I Am Not a Buddhist

I am not a Buddhist.

Some of the more clever among you might have gathered as much from the blog title.

That’s what’s called “Truth in Advertising.” I find Honesty to be an admirable and efficient policy – not the best policy, by any means, but up in that general vicinity. In fact, I try and leave it as my default setting, and not out of some innate fear of karmic retribution, government regulation, or the eternal hellfire of damnation.

No, it’s just this: I used to be inebriated a good deal of the time, and I found I was almost entirely unable to lie convincingly whilst inebriated. So I started telling the truth to a fault, the habit stuck, until eventually – hocus-pocus-abra-cadabra-oh-come-all-ye-faithful – not even three years of law school could get it to come unstuck again.

Trust me when I tell you my truthosity is a sore point amongst the bar. A true failure of epic proportions. There are rumors that the entire legal education system might have to be revamped.

But there it is, and yes, those slacks do make your ass look big.

Oh, and have I mentioned I am not a Buddhist? Twelve years ago, I might have told you something different. Twelve years ago, if asked about it, I might even have told you that I was a Buddhist.

But that was before I met any real life Buddhists.

“By their fruits ye shall know them.” Somewhere I heard that a wise man said that once, a Buddha, Jesus, or maybe an Eddie Izzard.

Suffice it to say that if you build a Better Mouse Trap and find it catches no mice, a reasonably convincing argument could be cobbled together that what you’ve built is not actually a Better Mouse Trap. Similarly, if you build an Enlightener Machine that produces only, say, delusional arrogant pricks with particularly expensive taste in home furnishings, then I’m going to take a grand stab in the dark and dare hypothesize that what you’ve got there ain’t no Enlightener Machine at all.

Stay with me here. I think I can prove this to you.

All we’ve gotta do is follow Any Old American Buddhist around for a few hours. Go ahead, he won’t notice! We’ll follow him to yoga class, then follow him to Whole Foods Market on the way home from yoga class. We’ll listen to him laugh off questions from friends about whether he’s “achieved enlightenment” – because he figures that’s probably how an enlightened person would respond.

Watch the smug bastard sit back and prop up his feet at the end of the evening, put on some Enya, and casually flip through a stack of Mystic Trader mail-order catalogs.

Seriously, you can bet on that last part: Best I can tell, being an American Buddhist is mostly about mail-order catalogs! It’s been twelve years and at least half a dozen geographic moves since I last subscribed to a Buddhist magazine, and yet these mail-order catalogs – chock full of 75 types of health balls and more name brand zazen pillows than you can shake a bodhi tree branch at! – manage to find me where’er I lay my head for more than a fortnight.

If Osama bin Laden had subscribed to Tricycle for a year, I’m pretty sure we’d’a found him before the Twin Towers even stopped smoldering. 

But I don’t take Tricycle no more. Because me? I’m no Buddhist.

Sitting there flipping through his mail-order catalog, Mr. Any Old American Buddhist will tell us his found “–ism” has made him very happy. Has brought him an inner peace. Has brought him something to replace that crucified Jewish desert shaman he used to have hanging over his fireplace.

He will speak slowly-softly-thoughtfully. He figures that’s probably how an enlightened person would speak.

With just a modicum of encouragement, Mr. AOAB’ll even show us photos of him and of his heterosexual life partner standing-smiling-waving in front of an ancient giant Buddha statue. He’ll explain it was taken last year, when the oil company he works for sent him over to some nondescript Pacific Rim country on business.

Now, had it been me there standing-smiling-waving in front of that ancient giant Buddha statue, me visiting temples, and me tossing off the violent and crippling accoutrements of accumulated Western thought, I might have blinked. At a minimum, I might have wondered why the ancient superstitions I was seeing around me bore little or no resemblance to the American New-Agey-watered-down-Gandhi-meets-Deepak Chopra marketing campaign with which it shares an “–ism”.

I might have blinked and I might have wondered, but then, I am not a Buddhist. You might have blinked and you might have wondered, too. But Mr. Any Old American Buddhist doesn’t blink and wonder, not one pinch!

His mind is as made up as ever a mind was made.

Because Buddhism works!

After all, last Thursday, while meditatin’ on a $650 dollar pillow, he achieved light-headedness for approximately two full minutes without the use of intoxicating substances!

There is an old piece of wisdom – sometimes attributed to the Buddha himself – that goes something like this: Let’s say you are approaching a river. You are on this side of the river. You wish to get to that side of the river.

Oh no! You’re going to need a boat! A boat would be a fine thing indeed to have at a time and a place such as this.

But once you’ve jumped into the boat and you’ve rowed over to the other bank, what do you do with the boat? Do you carry it on your head? Do you build shrines to the boat? Do you give 10% of your annual gross income to the boat?

Mr. AOAB does, and he hasn’t even left this fucking shore of the river yet! (Plus, he can say things like “The true dog cannot be seen for he has been here all along, clapping with one paw!” and everyone will stand with bowed heads replying, “Ah, yes. So very wise.”)

So I am not a Buddhist, because a Buddhist is an –ist, and I am not an –ist.

One could almost say I am an Anti-ist-ist. But not a very fervent one. I don’t pay dues and I’m considered kind of a lukewarm Anti-ist-ist at best.

I’m an Anti-ist-ist, but I promise not to try and convert you, because that’s how I figure an –ist would behave, and I am Anti-ist.

You can trust me on this one. After all, I am not an -ist.