Chapter XIII: Part 13

An absolute confidence is placed in the master as far as his understanding of Zen goes. But if the monk has sufficient reason to doubt the master’s ability, he may settle it personally with him at the time of sanzen. This presentation of views, therefore, is no idle play for either of the parties concerned. It is indeed a most serious affair, and because it is so the discipline of Zen has a great moral value outside its philosophy. How serious this is, may be guessed from the famous interview between the venerable Shōju[7.30] and Hakuin, father of modern Zen in Japan.

One summer evening when Hakuin presented his view to the old master who was cooling himself on the veranda, the master said, “Stuff and nonsense.” Hakuin echoed this loudly and rather satirically, “Stuff and nonsense!” Thereupon the master seized him, boxed him several times, and finally pushed him off the veranda. It was soon after the rainy weather, and poor Hakuin rolled in the mud and water. Having recovered himself after a while, he came up and reverentially bowed to the teacher, who then remarked again, “O you, denizen of the dark cavern!”

Another day Hakuin thought that the master did not know how deep his knowledge of Zen was and decided to have a settlement with him anyhow. As soon as the time came, Hakuin entered the master’s room and exhausted all his ingenuity in contest with him, making his mind up not to give way an inch of ground this time. The master was furious, and finally taking hold of Hakuin gave him several slaps and let him go over the porch again. He fell several feet at the foot of the stone-wall, where he remained for a while almost senseless. The master looked down and heartily laughed at the poor fellow. This brought Hakuin back to consciousness. He came up again all in perspiration. The master, however, did not release him yet and stigmatised him as ever with “O you, denizen of the dark cavern!”

Hakuin grew desperate and thought of leaving the old master altogether. When one day he was going about begging in the village, a certain accident[f149] made him all of a sudden open his mental eye to the truth of Zen, hitherto completely shut off from him. His joy knew no bounds and he came back in a most exalted state of mind. Before he crossed the front gate, the master recognised him and beckoned to him, saying, “What a good news have you brought home to-day? Come right in, quick, quick!” Hakuin then told him all about what he went through with that day. The master tenderly stroked him on the back and said, “You have it now, you have it now.” After this, Hakuin was never called names.

Such was the training the father of modern Japanese Zen had to go through. How terrible the old Shōju was when he pushed Hakuin down the stone-wall! But how motherly when the disciple after so much of ill-treatment finally came out triumphantly! There is nothing lukewarm in Zen. If it is lukewarm, it is not Zen. It expects one to penetrate into the very depths of truth, and the truth can never be grasped until one comes back to one’s native nakedness shorn of all trumperies, intellectual or otherwise. Each slap dealt by Shōju stripped Hakuin of his insincerities. We are all living under so many casings which really have nothing to do with our inmost self. To reach the latter, therefore, and to gain the real knowledge of ourselves, the Zen masters resort to methods seemingly inhuman. In this case however there must be absolute faith in the truth of Zen and in the master’s perfect understanding of it. The lack of this faith will also mean the same in one’s own spiritual possibilities. So exclaims Rinzai: “O you, men of little faith! How can you ever expect to fathom the depths of the ocean of Zen?”

VIII

In the life of the Zendo there is no fixed period of graduation as in a school education. With some, graduation may not take place even after his twenty years’ boarding there. But with ordinary abilities and a large amount of perseverance and indefatigability, one is able to probe into every intricacy of the teachings of Zen within a space of ten years.

To practise the principle of Zen, however, in every moment of life, that is, to grow fully saturated in the spirit of Zen is another question. One life may be too short for it, for it is said that even Śākyamuni and Maitreya themselves are yet in the midst of self-training.

