Why I've been practising for almost forty years.

 

By Bill Aiken 

 

I was born and raised Roman Catholic, which meant attending Catholic schools,
first in the local parish schools and later at a private academy in suburban Philadelphia.  As a child I was serious about my religion. I served as an altar boy and had serious thoughts about becoming a priest.

That was until the mid-1960s, when my hormones took over, my voice changed, and I converted to hedonism. I hadn't so much turned against my Catholic upbringing as I was temporarily distracted from it.

It was when I went away to college that the religious questions began to resurface. Friends and classmates wanted to know what I believed in, and I really didn't know. The old form of Catholicism, with its stern, patriarchal vision of God, didn't seem to fit anymore. But the mystery remained as a palpable presence, and it seemed to require an answer. Was I an atheist? That seemed so negative. How about an agnostic? Possibly. They seemed to believe in something, even if they didn't know what it was. That seemed about right for the moment.

My first encounter with Buddhism came during that freshman year at Penn State University in the fall of 1968. While attending a rather psychedelic party, a friend asked me if I knew anything about Buddhism. Replying that I didn't, I asked what Buddhism had to say for itself. My friend said that it spoke of the oneness and interrelatedness of everything. All I can say is that at that particular moment this made sense to me and started me on what would at first be a pretty casual exploration of Buddhism.

But it would be in the bedridden summer of 1970, while recovering from a lifestyle-inflicted illness, that I started to reflect on my life in earnest and began to read as though Buddhism had something to say directly to me. More books by Alan Watts led to DT Suzuki, which in turn led to collections of sutras and finally to Phillip Kapleau and the Three Pillars of Zen. This would be my guide for the next year as I struggled to bring focus to my mind and my life.

Being the poor and struggling student that I was, I could not afford the cost of a retreat or sesshin training. So I struggled as well as I could with a combination of self-instruction and whatever I could learn from those who did attend these sessions. I should say at this point that while I may have had a highly developed religious sense, I never wanted to become a religious virtuoso or a renunciate. From the depths of my adolescent angst and confusion, I longed for an awakening, but I had conditions. And chief among them was that I would not be pried apart from my life as I knew it. The quietude of the monastery and hours of prayer or meditation held absolutely no appeal for me. If I were going to attain enlightenment it would have to be in Times Square (before Disney took it over). And so, through my daily stumbling efforts at zazen, I began struggling to bring about this awakening.

So this is where I was spiritually when on a late summer day in 1971, a pleasant though somewhat scattered young woman approached me on the streets of downtown Philadelphia, invited me to a Buddhist meeting, and introduced me to the chanting of Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.

The first meeting I attended was a rather large one on the campus of Columbia University in New York. Everyone seemed pleasant enough, but the meeting seemed more like a pep rally than a serious discussion about the profound teachings of the Buddha. When the main speaker finally took the stage,
I found it nearly impossible to understand his broken English. So I'm afraid that I don't remember a single word he said. But I sensed something very genuine about this man, and in fact about most of the Soka Gakkai International (SGI) members I encountered.

That interested me enough to at least try the practice. And it would be the practice itself that would grab me and hold my devotion for the next thirty years.

As I began practicing the mantra and reciting the sutra, I began to experience not so much a calming as a revitalizing of my spirit. I felt my life 'wake up' in ways that were at once both exciting and in some ways unnerving.

The philosophy of Nichiren Buddhism is most vividly portrayed in the mandala
known as the Gohonzon, or venerable object of devotion. Boldly down the center is written (in kanji characters), the Daimoku, or great invocation, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, which represents the original or eternal Buddha. Surrounding these characters are representatives of the ten states of life, with Shakyamuni and Taho Buddhas symbolizing the function of Buddha, while other figures from the sutras depict the respective states of bodhisattva, realization, learning, humanity, rapture, anger, animality, hunger, and hell. The brush strokes of the characters Nam-myoho-renge-kyo extend purposefully from their place in the center of the mandala to touch each of these states, illuminating the enlightened aspect of each of them.

Thus, the Gohonzon depicts the human being, just as he or she is, revealing his
or her original enlightened condition. And this enlightenment is not something separate from the drives and passions of the lower states of life, but rather works in a symbiotic dynamic with them. The desires and delusions of the lower worlds fan the fires of suffering, which gives rise to the desire for emancipation (and hopefully Buddhist practice). Buddhist faith and practice, in the form of reciting the Daimoku or the Lotus Sutra, in turn awakens the Buddha wisdom, which then illuminates our suffering, transforming it (and us) to become more imbued with wisdom and com passion.

Nichiren stated this best when he said, 'Through burning the firewood of. . . desires, one can manifest the wisdom fire of enlightenment.' Ultimately, all desires, sufferings, delusions, and so forth become what Tendai referred to as 'secret and mystic skillful means' in that they provoke us to further reveal our Buddha wisdom in the constant quest of transformation of not only our
consciousness, but the reality of our world as well.

As I went through the subsequent stages of my life - marriage, raising children, divorce, and various other joys and sorrows - I came to realize that my attachments and ignorance, rather than being fatal impediments, were actually integral to the process of my awakening. They form the setting for my bodhisattva practice. They have more or less defined my journey, which is a day-to-day, moment-to-moment effort to illuminate that which is my life. And it is this process of emancipation through engagement that has resonated so deeply with me until this day.

In the early days of my practice, my teachers were not well educated and held no respected lineages. Rather, they were Japanese housewives, with very broken English, who would teach me through example some of the most important lessons that I've learned to this day; namely, (1) don't be arrogant; (2) be thoughtful and considerate; (3) listen well; (4) don't be swayed by life's ups and downs; and (5) be wholehearted in whatever I do.

Reflecting on the value of dialogue with those from other faith traditions, I
would have to say that I do not feel newly informed by Christianity or other religions per se. But I do feel deeply informed by many Christians, as I learn from them how they approach and seek to manifest their faith. From some I have learned of the integrity of faith and the commitment to 'walk the walk.' Others have demonstrated for me the beautiful harmonizing of learning and faith. And still others have deeply moved and inspired me with their commitment to social justice as they struggle to bring both a prophetic and compassionate voice to the world's concerns.

As I see it, it is the dialogue - the engagement with and opening up to and seeing of the 'other' - that has greatly enriched my practice in recent years.

From 'Seeking Emancipation through Engagement: One Nichiren Buddhist's Approach to Practice', Buddhist-Christian Studies, Vol. 23 (2003), pp. 35-37