Biblical teachings frame human nature as inherently flawed.

Zen teaching reframes the spiritual path as turning toward one's lived experience, including fear and shame.

Shifting focus away from original sin can transform one's inner experience.

My church’s youth ministry organization was called Awana, which stands for “Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed.” It is, I maintain, the least catchy slogan ever devised for children. The phrase comes from 2 Timothy 2:15 (King James Version): “Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed.”

Awana began in 1950 in Chicago as a Bible memorization program for kids. The boys were called Pals. The girls were called Chums, which made us sound far more cheerful and ready to lend a hand than we actually were. I wore a gray uniform and a vest where badges for memorization achievement accumulated in neat rows.

Every Wednesday evening, I would climb the church stairs to the loft, where the ceiling narrowed and the air thinned, and then line up with the other gray Chums and wait to recite. A leader held the handbook open and listened for precision.

One of the verses I memorized for points, one that has stayed with me, was from Isaiah 64:6.

“But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousness are as filthy rags;and we all do fade as a leaf;and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away.”

It was bracing language for an 8-year-old. Not only was I unclean, but even my best attempt at goodness was filthy. I recited it clearly. I did not falter. I sat down, having publicly agreed that, at base, I was compromised.

The doctrine behind this language, what became known as original sin, was shaped most influentially by Augustine of Hippo. Augustine argued that humanity inherits a fallen condition from Adam. We are not born neutral. We are born marked. Over time, this idea hardened into a starting assumption: The human story begins in deficiency.

As a child, I did not know Augustine’s name, but I absorbed his premise. At base, I was flawed. The task was improvement through memorization, obedience, vigilance, and sacrifice. My inherent nature was a problem to be managed. The spiritual life was a climb involving a hand up from God for those smart enough to take it.

Last month, I attended a retreat at Upaya Zen Center in Santa Fe. The program was called Original Love and led by Zen teacher Henry Shukman and Roshi Joan Halifax.

Upaya sits on a hill just above downtown Santa Fe, adobe buildings gathered around small courtyards, with the Sangre de Cristo mountains stretched out beyond. Our group met first in one of the larger rooms on campus, with wooden beams overhead and chairs arranged in simple rows. The space felt plain and attentive.

Henry described two movements in spiritual life. One, he called up and out, the impulse to transcend my mess, refine myself, and ascend toward a better version of who I imagine I should be. The other, he called down and in, the willingness to turn toward my lived experience, including fear and shame, and to see through the ego that is constantly managing its image.

Up and out felt intimately familiar. It was the Awana strategy carried into adulthood. Transcendence as salvation. The promise that if I worked hard enough on myself or was appropriately penitent or fostered a true enough belief in Jesus, I might finally arrive at an acceptable version. Down and in was different. It did not offer badges. It did not promise escape. It asked me to remain with what I would prefer to edit out.

One thing Henry said really landed with me: “There is a part of you that does not respond to improvement.” Not because this part is stubborn or lazy, but because it is not in need of correction. Beneath the conditioned self, beneath the striving ego, there is no corruption. There is love. Original love. Not achieved. Not assembled. Not improved into existence.

The difference between these two visions is not merely theological. It is physical.

When I believe I am fundamentally unclean, that even my righteousness is suspect, my body organizes itself accordingly. My chest lifts slightly in self-presentation. My jaw firms. The muscles along my spine hold a low-grade readiness. I feel a constant micro-adjustment, as if someone might at any moment open a handbook and check for precision. My breath rides higher. My eyes scan for feedback. My life becomes a recitation.

When I allow for the possibility that there is something in me that does not respond to improvement because it does not require it, my body arranges itself differently. My shoulders drop. My breath lowers and widens. My belly softens. The soles of my feet register the ground instead of preparing to launch upward. There is less vertical striving and more downward contact. The stance shifts from performance to presence.

After the talk, I stepped out into the Santa Fe night and began the short stroll back to my room. The cold met my face first, crisp and immediate. Gravel crunched underfoot in a steady rhythm. My breath formed small clouds that appeared and disappeared. The path curved gently, marked by low lights that cast small circles on the ground.

As I walked down the curved path, low lights casting small circles on the ground, I remembered that verse from Isaiah I had memorized: “All our righteousness are as filthy rags.” I had always heard that as an indictment of my core.

But what if the filthy rags are not the person, but the ego’s attempts at righteousness? What if the rags are my anxious performances, my curated goodness, my subtle résumé building, my positioning as acceptable? What if “all our righteousness” refers to the fabric my ego stitches from fear and comparison?

My ego produces garments continuously. It cuts and sews from insecurity. It dyes everything in urgency. It holds each finished piece up to the light and asks, Is this enough yet? Am I presentable now? If that is what Isaiah is calling filthy, then the verse is not an attack on my essence but on my self-manufacture.

The rhythm of my steps slowed. I could feel, almost in real time, the difference between the two interpretations. In one, my body subtly leaned forward, braced for correction. In the other, my weight settled more fully into my feet.

Perhaps Augustine and Henry are not arguing across centuries so much as pointing at different layers of the same experience. The ego’s righteousness fades like a leaf, blown about by fear. But beneath that wind-tossed fabric, something remains untouched.

By the time I walked into the housing courtyard, the old reflex to improve had loosened its grip, if only slightly. I walked to my door beneath a sky punctured with stars, aware of my breathing, aware of the quiet.

For a moment, I stood at the threshold, considering the part of me that does not respond to improvement. The part that had never been a rag. The part I was beginning to see might rightly be called original love.

I turned the key and opened the door with the feeling of coming home.

© Psychology Today