One of the most common objections to Zen—especially from students who have taken the time to study classical Buddhism—is that Zen teachers often say things that appear plainly wrong. Not merely puzzling, but contrary to core Buddhist teachings. They dismiss scripture, undermine doctrine, contradict the Four Noble Truths, or speak in ways that sound irreverent, illogical, or even unethical.
And yet, this apparent contradiction is not a flaw in Zen. It is one of its defining features.
To understand why, we need to revisit a foundational Mahāyāna concept: upāya, usually translated as “expedient” or “skillful means.” The idea is simple but radical—truth cannot be delivered in a single, universally applicable form. What liberates one student may trap another. A teaching that clarifies at one stage may obstruct at the next. Therefore, a teacher committed to awakening rather than ideology must be willing to adapt methods—even at the cost of surface-level consistency.
Zen takes this principle seriously. Perhaps too seriously for comfort.
Consider the infamous instruction: “If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.” Read literally, it is absurd and offensive. Read pedagogically, it is precise. The statement targets a specific obstacle: attachment to images of enlightenment. The “Buddha” to be killed is not the historical figure, but the mental construct—the idealized object that students cling to in place of direct realization. What looks like blasphemy is actually a corrective maneuver.
Zen’s paradoxes, koans, and abrupt gestures operate in the same way. When a master shouts, strikes the floor, or responds with silence, it can appear to violate Buddhist commitments to compassion and right speech. But these acts are not meant to convey information; they are meant to interrupt fixation. The problem being addressed is not ignorance of doctrine, but entanglement in concepts. Sometimes the most compassionate act is not explanation, but disruption.
This also explains why Zen teachers occasionally employ language that seems doctrinally suspect. References to a “True Self” or “Original Face” appear to contradict the Buddhist teaching of non-self. But again, these terms are not metaphysical claims. They are provisional pointers—designed to draw students into direct inquiry. When examined closely, the “True Self” dissolves, revealing precisely what the doctrine of non-self was pointing to all along.
The danger, of course, is mistaking expedient means for ultimate truth. Zen’s methods only work when understood as tools, not doctrines. Detached from context, they become slogans. Worse, they can be misused to justify confusion, anti-intellectualism, or authoritarian teaching. Expedient means demand discernment—both from teachers and students.
At its best, Zen is not inconsistent with Buddhism; it is ruthlessly aligned with its aim. Liberation, not belief. Clarity, not comfort. Direct seeing, not conceptual agreement.
Zen teachers sometimes say the “wrong” thing because saying the “right” thing would keep the student stuck. The measure of a teaching is not how well it fits a system, but whether it loosens the grip of delusion. From that perspective, contradiction is not a failure of Buddhism—it may be its sharpest instrument.
And if that makes Zen uncomfortable, good. That discomfort may be doing exactly what it was designed to do.
For the full list of previous videos: Deeper Explanation