To be a perfectly qualified master, a mere understanding of the truth of Zen is not sufficient. One must go through a period which is known as “the long maturing of the sacred womb.”[7.31] The term must have originally come from Taoism; and in Zen nowadays it means, broadly speaking, living a life harmonious with the understanding. Under the direction of a master, a monk may finally attain to a thorough knowledge of all the mysteries of Zen; but this is more or less intellectual, though in the highest possible sense. The monk’s life, in and out, must grow in perfect unison with this attainment. To do this a further training is necessary, for what he has gained at Zendo is after all the pointing of the direction where his utmost efforts have to be put forth. But it is not at all imperative now to remain in the Zendo. On the contrary, his intellectual attainments must be further put on trial by coming into actual contact with the world. There are no prescribed rules for this “maturing.” Each one acts on his own discretion in the accidental circumstances in which he may find himself. He may retire into the mountains and live a solitary hermit, or he may come out into the “market” and be an active participant in all the affairs of the world. The sixth patriarch is said to have been living among the mountaineers for fifteen years after he left the fifth patriarch. He was quite unknown in the world until he came out to a lecture by Inshu (Yin-tsung).[7.32] Chu, the National Teacher of Nan-yang, spent forty years in Nanyang and did not show himself out in the capital. But his holy life became known far and near, and at the urgent request of the Emperor he finally left his hut. Isan (Wei-shan) spent several years in the wilderness, living on nuts and befriending monkeys and deer. However, he was found out and big monasteries were built about his anchorage, he became master of 1,500 monks. Kwanzan,[7.33] the founder of Myōshinji, Kyoto, retired in Mino province, and worked as day-labourer for the villagers. Nobody recognised him until one day an accident brought out his identity and the court insisted on his founding a monastery in the capital.[f150] Hakuin became the keeper of a deserted temple in Suruga which was his sole heritage in the world. We can picture to ourselves the scene of its dilapidations when we read this: “There were no roofs and the stars shone through at night. Nor was there any floor. It was necessary to have a rain-hat and to put on a pair of high _getas_ when anything was going on while raining in the main part of the temple. All the property attached to it was in the hands of the creditors, and the priestly belongings were mortgaged to the merchants.”—This was the beginning of Hakuin’s career.

There are many other notable ones, the history of Zen abounds with such instances. The idea however is not to practise asceticism, it is the “maturing,” as they have properly designated, of one’s moral character. Many serpents and adders are waiting at the porch, and if one fails to trample them down effectively, they raise the heads again and the whole edifice of moral culture built up in vision may collapse even in one day. Antinomianism is also the pitfall for Zen followers, against which a constant vigil is needed. Hence this “maturing.”

IX

In some respects, no doubt, this kind of education prevailing at the Zendo is behind the times. But its guiding principles such as simplification of life, not wasting a moment idly, self-independence, and what they call “secret virtue,” are sound for all ages. Especially, this latter is one of the most characteristic features of Zen discipline. “Secret virtue” means practising goodness without any thought of recognition, neither by others nor by oneself. The Christians may call this the doing of “Thy Will.” A child is drowned, and I get into the water, and it is saved. What was to be done was done. Nothing more is thought of it. I walk away and never turn back. A cloud passes, and the sky is as blue and as broad as ever. Zen calls it a “deed without merit,” and compares it to a man’s work who tries to fill up a well with snow.

This is the psychological aspect of “secret virtue.” When it is religiously considered, it is to regard and use the world reverentially and gratefully, feeling as if one were carrying on one’s shoulders all the sins of the world. An old woman asked Jōshu,[7.34] “I belong to the sex that is hindered in five ways from attaining Buddhahood; and how can I ever be delivered from them?” Answered the master, “O let all other people be born in heaven and let me, this humble self, alone continue suffering in this ocean of pain!” This is the spirit of the true Zen student. There is another story illustrating the same spirit of longsuffering. The district of Jōshu where this Zen master’s monastery was situated and where he got his popular title, was noted for a fine stone-bridge. A monk one day came up to the master and asked,[7.35] “We hear so much of the splendid stone-bridge of Jōshu, but I see here nothing but a miserable old rustic log-bridge.” Jōshu retorted, “You just see the rustic log-bridge, and fail to see the stone-bridge of Jōshu.” “What is the stone-bridge then?” “Horses go over it, asses go over it,” was Jōshu’s reply. This seems to be but a trivial talk about a bridge, but considered from the inner way of looking at such cases, there is a great deal of truth touching the centre of one’s spiritual life. We may inquire what kind of bridge is represented here. Was Jōshu speaking only of a stone-bridge in his monastery premises, which was strong enough for all kinds of passengers over it? Let each one of us reflect within himself and see if he is in possession of one bridge over which pass not only horses and asses, men and women, carts heavy and light, but the whole world with its insanities and morbidities, and which is not only thus passed over but quite frequently trampled down and even cursed,—a bridge which suffers all these treatments, good as well as despised, patiently and uncomplainingly. Was Jōshu referring to this kind of bridge? In any event we can read something of the sort in the cases above cited.

