By Gene C. Sager
I WAS A COCKY CATHOLIC KID WHEN I ARRIVED in Japan. Having completed my degree in religious studies and philosophy at an American university, I thought I could grasp anything the Japanese might throw at me. I could see the infinite Buddha-nature and hear the sound of one hand clapping.
After four years of book learning and hands-on practice in Japan, I knew less than when I arrived. My Zen master hammered some of my arrogance away. Tea ceremony lessons were the most difficult for me; my tea whisking was a disaster. Through it all I have arrived at a juncture where I believe I can give a fair accounting of two paradigmatical ceremonies: the Zen tea ceremony, which was relatively new to me, and the Catholic Eucharist, a part of my Western background.
At first I was struck by the differences between the two rituals, but then recognized remarkable similarities. Both ceremonies effect union with the ultimate. Through comparisons of the Zen tea and Catholic Eucharist ceremonies, I rediscovered the truth of the old adage, “He who knows only London, knows not London.” My Zen training shed light on my Catholic practice and vice versa.
Legend has it that the Zen Patriarch Bodhidharma brought the teachings of Zen Buddhism from India to China. A Japanese version of the origin of the tea bush says that Bodhidharma once fell asleep while meditating and was so furious when he awoke that he cut off his eyelids. Falling to the ground, the eyelids sprang forth as the first tea plants. Tea has thereafter played a special role in Zen tradition.
Two Early Japanese tea masters were Myo-an Eisai (1141–1215), who brought seedlings from China and introduced green tea into Japan; and Sen-no-Rikyu (1522–1591), founder of the ceremony called cha-no-yu (literally tea of hot water). The ceremonial tea is not made from leaves steeped in water; it is hot water and finely powdered green tea frothed with a bamboo whisk. The master or host serves the tea and small cakes in bowls and plates carefully chosen for their beauty. The number of recipients or guests is usually small—five or less. Few words, if any, are spoken.
So artful are the utensils and the host’s movements that cha-no-yu has become a popular art form and is sometimes performed without attention to Zen teachings. There are two types of tea ceremonies—one performed as a conscious part of Zen practice, and the other a purely aesthetic or cultural event. A “cultured lady” in Japan is trained in cha-no-yu and ikebana (flower arranging).
The Catholic Eucharist originated with the Last Supper when Jesus broke bread and shared a cup of wine with his disciples.
He took the bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “Take and eat; this is my body.” Then He took the cup, gave thanks and offered it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins” (Matthew 26:26–28).
His followers continued to meet for communal meals after Jesus left this world; they experienced His presence in the bread and wine. Many of the earliest Christians were Jewish and so partaking of the bread and wine on the Sabbath was a natural practice for them. For these Jewish Christians the ritual now took on the most power-ful meaning: it united them with the divine Messiah.
Originally, these communal meals were rather informal gatherings in the home of one of the followers of Jesus—no priesthood and no formal structure existed. As the movement developed, a priesthood was instituted and only priests were allowed to consecrate and distribute the bread and wine. Church buildings were needed to accommodate the followers. The full communal meal was phased out and the taking of bread and wine (Eucharist) became the central ritual in a service which includes prayers, songs, scripture reading, and a homily. The priest offers a prayer of thanksgiving just as Jesus did before sharing the bread and wine; the term Eucharist is derived from the Greek word for thanksgiving. The gratitude we experience at the Eucharist comprehends the full significance of Jesus’ life—the Incarnation, the teachings and miracles, His sacrificial death for the forgiveness of sins, and His Resurrection.
The liturgy of the Eucharist abounds in words with virtually no periods of silence. The Zen tea ceremony cherishes silence. A haiku portrays the atmosphere of cha-no-yu:
No one spoke
Neither the host
Nor the guest
Nor the white chrysanthemum
From the slow, graceful movements of the host, to the simple beauty of the bowls, to the single flower in the tokonoma (alcove), all is tranquility and silence. One can settle into the now, letting go of the past and future. This silence allows the individual to quiet the mind and hear, as we say in the West, “the still small voice within.” Such an atmosphere can foster a deep awareness of self and the sacred (be it called Buddha-nature or God).
Once I had tasted the spiritual benefits of cha-no-yu, I realized that my religious experience had been too limited. The Eucharist provides one type of experience, but it is not contemplative; it does not penetrate to the depths. Contemplatives in all religions have benefited from contemplation, and Catholicism has a rich tradition of “contemplative prayer”—quieting of the mind, freeing the mind from all thoughts and words. It is simply being present to God. I had failed to partake in the full range of spiritual practices my Catholic faith can provide. Exposure to other religions has helped me discover the richness and variety of Catholic tradition.
