Stories of Faith: Churches, Temples, and Rabbits

Tan Jun Hao Mark

My father used to tell me stories when I was young. He told me stories about his life growing up, what it was like to live in a kampung, how he became a sailor, what it was like for him to fall in love; stories that made me laugh, stories that made me cry; and stories about how to be a good person. He would tell me about the reservoir near his attap house, where he and his friends used to throw pebbles and chase pigeons, and watch as the sun’s rays bounced lightly across the water. I think he was bluffing though. I must have got my love of stories from him. Till this day, I can never put a good book down, and I love telling stories of my own. This is a story too – a story of stories. Some of them are true, and some may be false, but they are all as honest as I can make them. After all, these stories are about faith. And faith, above most other things, requires honesty.

Faith is a tricky word. One could have faith in someone, which most people take to mean that this person will come through (in whatever form of coming through you put stock in); or one could have faith in something, which in an important sense means to believe that a particular object (amulets, talismans, prayer beads, etc.) will somehow insulate you from undesired effects; or one could have faith that something (some proposition, scriptural reference, testimony, or wishful thinking), that is, to have great certainty that some state of affairs will come to pass. To pin down an exact and universal definition of what faith is would be nearly impossible, nor do I imagine, would it be of much help to the average practitioner of religion. Without overstating how much of a role the notion of faith has played in my life, I can with a satisfactory degree of honesty say that I fall into this category. And practically speaking, the central question of faith as I have experienced it is not what faith is, but how it is to be faithful. I confess this is not a very clear distinction. To clarify, let me tell our first story.

An eight-year-old boy, bespectacled, frail, with hair buzzed to its roots so that he looks like a veritable monk in the making, earnestly clasps his mother’s hand as they walk down the street together. This street is not unfamiliar to him – it is the street just off his family’s apartment, home to the coffee shop he has come to love because of the way they make his kaya toast and eggs, and the polyclinic he is slightly afraid of because of the one time he fell and had to get his chin stitched up. But today is Sunday; there really is no reason for him to be on that street, other than the fact that his mother is feverishly dragging him along, much further and quicker than he is used to, as if they were running from – or to – something.

In a moment, he will take a right on the street, urged by his mother’s familiar voice – “Ah boy ah, walk faster please!” – and he will be greeted by a swarm of people who tower above him, and who are all rushing to reach an entrance he can barely see past their heads. He will gaze upward and see the building that his mother wants so desperately for him to be in: an impressive (for now, since he will see many more impressive ones in the future) white building replete with banners that have confusing words and numbers on them, bearing iridescent colors in its glass windows (he will learn that this sort of glass is, oddly enough, called “stained”), topped with a small letter “t” right at the very top (bless his heart, he does not yet know this is called a “cross”). Then, his mother will pull him past the throng waiting by the doors, because she is not new to the Sunday morning crowd, and they will stride into what he will come to know as the “tabernacle”, where they will find their seats. He will know that the room holds some special significance, yet all he will focus on is how terribly cold it is. Today, he will see nothing because of the tall, dark-haired stranger in front of him, but in the weeks and months to come, he will observe people fall on their knees, jump erratically around him, put their hands together in prayer, weep and shout and cry and wail, and sit silently with their eyes closed. Bit by bit, he will learn to do each of these things. He will come to this building Sunday after Sunday, and gradually, it will become just another familiar sight to him – another landmark on the street.

As you might guess, this is the story of how I came to be Christian. Of course, there is much more to it. You might think that from a Christian perspective, the above is all there is to faith; that what it is, is the embracing of a lifestyle that utterly permeates one’s life because of something bigger than themselves. This, however, is not a story about Christianity. It is a story about faith. More specifically, it is a story about how faith evolves, like water in a still pool shifting and rippling as its surface is disturbed. And so, even though the faith that I had early on turned out to be more like my mother’s faith, that was not how it stayed after I had slowly begun to mature and encounter other perspectives on religion. 

