“I was in a cramped apartment in the outskirts of Paris in the early 1970s crowded with Vietnamese refugees plus one or two English-speaking guests. At the heart of the community was the poet and Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh, whose name at that time wasn’t widely known. An animated discussion was going on in the main room just out of earshot, but I had been given the task that evening of doing the washing up. The pots, pans, and rice bowls seemed to reach half to the ceiling in that closet-sized kitchen. I felt really annoyed. Stuck with an infinity of dirty dishes, I was missing the main event.
Somehow Nhat Hanh picked up on my irritation. Suddenly he was standing next to me. ‘Jim,’ he asked, ‘why are you washing the dishes?’ I knew I was suddenly facing one of those very tricky Zen questions. Saying it was my turn wasn’t adequate. I tried to think of a good Zen answer, but all I could come up with was, ‘You should wash the dishes to get them clean.’ ‘No,’ said Nhat Hanh. ‘You should wash the dishes to wash the dishes.’ I’ve been mulling over that answer ever since — more than four decades of mulling. I’m still in the dark. But what he said next was instantly helpful: ‘You should wash each dish as if it were the baby Jesus.’” That sentence was a flash of lightning.
While I still mostly wash the dishes to get them clean, every now and then I find I am, just for a passing moment, ‘washing the baby Jesus.’ I have recovered the awareness that sacred space includes the kitchen sink. And when that happens, though I haven’t left the kitchen, it’s something like reaching the Mount of the Beatitudes after a very long walk, in part thanks to the guidance of a Buddhist monk from Vietnam.”