I don’t need stained glass to feel God.
I don’t need incense or Latin or a priest in robes.
I just need to sit.
Close my eyes.
And listen to the silence until it stops being empty and starts being full.
That’s where Christ lives for me, not on the pages of doctrine, but in the quiet space between my thoughts.
I grew up thinking prayer was something you said. You spoke. You pleaded. You asked. And sometimes, you begged. Prayer had words. Meaning. Direction. It went up.
But Zen taught me to listen instead.
To let the words fall away.
To stop climbing toward God and start sitting with God.
Not above me. Not beyond me. But right here, in the breath, in the stillness, in the place where my thinking breaks open into presence.
And you know what I found there?
Not nothing.
Not void.
But Christ.
Not the cartoon Jesus from Sunday School. Not the blond shepherd in sandals. But the Christ who wept. The Christ who wandered. The Christ who went off alone to pray in silence. The Christ who taught presence not through theory, but through touch.
When I sit in silence, I don’t lose my Christianity. I remember it.
Because silence is where love grows teeth.
Silence is where belief stops performing.
Silence is where I stop trying to get somewhere and finally arrive.
Christian Zen isn’t a contradiction.
It’s a way home.
It’s what happens when the Gospel stops being a story you recite and starts being a rhythm you live. It’s what happens when “Be still and know that I am God” becomes more than a verse, it becomes a breath practice. A doorway. A surrender.
So no, I’m not replacing Jesus with Buddha.
I’m walking with both.
One hand open. One breath at a time.
And in the silence where their paths meet, I find something deeper than doctrine.
I find love.
I find stillness.
I find the Christ who never needed a microphone, because he had the mountains, the sea, the wind, and the heart of anyone willing to sit down and listen.
I don’t need stained glass to feel God.
I don’t need incense or Latin or a priest in robes.
I just need to sit.
Close my eyes.
And listen to the silence until it stops being empty and starts being full.
That’s where Christ lives for me, not on the pages of doctrine, but in the quiet space between my thoughts.
I grew up thinking prayer was something you said. You spoke. You pleaded. You asked. And sometimes, you begged. Prayer had words. Meaning. Direction. It went up.
But Zen taught me to listen instead.
To let the words fall away.
To stop climbing toward God and start sitting with God.
Not above me. Not beyond me. But right here, in the breath, in the stillness, in the place where my thinking breaks open into presence.
And you know what I found there?
Not nothing.
Not void.
But Christ.
Not the cartoon Jesus from Sunday School. Not the blond shepherd in sandals. But the Christ who wept. The Christ who wandered. The Christ who went off alone to pray in silence. The Christ who taught presence not through theory, but through touch.
When I sit in silence, I don’t lose my Christianity. I remember it.
Because silence is where love grows teeth.
Silence is where belief stops performing.
Silence is where I stop trying to get somewhere and finally arrive.
Christian Zen isn’t a contradiction.
It’s a way home.
It’s what happens when the Gospel stops being a story you recite and starts being a rhythm you live. It’s what happens when “Be still and know that I am God” becomes more than a verse, it becomes a breath practice. A doorway. A surrender.
So no, I’m not replacing Jesus with Buddha.
I’m walking with both.
One hand open. One breath at a time.
And in the silence where their paths meet, I find something deeper than doctrine.
I find love.
I find stillness.
I find the Christ who never needed a microphone, because he had the mountains, the sea, the wind, and the heart of anyone willing to sit down and listen.
Enlightened Life Fellowship 