Baptized and Buddhist: The Ongoing Journey

Part Two

While I explained in the first part of this article why I started calling myself a Christian, even though that may not be what you think it means, I will now explain how that looks for me in practical terms. How do I live out this dual identity of being both a baptized Christian and a Buddhist? What does it mean to navigate these two paths simultaneously, and how do they shape my daily life, my spiritual practices, and my understanding of Truth? In this second part, I will explore how I’ve come to hold both Christianity and Buddhism in my heart, and how each tradition continues to challenge and enrich the other.

"Zazen bell with Enso in Background," Spoktu, CC BY-SA 3.0

The Wisdom of Zen: A Path of Awakening

Before I identified as a Christian, I identified as a Buddhist. Specifically, I practiced Zen Buddhism. To this day, Zen remains one of the spiritual practices that resonates most deeply with me. I remember, in the heart of my practice, thinking, I remember, at the height of my practice, thinking, ‘Who could ever leave this path? This is the truth.' Zen is the most stripped-down form of Buddhism. It cuts through the layers of theological doctrine and ritual and focuses instead on the direct experience of Truth itself. In Zen, there is no room for intellectualization or endless analysis; it’s all about the raw encounter with reality, the awakening to the present moment.

Zen is also profoundly paradoxical. It holds contradictions that aren’t contradictions at all, and uses jarring, even abrasive statements to snap practitioners out of their habitual thought patterns. It speaks in a language that shocks the mind into clarity. Zen’s cosmology is pragmatically focused on the present, urging us to experience the world directly, without filters. As a natural atheist, this pragmatic approach was immensely appealing to me. Zen didn’t demand belief in anything supernatural or divine; it simply invited me to experience reality as it is.

My closet-converted-temple, Age 13

As a child, I was struck early on by the understanding of impermanence and death. I looked around me and saw that most people lived as if they would never die, chasing after possessions, indulging in drama that didn’t truly matter, or pursuing power. The world seemed obsessed with fleeting things, as if oblivious to the fact that death would inevitably come for us all. I couldn't comprehend how people could live so unconsciously when faced with the inescapable truth of their own mortality. It seemed to me that nothing mattered in the face of death. And then Buddhism came into my life.

My mother attended a talk on Buddhism at the local library, and upon returning, she shared some of what she had learned. I was enraptured. Buddhism addressed everything I had been struggling with. It understood my fear, my pain, and my existential questions. Buddhism gave me a practical path, a way to awaken from the haze of ego-driven pursuits and come to terms with the impermanence of all things. I decided then that I would one day become a monk, seeking the peace that comes from awakening to the true nature of reality.

At 14, I couldn’t have imagined how that aspiration would unfold, but I knew I had found something that spoke directly to the deepest parts of my being. Buddhism offered a refuge from the anxiety of an impermanent world and promised a way to peace through awakening. But, like most adolescent dreams, my path to monastic life was stunted by the realities of my age, my location, and my life circumstances – all of which were for the best. Nevertheless, these big ideas never left me, even though my daily practices veered far from the ideal of "enlightened" living.

Zen’s Demands and the Struggles of Youth

Zen requires an immense commitment, and I found myself drawn into its demanding practices. At a Zen centre, the requirement is simple: practice Zen. But Zen is not a casual pursuit. The core of Zen practice involves long, silent sittings, usually for an hour or more at a time, and serious practitioners can extend this into full-day retreats and week-long silent sessions known as sesshin. The discipline is unrelenting, and there is a culture of silence and meditation that permeates everything.

As a young man, the intensity of this practice was both inspiring and overwhelming. At 14, I had no way of fully understanding or embodying the kind of devotion Zen demands. But, as I grew older, the desire to practice Zen never left me. I overcame various personal barriers, substance use, discipline issues, and I finally returned to the cushion. I remember the feeling of pride I had when I committed to serious sitting. I began attending a Zen center, investing in a zafu and zabutan, the traditional cushions, and dedicating myself to the practice. I sat for long hours, feeling the echoes of my younger self’s hopes and dreams. I thought, This is it; this is the path.

But then, life took a sudden turn. My days meditating in the mountains of Panama were suddenly over, and I was thrown back into the world of action. Despite my best efforts to maintain a steady practice, I was working full time and back in Canada; my priorities began to shift. I wanted to keep sitting, but I couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that even through all that sitting, I was struggling with anxiety, overstimulation in public, and a sense of isolation. The pressure to sit for hours on end, to engage in long periods of silence, began to feel counterproductive. My body was frail, my mind restless, and I realized I was ignoring the very practical needs of my physical and mental health. Despite the depth of Zen, I was missing something essential, something more grounded, more embodied.