Incidentally, one of those formative perspectives was Buddhism, since some of my family happened to be Buddhist. Consider my surprise, then, when I realized that the Buddhists I knew organized their lives differently from what I had become used to seeing in Christians: some burned paper offerings, others laid food and drink out for ghosts, or performed rites at funerals and participated in esoteric traditions, and chanted in a language I did not understand. In my childish ignorance, I hardly thought that these things were a world apart from my own religious practices; on many an occasion, I engaged in these expressions too, out of a deference to my family and a naivety about what these practices entailed. Religious conservatives will cross their arms and furrow their brows, I am sure, but in hindsight, I think I learned more this way than I would have if I let whatever I knew of faith sit and stagnate. Most of these lessons have stayed with me beyond my first forays into Buddhism. I still play with the red threads at wakes – sometimes I even tie them around my fingers.

An even more conspicuous disturbance, but hopefully one that will give conservatives less cause for anger given their penchant for the ‘truth’, to my understanding of faith came in studying Buddhist philosophy seriously. I learned about suffering, about the Four Noble Truths, about what it is like to reduce one’s attachments, to walk in the way of equanimity; I read about the Eightfold Path and the right ways of living, about saṃsāra (rebirth) and nirvāṇa (enlightenment) and how to attain the latter; and I spent many hours ruminating about anattā (‘no-self’) and what it takes to reject an enduring, personal identity in the service of removing one’s suffering. By this point, I had come to know that Buddhism is not a theistic religion, at least not in the sense that I was used to, and this presented a new problem for me. It would not do to think of Buddhists as ‘faith’-less, since I had seen their devotion firsthand and in much greater depth than practitioners of my own religion. Yet, what could their faith adhere to if not a deity? What could all of the chanting, and offerings, and incense, and meditation amount to if not worship? Many of the things I studied appealed to me as a matter of reason, but how was I to understand them if they were simultaneously unrelated to faith, and part of what was essentially a religion?

As I said, faith often starts like a still pool – one can peer into it, try to look ever closer, divulge some semblance of yourself in it, and one could even succeed in seeing their reflection, if they squinted hard enough. But throw a pebble into it, and all you will see is a splash, and circles of small waves running from its center. An uncomfortable feeling will rise in your throat and fall into your stomach, and settle uneasily as you wait for the pool to be calm again. In that time, I will tell you two more stories.

This is the first. The first flashes of daylight bristle past cracks in the window, focusing on the figure still curled up securely in bed. He shifts quietly, moving into the sun, and reaches for the string by the bed to draw up the curtain and let the rest of the warm morning light flood in. He mutters something under his breath as he comes awake fully, something indiscernible but there all the same. He seems more assured now having said the phrase, and he briskly moves up from his bed and toward the bath to get ready for the day ahead. Each step is measured, intentional, fully conscious. He brushes his teeth, takes a shower, moves to the kitchen, and prepares his breakfast. Before he begins to eat, he says the phrase again. No one is around to hear it, yet he says it anyway. Everything in the room where he eats is calm; there is an air of silence that surrounds his person; and it is as if he is part of the room itself, another object that inhabits the environment, like one of the books that adorn his shelf, or the fan that spins lazily by the table, or the drier that hums happily with the load of last night’s laundry. Persisting in his pensive mood, he finishes breakfast and gets ready to leave for the day. Only now do things seem to change. A gust of wind blows into the house, the sound of a dog’s bark bursts upward from the street below, a neighbor’s frenzied conversation barrels past the door, and the once-perfect harmony of the room is disquieted. He senses this almost immediately, but his countenance has not changed. He retreats into himself and repeats the phrase a final time, this time just louder than a whisper – “Nam-myoho-renge-kyo” (Devotion to the Mystic Law of the Lotus Sūtra) – and bows his head. Nothing happens and the discordant buzz continues all around him. Five seconds pass. At last, he lifts his head and walks out the door.

