By Richard
I’m thinking of these words by Torei Zenji:
“We can be especially understanding and affectionate with foolish people, particularly with someone who becomes a sworn enemy and persecutes us with abusive language.
That very abuse conveys the Buddha’s boundless loving-kindness. It is a compassionate device to liberate us entirely from the mean-spirited delusions we have built up with our wrongful conduct from the beginningless past.”
A few weeks ago, I had to settle an argument between two kids. One kid said they were wronged, which justified their response. The other kid said exactly the same thing. Each kid insisted the other one started it.
Later down at the office, I had to settle an argument between two co-workers. They each said they were wronged but seemed blind to their own actions. While it happened in grey meeting rooms with different language, in essence it was no different to the kids.
I then read a book on Iceland, and their cultural history is understood through old stories called Sagas. Typically, it goes like this: a slight misunderstanding occurs with a sister-in-law from across the valley. Resentment builds. A clan feud starts, and a chief is killed. A son is honour-bound to avenge the killing, and the cycle continues.
And in the news, there are nations at war. It may be over grievances of land, culture, or an obscure battle from hundreds of years ago. Once during the late 1960s, a war in Central America was even caused by a soccer match.
The opening words of the Dhammapada say that:
“All that we are is the result of what we have thought: it is founded on our thoughts, it is made up of our thoughts. If one speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain follows him, as the wheel follows the foot of the ox that draws the carriage…
‘He abused me, he beat me, he defeated me, he robbed me’. In those who harbour such thoughts, hatred will never cease.”
There’s such a focus on those who wronged us, but I wonder what’s really happening inside us? Maybe it’s a concern about real harm, or maybe a view of right and wrong, or maybe just injured pride. Whichever way, awareness of ourselves and our response is most important, and our teacher Geoff Dawson has said that it should be based on both compassion and wisdom.
Letting go may be the best path, but sometimes passive acceptance leads to further harm. Taking action may be the best path, but sometimes holding onto a sense of being right leads to further harm. The choice isn’t easy. So while Torei Zenji’s words feel quite challenging, it’s as though they’re a sort of test. Which, to me, is about whether we’re being absolutely honest with ourselves and what we’re doing. Is it self-centred or life-centred?
People can find ways to break patterns. Some years ago, I visited Robben Island where Nelson Mandela had been jailed. It’s one thing to read about being imprisoned for a political belief, and another thing to see actual walls. Unexpectedly though, it was the guide who showed us around, an ex-prisoner there, that was most moving. I clearly remember him saying that they had been fighting against a system, not a group of people. He said it very matter-of-factly, which stayed with me. The most important legacy of Mandela was about a choice made late in his life, as he was leaving jail. He said that: “As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.”
After becoming president, he established the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which involved a process of acknowledgement and restorative justice. While it wasn’t perfect, it probably helped to avoid a civil war. It was a deliberate choice to dismantle a system without seeking retribution. The word apartheid translates as “separateness”, and the point was to end it. The process followed a principle of shared community called Ubuntu, an African term expressed as “I am, because we are”. Desmond Tutu described it as “My humanity is inextricably bound up in yours. We belong in a bundle of life.”
This reminds me of Torei Zenji’s words. You and I are different people, but in the wider sense of things, when separateness is abandoned then an appropriate response can emerge.
It’s easy to say all this, but it’s really, really hard to do. I think of times when I’ve been harshly criticised. The practice begins, watching the uncomfortableness in the body, then the breath, then eventually the trees and wind outside. After a while the fog lifts, maybe a path emerges. Sometimes though, the sense of being wronged can be overwhelming. If someone yelled at me in the worst way possible, would I really be able to see it as a compassionate device? Would I be especially understanding and affectionate?