I’d  like  to  discuss  four  words  from  the  Heart Sutra: “not stained, not pure.” Although I 
regularly  insist  that  Zen  Buddhism  is  a  religious  practice,  these  four  words  seem to 
nullify   much   of   what   religious   practices   traditionally   do  for  people,  how  they  
traditionally  function  to  separate  out the holy from the profane, the higher from the lower. 
There  are  so  many  versions  of  this we could spend an entire seminar just exploring all the 
various  dichotomies  and  dualities  of  opposites  that  typically organize our life and which 
are often codified or reinforced by religious practice.

Much  of  the  time  these  seem  to function to split off unwanted aspects of ourselves, and at 
different  times  and  different cultures, that unwanted part takes different guises, but it’s 
often  some  form  of  vulnerability  or  weakness  that’s  associated with emotion, sometimes 
with  sexuality,  sometimes  it  is  framed  as  something  unclean versus clean. Often it comes 
down  to  a  separation  of  what  is  called  feminine, what is masculine. In some cultures, we 
attempt  to  become  rational  rather  than emotional, spiritual rather than material. There are 
so  many  different  versions  of  this.    That’s   one   of  the  reasons  that  I’m generally 
uncomfortable  with  the  use  of  the  word  spiritual  to  describe  our  practice  because it 
almost  always  is  one  half  of  one  of  these dichotomies, and the other half typically goes 
unexamined.

When  people  speak  of  being spiritual, there is too often a kind of implication that they are 
attempting   to   find   some   kind   of   higher  uncontaminated  state.  That  state  may  be  
uncontaminated  by  thought,  emotional  vulnerability,  the frailties of the body. Spirituality 
is  often  contrasted  with  mortality  or  impermanence  of  the  physical  body,  sometimes to 
the point of positing that the spiritual can exist completely free of  the  body, that there’s a 
soul  that  is  separable from the body that will live on after the body  dies.  That’s just one 
of  the  extreme  versions  of  how  we  try  to  split off what we want to hold on to from what 
we think we’re going to have to lose.

For  me  --  and I recognize it’s  a  somewhat idiosyncratic definition -- for me, religious, as 
opposed  to  spiritual does not make that split. Religion is a way of sanctifying life as it is, 
where   sanctified   doesn’t  mean  make  holy  in   comparison  to  something  else,  something  
unholy,  but  through  our attention and acceptance, to cherish this life, this body, this mind, 
this moment, just as it is.

We  are  challenged  in  this  practice,  and  in  every moment, to become aware of all the ways 
in  which  we  habitually  split  our experience, dividing every period of sitting into the good 
moments  and  the  bad  moments,  the  ones  that  we  want  more  of  from  the ones we want to 
have  end  as  quickly as possible. It’s a very human reflex to endlessly  be  dividing our life 
into sheep and goats.

When  the  Heart  Sutra  says,  “not  stained,  not  pure,” it’s  evoking  the  emptiness of all 
dharmas,   all   things,   all   moments,   where   emptiness  means  that  there  is  no  fixed  
characteristic  of  holiness,  of  purity.  Spirituality,  on  the  one  hand,  is  something we 
possess,  whereas  on  the  other  hand  there  is  some  kind of intrinsic badness or damage or 
lack   that   other   things   possess,  and  then  we  can  devise  some  way  of  sorting  and  
controlling  the  moments  of  our  life  so  that  we’ll  maximize one and minimize  the other. 
Our  practice  in  large  part  is  becoming  aware  of  how  automatic  that tendency is in us. 
When  we  speak  of  just  this  moment  or   just  sitting,  it’s an  attempt to give a name to 
undivided experience before those dichotomies set in.

When   Bodhidharma   confronts   the   emperor   of  China,  the  emperor  is  very  preoccupied  
with  being  a  good  Buddhist,  accumulating  merit,  discerning  what  is  holy.  And yet when 
he    asks   Bodhidharma:   What   is   the   most   holy   truth   of   Buddhism?   Bodhidharma   
completely  undercuts  the  question:  That’s emptiness.  There’s  not  anything  holy about it. 
The  emperor,  in  effect,  asks  him:  How  are  we  then  to  proceed? Bodhidharma responds, I 
don’t  know.  Which  is  not  an  expression  of  a  lack  of  knowledge  but  an  expression of 
being free of concepts.

I’d like to discuss four words from the Heart Sutra: “not stained, not pure.” Although I regularly insist that Zen Buddhism is a religious practice, these four words seem to nullify much of what religious practices traditionally do for people, how they traditionally function to separate out the holy from the profane, the higher from the lower. There are so many versions of this we could spend an entire seminar just exploring all the various dichotomies and dualities of opposites that typically organize our life and which are often codified or reinforced by religious practice.

Much of the time these seem to function to split off unwanted aspects of ourselves, and at different times and different cultures, that unwanted part takes different guises, but it’s often some form of vulnerability or weakness that’s associated with emotion, sometimes with sexuality, sometimes it is framed as something unclean versus clean. Often it comes down to a separation of what is called feminine, what is masculine. In some cultures, we attempt to become rational rather than emotional, spiritual rather than material. There are so many different versions of this. That’s one of the reasons that I’m generally uncomfortable with the use of the word spiritual to describe our practice because it almost always is one half of one of these dichotomies, and the other half typically goes unexamined.

When people speak of being spiritual, there is too often a kind of implication that they are attempting to find some kind of higher uncontaminated state. That state may be uncontaminated by thought, emotional vulnerability, the frailties of the body. Spirituality is often contrasted with mortality or impermanence of the physical body, sometimes to the point of positing that the spiritual can exist completely free of the body, that there’s a soul that is separable from the body that will live on after the body dies. That’s just one of the extreme versions of how we try to split off what we want to hold on to from what we think we’re going to have to lose.

For me -- and I recognize it’s a somewhat idiosyncratic definition -- for me, religious, as opposed to spiritual does not make that split. Religion is a way of sanctifying life as it is, where sanctified doesn’t mean make holy in comparison to something else, something unholy, but through our attention and acceptance, to cherish this life, this body, this mind, this moment, just as it is.

We are challenged in this practice, and in every moment, to become aware of all the ways in which we habitually split our experience, dividing every period of sitting into the good moments and the bad moments, the ones that we want more of from the ones we want to have end as quickly as possible. It’s a very human reflex to endlessly be dividing our life into sheep and goats.

When the Heart Sutra says, “not stained, not pure,” it’s evoking the emptiness of all dharmas, all things, all moments, where emptiness means that there is no fixed characteristic of holiness, of purity. Spirituality, on the one hand, is something we possess, whereas on the other hand there is some kind of intrinsic badness or damage or lack that other things possess, and then we can devise some way of sorting and controlling the moments of our life so that we’ll maximize one and minimize the other. Our practice in large part is becoming aware of how automatic that tendency is in us. When we speak of just this moment or just sitting, it’s an attempt to give a name to undivided experience before those dichotomies set in.

When Bodhidharma confronts the emperor of China, the emperor is very preoccupied with being a good Buddhist, accumulating merit, discerning what is holy. And yet when he asks Bodhidharma: What is the most holy truth of Buddhism? Bodhidharma completely undercuts the question: That’s emptiness. There’s not anything holy about it. The emperor, in effect, asks him: How are we then to proceed? Bodhidharma responds, I don’t know. Which is not an expression of a lack of knowledge but an expression of being free of concepts.