The Sound Between Worlds
A monk’s role, I have often felt, is like that of a translator. This work goes far beyond the simple exchange of words between languages like Japanese and English. It is the work of interpreting the Buddha’s ancient voice for our modern times, of building a bridge between the heart of a timeless teaching and the language of our everyday lives. It was with this sense of purpose that I began to write Work Like a Monk.
The book was born from a question, a profound challenge of translation that had long been on my mind: how does one give voice to a Buddhist path that embraces language and narrative, for an audience more familiar with a path that seeks to transcend them?
For many decades, Zen Buddhism has found a welcoming home in the West. Its success is a testament to its profound depth, but also, I believe, to its principle of furyū monji (不立文字)—a non-reliance on words and letters. Zen can be transmitted experientially, through the posture of the body and the quiet of a meditation hall. It speaks a universal language of silence.
The path I wished to share, however, speaks a different language. The way of Nen, or Pure Land Buddhism, is deeply rooted in words. Its central practice is the nenbutsu, the calling of a name. Its foundation is a story—the vast, compassionate narrative of Amida Buddha and its vow. This presents a unique translational barrier. How does one translate a path that uses words to guide us to a place beyond words? How could I ensure these words would not be heard as mere intellectual concepts, but as a living voice that could resonate across cultures, a sound that could be felt in the heart? This book is my attempt to answer that question.
The Unfinished Work of a Master
In this endeavor, I felt I was walking in the shadow of a giant. No single person did more to bring the Dharma to the West than D. T. Suzuki. He opened the first great gate, and through it, countless people have been introduced to the profound stillness and insight of Zen. For this, my gratitude is immeasurable.
Yet, there is a quieter, lesser-known side to Suzuki’s own spiritual life. He was also a deep and devoted follower of Nen Buddhism. He held a profound respect for the myōkōnin—the "awakened laypersons" of the Pure Land tradition, humble people who found enlightenment not in monasteries but in the midst of ordinary life. Suzuki himself walked both paths.
My writing of Work Like a Monk was a humble attempt to follow in his footsteps, but to open the other gate—the one he, for various reasons, did not focus on in his public-facing work. It is an effort to complete the picture of Japanese Buddhism in the West by giving voice to the tradition of Hōnen and Shinran, the path of what I call "People’s Buddhism." This is not a critique of Suzuki’s great work, but a respectful continuation of his legacy, an attempt to take on the profound challenge he knew so well: translating the Buddhism of the voice.
Crafting a Bridge of Words and Listening
The journey of writing this book was a process of discovery, of finding the right "artistry" (工夫, kufū) to build a bridge of words and listening. This involved a series of conscious choices, each one an attempt to make this teaching not just understood, but felt.
The Dialogue as an Invitation
From the beginning, I knew the book could not be a lecture. To present these teachings in a didactic or preachy tone would be to betray their very spirit. Instead, I chose the form of a dialogue, a conversation between a modern Businessperson and an old Temple Priest. This structure is an invitation. It allows the reader to join the Businessperson on his journey of inquiry, to sit with him as he asks questions, voices his doubts, and slowly arrives at his own understanding. The reader is not told what to believe, but is invited to listen to a conversation, to witness a process. This mirrors not only the Socratic tradition of the West but also the Buddha’s own method of tailored dharma, where the teaching arises in gentle response to the listener’s specific needs and conditions.
From Chanting to Listening: Finding a Universal Doorway
A central challenge was how to introduce the practice of nenbutsu, the chanting of Naam Aami Daab. Presented directly, I feared it might feel alienating or dogmatically religious to those unfamiliar with it. The path inward was found not in the sound itself, but in the posture of the heart that produces it.
The key came from deconstructing the Japanese character for Nen (念). It is composed of two parts: "now" (今) and "heart" (心). To practice Nen is to bring one’s heart fully into the present moment. This insight provided the bridge I was seeking. Before introducing the chant, I first had to introduce the state of being from which it arises.
