Faith and Prayer through a Zen Lens

Discussion about prayer and faith is somewhat rare in contemporary Western Zen sanghas. While these forms of devotion have always been common for Asian Buddhists and among certain schools of Buddhism in the West, they are less so for Western Zen sanghas. But when prayer and faith are approached experientially in a way that is not inconsistent with Zen teaching, it can become one way of opening the door to a more heartfelt, holistically-engaging practice.

For many years, I served as an Episcopal parish priest. Naturally I was working with traditional biblical, theological, and liturgical language, but for me, these stories and conceptualizations were often metaphorical. At the same time, I was immersed in the contemplative Christian tradition and a student of Zen, beginning with Joko Beck in the early 1990’s. Zen helped me to become clearer about my contemplative experience, and this, in turn, enriched my use of Christian metaphors and stories.

But a tension eventually arose for me, one which is familiar to many who might describe themselves as “spiritual but not religious,” and probably for most Zen Buddhists: whenever the mystery that is called “God” is conceptualized and spoken about as a being with whom we are in relationship - even metaphorically - there is dualism. There is me, right here, trying to communicate with or get close to it, out there or in here “with” me. Even for the contemplative, God fills the self, the world and all space, but as a somewhat foreign substance, like ink that is injected into water. Many contemplatives seek union with this ubiquitous and mysterious being, but in my experience, trying to bring together what we think of as two - but which in fact is actually one - only reinforces the delusion of separation.

And so eventually for me, as a Zen student, the usefulness of the metaphor of God as a relational being came to an end. The interesting thing is that something else from my Christian background did not end, but rather became stronger through my Zen practice: the actual experience of what I used to call by words such as God, prayer, faith, and grace, but no longer did.

Buddhism has countless ways of expressing that which is experienced as the very aliveness of existence, and yet is beyond conceptualization. Sometimes we hear of it as the Absolute, or dharmakaya. From ancient Chinese Chan (Zen) teachers to modern Zen guides, it has been provisionally, poetically, variously described as original Mind, pure being, true nature, original energy, suchness. There is Hongzhi’s bright empty field, Huineng’s space that contains all; and Shunryu Suzuki’s nothing/something, of which everything is an expression, or manifestation:

“I discovered that it is necessary, absolutely necessary to believe in nothing. That is, we have to believe in something which has no form and no color, something which exists before all forms and colors appear…[and] which is always prepared for taking some particular form. This is not something which you can experience objectively, [but] it is something which is always with you, always on your side.” (Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind)

Often, as I begin sitting in zazen, after I pay attention to my body on the cushion and my breath going in and out, I expand my awareness from small to vast. Here is my little body, my breath, and the random thoughts of my brain. Here are ambient sounds, morning light, walls and furniture, the temperature in the room. Here is the sky above and the earth below, all kinds of creatures - insects, birds, humans in their cars, trees and bushes. All of it is alive and interactive, all at once. I don’t think about this; I sense it.

I now prefer not to call this life-energy by the misleading and culturally-bound word “God.” I would rather follow the Zen tradition of either calling it by many descriptors, or better yet, not calling it anything at all, just opening up to it in zazen and expressing it in ritual, poetry, and how I live my daily life.

The word “prayer” is just as freighted as the word God. Prayer is usually seen as asking a supreme being to provide something: peace of mind, healing for a loved one, protection for those in war zones. One hopes that God will hear our supplication and respond accordingly. In this way prayer resembles how we request or grant favors to our friends. All religious traditions in their popular forms promote prayer similarly.

Buddhism teaches us that as individuals we are not separate from the universal energy of life. So in prayer we are not a subject who calls upon an object. Rather, when we voice our concern or hope in prayer, it can be a way of joining our individual energy - our need, desire, passion, or intention - to the energy of life itself. It is the particular expressing itself to its own wholeness. As such, we can simply say “I’m so grateful for…” or “I pray for…”or “Please…”, voicing our heartfelt prayer within something vast that we can only intuit and yet are always a part of. And we can do so without using a name or title for that something.

Dainin Katagiri spoke frequently of faith in - even prayer to - something that supports us. But he made it clear that this is not about a subject who calls upon an object:

“The one who is calling upon something is simultaneously what one is looking for. To sit zazen is to call upon something and to sit zazen is exactly the something you are calling upon. We don’t know what it is but it’s always there. If you sit down, you feel something, you taste it.” (Returning to Silence: Zen Practice in Everyday Life)

Because we are exactly what we call upon in prayer, the “calling upon” is as if it were directionally mutual and simultaneous, even though it is one. In this passage from Each Moment is the Universe: Zen and the Way of Being Time Katagiri spoke of the interplay of self and the Absolute:

“It is like a mother hen and her baby chick. The chick taps its shell from the inside at the same time that the hen taps the shell from the outside. [Then eventually] Bwaak! the baby chick is born. If you want to seek for something that is unattainable first you have to tap your shell from the inside and then someone, or something, taps your shell from the outside.”