A Shift in Practice: Moving Toward Balance

As I navigated these challenges, I realized that I was neglecting my body. I started going to the gym every single day after work. To my surprise, I found that the more I cared for my body, the more at peace I became. My anxiety started to subside, and I felt stronger and more centred. This routine and flow in my day made me feel held, and I felt secure. I found peace without having to sit in silence for hours. The transformation I had been seeking through Zen came in unexpected ways, through engaging with my body and my everyday life.

This realization led me to a deep respect for Zen, but also an understanding of its limitations for me. Zen demands complete dedication, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that its methods didn’t align with the physical and emotional balance I needed with the practical demands of contemporary life. I stopped sitting Zazen, but I never stopped respecting the Zen tradition. I continue to hold it in high regard for its uncompromising commitment to Truth, even if my path veered in another direction. Writing this article reminded me that I want to continue to show up for my Zen Sangha once in a while, for my love of the community and its practice has never dulled or died.

The Call of Christianity: A New Path

During my deep commitment to Zen, I found myself studying Christian theology in seminary, where this tension between Buddhism and Christianity grew ever more palpable. I held my Buddhist community in deep respect, but I didn’t see the same level of commitment or spiritual depth in my Christian peers. Christianity felt distant from my experience and personal formation. As a closeted non-Christian in seminary, I struggled with my identity, especially in a community that seemed to have little regard for personal transformation or an openness to other faiths. Christianity, to me, seemed overly exclusive, too focused on doctrinal purity, and too far removed from the transformative practices I had found in Buddhism.

After my first semester, I came out as a Buddhist. At that time, despite studying theology, I didn’t consider myself a Christian. But over the years, I began to see Christianity in a new light, particularly when I encountered the Christian contemplative tradition. It was through the writings of Thomas Merton, a monk who was a passionate advocate for Christian-Buddhist dialogue, that I began to see any potential for Christianity to offer what I was seeking. Merton’s insights on Zen and Christian mysticism deeply resonated with me and helped me realize that there was, in fact, a rich tradition within Christianity that mirrored the transformational practices I had come to value so deeply in Zen.

However, despite these glimpses of the contemplative spirit in Christianity, they were rare and difficult to find. I often felt that the mystics I had encountered were few and far between, and that perhaps they had misrepresented the broader Christian tradition to me. The deep, transformative practices I had seen in Zen seemed so much more accessible, while the Christian tradition I was encountering in seminary felt, at times, alien and distant from the mystical core Merton had illuminated. It was as if the contemplative spirit was buried deep within Christianity, difficult to access and often overshadowed by doctrinal rigidity. This is what led to my educational focus on the Eastern Church and the Early Church Fathers and Mothers.

The True Transformation: Love Lost in Christian Doctrine

Through my studies, I discovered that the contemplative practices of Christianity, especially in the Orthodox and Eastern traditions, were not as different from Zen as I had once thought. The Christian mystics spoke in a language very similar to the Buddhist masters I revered. The Desert Fathers, with their emphasis on asceticism and inner transformation, echoed many of the practices I had admired in Buddhist teachings. I wrote my thesis on the parallels between Orthodox mysticism and Zen, and I came to see how both traditions shared a common focus on deep, personal transformation.

Yet, even as I embraced aspects of Christian mysticism, I realized that, as a gay man, my identity could never align with Orthodox Christianity. The ecclesiology of the Orthodox Church, with its stance on LGBTQ+ issues, was something I could never reconcile. Despite my deep love for the history, theology, and aesthetics of the Orthodox tradition, I could never endorse its current practices, and its tendency towards judgment, exclusivism and hate.

And so, I was left to wrestle with the hypocrisy that runs deep within the Christian tradition. Christians, who claim to follow the teachings of Jesus, have often turned their backs on compassion, tolerance, and love, the very principles Jesus embodied. How can a religion that claims to be rooted in love become so entrenched in hatred? The church, in its many forms, has become like the Pharisees of Jesus’ time, self-righteous, judgmental, and more concerned with outward appearances than with true spiritual transformation.

