DHARMA TALK BY CHRISTOPHER KAKUYO SENSEI

The Path of the Foolish Being 

Preface

 
It is interesting how wandering through a bookstore on an unremarkable Wednesday can change your life forever. On one of those Wednesdays, while I was walking the aisles of Ken Sander’s bookstore looking for something to read, I serendipitously found what I didn’t know I was looking for.

I was interested in books on Poetry, Sufism, and Zen. First, I started with the poetry section, then moved to the myth and religion section, and then ran my finger along with the titles on the Eastern Religions shelf. One day, I pulled off a book titled River of Fire, River of Water. I liked the title and cover and thumbed through a few pages. It turned out that the book was about Shin Buddhism, and I had no idea what that was or what Pure Land Buddhism was.

As Rev. Koyo Kubose expresses about coming to the dharma, it’s all about the right person, place, and time. When I took the book to the counter and purchased it from Ken, I knew it was the right time. I took the book home and read it in two days. It spoke to me, revealing a Buddhism centered around the heart, the everyday, and the ordinary. This perspective was missing from other traditions like Zen and Theravada. Everything changed after that.

The story of Shin and Pure Land Buddhism included the boundless compassion I had been seeking throughout my spiritual journey—compassion, not judgment; compassion, not shame. Compassion is not a reward; it simply exists, just as I am right now.

I was so moved by the book that when the fellowship first started, I tried to create an independent Shin Buddhist Sangha. However, I realized that even though I resonated with what was taught in the book, I wasn’t a Shin Buddhist. I felt I was trying to force a round peg into a square hole and corral those who attended into a sort of Shin Buddhist context.

For me, the tradition was hampered by a language problem. I realized that we were connecting not to the tradition of Shin Buddhism but to the teaching that Shinran and other Pure Land Buddhists had wrestled with for over a thousand years. It was not the school of Shin, the tradition of Shin, but some of the teachings born of it that resonated with us in the early days.

I realized that what we were doing together as a fellowship was finding a new language for an ancient tradition. We were no longer a Shin Sangha but a Shin and Pure Land-inspired Sangha. Every Sunday, we were in respectful dialog with the teachings that came from a different place and time and made them our own. We infused our teachings with the teachings of great Zen masters and teachers from the forest tradition, shared stories and poems from the Sufi tradition, and shared mindfulness techniques from the secular and psychological sides of contemporary Buddhism. We have created a space where we seek a language of the “every day” – of everyday Buddhism – this draws us together. Our community includes whatever kind of Buddhist you identify with. From secular to atheist, to tradition to devotional, all are welcome. Another thing that I appreciated about Shin Buddhism was that the butcher, the prostitute, could practice with someone from the samurai class. We have tried to create this same space. These are the different ways we approach the dharma together in this dialog.

The Path of the Foolish Being

I want to continue our conversation by introducing a central idea in the Shin tradition—bonbu—and explore how its essence can be understood and applied in our everyday lives.

From the beginning, I found this concept both compelling and difficult. In Shin Buddhism, we’re taught that we are all bonbu—commonly translated as “foolish beings.” This teaching didn’t immediately sit easily with me. It felt starkly different from the Zen notion of Buddha-nature, the idea that each of us carries an innate, though unrealized, awakened essence. I liked that idea—it made me feel unique, special, like there was something luminous within me waiting to emerge.

But this was not that.

In Shin, the message is more humbling—and perhaps more honest. To be bonbu is to be deeply entangled in delusion, driven by ego, and limited in our ability to act with pure intention. It’s not a flattering diagnosis. Traditionally, bonbu are seen as so mired in self-centeredness that true awakening, through personal effort alone, seems nearly impossible.

Even Shinran Shonin, the reluctant founder of Jodo Shinshu, wrestled with this reality. In his writings, he doesn’t present himself as a master or a guru, but as someone profoundly aware of his own limitations—his greed, his attachments, his inability to purify himself. His humility wasn’t self-deprecating; it was grounded in deep clarity about the human condition.

I am such that I do not know right and wrong
And cannot distinguish false and true;
I lack even small love and small compassion,
And yet, for fame and profit, enjoy teaching others.
Shinran Shonin

Looking at this ancient teaching from a modern perspective, we can all relate to the human story. We often act impulsively, misinterpret reality, cling to our egos, and repeat destructive habits, even when we know it’s not in our best interest. This is the result of deep-seated conditioning-whether from trauma, ingrained habits, upbringing, or biases. Understanding this conditioning can lead to greater empathy and understanding of ourselves and others. In the age of Shinran, what was termed a heavy karmic debt, we would say, stems from our inability to act with awareness, shaped by these conditions—looking at karmic debt as all those causes and conditions that have brought us to now. Our DNA, family upbringing, familial trauma, cultural influences, cultural trauma.