In zazen, thoughts rise up all on their own. Some of these thoughts have to do with situations we are concerned about - the health of someone we love, distressing news about displaced refugees somewhere, a stressful relationship, a difficult decision to be made at work, or problems with our kids. Our mind raises these concerns in the form of thoughts, worries, and problem-solving. Often Buddhist teachers advise meditators to ignore this mental activity, calling it “monkey-mind.” This can be a useful practice.

Another response is to recognize some of these concerns that arise as occasional prompts to prayer. We can briefly name what comes up, feel our concern as it manifests in the body, and then offer it to an energy, intelligence, and power that is way beyond our individual capacity and yet of which we are a part. This feels to me like opening the small portal of my consciousness to the infinite sky beyond, trusting that life will respond.

If we make a session of zazen into a litany of prayers, it becomes something other than zazen. Alternatively, prayer can happen in zazen just once or twice, naturally and briefly, as a way of acknowledging and extending the compelling thoughts or feelings that arise: a moment of supplication and offering, then letting go of thought and returning to Big Mind.

Religions and spirituality movements talk a lot about faith. Sometimes this word is used as a synonym for belief, for a fervent assent to a set of propositions (i.e. having the belief that God exists and will take care of us). Sometimes the word is used to denote a spiritual transaction: if we muster enough faith that something will come to be as we want it to, the forces of the universe will align, and it will happen.

But on a deeper level, religions have also taught that faith is not really about assent to propositions, nor is it transactional. Faith is learning to place our trust in something that is not dependent upon circumstances, beyond our ability to understand, and more powerful than our personal efforts. Faith is letting go of our desired outcome, too, trusting that while we do have preferences, we are not in control and do not necessarily know the best way forward. With practice and direct experience, faith becomes a kind of confidence, knowing that we are never alone, that something far more vast than individual self is always on our side, always ready to respond, albeit in unpredictable ways.

In zazen, I often have the sense that my little brain is working overtime to try to control, to give direction to, to make sense of life, especially when something is occurring that is disturbing or troublesome. Releasing my grip in these moments is what Kosho Uchiyama called “opening the hand of thought.” Doing this is like discovering that, in the moment, there is a mental constriction going on with thought, and then relaxing, opening, releasing. But releasing into what? Into nothing/something, like a person floating in space, without knowing where they are going, but content to be there nonetheless. This place, like space itself, is not a void; they are both filled with energy and becoming. After release, zazen continues, a slow rhythm of gripping and opening, gripping and opening.

This kind of faith can be very uncomfortable, even frightening at first. But it can also be very freeing, because it is not dependent upon anything. No matter what comes, we can float in a universal activity which is always reliable: the mutuality and interdependence of existence, which is to say, emptiness, or life supporting life.

One way that theistic religions have spoken of this activity of the something beyond self is with the word “grace.” The original energy that makes life alive, that responds when we open ourselves to it, is active. This is obvious when we consider how the body repairs itself when it encounters a cold virus, or how birds, fish, insects, and mammals are so determined to adapt and survive. The life force is always at work, creating, repairing, responding, renewing, and making new life out of death. We can call this invisible but obvious activity grace.

But grace is not magic. It is related to our efforts and evolving circumstances in a kind of dance. The body automatically fights off a cold virus, but this fight doesn’t go very well without rest and fluids. A species mysteriously evolves to higher levels but does not do so without those beings making tremendous effort to find new ways of adapting. An addict might find a new power at work in them when they surrender control in some way, but in order to stay clean and sober they have to continue letting go and trusting. A community seeking social change and justice may discover at some point that a kind of momentum, an energy beyond their own efforts, takes on a life of its own. Grace is in a dance with the effort of beings.

I have no interest in promoting the use of Western religious terms like God, prayer, faith, and grace in Zen communities. I think that Zen is most authentically approached on its own terms, not blended with another tradition. But perhaps for some like me, Zen can be a lens through which we can see anew, make sense of, and even practice with those universal devotional instincts and experiences that have always remained real for some of us, and for millions of people over thousands of years in the many religions of the world.