This is the second. A Buddhist temple stands in the center of Chinatown, its walls high, imposing, and painted with the palette of a sunset. It is out of place, a site of worship cornered on all sides by a bustling marketplace, a crowded hawker centre, and a packed carpark. Off to the side, numerous Chinese uncles mull over a shared chess board and their wives sit beside them chatting about their children’s grades in school. A man appears in the background. He looks small, standing beside the worn and patchy pillar of the temple. He is clad in plainclothes, just a nondescript white shirt and slacks, and a pair of rubber slippers. Today is Sunday, so the temple is closed. Nonetheless, he begins to circle the temple, slowly and methodically. He passes its ostentatious and gold-lidded entrance, the barred windows, then the steps leading up the side exit, then he turns the first corner of the paned roof of the temple, the one marked by the face of a pixiu (a mythical beast of Chinese folklore). Before long, he turns the second corner, then the third, then he arrives back at the entrance. You stare in slight bewilderment, unsure of what he is doing. Then, in an entirely unassuming way, but one that assures you this will be his last movement in a while, he removes his slippers and takes a seat on the concrete. Now, there are many people sitting by the entrance talking and eating, so this does not make him a noticeably strange fellow. But you are watching him – and you see him place his hands on his knees, close his eyes, and become completely still. He is as motionless as a rock, wearing an expression of deep peace and contentment. With time, he blends into the crowd. You do not watch him for much longer, but in your mind’s eye, he sits there for hours and hours. When he finally does leave, he is smiling.

Perhaps these stories do not make what it is to be faithful any clearer. Perhaps they do. That is not the point. Thinking about and telling these stories have deepened my understanding of faith, even if they are meaningless, and these memories are like a waterfall in my being, constantly filling up and overflowing my sense of who I am. I tell them now in the hopes of helping others like me who still have questions they cannot answer, and who are looking for ways to deal with not having answers. There are always things to learn from practitioners of faith, even and in fact, especially, from those of a different religion. We may not have a unified definition of faith but we share in the same struggles. I do not have so many stories left. Actually, I only have one. So I tell these stories for another reason too – that they might make you gather your own and tell them at a different time.

I think it is time to tell the last story – one I heard long ago. It might not be true, but after all, I only promised to be as honest as I can – not that everything would be true. In any case, I am not so sure anymore that faith is concerned with truth. True, false; right, wrong; light, dark; full, empty; active, passive; good, bad; self, not-self; what do these distinctions matter in the face of faith? What do they matter when one is pressed with the question of how to remain committed to a life burdened with the duties of faith? What the average practitioner of faith, who is the subject of our investigation, requires then is testing – putting what they believe under analysis, probing at it till it breaks, examining every inch of their doxastic landscape, and seeing if it stands up to scrutiny. But I will not belabor the point any longer – really, this last account is all the explanation I can give.

The king wrings his hands nervously in his lap as the monk approaches his throne. His servants stand around the hall, unsure of where to look – this is a new circumstance for them and no protocol has been drafted for it. It has not even been a week since their king has been coronated and the court is still in disarray from the festivities of the previous week’s ceremony. But they are not disposed to refusing their king’s requests and the first of those had been to invite this monk, famous in their region for great exposition and clarity, for a dialogue. The monk comes to a stop about fifteen feet from the throne. He bows, though he is not required to, and stands stolidly before the king. In a wavering tone that betrays his anxiety, the king begins:

“Thank you, Venerable One, for gracing us with your audience today. I am in your debt.”

“It is my pleasure. I am puzzled though. Why have you asked for me?”

At this question, the king’s expression changes to one of excitement. He leans forward, almost bubbling with anticipation when he speaks:

“I just have a few questions. As you might know, I have just risen to the throne. And though I have spent my life preparing for this moment, I still feel as though I am not ready for it. I wish to be a good king, one that my people will be proud of. It is because of this that I have approached you in search of wisdom. Your virtue is legend in these parts. What must I do to be good like you?”

