It is upon us to begin the work;
It is not upon us to complete it.
– Talmud
Zen work begins with samu 作務. Samu is physical and sometimes intellectual labor done in the spirit of mushotoku, with no thought of personal profit, without complaint or compensation, for the benefit of the sangha. It is a form of fuse (or dana, a donation freely offered).
But the gift of samu is not limited to working for the sangha, just as the sangha is not limited to the people you practice with in the dojo. Yes, samu can be cleaning the dojo, or building a temple, or working in the office. But like other aspects of Zen practice, samu only begins in the dojo. Samu radiates into every other aspect of our lives, just like zazen. It’s how you take the spirit of samu, which is also the spirit of zazen, into the world that matters.
We used to have a fellow at the Temple who complained about samu. One sesshin he left early, in disgust, saying he came to do zazen and have satori, not to clean toilets. He wanted to concentrate on ku, to grasp ku, to attain ku; he couldn’t comprehend that ku becomes shiki, shiki is in fact exactly ku. Another way of putting this is, he wanted to complete the work, but he wasn’t willing to begin it.
The first vow of the bodhisattva (the vow that contains all the others) is to save all beings. We know that we can never complete this work, we can only begin it. If we had only to take care of our own sangha, that would be one thing. But the people we practice with in the dojo are only the tip of the iceberg. The true sangha extends into the community, the country, the world.
Our samu also extends or radiates into the world. We might think of our work in the world to be separate from our practice in the dojo. This is a mistake. The dojo is not a refuge, not an escape, although sometimes it might feel like that. Our jobs can sometimes annoy or oppress us, so that the dojo feels like a refuge, but this is because we don’t recognize the value of our work in the world and its relationship to Zen practice.
With practice, one’s life work becomes Zen work and Zen work becomes one’s life’s work. No separation between the two. I am not talking about the tasks you might complete in a job, but the end result that can never be completed. This is true no matter what your job, whether you are a janitor or a doctor, a lawyer or a bricklayer, a musician or a monk.
The Talmudic saying can be a helpful inspiration on how to take work not only in our day-to-day lives but also in our Zen practice. “The work” that is upon us implies that we have a mission in life. This mission may be modest or it may be grand, but it should be one that we are willing to undertake with a deep vow. And if it is a worthy mission, it is life work that can’t be completed in our lifetime.
After Deshimaru, Philippe Coupey calls this vow kan (of dokan, the ring of the Way). It is a vow that we make almost unconsciously, and once it is made it cannot be discarded, even though we think we might be able to get away from all the existential responsibility that it implies. And yet we are not bound by this vow, only by our determination.
Some translations of the Talmudic saying suggest that such a vow is not freely made. For example, instead of “the work is upon us,” it might read “we are obligated to begin the work.”
This reminds me of the distinctions that can be made between the interchangeable Biblical translations of timshel as the imperative “thou shalt” or “doest thou,” and the more permissive “thou mayest,” distinctions that I have discussed my book No Fear Zen in regard to Steinbeck’s examination of the word in East of Eden. Of the various readings, “thou mayest” is the most edifying because it throws the burden of responsibility for right action onto us and our free will. Ethical action is a choice not an obligation, and a vow like the bodhisattva vows is a positive first step of intention, not a contract meant for completion.
The distinction between an obligation imposed upon us and a choice we freely make is crucial. “We are obligated” and “it is upon us” both suggest a burden imposed on us by outer forces. But the passive construction of these formulations beg the implied question: obligated to whom or by what? Jewish belief and practice might say that God imposes this obligation. Similar exhortations from the Bible, such as that in Philippians 1:6, suggest that Christians, too, have no choice since they can’t even begin the work because it can only be started by God and finished by Christ. (“...being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ” (NKJV).
Here the distinction between the Buddhist “work” to be done and that of the Abrahamic religions could not be more pronounced, since the latter essentially deprive us of considering this work to be our free choice. (Similar ways to avoid responsibility for our own actions are often given by the logic of scientific determinism or certain Buddhist beliefs that we are controlled by what might be called karmic compulsion.)
The bodhisattva vows of Mahayana Buddhism, though, begin with an intention of right action to complete an impossible goal: “Beings are innumerable, I vow to save them all.” We take on this work at our own direction. [Non-Zen Buddhists, however, might argue that our actions are subject to the “other power” (tariki) of the Buddha rather than the “self power” (jiriki) of our own resources.] Rather than suggesting an “obligation” we are born into, or a burden that is imposed “upon” us, the Talmudic saying might also be expressed in a way that aligns with the worldly work of the bodhisattva: “It is up to us to begin the work / It is not up to us to complete it.” This “up to” rather than “upon” makes a perhaps subtle difference. We willingly take up the responsibility not only for our own actions but for the well-being of all beings. This is work that is, obviously, impossible to complete, but quite possible to begin again and again and again.
Samu in the sewing room. New Orleans Zen Temple, Camp Street. Winter Sesshin, 2019.