Tolerance and Respect

To hold "my belief" against "your belief" is to make a distinction. 

In that instant, you are as far from the Way as heaven is from earth.

You have heard "Judge not, that you be not judged." 

This is the beginning.

But I say to you, why do you look at the speck in your brother's prayer, but do not consider the plank of preference in your own eye?

To cling to your path as the only path is the disease of the mind.

The Great Way is all-embracing. 

Does not the sun rise on those who call the One by many names, just as it rises on the just and the unjust?

When you let go of liking your belief and disliking his, the Way reveals itself. 

In this nonduality, there is no "other" to tolerate, only the One gazing back at you.

Reflection - The Plank of Preference

(The reflection begins. The speaker, Jesus the Zennist, stands simply. There is no pulpit. He waits until the room is settled, making eye contact, offering a very slight, peaceful smile. He speaks calmly, yet with a quiet, penetrating authority.)

Peace be with you.

Our text today begins with a mirror. A very clear, very cold, very unforgiving mirror. It says:

"To hold 'my belief' against 'your belief' is to make a distinction. In that instant, you are as far from the Way as heaven is from earth."

We are all so terribly certain, aren't we?

We build our houses on the rock of "I am right." We gather our treasures, and the most precious, most polished, most heavily guarded treasure we own is this one: "My belief is true. My path is correct. My vision is clear."

And we hold it up. We hold it up against "your belief." And in that instant... poof.

Heaven and earth. An infinite distance.

We think the distance is created by the content of the belief. "My belief in mercy is heaven; your belief in judgment is earth." Or, "My belief in tradition is heaven; your belief in novelty is earth."

But the Zennist mind, the mind of the Way, sees differently. The distance is not created by the content of the belief. The infinite chasm is created by the holding. It is the distinction itself.

This clinging. This preference. This is what the great ones call "the disease of the mind."

On the mountain, I told the multitudes, "Judge not, that you be not judged."

This is a good teaching. It is a fine teaching. It is the beginning of wisdom. It is a wonderful rule for navigating the world. If you do not throw stones, stones are less likely to be thrown back at you. It is practical.

But I say to you today that teaching is only the beginning. It is the porch of the temple.

The text for today takes us inside, into the holy place. It looks at the root of judgment. And it asks a deeper question.

"But I say to you, why do you look at the speck in your brother's prayer, but do not consider the plank of preference in your own eye?"

Ah. Now we see it.

We thought the plank was some great, obvious, terrible sin—like murder or adultery. And those are indeed heavy. But the root of all suffering, the plank that truly blocks our vision, is preference.

The plank is the mechanism of the mind that sorts the world into "like" and "dislike."

The plank is the sharp, invisible line we draw: "My people... your people." "My politics... your politics." "My god... your god."

The speck is your brother's prayer. He mumbles. She shouts. He faces east. She faces a wall. He uses incense. She uses a guitar. He calls the One "Allah." She calls the One "Brahman." He calls the One "The Way."

And we, with this giant two-by-four of preference sticking out of our face, lean in closely and say, "Aha! A speck! You are doing it wrong."

(He pauses, with a small, knowing laugh.)

It would be funny if it were not the cause of all our wars.

"To cling to your path as the only path," the text says, "is the disease of the mind."

This is the core spiritual theme of our lives. We live in an age that thrives on this disease. We have built digital kingdoms—little boxes that feed us only what we "like" and hide from us what we "dislike." We scroll and scroll, sharpening our preferences, thickening our plank.

And then we look out at the world, and we are terrified. We are anxious. We are lonely. We are angry. Because the world is filled with people who do not fit our preferences. The world is filled with "others."

We have become like a body at war with its own organs. The heart "dislikes" the liver. The lungs hold a belief against" the kidneys. This is not healthy. This is psychosis. This is the disease.

This is not a new problem. Every tradition that has touched the face of the One has had to wrestle with this plank of preference.

In the mystical heart of Islam, the Sufis tell a beautiful story about the Prophet Moses. Moses, the great law-giver, the one who knew the right way, overheard a simple shepherd praying in the desert.

The shepherd was saying: "O God, where are you? Let me find you, that I may be your servant. Let me comb your hair and wash your feet. Let me pick the lice from your robes and feed you my milk."

