A few months back, Shravasti Dhammika, a Buddhist monk of 32 years practice and the spiritual advisor to the Buddha Dhamma Mandala Society in Singapore, added a post to his blog on the subject of hyphenated Buddhists in general, and Jewish-Buddhists in particular. The good monk wrote that whole idea of hyphenated Buddhists gives him an “identity crisis,” which is a pretty funny thing for him to say, given that an identity is about as insubstantial as it gets in Buddhism. I suspect he was winking when he wrote this, since his sense of humor is on display throughout this posting. After all, mistaking the skandhas for a self would be a shande.
Nevertheless, the question of hyphenated Buddhists, and Jewish Buddhism or Buddhist Judaism in particular disturbed him. And it’s a question that that often comes up in my world, since I identify myself as a Jewish Buddhist. I am hardly alone on this path, since it’s been estimated that 30% of American born Buddhists also identify in some way as Jewish. That’s enough people to become a market! And so,, no surprise, there are quite a number of books, films and t-shirts (blending spiritual path, identity and fashion with Western consumerism) on the phenomenon. The venerable Dhammika refers to some books by an IMC teacher I admire, Sylvia Boorstein, in particular. I don’t think she would define herself as a Jubu — her excellent essay in Beside Still Waters,
an anthology of writings by Jews and Christians who have been profoundly changed by their Buddhist practice is her response to the question of hyphenated identity and I recommend it. This is my response to the venerable Dhammika’s post where he writes:
“Is it possible to be a practicing Jew and a practicing Buddhist at the same time? No it is not! The two are mutually incompatible. A Buddhist would have to see most of the practices of Orthodox and even Reformed Judaism as harmless but empty rituals that contributed nothing to the development of virtue or the freeing of the mind. If anything, they reinforce a specific identity; the very thing Buddhism seeks to transcend. The Torah’s unambiguous demand for total allegiance to the God of Israel and the Buddha’s God-free spirituality and world view, separate the two religions from the word go.”
I take issue with a number of things he writes here. Just as I take issue with Rabbi Akiva Tatz, who wrote a book called Letters to a Buddhist Jew, that I will write about in another post. However, what both gentlemen have in common is a lack or experience or deep knowledge of each other’s path, so that neither man has enough of an understanding of the other’s path to make a full judgment or fair assessment.
Today though, I’m sticking to the venerable Dhammika’s comments. So let’s start with his contention that the Torah demands “total allegiance to the God of Israel.”
I’m not sure what his concept of that God is, but I have to respond with the words of Rabbi Irwin Kula: “I don’t believe in the God you don’t believe in either.”
The word God itself is problematic. People tend to think of a character, a personage, a being with a personality, and for that matter, a gender. Thinking about god this way is basically a violation of one of the commandments — against idolatry, which isn’t restricted to making physical images. In Judaism one cannot speak the name of the Divine because to name something is to limit it, to have control over it, and the Divine is beyond language or limit.
One of the central Jewish prayers, said several times during services, is the Kaddish. The point of the Kaddish is to break through the tendency of the mind to reify God. Rather than being an empty ritual, it is a prayer designed to break through any definition of what is essentially beyond the limited power of language to express and thus help open the one praying to an experience of the unconditioned state. If one recites it rote, without consciousness, it is no different from simply reciting the sutras without mindfulness. Or for that matter reciting a sutra as a mantra in the hopes of getting a new car (Can you say Sokka Gakkai?).
The Kaddish is a deep teaching about the nature of the Divine, which in the Jewish mystical tradition is sometimes referred to as the Ayn Sof: infinite no-thing-ness. It is beyond form and formlessness. This is not the same thing as Nirvana (or is it?), though I can’t rightly say, never having experienced it. For that matter, it is an experience, from all I can gather, than can only be expressed by what it is not (which is expressed beautifully in the medieval work of Christian mysticism, The Cloud of Unknowing). This is the place where language breaks down. So while I can’t say with any authority that these concepts are equivalent, I have a sense that they arise from the same place (or no-place as the case may be).
I remember when I had walked away from Judaism entirely, and had given myself over to meditation practice and the study of the sutras and the various commentaries. My friend Marion asked me what I had found in Buddhism that I hadn’t found in Judaism. I read her some passages and spoke to her about what meditation had given me. She opened up a siddur — the book of Jewish prayer — and pointed to some passages that went to the heart of what I was talking about. In fact, several of these prayers were mindfulness practices — they weren’t something so much to be read as instructions to a practice of awareness. I was dumbfounded, since I had never recognized this before. Like the venerable Dhammika, I saw the liturgy as empty ritual. But of course, no rabbi in my youth had ever taught these prayers as an awareness and mindfulness practice. I wasn’t even sure there were rabbis who understood these prayers in that way.
