Why would a lifelong Episcopalian practice Zen meditation?

For most of my life, I have been an active member of one Episcopal Church parish or another, busily praying and serving and doing a range of “good works”. But as the years passed, I became increasingly uncomfortable in Church. I had learned to present a “Church-friendly” version of myself — a person that looked and sounded “good” but kept hidden the fullness of what was really going on inside. I had learned to maneuver around Church community, staying very busy doing “good things” but daring to express real grief or fear or doubt — especially doubt about God! Being “successful” in Church meant that I lived as a shell of myself.

A well of doubt lived beneath the pretense of “looking good” — doubt about God, about many of the Church teachings, and whether the teachings had any relevance to my life. These teachings included “articles of faith”, like the Nicene Creed, and various doctrines, such as the doctrine of the resurrection, incarnation and the trinity. And let’s not forget the real zinger, the doctrine of Original Sin. What do these doctrines mean? Are they merely teachings of old that largely reside in books on dusty bookshelves? or can they breathe new life into faith? Questions about these “basic teachings” are routinely shrugged off as either irrelevant or indications of weak faith.

The message behind the message of Christian teaching is often to “shut up and believe.” I was no longer willing to do so. I challenged the prevailing view of Original Sin that dooms human nature. I no longer accepted that Christianity was somehow the superior religion, while other religious traditions were inferior. I was weary of those who warned of the dangers of exploring other religious faiths and practices. These “dangers” were often cloaked in the language of Satan, suggesting that Christians who explore other faith traditions are going “against God”, as if the Christian God is somehow too small to include anything beyond what the Church claims is true. Increasingly, I felt unsure what the term “Christian” meant and whether I was willing to claim a “Christian identity”.

Gradually, as I spoke out about how uncomfortable I was feeling with Christian teaching and identity, I began to realize that I was not alone. The more I spoke out and listened to others share similar feelings and experiences, the more a painful reality dawned: the fullness of who we are — is not welcome in the Church. Church life demands that we “leave outside the door” the depth of what we think, feel, believe and practice in order to adhere to Christian teachings. In the process, many of these teachings no longer inspire or invigorate faith.

The sadness of this reality was overwhelming and frustrating. I yearned for a deeper understanding, hoping that understanding would alleviate my discomfort, or at least show me why the Church had lost her power to inspire, let alone heal, and had in many cases been a vehicle for harm. I went to seminary looking for answers. I read wonderful books, engaged in lively discussions with brilliant teachers and students, and discovered in myself a deep passion for the study of theology. Four years of seminary training had given me more words, concepts, and ways to debate questions of faith. But the sense of despair I felt only deepened. The Church has squandered her rich inheritance, building a hierarchy that no longer supports faith, dissolving into warring factions that maintain the illusion of separation, and focusing on maintaining power that has long since been lost. The clarion call of Jesus — to love God and neighbor as oneself (Mark12:28-31; Matthew 22:36-40; Luke 10:27) and forgive (Mark 2:1-12; Matthew 9; Matthew 18:21-35; John 7:53-8:11, Luke 23:34) — remains buried in the ashes. I felt still more fragmented: my intellect had expanded, but my body seemed further away.

My first encounter with Buddhism was through the writings of the Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron. The titles of her books grabbed me — titles like: “The Wisdom of No Escape” and “Start Where you Are”. The titles became silent mantras that soothed my weary mind and body. Inside Pema Chodron’s books, I heard messages about “the essential goodness of human beings”, with an emphasis not on belief but on the practice of breathing and meditation. These messages echoed some of the messages in the Christian mystical tradition, especially the work of Fr. Thomas Keating and the practice of contemplative prayer. But the Buddhist teachings offered more specific ways of understanding and working with the inner world of thoughts, feelings, moods and fantasies. Practicing Buddhist meditation became a doorway into a deeper sense of authenticity, of myself and my relationship with the world.

Some years later, my son invited me to a zendo (a zen meditation hall). In my first zendo experience and in the many times I’ve returned since, I experience what I can only call “Divine Presence”. This sense of Presence is so palpable it’s as though you could reach out and scoop it up, like a ladle of soup. At first I was startled. I’d been taught that this Presence was available only in Church, associated with Jesus and the Holy Spirit. But the feeling was unmistakable. No thought, confusion or doubt —just a knowing, as if held in the arms of Divine mystery.

Zen practice was giving me a whole new way to experience God. Ironically, this Zen way means putting aside all the language and questioning about God, Jesus and the Church. Zen challenges me to give up my most cherished images of who I am, who God is and trust that something new will emerge. In the process, I experience periods of overwhelming confusion, fear, and bewilderment discovering how hard it is to stay in the space of “not knowing” who I am or what I believe. And yet as I learned this sitting, I experienced tremendous relief — relief to admit “not knowing”, to accept fears and allow doubts to surface, breathe, and speak their reality; to “dress down” rather than “dress up”.

In sudden flashes of awareness, Christian doctrines begin to dance through my mind. I experience what the “doctrine of creation” claims to be true — that God is present in all that is, that nothing can be apart from God. Most Christians can probably parrot these words but Christian teaching promotes a very different experience: God is “out there”, separate from His creation; while Jesus, God’s Son, remains a distant, perfect, yet unreachable savior. As I learn to sit, breathe and let go what emerges is a deeper sense of authenticity, the very thing I was missing as a “practicing Christian”. This is a felt sense of belonging in myself, in the world, in God. This is an experience of breathing in and through the very fabric of Life, feeling Life breathing through me, in my body and mind.

The more I sit, the more alive I feel. As I learn to surrender who I think I am, to surrender the sense of “I”, what emerges is an experience of the interpenetrating unity of all Life: the Divine Presence breathing in and through everything, every being, every breath, every ounce of experience. Who is God? Who is Jesus? What is the Church? Who am I? Zen calls such a questions “life koans” — questions that gnaw at us, haunt us in the core of our being and shape our journeys. I’ve struggled with these questions for most of my life. Through Zen practice, I feel anchored in a more authentic sense of self and confidence in my own voice, learning to listen with deeper compassion to others. I experience a childlike sense of divinity which knows no separation between self and God. This is the closeness of the womb, of being at the center of creation. Breathing in, breathing out. The rhythm of life. This is a profound gift.

The great surprise of Zen practice is finding myself returning to Church! In sitting and chanting Buddhist texts, my Christian faith is invigorated with a new sense of awe and wonder, nourished through familiar Christian stories and the liturgical calendar. I discover new vibrancy in Christian liturgy and sacraments, the essential instruments of Church life. I find renewed hope that, with all her failings, Christianity holds seeds that have tremendous potential to help a suffering world. And I experience renewed energy to help those seeds flourish. This is not “inter-faith dialogue”. This is “intra-faith” experience.

In this essay, I offer many words to express that which remains inexpressible. Perhaps the words of the ancient psalmist are a fitting close: “Be still and know that I am God…” (Psalm 46.10)