But this Zen spirit of self-suffering ought not to be understood in the Christian sense that a man must spend all his time in prayer and mortification for the absolution of sin. For a Zen monk has no desire to be absolved from sin, this is too selfish an idea, and Zen is free from egotism. The Zen monk wishes to save the world from the misery of sin, and as to his own sin he lets it take care of itself, as he knows it is not a thing inherent in his nature. For this reason it is possible for him to be one of those who are described as “they that weep as though they wept not; and they that rejoice as though they rejoiced not; and they that buy as though they possessed not; and they that use this world as not abusing it.”

Says Christ, “When thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth; that thine alms may be in secret.” This is a “secret virtue” of Buddhism. But when he goes on to say that “thy Father who seeth in secret shall recompense thee,” there we see a deep cleavage between Buddhism and Christianity. As long as there is any thought of anybody, whether he be God or Devil, knowing of your doings, Zen would say “You are not yet one of us.” Deeds that are accompanied by such thought are not “meritless deeds,” but full of tracks and shadows. If a Spirit is tracing you, he will in no time get hold of you and make you account for what you have done. The perfect garment shows no seams, inside and outside; it is one complete piece and nobody can tell where the work began and how it was woven. In Zen, therefore, there ought not to be left any trace of consciousness after the doing of alms, much less the thought of recompensation even by God. The Zen ideal is to be “the wind that bloweth where it listeth, and the sound of which we hear but cannot tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth.”

Lieh-tzŭ, the Chinese philosopher, describes this frame of mind in a figurative manner as follows: “I allowed my mind without restraint to think of whatever it pleased and my mouth to talk about whatever it pleased; I then forgot whether the ‘this and not-this’ was mine or other’s, whether the gain and loss was mine or other’s; nor did I know whether Lao-shang-shin was my teacher, and whether Pa-kao was my friend. In and out, I was thoroughly transformed; and then it was that the eye became like the ear, and the ear like the nose, and the nose like the mouth; and there was nothing that was not identified. The mind was concentrated, and the form dissolved, and the bones and flesh all thawed away: I did not know where my form was supported, where my feet were treading; I just moved along with the wind, east and west, like a leaf of a tree detached from the stem, I was not conscious whether I was riding on the wind or the wind riding on me.”[f151]

X

As I stated before, Zen followers do not approve of Christians, even Christian mystics being too conscious of God who is the creator and supporter of all life and all being. Their attitude towards the Buddha and Zen is that of Lieh-tzŭ riding on the wind; a complete identification of the self with the object of thought is what is aimed at by the disciples of Jōshu, Ummon, and other leaders of Zen. This is the reason why they are all loath to hear the word Buddha or Zen mentioned in their discourse, not because indeed they are anti-Buddhist, but because they have so thoroughly assimilated Buddhism in their being. Listen to the gentle remonstrance given by Hōyen, of Gosozan, to his disciple Yengo:

Goso said,[7.36] “You are all right, but you have a trivial fault.” Yengo asked two or three times what that fault was. Said the master at last, “You have altogether too much of Zen.” “Why,” protested the disciple, “if one is studying Zen at all, don’t you think it the most natural thing for one to be talking of it? Why do you dislike it?” Replied Goso, “When it is like an ordinary everyday conversation, it is somewhat better.” A monk happened to be there with them, who asked, “Why do you specially hate talking about Zen?” “Because it turns one’s stomach,” was the master’s verdict.