The Zen tea has exquisite ways of allowing individuals to rediscover their spiritual center, but it does not foster a communal spirit. The Eucharist instills a sense of community among the participants. “We become one with Christ and with one another in communion” (Faith Alive, Twenty-Third Publications, 2000). We sing, pray aloud together, and share a sign of peace expressed by a handshake or hug. In contrast, the experience of cha-no-yu feels more like individuals in contemplation. The Zen tea is contemplative; the Eucharist is communal.
I have always loved the mass (the service built around the Eucharist) for its beauty and power. I continued to go to mass after my stay in Japan, but one experience raised some important questions for me. A friend of mine expressed an interest in the mass and asked if he could join me for Sunday mass. Just before the service started my friend asked, “Can I go up to receive communion? I’m Protestant, is that okay?” I replied, “Sure, of course,” but with confusion on my face. I fumbled through the song books in the pew in front of us and found the ever-present Catholic missal. On the first page we found “Guidelines for the Reception of Communion” which say Protestants are not admitted to Holy Communion (United States Catholic Conference, 1996). My friend could not receive the bread and wine. I tried to hide my pain and wondered if this was an exclusive club. Would Jesus deny my friend?
The Eucharist has a sense of exclusiveness about it: only a priest can perform it, and Protestants and all non-Christians are excluded. By contrast, cha-no-yu involves no such exclusions; anyone can perform it and anyone can participate. Is there not some irony at the heart of the Eucharistic rite? It provides a way of uniting people yet some are excluded. So I feel we must ponder the communal spirit of the Eucharist. I hope this spirit is not in any way achieved by excluding others. A unity protected by a wall would not be as rich as an open one.
The Zen tea and Catholic Eucharist ceremonies are based on markedly different theologies or philosophies. In Zen, the ultimate sacred being is not God, but Reality as a whole called Buddha-nature, Big Self, or true self. Each thing or being, even a microbe or a mote of dust, is inseparably interwoven with everything else, and each thing or being bears the essential nature of the whole. In Catholic theology, the ultimate sacred being is the triune God, and God is clearly distinguish-ed from creation. Philosophers call Zen nondualistic (the ultimate and the universe are one) while Catholicism is considered dualistic (the ultimate and creation are distinct).
Asian philosophers offer contrasting concepts to help us see two different ways of relating to the ultimate: jiriki, which means self-power, and tariki, which means other-power. Zen is a self-power path and Christianity is an other-power path. In Zen tea we realize the power of our true self and in the Eucharist we receive a power other than ourselves—the saving power of Christ.
In some ways Zen tea and Catholic Eucharist seem worlds apart, but there are important similarities. Both are powerful rituals because they involve partaking of specialized elements. The ceremonial tea is not the green tea that the Japanese drink on a daily basis. It is powdered light green tea which is prepared with a whisk. The Eucharistic bread is unleavened, recalling that the Last Supper occurred at Passover when Jews ate only unleavened bread. The priest pours a small amount of water into the wine, recalling the scripture which says a soldier pierced Jesus’ side with a spear “bringing forth a sudden flow of blood and water” (John 19:34). So when we partake of Zen tea or the special bread and wine at the Eucharist, we know we are participating in an extraordinary event.
The two rituals are essentially the same in this way: both are experiences of union with the ultimate sacred being, and partaking of the elements renews one’s relation to the ultimate. Both the Zen tea experience and the Eucharist experience are pure and direct because the elements are not mere symbols of the ultimate. In Zen it is said, “This very tea, Buddha-nature.” For Catholics, the bread is the very body of Christ, not a mere symbol of the body.
I have come to value both ceremonies because they can help us find the peace so desperately needed today. The Zen saying surely fits my experience: “Drinking a bowl of green tea, I stopped the war.” The “war” here is internal turmoil which agitates and clouds our mind and lessens our effectiveness in this world. The Eucharist brings us the peace that Jesus offered to his disciples and to all: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.”
Both rites give us a measure of inner peace and some respite from a world which seems to have gone mad with hyperactivity, consumerism, and violence. But I am not advocating any sort of escapism here. Neither Zen tea nor the Catholic Eucharist is intended to mitigate our efforts in improving this world and working for external peace. On the contrary, the tea ceremony and the Eucharist prepare us for and inspire us to works of love. The culmination of Zen is:
To enter the market place
With bliss-bestowing hands
(Tenth ox drawing of Kakuan).
The culmination of Catholicism and Christianity in general is:
To love the Lord your God with all your heart,
And with all your soul, and with all your mind, and
To love your neighbor as yourself
(Matthew 22:37–39).
Gene Sager teaches at Palomar College and is coauthor of Patterns of Religion (2005). He has translated articles by Kyoto University’s Keiji Nishitani, in addition to authoring numerous articles on environmental issues and Asian religion published in Commonweal and The Middle Way. He frequents Hindu ashrams, Zen monasteries, and Catholic retreats in search of spiritual solutions to modern problems.