Compassion (Four Immeasurables)
Photo by Denny Ryanto
Compassion, or karuna, is the second of the Four Immeasurables, and it’s described as the wish that all beings experience happiness and well being. Yet this wish is not a passive hope but a deep recognition that our suffering is bound inextricably to the suffering of others. Compassion calls us to love, not from a place of charity, but from the realization of our shared humanity.
Zuisei says: “Buddhism says all beings are interdependent, which means we’re more than equal. We are one and the same. Great beings with many hands and eyes. We are Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva of Compassion, the one who hears the cries of the world. The one who responds to that which needs to be taken care of, that which needs to be healed.”
This talk was given by Zuisei Goddard.
Transcript
This transcript is based on Zuisei's talk notes and may differ slightly from the final talk.
Compassion (Four Immeasurables)
I'd like to tell you the story of a man named Adolf Kaminski. Kaminski was an Argentinian Jew who was raised in Paris, and at the age of eighteen became part of a resistance cell during World War II. He became a forger.
He had apprenticed as a clothes dyer, the precursor of dry cleaning, and he had learned from his boss, who was a chemical engineer, about removing stains and things like that.
In 1943, he and his family were arrested and sent to Drancy, an internment camp in Paris, and it was the last stop before the concentration camps. But the Argentinian government protested their arrest, and eventually they were freed. Yet, during those three months that he was in the camp, he saw many people—thousands of people—who were sent to their deaths, and he never forgot it.
When they went back to Paris, his father arranged to get them, the whole family, false papers so that they could stay in Paris with a different identity. When Kaminski went to pick them up at the age of eighteen, the resistance fighters told him they were having trouble because they couldn't—they weren't able to remove some blue stains, blue ink, from the new documents.
Kaminski suggested that they use lactic acid, which he had learned about. When it worked, they asked him to join the resistance. For the next three years, he forged thousands of passports. The next thirty years, I'm sorry, for people embroiled in conflicts all over the world—then, you know, in Paris, but later Algeria, Vietnam, the U.S.
At one point during World War II, he stayed up for two nights straight, preparing a rush order for Jews who were escaping the Nazis. He said, you know, it's a very simple calculation. In one hour, I could make thirty documents. If I slept for an hour, thirty people would likely die. He didn't do this for money—there wasn't any. He didn't do it for glory, since no one, including later his wife and his children, could know what he was doing. He certainly didn't do it for pleasure. He said, one mistake and you could send someone to their death.
I was asking myself, you know, why? Why was he moved to act in such a way when there are so many of us who witness or hear about deaths like this—Syria, for example, our own country in a different way, obviously, but our country now—and we're able to go on with our lives largely in an ordinary way? Why did he step out of his own comfort, certainly his security, in order to do this? Mostly for people he did not know.
This is what he said recently, because he's still alive. He's ninety-one. He lives in Paris in an apartment for low-income families, and he's very close to his old laboratory where he worked. He said, "I saved lives because I can't deal with unnecessary deaths. I just can't. All humans are equal, whatever their origins, their beliefs, their skin color. There are no superiors, no inferiors. That is not acceptable for me. There are no superiors, no inferiors. That is not acceptable for me, such a world."
The Heart of Practice
I've been speaking about the four immeasurables, the heavenly or divine abodes of loving-kindness and compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity. This morning I wanted to speak about compassion, Karuna.
The first of the four immeasurables, loving-kindness, is the wish that all beings experience happiness and well-being. Karuna is the wish that all beings be freed from suffering and the source of suffering. Karuna is also made up of those actions that lead to such a result.
But there is more to compassion, and that is the understanding that others' pain is my pain. Others' suffering is my suffering. Kaminski says that all beings are equal. Buddhism says that all beings are interdependent, which means we are more than equal. We are, in fact, one and the same.
Abhulokiteshvara, Kanon, who is standing at the back of the zendos, is often depicted with many thousand hands and eyes. It's a little unfortunate because the statues look a little bit like a lobster. But the image, what it's intended is, is a compassionate being that has innumerable hands and eyes to respond to the cries of the world, which is what Abhulokiteshvara means.
