give.

Between my brief trysts with Moses and Muhammad, I would always return to Shakyamuni. Five years ago I took my first six-week meditation course and learned how to watch my breath and think non-thinking. I lived in Southern California for a few years and would occasionally attend services at Zen Mountain Center.

Today, I am a graduate student at the University of Iowa, studying the religion and culture of South Asia. I am on the board of directors at the local Zen Center and have spent a few weekends doing all-day zazen. I recently acted as a teaching assistant for a class called Living Religions of the East, and although I love teaching about Hindu, Taoist and Confucian traditions, I love learning about Buddhism. I am becoming—carefully and with as much mindfulness as I can muster—more than what has been dismissively labeled a "bookstore Buddhist." To me, being a Buddhist means more than just saying you are one. It means placing yourself within the structure of a particular school, a particular lineage and a particular teacher. It means changing your life, not just changing your mind.
On the other hand…

At least once a day I descend the stairs to my basement, bow towards my zabuton and turn clockwise. I bow to the world and then lower myself onto a round black cushion. I light a small tea-light and bow to the Nepali Buddha statue that I bought in Madison. I take refuge in the three jewels. I ring a Tibetan singing bowl three times. I place my hands in the mudra of Vairocana Buddha.

I sit.

I think non-thinking.

A little while later, I get up.

The moon sees the one...

Walking home on December 10th (the fortieth aniversary of Thomas Merton's mahāparinirvana), the conditions were perfect for viewing a rare event. The full moon not only had a corona, but also a circular rainbow around it.



How have I gone my whole life and never seen a rainbow around the moon? What else have I been missing?