Moses was horrified. This was the speck in his brother's prayer. "Blasphemer!" he shouted. "God is pure spirit! He has no body! He needs no one to wash his feet! Your prayer is an insult!"

The shepherd was crushed. He tore his clothes and fled into the desert, believing he was damned.

And in that moment, the voice of God came not to the shepherd, but to Moses.

And the One said: "Moses, why have you driven my servant from me? I have given to each being a different way, a different expression. What is praise to you is blame to him. What is honey to you is poison to another. I look not at the words or the form. I look at the heart. I look at the burning."

This is a profound teaching. The Sufi message, like the Sermon on the Mount, is rooted in a passionate, personal God. It is a path of the heart. Its unique message is that love transcends form. God rebukes Moses for preferring form (correct theology) over essence (a burning heart).

In the ancient lands of India, the Hindu sages of Advaita Vedanta approached this from another direction. They were not mystics of the heart; they were philosophers of the mind. They saw the countless gods, the thousands of rituals, the endless preferences of a vibrant, chaotic spirituality.

And in their deep wisdom, they did not choose one. They did not say, "Shiva is the plank, and Vishnu is the speck." No. They declared in the Rigveda:

"Ekam Sat Vipra Bahudha Vadanti." "Truth is One, but the wise speak of it in many ways."

This is the Hindu path of the mind. Its unique message is that all forms, all beliefs, all paths, are merely different names for a single, underlying, unnamable Reality. They are all, ultimately, maya—a sacred play. To cling to one name as the "only" name is to mistake the finger pointing at the moon for the moon itself.

So, you see? The Sufi sees the One Heart burning behind all the different words. The Hindu sage sees the One Truth shining behind all the different names.

What, then, of Jesus the Zennist?

I say to you: The Great Way is not difficult. You don't have to burn with a thousand suns like the Sufi. You don't have to discern the nature of Maya like the sage.

You just have to stop choosing.

"Let go of longing and aversion, and it reveals itself."

The Way, the Kingdom, is all-embracing. It is the sun rising on the just and the unjust. It is the rain falling on the good and the evil. The sun does not "prefer" the saint. The rain does not "hold a belief against" the sinner. They just are. They are the perfect expression of non-preference.

We need this teaching. We need it this very week.

This week, the Great Way has a name. It is Hurricane Melissa.

It has moved through the Caribbean, a terrifying, beautiful, spinning dharma lesson. It is a Category 5 teacher of non-preference.

A hurricane does not check your voter registration. It does not ask for your theology. It does not measure the purity of your heart. It does not care if you have a "plank" in your eye or a "speck." It is the wind and the rain, and it will test the house built on the rock and the house built on the sand with equal, non-dual fury.

This is the Way. It is beyond our "likes" and "dislikes."

And here is where our practice becomes Wisdom in Action.

The disease of the mind, the plank of preference, creates the distinction: "We" are here, safe. "They" are there, suffering. "We" are the blessed. "They" are the unfortunate. We "tolerate" their suffering. We send our "thoughts and prayers" as if we are tossing coins from a high balcony.

This is the plank.

The Inner Kingdom, the Zennist mind, sees this event and removes the plank.

When you remove the plank of "us vs. them," what is left? When you remove the preference for "my" safety over "their" safety, what is left?

The text tells us: "In this nonduality, there is no 'other' to tolerate, only the One gazing back at you."

There is no "other" in Haiti. There is no "other" in Jamaica. There is only the One, gazing back at you from the eyes of a mother holding her child in a flooded shelter. There is only the One, gazing back at you from the face of a man standing on the rubble of what was his home.

You are not being asked to "tolerate" them. You are not being asked to "pity" them. You are being asked to see them. To see that your separation is an illusion, a disease of the mind.

And when you see it this way, Wisdom in Action is not a choice. It is a reflex. You are not "doing good" or "being merciful." You are mercy. You are the hand that reaches. You are the peacemaker, the comforter, the builder. The plank is gone, and you can finally see clearly.

So, let go.

Let go of "my belief." Let go of "your belief." Let go of "like" and "dislike." Let go of the heavy, heavy plank of "I am right."

Feel the lightness in that. The peace. The Great Way is not difficult. It is here. It is the One, gazing back at you.

Go in that peace.