The monk appears to think a little, cocking his head to the side. Apparently satisfied with the answer he has thought of, he brightens and declares:

“That is simple, O King. One need only be faithful. With faith comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes right view, and with right view comes non-attachment, and with non-attachment comes the cessation of suffering. Perform the meritorious practices and virtue will cling to you; do not kill, do not steal, do not harm, do not lie, do not become inebriated, do not become angry, do not become jealous, do not forget to question; in essence, do not forsake the way of the Supramundane Victor. This is not new to you. Why do you ask me about things you already know?

Quite chastened, the king is briefly subdued before he meekly replies:

“But what is this faith you speak of? How can I act if I am to have non-attachment? How can I believe in one thing and act in another?

Immediately, the monk rejoins:

“Do not repeat the doctrines of the nihilists, O King. You must not deceive yourself. Should a rabbit eat meat because it becomes fond of the taste? Or should a beast of the field consume only grass because it is old and too weak to chase prey? In the same way, it is your nature to act. But action is non-action and non-action is action. Wrong view is that there are no effects to your actions. But another wrong view is the “I” which acts. Only by rejecting wrong view does one escape saṃsāra and bad rebirths.

Confused by this line of reasoning, the king rises with a start and objects:

“But haven’t you twisted yourself into a contradiction? How is it possible to believe in two opposing truths at the same time? Or to reject two falsities? Must I be a fool to stay on the path of enlightenment? Are you now deceiving me?”

Hearing this, the monk shakes his head. He paces around the hall as if in search of some solution, some way of making how things really are clearer to the king. The king, now satisfied that he is right, takes back his seat on the throne and begins to mock the monk.

“I have heard that you are a man of truth – always proclaiming the right things and having excellent explanations. But now I see you are just a fraud, a fraud pretending to be wise! Your faith is one that does not attend to reason and your teacher, the Blessed One himself, would not approve of it.”

The monk turns to the king in a flash. Exercising his magical powers, he transforms the king into a rabbit. Unapologetically, the monk now takes a seat on the throne while the rabbit prances around the royal hall. The court officials are standing by, in utter shock and amazement, but no one comes to help the king, perhaps in fear of being turned into rabbits themselves. The monk then speaks to the king, now hopping around in his rabbit form

“Do you see now, O King? It is easier for a rabbit than for a king to have faith. As I said, you will not feel the urge to eat meat, nor would you even if I had imbued its taste into your transformation. You are just a rabbit. This is the doctrine of two-truths that you must come to know if you are to have faith. Even as a rabbit, you must not rely on dualistic thinking. Only then can you become a liberated being. Only then can you rise to the realm of the supramundane. You cannot exist as a person without knowing what it is to be a rabbit, nor can you exist as a rabbit without knowing what it is to be a person.”

The king, still in his rabbit form, purrs:

“I know what it is to be faithful now. One must not be attached to anything, even to dualistic thinking, in order to attain enlightenment and to observe the two-truths. It is in my nature to act, just as it is in my rabbit nature to eat grass. To have faith in the teachings of the Blessed One is to act, to act is to gain wisdom, to gain wisdom is to reach high status, and to reach high status is to achieve goodness.”

Satisfied with his answer, the monk rises from the throne and approaches the rabbit. With a burst of light, the king is transformed back into his human form. He looks different now from when the conversation began. He is quiet – somehow it feels as though he is more assured of himself. His face shines with the light of freshly shed tears and his lips are upturned in a scarcely noticeable smile. When he speaks, his voice is confident and thoughtful, without the tenor of worry that accompanied it before.

“Thank you, Enlightened One. I will remember this lesson and practise what you have taught today. My people will thank you for it also. Forthwith, I will act rightly and in faith, always aiming at the supramundane, bearing in mind these precepts you have shown me.”

Hearing this, the assembly of bodhisattvas, the great deities, the Blessed One, and all the supreme beings were greatly pleased, approving of what had transpired. Later on, it came to be that the king performed only good deeds and brought the kingdom much prosperity, becoming something of a legend himself. Curiously, it was said that he developed a particular affection for rabbits.