Hello all. My name is Ted Biringer, I am a new memeber here, and I have been checking this blog and forum out and would like to thank everyone for the great work.
I thought some of you might find some interest or amusement in this excerpt from my book. It is fiction, but, unfortunately not "false."
The Book is titled: The Flatbed Sutra of Louie Wing: The Second Ancestor of Zen in the West. This excerpt is of Louie Wing talking to some students about his encounter with a "Zen Center." He says...
I came once to a “Zen Center” located in the foothills of a mountain. I had been walking for many days and was dressed as usual in jeans and a flannel shirt. During that time in my life I wore a beard and seldom cut my hair.
Two bald-headed, very clean looking American monks met me at the gated entrance. They wore undecorated, but very finely made black Asian robes. Neither made any effort to disguise their disapproval of my appearance. After a bit of wrangling, they allowed me to enter.
I was escorted to a room where a pleasant, smiling nun and a wiry pinch-faced monk met with me. Both were shaved headed, and both wore fine, ornamented robes. Pointing to one of the official looking badges pinned to the monk’s robe, I asked what it meant.
“That one is for passing all the koans in the Mumonkan.” He said, “I earned that several years ago, of course.”
“Of course.” I said.
The nun asked me where I had come from and what it was I wanted. I said, “I have walked here from Boise. I stopped to meet the teacher.”
“Boise!” The monk said, “That’s over a hundred miles.” His face expressed obvious disbelief, pinched or not.
“Yes.” I said, “It is about three hundred and twenty miles, give or take. He bowed, gave me a sideways pinched look and left.
The nun explained that this center was for residents only and the policy did not allow “walk-ins.” If I wanted to meet the teacher here, I would have to send in an application. Then she explained that I could go to one of his “public” three-hour workshops. The fee was only two hundred dollars, and sometimes the Roshi permitted a few questions at the end. As I was about to respond, a bald man wearing a gorgeous blue and cream, elaborately ornamented Asian robe swept into the room.
The nun bowed deeply, “M-Master” she said.
He ignored her and turned his attention to me. “Hello,” he said. “Norman tells me you walked all the way from Boise just to see me. Is this true?”
I bowed politely, then said, “Partly true-”
“Skip the ‘Zen talk’” he said, “Partly true, bah! Just speak ordinary.”
“It is true that I walked here,” I said, “but it was not just to see you. I am on my way to Florida and heard about this place yesterday and it seemed appropriate to pay you a visit.”
“Appropriate?” He said, “Are you a Zen practitioner then? A student?”
“Yes,” I said, “I am a-”
Interrupting me, he asked, “What lineage do you follow?”
“I follow no particular lin-” I began, but was interrupted again.
“Bah!” He said, then he produced a small, carved stick from somewhere inside his many-layered robe, and tossed it at me.
I caught it, held it out and said, “You dropped your stick.”
“Bah! You haven’t a glimmer.” He said and abruptly departed.
About two years later, I was again in the same area as that “Zen center.” I went to a local thrift store where I purchased an old set of heavy, gold-colored drapes, some fancy sandals, and a gnarly looking cane. I cut and sewed the drapes into an intricate, gorgeous robe. I shaved my head and beard. Then, I hired a limousine and traveled to the center where the Roshi himself opened the gate.
The driver opened my door, and I got out with a glare in my eye.
The Roshi made three deep bows.
I said, “Can you say a word of Zen?”
His Adams apple bobbed a few times, then he said, “Just this is it.”
“Good!” I said, and bowed. “Now you test me.”
He hesitated a moment then said, “What is the sound of a single hand?”
I immediately removed one of my sandals and slapped him across the face with it, which was of course, a meaningless gesture.
He bowed again saying, “I have dreamed about you, wise Master.”
I said, “I am Sajavoni Roshi, of the Wokfumboise lineage. I have heard about you, Master, and your great Zen center and have come to learn your methods.”
After he finished lavishing me with flattery, I was led to a private cottage and assigned two novice monks as “attendants.” I stayed on for three weeks. Finally, I went to the Roshi’s suite, where two of his young female “attendants” escorted me in. As he made bows, I dropped the carved stick he had given me two years earlier, turned my back on him and walked out.
While I was there, I learned how the students were screened based on financial status and professional skills. I learned how “non-conformists” were quietly shunned until they “chose” to move on. I learned how members were encouraged to provide information on potentially valuable friends and family members that might be recruited.
Saddest of all, I saw how those who were lured in, were instructed to ‘just sit.’ This, they were told, is wisdom. Although this is an extreme example, I saw the same kinds of practices being carried out to a lesser degree all over the United States, Europe, and Australia. The majority of these cults advocate some variation of the formula that “sitting meditation” is the only essential message of Zen...
From The Flatbed Sutra of Louie Wing, by Ted Biringer (Copyright 2008)