Shantideva, an eighth-century Indian monk and scholar, said it in this way: "Strive at first to meditate upon the sameness of yourself and others. In joy and sorrow, all are equal. Thus be a guardian of all as of yourself."
In joy and sorrow, all are equal. This is the basic premise, not just of Buddhism. It's a statement of our founding fathers: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, with certain unalienable rights, among them life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."
We all want to be happy, fundamentally. I don't think there's anyone who would say, "No, I don't want to be happy." We all want to be free, and certainly we want to be alive. Yet, it is an unarguable truth that not all of us are.
When we come into training, we do so because we're in pain—or, at the very least, because things aren't quite right. We'd like to set them right. Usually we're not thinking about others. It could be daunting. Could be daunting to hear these teachings.
One of the first things you hear on your first day of training, basically, are the four Bodhisattva vows. The desires are numberless, and you're vowing to put an end to them. Sentient beings are numberless, and you vow to save them. The dharmas are boundless, and the Buddha way seems unattainable. These vows seem impossible, yet you're vowing to fulfill them in some way.
I think we don't really know what we're saying when we say it, because if we did, maybe we would run in the other direction. I remember, in fact, somebody who became a student some years ago, who said that the first time she heard them, she did leave and didn't come back for a couple of years. She didn't think she could make those vows, save all sentient beings, and I can barely deal with myself. In one way, she was very honest, and she came back eventually. But to really take in that—that is what we're saying—that's why they're boundless. That's why they are immeasurable, as these four immeasurables are.
Thank you. This is Shantideva again: "Suffering has no possessor. Therefore, no distinctions can be made in it. Since pain is pain, it is to be dispelled. What use is there in drawing boundaries?"
What use is there in drawing boundaries when there aren't any? But our world is made of boundaries. How is this possible? How is this a true teaching? A teaching that compassion is based on, essentially?
Because from the perspective of the self—from my perspective—doing something for you might take something from me: my time, which could perhaps be used for something more pleasurable; my energy, my attention, my resources. From the perspective of compassion, which is empty of self-nature, pain is pain, and it needs to be alleviated. It doesn't matter whether it's yours or mine.
In fact, Shantideva is basically saying it's pointless to make a distinction. That's not how things are. I've come to feel that this is, in fact, the heart of the path.
I used to think I would come into practice, and I would work really hard and conquer myself. I thought I would cultivate a mind that was bright and luminous, sharp like a laser, piercing. Now I feel that the best I can do is to actually live my life in such a way that I will be kind, that I will be a loving human being without boundaries, truly—not just in the abstract.
The Challenge of Living Kindness
The Dalai Lama said, I believe, "My religion is kindness." It could seem—how could that be enough? How is that possible? How is that going to help? How is that going to change anything? You know, for a culture that values self-possession… My partner used to call me Mr. Spock, and I thought that was a good thing. I did, in fact, think it was a good thing for a long time, because the realm of feeling was frightening—uncertain, vulnerable, tumultuous at times, often, in fact, human.
For a long time—longer than I care to admit, but I will admit it—I was afraid. I was afraid of that intimacy, the closeness that Buddhism is predicated on: the fact that you and I are, in fact, the same thing. I sort of got that teaching intellectually. I thought, yes, I understand. On occasion, I would see that the self is empty, and I would get these visceral glimpses. I would even have, as the sutras describe, these feelings of great love for everyone.
But then I would finish the meditation retreat, and I would be faced with a human being in front of me. Then it was a different story. I was afraid. Sometimes I still am. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let that stop me, because I feel that acknowledging the full human being is the only way to be a true person, as Zen calls it. It's actually kind of useless to have great, piercing wisdom if you cannot relate to another human being.
In these past two weeks, the Nobel prizes were announced. I was reflecting again on the incredible achievements we have made as human beings: just the discovery of self-eating cells, superconductors, molecular machines. Somebody sent me an article that said there are millions more galaxies in the universe than we previously knew. I often think our knowledge is ever more broad, ever deeper.
Still, we don't really get along with one another. Still, we're killing each other based on gender, skin color, nationality, religion, based on notions of inferior and superior—very much so. The heartbreaking circumstance of this is that, as Kaminski said, it is utterly, utterly unnecessary. That is exactly what Buddhism is saying. This is heartbreaking, and it's not necessary.
