By Jimi Calhoun.
This entry is the tenth post in a series of bridge-building, theological-cultural reflections by Jimi Calhoun, Pastor of “Bridging Austin,” in Austin, Texas.
My New Wine colleague Paul Louis Metzger wrote Evangelical Zen: A Christian’s Spiritual Travels with a Buddhist Friend because of his relationship with a Zen Buddhist priest named Kyogen Carlson. Well, life sure has a beautiful way of surprising us at times, doesn’t it? When I was a touring bassist, I shared a home in Sherman Oaks, California, with a talented drummer named Eddie Tuduri. At the time, neither of us could have predicted that our neighbor’s white Bull Terrier, which is a muscular dog with an unmistakable egg-shaped head, would open a spiritual door.
Truth is, Sikes was impossible to ignore. He was just this stunning, energetic dog sporting a chiseled physique who always made his presence known. Many times, his powerful stride made it seem like he was walking his owner rather than the other way around. Our admiration for him sparked a friendship with his owners, and they invited us to their Buddhist gatherings.
It’s been said that one can judge a religion by the way its practitioners actually live. If that is true, I must say that Sikes’ “parents” were some of the most down-to-earth and welcoming people I have ever met. Soon, there Eddie and I were, chanting Nam Myoho Renge Kyo in a room full of strangers. My curiosity about spiritual matters has always been very active, even during those rock-and-roll hippie days, so it felt natural to keep going. Let me share a little of what I learned.
Buddhism, like Christianity, is often viewed as a monolith. Not true. The truth is, both are actually quite internally diverse in both philosophy and practice. There are three major categories of Buddhism: Theravāda, Mahāyāna (which encompasses Zen and related schools), and Vajrayāna, and their emphases do not always align. The differences? As with Christianity, they have distinct views on individual versus collective enlightenment, and on balancing compassion with piety.
The version of Buddhism Eddie and I looked into is Nichiren Buddhism, which centers on chanting to transform one’s immediate circumstances, among other reasons. The differences between this path and some of the others aren’t merely stylistic; they can elicit fundamental disagreements about the nature of the spiritual path, similar to the arguments we are having in many evangelical circles today about the role of the church in the broader culture.
To me, these disagreements just show that Christianity is remarkably diverse. Some branches of our faith emphasize covenantal faithfulness, others sacramental grace or mystical participation in God. Reformed traditions emphasize election and faith, while Pentecostals and Methodists emphasize holiness and spirit-driven living. Lastly, my tradition, evangelical, focuses on assurance of salvation, but can at times treat ethics, mysticism, and spiritual formation as nonessential.
When comparing Buddhist ethics with the basis for evangelical Christianity’s version, surface-level differences are obvious. Buddhism diagnoses the human condition as suffering rooted in craving and attachment, offering the Eightfold Path toward liberation. Evangelical Christianity identifies sin and separation from God as the core problem, pointing to salvation through faith in Christ as the remedy. Yet both traditions do hold some things in common. One commonality is an emphasis on discipleship, transformation, and reorientation of one’s entire life. Moreover, both call for humility before any meaningful and lasting change is possible.
That leads us to an overlooked tension in how many evangelicals live out their faith. That is the relationship between what Jesus said was the greatest Commandment and the doctrine known as the Great Commission. Jesus declared that loving God with everything one has, and loving one’s neighbor as oneself, represents the supreme command upon which “all the Law and the Prophets do hang.”[1] Maybe that should be the instructional key to everything we do because it is a direct imperative about how to be and live.
In my circles, The Great Commission, i.e., going and making disciples of all nations, often receives primary emphasis. Evangelism, church growth, and missions become the metrics of faithfulness, while love, particularly the costly and inconvenient type, can be treated as secondary.
However, Jesus himself emphasized love as the identifying mark of discipleship, saying, “everyone will know you are my disciples, if you love one another.”[2] When Jesus uttered those words, the criterion was entirely practical: sharing food with the hungry, welcoming strangers, clothing the naked, visiting prisoners, etc.
Interestingly, and generally speaking, Buddhism’s focus on compassion and reducing the suffering of others through ethical action might, in some ways, align more closely with the practical implications of the greatest Commandment than some of modern Christianity’s emphasis on doctrinal correctness or numerical success. That is because both the Buddha’s teaching and Jesus’s take on the greatest Commandment call for a fundamental reorientation away from self-centeredness toward compassion and love, which I suggest could be a bridge between the two.
The question I would ask you is, what would evangelical Christianity look like if the greatest Commandment became the lens through which all else—including The Great Commission—was understood and pursued? Perhaps we would look more like Jesus himself, who didn’t separate loving God from loving neighbor, and who measured faithfulness not by tracking conversions but by sacrificial love.
[1] Matthew 22:40. YLT.
[2] John 13:35. NIV
You may contact Jimi Calhoun at Jimi@Bridgingaustin.org.