The Buddha You Never Saw Is the One Who Saved You

The Chris Abraham Show

Enlightenment Isn’t Loud. It Mops Floors.

There’s a saying in Zen: “If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.” It sounds violent, but it isn’t. It’s a warning — against false idols, against ego, against brandishing your enlightenment like a badge. Because the real Buddha doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t post about it. He certainly doesn’t go on speaking tours.

The real Buddha might be mopping the floors after the high school prom. She might be your mother, quietly cooking soup for the neighbor with cancer. He might be the hospice nurse who holds your father's hand when the morphine finally wins. No livestream. No accolades. Just presence. Just grace.

I’ve seen them. Not the floating monks — though I do believe some can levitate — but the ones who hover just above despair. The ones who carry the weight with silence and kindness. My teachers in Hawaii, Mrs. Kai and Mrs. Sakai, were Buddhas. They didn’t teach Buddhism. They taught everything that matters. With chalk. With laughter. With patience for a kid who didn’t always deserve it.

In Nepal in the ‘90s, I met a monk who tapped me on the shoulder and asked for the International Herald Tribune. It was folded in my back pocket, under a jumper — completely invisible. He hadn’t seen it. He knew. You don’t forget moments like that. You just tuck them away, like seeds, until they bloom.

The truth is: we miss most of the Buddhas. We’re too distracted. We expect enlightenment to glow like Times Square. But it doesn’t. It whispers. It blends in. You can sit next to it on the bus and never know. Our brains filter out the miraculous — and maybe that’s part of the mercy.

When I got my concealed carry permit in Arlington, the chief made me promise three things: Don’t announce it. Don’t let it print. And never, ever brandish. That’s how I think about real spiritual power. If it’s loud, it’s probably not real. If it demands attention, it’s probably ego. The Buddha doesn’t brandish. The Christ doesn’t post. The Tao doesn’t demand followers.

They serve.

But that’s the problem today. Everyone wants to be the vanguard. No one wants to be the janitor. Everyone wants to “lead the revolution” — once they finish their speaking engagement. Everyone wants to speak “for the trees,” as if the trees filed a request. But when it’s time to wash dishes, sit with the dying, or change a stranger’s wound dressing — they’re suddenly busy.

It’s all mañana. Once the utopia arrives. Once the revolution is over. Once the equity audits are done and the right words are found — then we’ll help. Then we’ll serve. Then we’ll be kind. But never now. Never dirty. Never humbled. Never barefoot in a borrowed kitchen, ladling stew for someone who smells like regret.

I don’t want that kind of progress.

Buddha nature is not theoretical. It’s incarnate. And it lives in the ones who do — not the ones who preach. It glows faintly behind the eyes of the ones who carry burdens and never mention it. It stirs in the hospice volunteers, the sandwich makers, the unknown caregivers, and yes, the sons who sleep on couches for a year while their mothers die slowly from cancer.

That doesn’t make me a Buddha. Far from it.

But I’ve seen the ones who are.

And they don’t need followers. They don’t need blogs. They don’t even need credit. They just cut wood, carry water, and vanish before the applause.