This wasn’t what I was used to. The founder of a Buddhist tradition said this? It stood in stark contrast to the spiritual world I had encountered—one filled with gurus touting 17 levels of awakening, always seemingly just beyond reach. But Shinran felt different. There was something raw and authentic about him. He was like a maple leaf, showing both its front and back—nothing hidden. He invited us to look at the real state of things, unflinchingly. It felt as though he was naming the foolishness we all carry, and in doing so, giving us permission to finally admit what we often try so hard to hide: that we, too, are perpetually foolish.

I’ll be honest—I didn’t like the word fool. It sounded harsh, almost insulting. It didn’t fit the narrative I had built around myself, one that leaned toward a more uplifting vision: intelligent, insightful, a potential Buddha. Calling myself foolish felt like a challenge to my narrative I wasn’t ready for.

But here’s the thing: I didn’t want to admit I was a fool because being a fool means being vulnerable. A fool is someone whose judgment is flawed, whose understanding is limited—someone who thinks they are wise when they are not. And when that ignorance is exposed, it hurts. It unsettles the ego. Yet, that very discomfort, that cracking open of certainty, might just be the first sign of real wisdom. Not the wisdom that comes from being clever or enlightened, but the kind that quietly begins when we stop pretending and start listening—to life, to the Dharma, to the truth of our own limitations.

Back to translation. It is essential to understand that the term “foolish being” is a translation from Shin Buddhism. The word *bonbu* refers to an ordinary person—someone just trying to get through a typical Thursday. Regardless of title, position, or experience, we are all essentially the same: ordinary. In an old-school Buddhist context, this simply denotes someone who is neither enlightened nor making significant progress on the spiritual path. In other words, we are just like everyone else—ordinary. 

Now, here is the critical part of the dialogue: regardless of what this meant to those living 800 years ago in Shinran’s Japan, I want to be precise—this teaching is less about my ability or inability to do good, or about being evil or not; that language belongs to another time. Yet, for us here and now, there is a significant and transformative teaching in the concept of *bonbu*. I appreciated this concept when I started this journey, but I did not identify with it. I wanted to identify with my Buddha-nature—my goodness and my capacity for spiritual practice, which can be skillful and also precarious.

Our egos are remarkably cunning—constantly alert, always operating from a place of survival instinct. Devoid of any real substance, the ego is endlessly trying to prove it exists. Because of this, it can easily hijack our spiritual practice, turning it into yet another means of self-affirmation. This subtle trap is what the Tibetan tradition calls spiritual materialism—when the path meant to free us becomes fuel for the very illusion we’re trying to transcend.

As the years unfolded in my practice, I found myself increasingly resonating with my bonbu side, embracing the notion of being an ordinary practitioner. My journey is not distinguished by extraordinary feats or profound experiences; rather, it is marked by the beautifully mundane reality that we all encounter struggles and failures along the way. The essence lies in the simple act of showing up—falling down two times and then getting up three, the heart of spiritual practice isn’t about striving to be “good,” but about persevering amidst our ordinariness, our foibles.

This teaching serves as a great starting point for practice. At its core, it helps us recognize that our endless striving to be good, perfect, or extraordinary is fundamentally a desire to be loved by others—and even by the divine. All the attention-seeking, the need to showcase how special we are ultimately stems from a theater of fear: the fear that we—and others—will see our ordinariness.

One of the main roles of our ego is to hide and deny its ordinariness and foolishness. This concept is what Shinran referred to as jiriki or “Self Power,” which can also be understood as ego power. I appreciate the perspective shared by Mark Unno, son of Taitetsu Unno: 

“Always seeking to present oneself as ‘good’ means being caught in the workings of the ego-self, or what Shinran calls ‘self-power,’ which prevents one from opening up to the spontaneous unfolding of buddha-nature.” 

The essence of this teaching is that Buddhism is less about being good and more about being humble. A Buddhist is not necessarily a good person; rather, they are a humble and grateful person who is open to learning. 

IIn Japan, there is a beautiful proverb: “The riper a rice cluster becomes, the lower it bows its head.” To me, this speaks to the natural humility that comes with true understanding—the more we learn, the more we realize how much we don’t know. This kind of insight gently disarms the ego’s need to be exceptional. It reminds us that being “special” is not something we can will into existence. In releasing the need to be unique, we open ourselves to something far more extraordinary—something greater than the self.

