Why do we read SUN TZU'S ART OF WAR at a Zen temple?

Courage, strategy, and knowing when I'm on the path.

Photo Michelle Mishina

I first began studying Sun Tzu's Art of War more than 20 years ago. Back then, I picked up a small, hardbound version with an accompanying audio CD, which I listened to on road trips, including one time when I drove Highway 50, The Loneliest Road in America, from Chicago to San Francisco.

I did that trip, which was mostly on isolated two-lane highways, alone and the audio book kept me company when I wasn't jamming out to one of my many mix CDs.  (Remember those?)

It was the first time I ever did that, took a big road trip alone. I was 19 years old. It was also the first time I ever visited Las Vegas and my first time in several Western states. I remember feeling slightly aghast at all the blinking lights and faux monuments on The Vegas Strip. I also remember seeing the arches in Moab and marveling at how the landscape turned from monotone prairie in Kansas to vividly colored, layered hills at the edge of appropriately named Colorado.

I also remember wondering what Sun Tzu, had he been in the car with me that day, would have been thinking. Were the dried up, terracotta gullies flanking the highway suitable terrain for occupying or a better spot from which to launch an attack? Was I adequately provisioned for my campaign?

I had started reading Sun Tzu hoping for lessons in contemporary strategy to apply to my work as a human rights activist advocating for democracy in Burma. The text’s antiquated language, however, made most of the guidance in the book close to incomprehensible and inapplicable to modern circumstances—or so I thought. I have been fortunate in the past five years to revisit the text, and this time with wise guides and fellow explorers who've helped reveal just how relevant and important it is, even 2,500 years after its writing. 

When we read Sun Tzu at Chozen-ji, the Zen temple and Dojo where I live, it is through the lens of Zen. Chozen-ji founder, Tanouye Tenshin Rotaishi, used to go so far as to cross out words and phrases in the English translation, replacing them with more familiar terms from our Zen training. "Moral influence" in Samuel B. Griffith's 1963 translation, for example,  was replaced with "being in accord with the Tao", the Tao being the fundamental rhythm and unifying force of the Universe.

In true Zen fashion, however, what I love most about reading Sun Tzu now, is that, through all of the discussions of how to use troops, how to ration supplies, when to attack, and how to use terrain to one's advantage, the fundamental and often repeated message is that being successful in any endeavor comes down to who you are. 

Do you know yourself? 

Can you see what's in front of you clearly or is your vision clouded by delusion, greed, anger, or ego? 

What habits do you need to transcend in order to be in accord with the Tao, and therefore, to achieve your aims?

These are the questions that Sun Tzu directs his readers to ask of ourselves, again and again. And, whenever he asserts that a good strategist or general must be in accord with the Tao, it can be read as encouragement to look at the ways that we are *out* of accord, remembering that the path to being in accord with the Tao is our spiritual training. As training is, by its nature, a lifelong endeavor, this means that we may never truly feel that we are in accord with the Tao. However, over time, we may approach it with more and more confidence. More likely still is that we will be able to notice more quickly and easily whenever we are out of accord.

I've noticed that many people, especially social activists and Buddhists, approach Sun Tzu with a lot of trepidation and suspicion. They often feel fundamentally uncomfortable with the idea of any kind of violence in the first place.

I can understand. I remember trying to relate to my boyfriend's mom in the early 2000s that, even in the areas of ethnic armed conflict in Eastern Burma I worked in, life still went on. She was not impressed and still harbored great misgivings about her son following me to Burma, where war was a part of life that one hoped to avoid but which was still necessary to be prepared for and deal with. Even amidst the conflict and the chaos, it still behooved people to survive, to live, and to make the most out of living. 

For most of us, though, it is still useful to look at Sun Tzu as a guide to understanding conflict at large. All sorts of conflict, large and small. And, why not? Conflict in life cannot be avoided, so it would be great to be able to navigate it more skillfully and, as Sun Tzu counsels, with the perspective of an enlightened leader and with the ultimate goal of harmony. 

All of the strategy in the world, however, would be of little use if people didn't have the courage to execute it. Courage, from the French couer, for heart, has a connotation in English of valor and bravery. But, I like Sun Tzu's definition better, which is that courage is the ability to seize opportunity without hesitation. 

Courage and strategy have become two animating themes in my life. As goals, they push me to train harder. I want to see more clearly and get closer to being in accord with the Tao—or at least knowing with more clarity when I'm not in accord. And I want to be more effective in all that I do.

Students at Chozen-ji have read Sun Tzu's Art of War for decades. Personally, doing so has given me new tools with which to analyze anything I'd consider a campaign or a conflict in my life, professional or personal. It has also offered frequent reminders to look first at myself and to ask whether there's more training I need to do to accomplish my aims. Because, at the end of the day, ideas are good. Execution is more valuable still. But, the most important key to success is the kind of person I am.

Do I know myself? Am I seeing the situation clearly? These are the questions I ask of myself every day with the goal of promoting more harmony in the world. But however lofty and global my goals may be, it all starts with who I am inside and my training.