In the Gospels, Jesus speaks harshly to the Pharisees, calling them out for their hypocrisy: “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of the bones of the dead and everything unclean” (Matthew 23:27, NIV). Yet, somehow, Christianity has become a religion of the Pharisees. How is it that the church, which was founded on radical love, has become one of the most exclusive, divisive, and hateful institutions in the world? Too many Christians today teach that Jesus’ love is only for those who conform to their narrow standards of righteousness. This is not the Jesus who walked with the marginalized, who loved the outcasts, who dined with sinners. This is a Jesus that has been co-opted by power, by fear, by control.

As a gay man, I have witnessed this firsthand. The Church, in its many forms, has often cast aside those who do not fit its mould, and nowhere is this more painfully evident than in its treatment of LGBTQ+ individuals. If I were to seek fellowship in the majority of the Christian world, I would be told that my love is unnatural (at best) and would face the choice between my partner and God. This isn’t just about morality; it’s about Christians speaking for God and passing judgment on others, deciding who is worthy of love and grace. They are so quick to throw the first stone, forgetting that Jesus himself said, 'Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.' In these moments, I can’t help but recall Jesus’ words: ‘Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites!’ The very hypocrisy Jesus condemned is alive and well in much of Christianity today. My belonging was never questioned in Buddhism, and never would be. My Buddhist community was committed to transformation, and transformed people know love and hate when they see it.

I can only help but wonder if the Church’s misguidance is due to having lost its contemplative core.

Grace and Effort: A Balance of Transformation

What has been most transformative in my journey is learning to balance grace and effort. Zen taught me that personal transformation requires deep commitment and effort, and I remain committed to silent sitting. But Christianity, particularly in its contemplative tradition, has shown me that there is also a divine grace that must be received. Transformation isn’t solely a matter of personal willpower; it is something that requires surrender to the divine presence, a posture of openness to the Spirit working through me.

I’ve come to see that transformation, whether in Zen or Christianity, is not a solitary effort. In both traditions, there is a need for personal responsibility, but also the acceptance that this journey cannot be walked alone. The work of transformation requires divine assistance, and I am learning to trust in the Spirit to work through me.

The Mystery of God: Embracing the Unknown

I have always had a deep relationship with a presence that I now call God, and through my Christian contemplative practices, I have come to recognize that presence in new ways. My God is not a figure I can define or place in a box. God is deeply mysterious and indwelling, so mysterious that I don’t feel the need to define it in traditional theological terms. Most Christians may not understand the way I experience God, but I know what I feel: an intimacy, a presence that surpasses all words.

This is where my journey as a Baptized Buddhist has led me. I don’t need to have all the answers. I don’t need certainty in my beliefs. I don’t need to claim that my understanding of God is the right understanding. I know that the Truth exists beyond what I can comprehend, and I am content to live in the mystery, trusting that the Spirit will continue to reveal itself as I grow in stillness, prayer, and meditation.

Embracing Transformation and the Path Forward

Even in the face of deep-rooted hypocrisy within Christianity, I have found a powerful source of hope and transformation in the revival of contemplative practices. Through the works of Richard Rohr, Cynthia Bourgeault, and James Finley, leaders who come from the heart of the Christian tradition and are deeply rooted in monastic life, I’ve encountered a shift within the Church. These figures have acknowledged what I have spoken of: the need to revive a transformative, mystical approach to faith. They are monks and nuns who have experienced profound inner change and, through their teachings, seek to reintegrate contemplation into the Christian tradition. They speak of God with the same mystery I’ve come to embrace, and their practices seem to hold space for the entirety of my formation, whether through ringing singing bowls with their prayers or sitting on the floor, embodying a return to the roots of spiritual practice.

I am excited to attend the Center for Action and Contemplation's conference, "ReVision: What Do We Do With Christianity?" in Albuquerque, New Mexico, this October. There, I will have the opportunity to meet these transformative leaders and others who share a similar vision for a more contemplative, love-centred Christianity.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VO8XwUIJCfo

As I continue my journey, I hope that with time, I can move beyond the boundaries of identity, perhaps to simply be, free of labels like Christian-Buddhist, or even any identity at all. My deepest desire is to help, in whatever small way I can, return the largest faith on Earth to its roots of transformation and love. Until I see that shift, and live it out fully for myself, I will never lose the Buddhist part of my identity – my first spiritual love. For I wholeheartedly believe that religion must be a force for inner transformation. Without that, it loses its heart.