I’m also deeply moved by the reflections of Nobuo Haneda, who emphasizes that recognizing our ordinariness gives rise to a humility that blossoms into profound gratitude. It’s in this humility, not in striving for spiritual achievement, that our true humanity is revealed. While many people believe the goal of Buddhism—or life itself—is to become good, Shinran points us in a different direction. For him, the goal is not goodness, but humility. As Haneda writes:

“…we must become humble people. We must acknowledge our foolishness and the existence of our ineradicable egoism. We must recognize our ignorance and the limitations of our intellect. We must embrace humility and be able to say, ‘I am foolish and ignorant.” 

Shinran exemplifies a profound sense of humility. He referred to himself as “Gutoku Shinran,” which translates to “foolish Shinran.” The term “Toku” in “Gotoku” is found in Buddhist literature and describes someone who appears outwardly as a monk and acts piously but lacks a genuine aspiration for awakening or following the Buddhist path. This reflects a brutal honesty. Shinran even called himself “Inwardly Foolish and Outwardly Wise.”

How many of us recognize this aspect of ourselves but would never dare to voice it, even to ourselves? This stands in stark contrast to some contemporary Buddhist teachers who have harmed their communities through sexual misconduct. Instead of responding with humility and repentance, they continue to teach, believing they are too essential to step down. Some refuse to acknowledge any wrongdoing—this is the worst kind of spiritual materialism.

I appreciate Shinran’s example. As Dennis Horta noted, 

“Shinran demonstrates that our awareness of our inner foolishness helps us realize that we have no personal claim to wisdom and that any claim to awakening is rather meaningless.”

Shinran understood himself and recognized the dangers of idealizing someone or something that does not align with reality. Over-idealizing, whether it be ourselves or others, often leads to disdain or contempt when those unrealistic images inevitably collapse. Unlike the great Oz, who had to have his secret revealed, Shinran openly pulled back the curtain himself. We should look and see. I would like to revisit what Nobuo Haneda wrote: 

“…we must become humble persons. We must acknowledge our foolishness, recognize our ineradicable egoism, and understand our ignorance and the limitations of our intellect. We must be humble enough to say, ‘I’m foolish and ignorant.’” 

This teaching reinforces the concept of the not-knowing mind, as seen in Korean Zen, or Shunryu Suzuki’s idea of a beginner’s mind. It encourages us to become aware of our ordinariness and the limitations of our intellect, our challenges to be skillful, our intractable ego, none of this means that we do not all have a buddha nature; it simply gives us a starting point.

This starting point allows us to understand that the Buddha nature we seek can only be realized after we strip away the stories and performances of our misguided selves. As Mark Unno has taught, these distractions prevent us from experiencing the spontaneous unfolding of our Buddha nature. Acknowledging our foolishness and embracing our ordinariness gives us the freedom to stop performing, to cease the dance of pretense, and to simply sit in peace with our true selves. This realization is a beautiful gift; it liberates us and opens us up to what truly is, allowing our Buddha nature to emerge spontaneously.

At the heart of our fellowship is the concept of “come as you are.” This idea, rooted in the phrase “Namu Amida Butsu,” encourages us to let go of the pressure to be good or perfect. “Come as you are” means releasing the expectations imposed on us and acknowledging that we don’t have to present ourselves as intelligent or put-together. When we can honestly admit our struggles and that we don’t have everything figured out, we can start to open ourselves up to the spontaneous unfolding of the dharma. This shifts our focus from doing to receiving. Awakening is not a method but a way of being. In the end, awakening is not something we find but something that finds us.

Understanding that we are foolish beings is not about self-loathing or pessimism—it’s about honest humility, and it plays a powerful role in practice.  When we realize we’re not as wise or in control as we think, it softens the ego. That humility opens the heart to learning, to receiving teachings, and to relying on wisdom greater than our own. Seeing our own foolishness reminds us others are struggling too. Instead of reacting with anger or frustration, we can approach people with more compassion and patience—”Just like me, this person is caught up in ignorance and craving.” In a way, realizing you’re a fool is the beginning of wisdom. It’s a soft, kind admission that we’re still learning—always. When we truly recognize our limitations— with honest clarity—we loosen the grip of ego. And in that softening, something shifts. The soil of the heart becomes fertile.

Only when we admit we are lost can we finally stop pretending to know the way—and in that moment, space opens for the path to appear

This attitude of perpetual studentship, keeps practice alive and full of grace.

I want to close with a poem I wrote this morning.

Foolish Self / Naked Self

May we all return
to our bonbu,
to our naked selves
just as we are –
so we can be embraced
by the compassion
of all Buddhas
and of Amida –
So finally, we can
stop and be still
stop the incessant
drumbeat
pull the curtain
shut on our
theaters of fear
Finally, stop
performing
to be seen
As good
As wise
or special
and simply
sit together
in our shared silence
And sitting here
together hear our
heartbeat
maybe
for the first time –
and from that steady beat
open ourselves up
to the constant
unfolding
that is
buddha nature.