But if this is not our nature, if the nature of our mind is bright and open and luminous, if our nature is awakened, then why? Two thousand five hundred years Buddhism has been on the face of this earth, along with many other religious traditions whose professed teachings are love and compassion. Why can we not stop hurting one another?
By killing, I mean all kinds of killing—certainly physical death, but anything in that range: from physical death to erasure, ignoring someone else, or actively erasing someone. For example, that Facebook post a couple of days ago about Dr. Cross, the woman on the Detroit plane, who was not just ignored but actively erased because she didn't fit someone else's description—she wasn't white, and she wasn't a man.
At the same time, the gravest kind of killing is taking a human life. I remember the first time I heard my teacher say that the weight of such an act is not just the greatest of thefts but also the robbing of that person's opportunity to awaken—to realize their Buddha nature. It is a double killing. You're killing the person, and you're killing their opportunity to see that they are a Buddha.
Why—if what we all want is to not suffer, all beings without exception—do we inflict suffering on ourselves and others? Someone recommended a children's book to me called Not a Box. It's about a rabbit who is sitting, seemingly, in a box. An invisible adult asks, "Why are you sitting in a box?" The rabbit says, "It's not a box."
Expanding the Box: Beyond Self and Privilege
The book goes on to show all the things the box can be: a spaceship, a sailboat, a balloon, a fort. We've seen kids do this all the time. The rabbit knows she can turn the box into anything because it is not a box. This is profound dharma. Each of us is sitting in a box labeled “me.” The thing about this box is that it is actually quite flimsy—and we know it, we can feel it.
Which means we have to shore it up. We do, in any way we can. We dress it up, camouflage it, reinforce it with titles, muscles, weapons, houses, possessions. Because it is a box, it has boundaries. My pain is mine, inside my box; your pain is yours, inside your box. It has nothing to do with me—unless, of course, you cross my boundary, which I don't like. If I can, I'll make you pay for it.
Shantideva says we've become habituated to this box. We think it keeps us safe. "Through strong habituation, I came to have in its regard a sense of I, though in itself it is devoid of entity." Why not identify another's body as my own? Why not expand the box? Why not blow it up altogether?
Does this seem impractical? Absurd? Not exactly. It is compelling, if you think about it this way: if seeing “me as me” and “you as you” had worked perfectly, it would have worked already. But it has not worked fully. We have gotten this far, but not happily, and certainly not peacefully. Those of us with relative peace often have it at the expense of others—a privilege.
In my case, the privilege that comes from the color of my skin and the opportunities it has afforded me. In one sense, it is my privilege to sit here, to speak about compassion, to study my mind and actions. In general, I don't have to live with one foot on the terrain of hope and the other on the ground of fear. As Chris Lebron wrote, that line pierced me: "One foot on the terrain of hope, the other on the ground of fear." I, in general, don't experience that.
I may experience it to some degree as a woman, differently than a man, but not to the extent he described. Recently, I've become painfully aware that when I say the practice of compassion is one of the four immeasurables—to wish for myself, for those I love, for all beings, for those I dislike, even those I may have true aversion for—that wish may not extend to everyone as we think. "We the people" is not yet all people. My opportunity may very well be your setback. My blindness often contributes to your suffering directly.
This is not a guilt trip. I actually find guilt to be perhaps the most unnecessary human emotion. Guilt gives the illusion of doing something, or failing to do something, without truly moving forward. It is not a guilt trip, but an acknowledgement: the self-evident truth our ancestors proposed is not yet self-evident—not in our country, not in our world.
We can vow to save all beings, but mean only some. I don't think that is sustainable. Loving-kindness is obstructed by self-exclusivity; compassion is obstructed by indifference, lack of interest, or lack of understanding—an understanding of the way things actually are, and why I should be concerned in the first place.
We enter practice very focused on the suffering right in front of us—that is natural. But at a certain point, that awareness needs to expand. We need to at least enlarge the box. To truly practice compassion, we must recognize the ways in which our thoughts, actions, and habits hinder others’ freedom, their lives.
