Happiness, suffering, and mustard seeds

There is probably no nation that makes as big a deal of happiness as the US.  The right to pursue it is described in the Declaration of Independence, and the search for it is at the core of many "American" tendencies--vacations, self-improvement, entrepreneurship, get-rich-quick schemes, the new focus on happiness research, and religion.  In fact, as a member of an American-born religion, I have been taught that happiness is a result of living right and following the church since I was a boy.

The sad fact is that that promise, like those of many of the other American versions of happiness, is hardly guaranteed. At least in my life happiness is fleeting, its pursuit is quixotic, and I would be willing to settle for a bit of wisdom, calm, and a sense that all in all things are OK over the promise of some sort of happiness.

My purpose in writing this is not to disclose what I ought not, but instead to mention that the two great religions traditions that engage me--Christianity and Buddhism--treat this subject very differently.  One way to see it is through the place that the mustard seed plays in the stories of these faiths. Here are the Christian teachings:

He set another parable before them, saying, "The Kingdom of Heaven is like a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field; which indeed is smaller than all seeds. But when it is grown, it is greater than the herbs, and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in its branches."


And,


 ²⁰ He replied, “Because you have so little faith. Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.”


Contrast these teachings, which are about the mustard seed as a symbol of growth, progress, possibility, and power, with this story of the Buddha's interaction with a suffering woman:



And Kisa Gotami had an only son, and he died. In her grief she carried the dead child to all her neighbors, asking them for medicine, and the people said: "She has lost her senses. The boy is dead. At length Kisa Gotami met a man who replied to her request: "I cannot give thee medicine for thy child, but I know a physician who can." The girl said: "Pray tell me, sir; who is it?" And the man replied: "Go to Sakyamuni, the Buddha."


Kisa Gotami repaired to the Buddha and cried: "Lord and Master, give me the medicine that will cure my boy." The Buddha answered: "I want a handful of mustard-seed." And when the girl in her joy promised to procure it, the Buddha added: "The mustard-seed must be taken from a house where no one has lost a child, husband, parent, or friend." Poor Kisa Gotami now went from house to house, and the people pitied her and said: "Here is mustard-seed; take it!" But when she asked Did a son or daughter, a father or mother, die in your family?" They answered her: "Alas the living are few, but the dead are many. Do not remind us of our deepest grief." And there was no house but some beloved one had died in it.


Kisa Gotami became weary and hopeless, and sat down at the wayside, watching the lights of the city, as they flickered up and were extinguished again. At last the darkness of the night reigned everywhere. And she considered the fate of men, that their lives flicker up and are extinguished. And she thought to herself: "How selfish am I in my grief! Death is common to all; yet in this valley of desolation there is a path that leads him to immortality who has surrendered all selfishness."


Putting away the selfishness of her affection for her child, Kisa Gotami had the dead body buried in the forest. Returning to the Buddha, she took refuge in him and found comfort in the Dharma, which is a balm that will soothe all the pains of our troubled hearts.


The Buddha said: "The life of mortals in this world is troubled and brief and combined with pain. For there is not any means by which those that have been born can avoid dying; after reaching old age there is death; of such a nature are living beings. As ripe fruits are early in danger of falling, so mortals when born are always in danger of death. As all earthen vessels made by the potter end in being broken, so is the life of mortals. Both young and adult, both those who are fools and those who are wise, all fall into the power of death; all are subject to death.


"Of those who, overcome by death, depart from life, a father cannot save his son, nor kinsmen their relations. Mark I while relatives are looking on and lamenting deeply, one by one mortals are carried off, like an ox that is led to the slaughter. So the world is afflicted with death and decay, therefore the wise do not grieve, knowing the terms of the world. In whatever manner people think a thing will come to pass, it is often different when it happens, and great is the disappointment; see, such are the terms of the world.


"Not from weeping nor from grieving will any one obtain peace of mind; on the contrary, his pain will be the greater and his body will suffer. He will make himself sick and pale, yet the dead are not saved by his lamentation. People pass away, and their fate after death will be according to their deeds. If a man live a hundred years, or even more, he will at last be separated from the company of his relatives, and leave the life of this world. He who seeks peace should draw out the arrow of lamentation, and complaint, and grief. He who has drawn out the arrow and has become composed will obtain peace of mind; he who has overcome all sorrow will become free from sorrow, and be blessed."

As I have loved you

I left church early today, frustrated by Sunday School's unwillingness to engage with the meaning of Jesus' teachings, and frustrated by my own frustration with church, the members of our congregation, and the "answers' and "certainty" that close off any meaning-making or action beyond doing what you are told and upholding the organization of the church. It is a church that I am experiencing right now as one animated by fear and the assertion of authority.

I came home and stood in my kitchen and prayed and started thinking about what to do.  I love religion, I feel spiritual things deeply and care greatly about helping to create some more just world shaped by a view of people as more than their material acquisitions. And I need spiritual strength; I miss it when it is absent.

 My daughter and wife are performing a hymn in the women's auxiliary meeting this afternoon--Love One Another--the lyrics to which repeat Jesus' teachings in John 13:34-35.

"As I have loved you love one another.  This new commandment, love one another.  By this shall men know, ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another."

So how did Jesus love?

He loved opportunistically, showing love to strangers and to friends at unexpected times.

He loved without regard for dogma or social standing--loving people who he ought not to have by the rules of the day.

He loved by employing the gifts he carried.  He healed because he could heal.  He modified nature to the ends of love because he was able to do that.

He taught love, but by aphorism, story, and action, not formal definition.  His actions sometimes contradicted each other.

He assumed that all people could love as well.

He directed particular love to those in need, but also taught again and again how those in need were perfectly placed to love others.

His love went in three directions--to the Father, to his neighbor, and to himself.  But it did so simultaneously, so that questions about loving God first, or the self first, are moot.  You just love.

I have no idea what my relationship to church will look like in the years to come.  But for a time in the kitchen I felt like I could at least take Jesus' injunction--to love as he loves (as best I can understand it)--as the center of my religious practice, and let the rest settle as it will.