This led me to the concept of "mindful listening." It is a term that connects the familiar Western idea of mindfulness with the very core of Nen practice. It is not a simplification, but a way to tune the reader’s heart to the right frequency. My hope was that by first cultivating this deep, present-moment listening—to the sounds of nature, to the voices of others, to the silence within—the chant, when finally introduced, would be heard not just as words, but as the natural culmination of this listening. It becomes the sound that arises when the heart is truly present.
The Story as a Universal Vow
Similarly, I had to find a way to tell the story of Amida Buddha and the Pure Land without it being dismissed as mere myth. The power of this story, I believe, lies not in its literal, historical truth, but in its profound symbolic and archetypal resonance. It is a story about a vow—the "original vow"—so vast and all-encompassing that it embraces every single being, without exception.
I chose to frame this not as a story about a particular deity, but as the ultimate expression of the universal vow, "We become Buddha." Amida is presented as the "Unmeasurable Buddha," a symbol of boundless compassion that leaves no one behind. The Pure Land is not a physical destination in a distant heaven, but the "serene, pure land" that we all long for in our hearts amidst the "noise" of modern life. It is a state of being where awakening is possible for all. This reframing, I hope, transforms the story from a sectarian belief into a universal human aspiration, a narrative that speaks to the deepest parts of all of us.
The Voice That Carries Us
Perhaps the most difficult concept to translate is that of tariki, or Other Power. In a world that so deeply values self-reliance, agency, and personal achievement, the idea of relying on a power beyond the self can be easily misunderstood as passivity or resignation. A simple explanation would not suffice. The concept had to be lived, to be experienced.
Therefore, the translation of tariki is not found in any single explanation in the book; it is enacted through the book's entire narrative arc. The story begins with the Businessperson, a character who embodies the modern spirit of self-power. He is capable, intelligent, and driven. But the narrative deliberately introduces a crisis—his cancer diagnosis—that his own power cannot solve. In that moment, he is forced to confront his own limits.
This confrontation with "helplessness" is the crucial turning point. It is not a moment of despair, but a moment of profound opening. The book suggests that it is only from this honest, humble admission of our own limitations that we can become truly receptive to a greater power. The priest’s own story of failure in his monastic training, and his gentle identification of himself as a "helpless fool," reinforces this idea. It is not a weakness to be overcome, but a necessary prerequisite for grace.
From this place of recognized helplessness, a new state of being can emerge: "wholehearted acceptance." This is the book's experiential translation of faith (shin). It is not a blind belief in a doctrine, but a calm, quiet trust that arises when we cease our striving and allow ourselves to be carried.
This journey culminates in the subtle but profound shift that the entire book aims to evoke. It is the transition from the active, effortful state of "I am listening for the Buddha's voice," to the receptive, effortless state where "the voice is heard." It is a movement beyond the simple binary of active and passive, a state I describe in the book using the linguistic analogy of the "middle voice." It is the moment when the practice is no longer something "I" do, but something that happens through me. This is the very essence of being carried by the "irreversible stream."
A Call in the Quiet
There is a classic Buddhist metaphor, which I use in the book, of the teaching being a "finger pointing at the moon." My deepest hope is that Work Like a Monk might serve as such a finger. It points, perhaps, to a slightly different moon than the one often sought in the West—not the moon of silent, solitary enlightenment, but the moon of a shared, resonant awakening, a moon that is heard in the polyphony of all voices.
This book is not an answer, but an offering. It is one voice, my voice, attempting to echo the voices of my teachers and the great vow that has been passed down through generations. It is a call placed gently into the quiet of the world.
True dialogue, true interbeing, is a "polyphony of listening." My book is one note in that symphony. The most meaningful result of its publication would be to hear a response, to know that another voice has joined the conversation. And so, I end with an open and sincere invitation to you, the reader, to find and to share your own voice.
Inspiring, worthy endeavor. I agree on the need to bridge language and listening!