I don’t want to be racist. I don’t want to be homophobic. I don’t want to be prejudiced against the disabled or the elderly. Yet, very often, out of ignorance, habit, or sheer blindness, I am. That is what delusion is. I have a practice. I have the incredible fortune to have found a path of awakening, a path of enlightenment, a path that shines light into all these dark corners. A path that offers a way out of self-inflicted and other-inflicted suffering.
As long as we live in a world measured by “me,” true compassion cannot be realized or manifested.
Shantideva says compassion is natural because you are my hands, my heart, my kidneys. You are a part of my body, and I am part of yours. The hand doesn’t take from the foot; the kidney doesn’t compete with the heart. They work in harmony. This larger body doesn’t need to harm itself. Yet, sitting safely in my box, I have very little connection to you. I can’t see you. I can’t feel you. I can’t feel my connection to you. That is why we have to get rid of the box. I truly don’t see another way. If there were an easier way, I would take it. I don’t see another way except to fully realize and embody the empty, selfless nature of the self I protect so fiercely.
I read recently about a former abbot of the San Francisco Zen Center, who spoke about a man he called the Turtle Man. He was blind and came regularly to sell chocolate turtles. He would stop at every street corner, call out for help, and wait until someone came to assist him in crossing. Imagine that willingness, that trust, to rely on someone else with your life in that moment. The teacher described him as a miracle. He defied gravity, common sense, and conventionality—almost like a superhero. He was willing to ask for help, receive it, and in doing so, also offer help to others.
Perhaps the Turtle Man perceived the world as hostile, yet that didn’t stop him. He went out each day, stopping at each corner, letting the world come to him. Most likely, for him, the world was different: a world in which help was given and received. That, I believe, is the essence of true compassion.
As long as we live in a world measured by “me,” true compassion cannot be realized or manifested. As long as we believe that the measure of my happiness can exclude yours, we will never be fully happy or at peace. It doesn’t have to be dramatic, like Kaminsky saving thousands of lives. In everyday practice, we meet needs as they appear, small or large. Master Dogen teaches in Gyanjokon, when the need is small, we meet it in a small way; when it is large, we meet it in a large way. Each of us will have our own path, our own strengths, our own inclinations.
At the basis of it, however, is something simple and fundamental: the true seeing of the one before me—for who they are, with all their differences, and with a clear understanding that they are me. We have exhausted conventionality. What seems like common sense—especially in business, politics, and education—has been insufficient. Truth and lies are often indistinguishable; histories are taught from the perspective of the powerful, not as the world truly is. In our relationships, fear drives most of us: fear of what we don’t know, fear of loss. That fear perpetuates harm.
Religions have arisen because common sense has limits. Common sense would have us stay in the box. To manifest the Bodhisattva vows we chant every day, we must dig deeper. Those who desire to be a refuge for themselves and others must make an interchange of self and other, embracing a sacred mystery—the mystery we are in right now. Even those who have just arrived this morning, engaging in Zazen, are not merely quieting their minds or building concentration. You are participating in a silent revolution. It starts very small: the “me” on this mat, a box that must gain voice, traction, and scope. Gradually, this expands to encompass everyone.
Until that is how we experience the world, regardless of origins, beliefs, age, or skin color, we will not see a world of no superior or inferior. If this seems unattainable, that is the point. Buddhism is not content with superficial remedies; it seeks the root of the problem. If this feels risky, uncomfortable, or unsettling, it should. The box is small and cozy. Being out of it is scary, uncertain, and exposing. But as long as we choose certainty over kindness, clarity, and justice, the vast body of beings on this earth will continue to suffer and be in conflict. Yet, it does not have to be so.
Each one of us can decide that the suffering stops here, with me, with this one cell that depends on all the other cells to function fully. Wishing that I, you, and everyone be free of suffering—and not just wishing, but living that wish—allows us to become a refuge for ourselves and others. This is the opportunity we are given every morning we practice, every morning we are alive. This is the gift, whether small or large, depending on the need, that we can offer to the world.
Compassion (Four Immeasurables), a dharma talk by Zen Buddhist teacher Zuisei Goddard. Audio podcast and transcript available.
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