Of course, that was my ignorance of my own tradition. And the fact that no rabbis in my youth taught in this was was a result of the history of post-enlightenment Judaism in the U.S. and the broken lineage of deep teachers in the last century — . I knew nothing of masters like Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, who taught a meditation technique that reads like a text on Vipassana, and who was murdered in the Holocaust.
When I delved deeper into the tradition of my ancestors I discovered many texts I would never have understood but for my experience with Buddhist meditation. And I met rabbis who not only understood the practices these prayers called for, they actively taught them.
As for a hairy thunderer in the sky demanding total allegiance — well, that’s just a story. A teaching
story. I don’t imagine that the venerable Dhammika literally believes all of the Jataka tales. And I doubt he believes in a literal being called Mara. These tales are told to point to a deeper truth.
I can’t deny that Judaism, like Shinto, carries the mythic history and consciousness of a particular people
from a particular time. The Torah, like the Kojiki, are the stories that encode the deepest teaching of the tradition. Taking it literally is about as delusionary as believing that the Japanese emperor is a direct descendent of the sun goddess, Amaterasu. Ahem, well. Obviously many Japanese did believe this well into the last century — the Venerable Dhammika neglected to ask the same question about hyphenated Buddhists to the entire Japanese nation, whose population pretty much considers itself both Buddhist and Shinto. But as always, I digress…
The problems arise when people take the stories literally — it’s what leads to kamikaze pilots, the suicide bombers of WWII, not to mention murderous zealots like Baruch Goldstein. Or lunatics like Fred Phelps. I stray again…
Getting back to the empty prayers and rituals…perhaps the most important prayer in Judaism is the Shema – which, rather than being a demand for total allegiance is a radical statement that calls one’s full attention to the unity of reality.
While my interpretation of the prayer may sound unorthodox to many who grew up with the English translation that appears across from the Hebrew in the siddur, it is actually within the realm of orthodoxy (which is not usually where I find myself):
Listen/Be mindful, you who wrestle with the Inexpressible, the Inexpressible is Greater/Beyond Anything you can imagine, and it is Indivisible from Reality - there is nothing that is separate or not a part of It (including you and your struggle).
The Hebrew is a lot shorter, but it’s a language of great economy that manages to express a non-dual experience of the Divine that is both transcendent and immanent simultaneously.
Now certainly there are places where Judaism and Buddhism clearly part ways. There is no monastic tradition (that has survived, i.e. the Essenes) in Judaism. While Buddhism sees the way out of suffering through equanimity, Judaism calls for passionate engagement with all of life — experiencing joy and suffering as the fullness that is human existence. While Buddhist monks don’t marry, don’t work and don’t own anything, historically rabbis have been expected to marry, work and provide for their families. This is where the paths diverge for those who wish to practice, not simply as laymen (ah, the innate sexism and limits of language), but as complete devotees.
By our very nature as humans, we cannot see or express the whole truth. Each of our traditions displays merely one facet of the jewel of Reality. Each does it’s best to give its adherents a practice that will enable them to see this and apprehend an experience beyond the limits of expression. And each has practices that can be bizarre and counterproductive to the goal — how could it be otherwise, given their long history and the addition of any number of adopted teachings and offshoot branches.
The rabbi of Congregation Har HaShem in Boulder, in his blog notes an beautifully strange similarlity between the writings of the Soto Zen monk Shunryu Suzuki and the 18th century Chassidic rabbi, Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev. This great master wrote that:
“we are holy in that we can become aware of our essential nothingness – 'Know that you come from nothing' – and that Jewish practice (mitzvoth) raise our consciousness of the nothingness underlying our existence, and the transitory nature of our materiality.”
At this point you would be excused if you quoted Shakespeare and said of me, “I think the lady doth protest too much.”
Yes there are differences, and there are practices in each tradition that would be anathema to the other. I do my best to live fully in the real contradictions while celebrating the ultimate oneness. Duality is real. I live in it every day. There’s just a greater reality. And the teachings of both traditions create a feedback loop that helps take me deeper to a place that transcends both.
Rabbi Arthur Green, in Tormented Master, his biography of the Chassidic master, Rabbi Nachman, related this conversation between the rabbi and a close disciple. R. Nachman explained that he really no longer needed to follow many of the commandments. Because in following the path of mitzvoth, of living in blessing, he had “reached the other shore” and no longer needed the vehicle of the form. But he continued to follow these practices because he had followers — and if he kept up the practice his followers would be inspired to continue, despite the difficulties of the path, and could someday reach the far shore themselves. Sounds like a boddhisatva vow to me.
I’m grateful to the venerable Dhammika — his words gave me an opening to write about all this in more 
depth than usual and possibly open a dialog. And I am grateful to my teachers in both traditions: their words and their living examples have been a blessing in my life.
One more parenthetical — a postscript: here is a question/koan to consider on the dual path from this Jewish Buddhist — to go with the collection of Jewish Buddhist haiku that gets sent around by email endlessly (and believe me I’ve seen it many times, so please stop sending it to me!):
Mu. Nu?
