Noble Silence, or Keeping Quiet
On the Tianya forum I saw a Christian say this: "I am a Christian, but I keep silent about Buddha, Dao, and God; I keep silent about every ultimate unknown."
This is the most masterful thing I have yet heard a religious believer say in debate with other believers. Those words alone are enough to make me willing to take him as my teacher. In my view, whoever can say such a thing must be a broadly learned yet modest and sincere person. To borrow an internet catchphrase: masters are among the people. Many people of the highest cultivation are hidden among the passersby of this world—like the Sweeping Monk in Jin Yong's Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils, unknown to the world yet of the highest attainment; like Wang Xiaobo's "silent majority," who do not speak but who understand everything in their hearts.
When I practiced quietly in the monastery, the meditation hall required "noble silence"—that is, keeping silent, shutting one's mouth. For someone unfortunate enough to love writing, noble silence is very hard—for someone like me, for instance. But one can strive to do as this Christian friend suggested: remain silent on controversial questions.
One important purpose of religious training is to train people into tolerant, kind, modest, and loving beings, determined by religion's inherent mission. Human religion arose to improve human society to the greatest extent and reduce strife among people. If believers, after studying religious thought and undergoing various training, end up contradicting religion's fundamental purpose and becoming bigoted, combative, and quarrelsome, that seems improper both for others and for themselves.
I strongly dislike being interfered with; following Confucius's maxim "do not impose on others what you yourself do not desire," and extending myself to others, I likewise come to dislike interfering with them. Timely silence is the respect and concession others deserve.
Chinese Buddhism has long followed the Mahayana path, but as Master Taixu, one of the four great monks of the Republican era, said: we talk of Mahayana, yet in fact bear Hinayana fruit. Meanwhile some Southeast Asian countries, such as Thailand and Sri Lanka, follow the Hinayana path yet end up bearing Mahayana fruit—nearly the whole nation becoming Buddhist. The reason for this phenomenon probably lies in humanity's fundamental aversion to interference and its love of direct realization. Theravada practitioners practice quietly, seeking their own awakening; when they practice into kindness, love, tolerance, and humility, those around them are naturally transformed and drawn to the Dharma without a word needed. Ten thousand words are less convincing than practice.
Among modern eminent monks, Master Hongyi had the deepest and widest influence through his unmatched talent and strict observance of the precepts, his every word and act in perfect accord with the Dharma. Master Hongyi advocated few words and much action, a gentle nature and smooth affairs, everywhere upholding the principle that action speaks louder than words, disciplining himself before disciplining others—and so people trusted him.
Truth is like a loach: we often think we have caught it, never realizing it has already slipped through our fingers. Our limited capacities can explore only limited truth; a vast unknown world lies beyond our present reach. Rather than argue endlessly over this unknown, it is better to keep silent. One may put forward views for later generations to confirm, but to stubbornly hold that one's own conviction is ultimate truth and quarrel over it is absurd.
Therefore, silence is a wisdom born of self-knowledge.