Roshi used his talk this week to reflect on how we might enter the Year of the Fire Horse. He encouraged us to ground ourselves in compassion and, just as importantly, in curiosity—a spirit of exploration that allows the Dharma to remain alive. It was this curiosity, Roshi explained, that led him to begin the new year by studying the Lotus Sutra together with the sangha.  (Link to text HERE)

He openly acknowledged that the Lotus Sutra is not his favorite text. Unlike many Zen teachings, it lacks immediacy and directness, favoring instead a rich, ornate style. Yet, in the spirit of curiosity, Roshi wondered whether careful attention might reveal a hidden treasure within its elaborate language.

Last week we explored the highly expressive preamble of the sutra. As a playful experiment, Roshi even entered the text into ChatGPT and generated an image from it. Again and again, we were left asking: Where is the Buddha? Where is the teaching? The opening chapter feels almost like attending a concert where one opening act follows another, but the main performance never quite begins.

This week Roshi moved on to the second chapter. Once again, the language is dense and descriptive, and the Buddha speaks very little. We find ourselves wondering: When is the Buddha actually going to teach? At this point, Roshi recalled an experience from decades ago while traveling in India. He attended a classical music concert where the musician played a few notes, paused, played a few more, and paused again. The impulse arose: Why not just play the music? Over time, Roshi realized that a raga is not primarily about musical performance. It is a practice of mindfulness. The music is merely the vehicle. Perhaps, he suggested, this is also the point of the Lotus Sutra.

Roshi paused here to ask an important question: Is this kind of indirect teaching relevant to Zen practice? Zen is known for its directness—its simplicity and immediacy. Can the flowery, wordy style of the Lotus Sutra be useful to Zen students? The key word, Roshi emphasized, is useful—or more precisely, skillful. Chapter Two of the Lotus Sutra centers on upāya, or skillful means.

As practitioners, we are familiar with wisdom teachings such as the Heart Sutra. Yet wisdom alone is not enough if it remains abstract or disconnected from lived experience. Roshi offered an image: wisdom teachings on one side, the complexity of life on the other, and us standing in between. How do we bring wisdom into daily life, into the messiness of relationships, suffering, and uncertainty? This bridging is upāya.

Practice, then, is about discovering the skillful means that allow wisdom to take root in our lives. This is the focus of Chapter Two. Roshi noted that the Buddha’s language here is unexpected—even jarring. The Buddha declares:

The wisdom of the buddhas is infinitely profound.
The door is difficult to understand and enter.
Not one of those here can comprehend it.

The tone is striking. The Buddha seems to be telling the assembled bodhisattvas—highly accomplished beings—that they do not truly understand. Why would a teacher speak this way?

Roshi pointed to an old saying: “Only a buddha to a buddha.” A tree is perfectly a tree, yet it cannot explain that perfection to us—we are not trees. A dog expresses its nature fully, but to us it is only barking. Likewise, a buddha cannot explain Buddhahood. But when one buddha encounters another, recognition naturally occurs.

This, Roshi explained, is why Zen teaching so often happens face to face—nose to nose—in the Dokusan room. A koan unfolds between two people, not in isolation. True expression arises in relationship. This is also why solitary study alone is insufficient; realization emerges through connection.

Returning to the sutra, we see that Shariputra is deeply unsettled by the Buddha’s words. He asks for clarification three times, yet the Buddha refuses to explain. Roshi noted that in traditional Japanese monasteries, one had to wait outside for three days before being admitted for training. At this point in the sutra, many accomplished bodhisattvas leave in frustration. The Buddha remarks, “There go the leaves and branches.”

Roshi paused again to emphasize that the Buddha is not being cruel or arrogant. He is employing skillful means. These bodhisattvas were already highly accomplished, yet they remained attached to their own spiritual attainment. Another explanation would only have reinforced those attachments. Silence, in this case, was the most skillful teaching. Its purpose was to dismantle fixed views and conceptual grasping—an essential step toward liberation.

Importantly, Roshi noted, those who left are not “bad.” They simply required a different kind of teaching. This should feel familiar to Zen students. We are repeatedly reminded that the answer is not found in books or sutras alone. A teacher must find the means that brings realization alive in the student. This is why the Dokusan room can feel so unpredictable—and so intimate.

Roshi then reflected on the idea that buddhas arise due to causes and conditions. The purpose of a buddha appearing in the world is to guide all beings toward Buddhahood. This need, he suggested, has not always existed. In the age of dinosaurs, creatures lived fully as dinosaurs. A T-rex did not experience an existential crisis or question its true nature. Only with the emergence of human self-consciousness did the need for buddhas arise. Humans alone question who they are, and in that questioning, suffering arises. Buddhas appear to ease that suffering and point the way back to our true nature.

Roshi wrapped up by reminding us that this responsibility does not belong to buddhas alone. As bodhisattvas, we vow to alleviate suffering wherever it appears. Chapter Two of the Lotus Sutra teaches us that there are countless skillful means to do so. Our task is to discover, again and again, how wisdom can take form in the world—through our own lives, relationships, and compassionate action.