You Don’t Become Free — You Stop Pretending | A Zen Teaching from Shōyōroku 97

A teishō from One River Zen with Sensei Michael Brunner of Ottawa, Illinois

Good morning. It’s ten degrees outside. It makes the fire feel even warmer. Someone said earlier that it felt like a Norman Rockwell Zen painting in here!

It’s wonderful practicing with you. The services this morning were beautiful. Over the course of this past week, I found myself reflecting on a few things—one in particular that we need constant reminding of.

We often feel hurt—genuinely hurt—when even the smallest scratch is made in the veneer of who we think we are. Someone interrupts us, misunderstands us, or questions us just a little, touches the wrong place, and suddenly we feel fully threatened. An existential threat.

We go straight into fight-or-flight. We tighten. We defend. We build walls around a story that was never solid to begin with. And yet we curate it as if it were. We work hard to keep it intact. We cling to our roles, our titles, our identities, as though they were our very heartbeat.

But the more seriously we take ourselves, the more easily we break.

What if—just for a moment—we stepped off the stage?

What if we noticed the absurdity of the performance and had a good laugh at it? What if we loosened our grip just long enough to laugh—not a cruel laugh, but a liberating one? A laugh that sees clearly the quality of this life.

There’s a kōan in the Shōyōroku, Case 97, that lands right here. It dissolves the entire architecture of power and spiritual pride in a beautifully human gesture. It’s called Emperor Dōkō’s Cap.

Attention!
Emperor Dōkō said to Master Kōke, “This humble person has obtained the capital’s sole treasure. It’s just that no one prizes it.”

Kōke said, “Lend me Your Majesty’s treasure, and I’ll see.”

The Emperor pulled down on his hat strings with both hands.

Kōke responded, “Who could ever put a price on Your Majesty’s treasure?”

There are two forms of life-and-death authority meeting here. The Emperor controls physical destiny. At this point in Chinese history, he could have someone executed with a word. Kōke controls spiritual destiny—with a phrase he can give life or kill, transmit or withhold.

We might imagine this as a clash of swords. That’s not what happens.

The Emperor declares that he has penetrated the Great Matter—that he possesses the sole treasure. Coming from an emperor, this could easily sound like arrogance. But within the Zen context, he’s saying something quite different: I’ve seen it. I have it. I recognize it as my own. There’s no insecurity here. There’s a quiet confidence—perhaps even the sense that he stands where ordinary people cannot tread.

Kōke doesn’t argue. He doesn’t correct him. Like any good master, he simply says, “Oh? You have it? Then show me.”

So the Emperor, with complete confidence—and even a certain dignity—reaches up and pulls down on his hat strings.

Picture that moment. This is the ruler of the realm, demonstrating the Great Matter, the priceless jewel beyond all valuation. And what does he do? Something completely ordinary. Almost absurd. The most powerful man in the land suddenly looks like someone adjusting their winter hat before stepping outside.

No throne. No robes. No edict. No performance.

For a brief moment, he forgets to be the Emperor. He reveals himself simply as a human being—spontaneous, unguarded, a little ridiculous, and utterly free.

He doesn’t summon thunder. And yet lightning strikes from a clear blue sky.

In that unguarded moment, all the stories fall away. The treasure shines through. Kōke sees it immediately.

I’ve often wondered about Kōke’s tone. Was he deadpan? Was he delighted? Either way, he confirms that they are seeing the same thing:

“Who could ever put a price on Your Majesty’s treasure?”

This isn’t praise for praise’s sake. It’s a precise confirmation—of the Emperor before all claims are made. Beyond the one tugging the strings.

This kōan always reminds me of a parable from the Lotus Sūtra.

A poor man reunites with an old friend who has since become very wealthy. They drink and laugh long into the night. For a brief time, the poor man feels safe, warm, unburdened. With a full belly and a few cups of wine, he falls asleep peacefully.

Seeing his friend’s hardship, the wealthy man wants to change his life forever. But he knows the poor man is too proud to accept help while awake. So while he sleeps, the wealthy man sews a priceless jewel into the hem of his robe—right near his heart.

The next morning, the poor man wakes, remembering only that he is poor. He doesn’t believe he belongs in such a place, so he slips away quietly. For years he wanders, struggling, sometimes starving, convinced of scarcity and lack.

All the while, he carries the jewel with him everywhere he goes.

Years later, the wealthy friend happens to see him again and is horrified by his condition. “Why are you living like this?” he asks. “Why didn’t you use the jewel I gave you?”

The poor man insists he has nothing. Life has been hard. Things are scarce.

The friend reaches into the hem of his robe and shows him the jewel.

And in that moment, everything collapses—the story of insufficiency, the belief in inadequacy, the fear of failure. Nothing actually changes except the narrative. He had been rich the entire time.

This is our life.

We walk around convinced of lack—not good enough, not spiritual enough, not calm enough. And yet the jewel shines quietly beneath every breath.

When the Emperor forgets his crown and tugs those two strings—looking absurd for just a heartbeat—he remembers.

This kōan invites us to see how ridiculous our self-seriousness is. How exhausting our self-protection becomes. How much joy we sacrifice trying to appear worthy when we were already worthy from the start.

Buddha-nature doesn’t present itself through declaration or rigid choreography—even when the ritual is beautiful, like the one we saw this morning. Buddha-nature manifests as play, spontaneity, laughter, tears, and movement.

Awakening isn’t stiff. It isn’t starched. It wiggles. It laughs. It keeps going.

Most Zen dialogues have a winner. Someone proves themselves. Someone fails. The bell rings and someone gets sent back to try again.

Not here.

The Emperor doesn’t vanquish the master. The master doesn’t defeat the Emperor. Together, they celebrate the Way that is always unfolding right before our eyes.

So here’s the question for us:
Can you reveal Buddha-nature without your veneer of competence?
Without the performance?
Without making sure it fits the image of who you think you are?

This week, I invite you: lend me your treasure. We’ll see.

Better yet—lend it to everyone you meet. Have some fun with this practice.

I was talking with Mujin—Bob Carlson—recently. He raised a wonderful question. He said, “Sometimes during check-ins, the world looks awfully bleak for many people. Why isn’t there more happiness?”

I told him that was a beautiful observation. It’s important to notice what’s missing—but even more powerful when we become the thing that’s missing. Mujin always is that!

So this week, tug those hat strings. Do a little dance. Play the fool. Bring a smile into the spaces you enter.

This practice has so much to offer. Each of you carries the jewel that contains the whole universe.

You just have to get over yourself enough to let it shine!