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.