Thich Nhat Hanh: An Encounter
With implications for our evolutionary crisis
[Revised from what was originally the preface to Thich Nhat Hanh: The Joy of Full Consciousness, by Jean-Pierre and Rachel Cartier, translated by Joseph Rowe, published by North Atlantic Books, 2002. This public conversation, which took place in French, at a small retreat with Thich Nhat Hanh, was translated into English by the author.]
It was hard to believe that we were still in the middle of Paris, a 10-minute walk from the nearest metro station. Only the faintest sounds of traffic could occasionally be heard. Birds sang sharply in the courtyard, and lush spring foliage could be seen through the windows, moving in the breeze. We had become extraordinarily silent, even for a group of meditators. The tiniest movements of stirring and throat-clearing had vanished, as if in a spell.
Less than thirty of us remained for this final part of the weekend meditation retreat, late Sunday afternoon. As an American, I felt considerable surprise, as well as gratitude at this good fortune of being with Thich Nhat Hanh in such a small group. If this retreat were taking place anywhere in my native country, there would be hundreds of people, at least.
The spring sunlight suddenly broke through the clouds and poured into the hall, casting mobile shadows from the trees upon the walls — it seemed like a dramatic event, in all that calm and serenity. This sitting had been a very long one. I found myself far calmer than in previous sessions that weekend, even wishing it might last longer.
Thich Nhat Hanh (or “Thay,” as he is called by his students) reached slowly to his side with exquisite leisure, picked up a small mallet, and struck a single, perfect blow upon the little hand bell he uses to signal the end of a sitting. The sonorous reverberations of this ring seemed to go on forever.
Some moments later, people began to stir. Since this was the end of the retreat, a question and answer session had been scheduled. At first no one seemed to have any questions. His profound stillness and gentle, all-pervading presence in front of us seemed almost like an answer to all questions that might arise.
Then a woman raised her hand rather abruptly, and launched into a monologue — more commentary than question. About forty, she had that sharply-etched look of some French intellectuals. Her tone of voice had a plaintive quality about it, with more than a hint of anger. It was clear that she needed to get something off her chest.
“Monsieur, you spoke earlier of unconditional love for all beings, love for the totality of all existence. But try as I might, I simply cannot accept this. It seems like a nice sentiment, until you start to think about some of the terrible things in this world…. I had a close friend who recently died of AIDS. I cannot love the virus that killed him. As a matter of fact, I hate it. I hope it is eradicated from existence, and I wish it had never existed. How could I possibly love a thing like that?”
Thay was silent. In this silence, we all felt the weight of her question — actually a very ancient one, in one form or another. And it was as if we basked in his unhurriedness to find an answer. After a long time, he spoke softly:
“You know, we human beings are like a virus. A deadly virus, which is destroying this planet. And we — don’t we need love?”
It was a long time before anyone else asked a question. Finally a handsome, innocent-looking young man with shining eyes, dressed all in white, with long blond hair and beard, wanted to know about the prophecy of the coming of Maitreya Buddha — for certain believers, a sort of Buddhist version of the Messiah — furthermore, this young man also wondered if this might not refer to the same event as the return of the Christ, and perhaps all other messianic prophecies as well, rolled into one?
Once more, Thay was quiet for a long while. He searched our faces, all around the room, as if (I could not resist the thought) looking for signs of the Maitreya. Finally, he spoke.
“It is said that a very great Buddha will manifest in the future. But what does this mean? Do we really know what a Buddha is? Is the Buddha a man? A woman? A God? A historical figure? A mythical figure? And the Christ … do we really know what the Christ is?
“You see, we have already had so many extraordinary human beings, very great teachers who have come to help us. And just look at the mess we are in!
“Surely what we need most is enlightened community. We have had many enlightened individuals. But have we ever seen an entire community which is enlightened? It may even seem impossible.
“But who says this cannot be? How do you know? Why not a family, a tribe, a village of awakened beings? And then a city, a region, even a whole country? And why not an awakened world? This is the only useful meaning I can find in such prophesies.”
For a long time, we were silent. At first I felt no need to ask a question. But then I realized that this was a good time to ask him about something which had been troubling me ever since I became involved with spiritual groups:
“I have frequented several Buddhist sanghas, as well as groups from other spiritual traditions. Much is said and written about surrender of ego, or transcendence of ego, and there are many practices relating to this. But nothing is ever said about collective ego, and the need to transcend that. What I often see is people surrendering their personal ego to a kind of group-ego, a sangha-ego. To me this seems even worse, because it can easily lead to conformist ideology, and even to violence, and tyranny. How can collective ego be overcome?”
While I was speaking Thay was looking deeply and directly at me, but as I finished he lowered his eyes. When he began to talk quietly, after at least a minute of silence, his gaze remained downward, still not looking at me.
“Sangha means community in the Buddhist sense. However, the sangha, or any other kind of community, cannot be an escape from having to deal with ego, in all its forms. It is a big mistake to think of the sangha as an escape from any problem of being human. The practices are intended to help us see through all the illusions of ego.
“However — “ and here he raised his eyes and looked directly at me, “perhaps we need new practices.”
I was deeply moved, because it was as if he were reading my mind. It so happens that one of my main interests is in collaborations which share the aim of devising new spiritual practices, with new types of group exercises, appropriate to our time and context. I find that some spiritual groups have practices that are strong in some areas and weak in others. For example, I have been in many Sufi groups, whose musical practices are very powerful, but their meditation practices are weak. In contrast to this, I’ve been in many Buddhist groups whose meditations practices are sublime — yet none of them have any musical practices that can compare to the power of a Sufi zikr. Why not look for a way to combine zikr with Zen, Vipassana, and other Buddhist practices?
Yet virtually everyone in Buddhist, Sufi , or any other traditional spiritual circles I have tried to discuss this with, consider this suggestion naive at best, and perhaps presumptuous.
To me, the last part of Thay’s answer to my question felt like a confirmation of the above insight, and a personal encouragement as well. At the end, we bowed to each other in the classic Namaste gesture — in my case, with boundless gratitude.