Rinzai’s way of expressing himself in regard to this point is quite violent and revolutionary. And if we were not acquainted with the methods of Zen teachings, such passages as are quoted below would surely make our teeth chatter and our hair stand on end. The reader may think the author simply horrible, but we all know well how earnestly he feels about the falsehoods of the world and how unflinchingly he pushes himself forward through its confusion worse confounded. His hands may be compared to Jehovah’s in trying to destroy the idols and causing the images to cease. Read the following, for instance, in which Rinzai endeavours to strip one’s spirit off its last raiment of falsehood.

“O you, followers of Truth, if you wish to obtain an orthodox understanding [of Zen], do not be deceived by others. Inwardly or outwardly, if you encounter any obstacles, lay them low right away. If you encounter the Buddha slay him; if you encounter the Patriarch, slay him; if you encounter the Arhat or the parent or the relative, slay them all without hesitation: for this is the only way to deliverance. Do not get yourselves entangled with any object, but stand above, pass on, and be free. As I see those so-called followers of Truth all over the country, there are none who come to me free and independent of objects. In dealing with them, I strike them down any way they come. If they rely on the strength of their arms, I cut them right off; if they rely on their eloquence, I make them shut themselves up; if they rely on the sharpness of their eyes, I will hit them blind. There are indeed so far none who have presented themselves before me all alone, all free, all unique. They are invariably found caught by the idle tricks of the old masters. I have really nothing to give to you, all that I can do is to cure you of the diseases and deliver you from bondage.

“O you, followers of Truth, show yourselves here independent of all objects, I want to weigh the matter with you. For the last five or ten years I have waited in vain for such, and there are no such yet. They are all ghostly existences, ignominious gnomes haunting the woods or bamboo-groves, they are elfish spirits of the wilderness. They are madly biting into all heaps of filth. O you, mole-eyed, why are you wasting all the pious donations of the devout! Do you think you deserve the name of a monk, when you are still entertaining such a mistaken idea [of Zen]? I tell you, no Buddhas, no holy teachings, no discipling, no testifying! What do you seek in a neighbour’s house? O you, mole-eyed! You are putting another head over your own! What do you lack in yourselves? O you, followers of Truth, what you are making use of at this very moment, is none other than what makes a Patriarch or a Buddha. But you do not believe me, and seek it outwardly. Do not commit yourselves to an error. There are no realities outside, nor is there anything inside you may lay your hands on. You stick to the literal meaning of what I speak to you, but how far better it is to have all your hankerings stopped and be doing nothing whatever!” etc., etc.

This was the way Rinzai wanted to wipe out all trace of God-consciousness in the mind of a truth-seeker. How he wields Thor-like his thunder-bolt of harangue!

XI

The state of mind in which all traces of conceptual consciousness are wiped out is called by the Christian mystics poverty, and Tauler’s definition is: “Absolute poverty is thine when thou canst not remember whether anybody has ever owed thee or been indebted to thee for anything; just as all things will be forgotten by thee in the last journey of death.”

The Zen masters are more poetic and positive in their expression of the feeling of poverty, they do not make a direct reference to things worldly. Sings Mumon (Wu-mên)[7.37]:

“Hundreds of spring flowers; the autumnal moon;
A refreshing summer breeze; winter snow:
Free thy mind of all idle thoughts,
And for thee how enjoyable every season is!”

Or according to Shuan (Shou-an)[7.38]:

“At Nantai I sit quietly with an incense burning,
One day of rapture, all things are forgotten,
Not that mind is stopped and thoughts are put away,
But that there is really nothing to disturb my serenity.”

This is not to convey the idea that he is idly sitting and doing nothing particularly; or that he has nothing else to do but to enjoy the cherry-blossoms fragrant in the morning sun, or the lonely moon white and silvery: he may be in the midst of work, teaching pupils, reading the Sutras, sweeping and farming as all the masters have done, and yet his own mind is filled with transcendental happiness and quietude. He is living in God as Christians may say. All hankerings of the heart have departed, there are no idle thoughts clogging the flow of life-activity, and thus he is empty and poverty-stricken. As he is poverty-stricken, he knows how to enjoy the “spring flowers’’ and the “autumnal moon.” When worldly riches are amassed in his heart, there is no room left there for such celestial enjoyments. The Zen masters are wont of speaking positively about their contentment and unworldly riches. Instead of saying that they are empty-handed, they talk of the natural sufficiency of things about them. Yogi (Yang-ch‘i), however, refers to his deserted habitation where he found himself to be residing as keeper. One day he ascended the lecturing chair in the Hall and began to recite his own verse[7.39]:

“My dwelling is now here at Yogi; the walls and roof, how
weather-beaten!
The whole floor is covered white with snow crystal,
Shivering down the neck, I am filled with thoughts.”

