A Leap in Faith

December 16, 2008

Ever since my high school geography class with Mr. Sensibaugh introduced me to the basic concepts of Buddhism during our unit on world religions, I’ve been captivated. After that initial encounter, it seems the threads of Buddhism have become more and more intertwined with the tapestry, drawing me continually closer to this philosophy foreign to my ancestors. Between my life and Buddhism, the connections are countless and increasingly uncanny.

It all started in high school geography and, soon after, the ever-inspiring Buddhism 101 sessions given by the charismatic ministers of Chicago’s Midwest Buddhist Temple during their annual Japanese Ginza Festival. Not only was it the content of Buddhist philosophy that captured my interest: it was also the way it was presented. Never before had I heard a religious teacher say to me,

“What I’m explaining to you now is one path that one man many years ago found to help himself and others reach a higher state of being, to become a better person. In the thousands of years since Buddhism was founded in India in the 5th century BCE, many of people have followed the path laid out by Sakyamuni Buddha (recognized as the religion’s founder). I’m also following that path. But that’s not to say that you should, too. These ideas I’ve explained to you today: you can take them or leave them. You can pick up parts that you think might work best for you and try them on for size. You can accept them whole-heartedly or reject them entirely. It’s up to you.”

Every time I’ve heard Buddhist teachers speak since, their comments seem always to be prefaced with this same message of tolerance. What a pleasant contrast to the attitude of Christians in my community (some among them constantly trying to convert heathens like me)! By my high school years, I had been turned off to religion altogether. It was only after hearing those words that my own spiritual quest was sparked. Then, the perhaps less-enlightening but equally inspiring visits to just a few of Kyoto, Japan’s countless Buddhist temples, which struck me at the time as the most sacred, awe-inspiring, and exquisitely beautiful places I’d ever been.

The 3 months I spent traveling around North India with a group of other U.S. students via Global Learning Across Borders took me closer to Buddhism than I’d ever been before. At times, frankly, closer than I wanted to get. The week we spent doing a silent meditation retreat at a Buddhist retreat center in Bodhgaya (the very town where Sakyamuni Buddha is said to have attained enlightenment all those years ago, under the legendary Bodhi Tree) was intense enough. The death of a friend and fellow traveler that followed directly on the heels of the retreat took the intensity to a whole new level. As the remaining 11 students in our group plus our leaders attempted to cope and come to terms with such a traumatic incident, we were all brought closer to each other. And Buddhism, too, as the circumstances surrounding our friend’s passing couldn’t be separated from the Buddhist context in which it occurred.

The 2 months to follow was, for me, not only a physical journey that took me to the heights of the Himalayas and the dirty depths of Delhi, but also a spiritual journey of sorts. All along, my path was intertwined with Buddhism. And again, once I started school at Indiana University, my periodic participation in programs at a Buddhist center close to campus kept the connection alive.

Lately, here in Nanjing, I’ve been a “Buddhist” out of convenience. When my Chinese friends ask why I was a vegetarian back in the States for so many years, when they ask about the jade Buddha pendent perpetually hanging around my neck nowadays, I’ll explain it away by saying, “I’m Buddhist,” by way of avoiding the complicated explications that often ensue if I answer otherwise. Vegetarians are rather rare in China, unlike India. Historically, practically every person who decided go veg and forgo meat did so because of their Buddhist faith. (Note: while I’ve refrained from various forms of meat not any more in China, though, to avoid being a burden on my friends and host family).

I always feel guilty for saying so, since I’ve never reached the level of belief that makes it feel appropriate to begin calling myself a Buddhist. All these years, I’ve just been curious, fascinated. An enthusiastic student of the faith’s philosophy. But nothing more.

Until perhaps today.

On my way to meet my friend for lunch, I was walking along a side street that usually tends to be teeming with life. Today, that street was surprisingly deserted. It felt strange to have the street all to myself, as though this atypical street scene had been staged. Then, an imposing figure wearing monks’ robes turned a corner and started walking towards me. As our paths converged, the monk greeted me silently. I greeted him in return. He then reached into his monks’ bag at his side, pulled out something small and red and gold, and offered it to me with a smile. I accepted, grateful and slightly stunned. The monk continued on his way, soon turned a corner, and vanished once more. Again, I was the only sign of life left on the street.

It all seemed, and surely sounds, so bizarre, like some serendipitous scene out of a film. What was it that this mysterious monk offered me? After I snapped out of the surprise of the moment, I finally turned to examine it: a small red envelope, gilded in gold with an image of Guanyin, the Buddha of Compassion, on either side. Inside was a gold card with a similar but more intricate inscription. In China, they call her Guanyin. In Sanskrit, he’s known as Avalokiteshvara. In Tibetan, Chenrezig. Following that unexpected exchange ensued an inexplicable sensation: Guanyin (regardless of what you call her/him) is protecting me, watching over me somehow. The feelings and thoughts that ensued are perhaps too profound to be put into words.

As I continued walking, out of that weird warp in time and space that cleared a typically crowded street in the center of this city of over 7 million emerged and merged again with the flow of Nanjing’s masses, I saw, with a clarity I’ve never had before, the indescribable depth of the suffering surrounding me. Written in the lines of every face that passed me by, even behind the smiles and the sound of laughter, was the pain and sorrows inherent in everyday existence. But, at the same time, buried behind the smiles and the lines, lies the key to release, release from the suffering that ties us down. There is a sense of sight that surpasses what ordinary eyes can see. Once unlocked and awakened, it can clue us into the realization that, in the game of our earthly existence, the rules are just illusory as are the temporary gains and losses.

That small, simple gold-plated card carved with the image of Guanyin and the unexpected encounter with the monk who presented it to me provided a temporary key for me. I had a revelation of sorts right there on the street. I describe this key as gold, which makes it sound like something of significant monetary worth. In reality, such trinkets can be purchased for around a dollar at any temple in this country. But, as I found, this little talisman had great value, albeit not of the monetary kind.

For years a fan of The Simpsons, after having seen just about every episode made before I went off to college and didn’t make time to watch the show (or TV in general, for that matter) anymore, there is one scene that always sticks out as one of my favorites. Lisa (need I say my favorite character—those who know Lisa and me, see any similarities?) is the hero of this episode (and, if you ask me, the whole series!). After realizing, like I did at around her age, that Christianity has some aspects that under inspection make it a little hard to swallow, Lisa goes on a quest to find a form of spirituality that better suits her. Eventually, in an epiphany not unlike mine today, Lisa’s quest leads her to Buddhism.

“I’m a Buddhist,” she shouts at the top of her lungs, announcing her new faith to the world. “Hey, everybody, I’M A BUDDHIST!” Flanders, the Simpsons neighbor that takes Christianity to an extreme, hears these heathenous words and covers his sons’ ears. “Uh oh,” Flanders says with dread, “my Satan sense is tingling. Down to the root cellar, boys!” “Yay!” scream his sons, Rod and Tod, in unison.

My moment of realization didn’t make me shout out loud. I didn’t banish any good little Christian boys to any root cellars. Even if I had announced my new-found faith to the world, it’s probable that few people would understand. But that simple moment, that unexpected exchange between me and the mysterious monk that unlocked some insight that years of reading books on Buddhist philosophy had yet to lead me to. Now, I don’t feel so guilty anymore about telling people, “I’m a Buddhist.”