After a pause he added the fourth line:

“How I recall the ancient masters whose habitat was no better than the
shade of a tree!”

Kyōgen (Hsiang-yen)[7.40] is more direct apparently in his allusion to poverty:

“My last year’s poverty was not poverty enough,
My poverty this year is poverty indeed;
In my poverty last year there was room for a gimlet’s point,
But this year even the gimlet is gone.”

Later, a master called Koboku Gen (K‘u-mu Yüan)[7.41] commented on this song of poverty by Kyōgen in the following verse:

“‘Neither a gimlet’s point nor the room for it,’ some sing; but this
is not yet real poverty:
As long as one is conscious of having nothing, there still remains
the guardian of poverty.
I am lately poverty-stricken in all conscience,
For from the very beginning I do not see even the one that is poor.”

Ummon was not poverty-stricken, but lean and emaciated; for when a monk asked him what were the special features of his school, the master answered, “My skin is dry and my bones are sticking out.” Corpulence and opulence have never been associated with spirituality, at least in the East. As a matter of fact, they are not inconsistent ideas; but the amassing of wealth under our economic conditions has always resulted in producing characters that do not go very well with our ideals of saintliness. Perhaps our too emphatic protest against materialism has done this. Thus not to have anything, even wisdom and virtue, has been made the object of Buddhist life, though this does not mean that it despises them. In despising there is in a large measure something impure, not thoroughly purgated; as true Bodhisattvas are even above purity and virtuousness, how much more so they would be above such petty weaknesses of human being! When the Buddhists are thus cleansed of all these, they will truly be poverty-stricken and thin and transparent.

The aim of Zen discipline is to attain to the state of “non-attainment” (_cittaṁ nopalabhyate_) as is technically expressed. All knowledge is an acquisition and accumulation, whereas Zen proposes to deprive one of all one’s possessions. The spirit is to make one poor and humble—thoroughly cleansed of inner impurities. Learning, on the contrary, makes one rich and arrogant. Because learning is earning, the more learned, the richer, and therefore “in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.” It is after all “vanity and a striving after wind.” Zen will heartily endorse this too. Says Laotzŭ, “Scholars gain everyday while the Taoists lose everyday.”[f152] The consummation of this kind of loss is “non-attainment,” which is poverty. Poverty in another word is emptiness, śūnyatā. When the spirit is all purged of its filth accumulated from time immemorial, it stands naked, with no raiments, with no trappings. It is now empty, free, genuine assuming its native authority. And there is a joy in this, not that kind of joy which is liable to be upset by its counterpart, grief, but an absolute joy which is “the gift of God,” which makes a man “enjoy good in all his labour,” and from which nothing can be taken, to which nothing can be put, but which shall stay for ever. Non-attainment, therefore, in Zen is positive conception, and not merely privative. The Buddhist modes of thinking are sometimes different from those of the West, and Christian readers are often taken aback at the idea of emptiness and at the too unconditioned assertion of idealism. Singularly, however, all the mystics, Buddhist or no, agree in their idea of poverty being the end of their spiritual development.

In Christianity, we seem to be too conscious of God, though we say that in Him we live and move and have our being. Zen wants to have even this last trace of God-consciousness, if possible, obliterated. That is why Zen followers advise us not to linger even where the Buddha is and to pass quickly away where he is not. All the training of the monk in the Zendo, in theory as well as in practice, is based in the notion of “meritless deed.” Poetically, this idea is expressed as follows:

“The bamboo shadows are sweeping the stairs,
But no dust is stirred:
The moonlight penetrates deep in the bottom of the pool,
But no trace is left in the water.”

When this is expressed in the more Indian and technical terms of the _Laṅkāvatāra-sūtra_, it is as follows:

“Habit-energy is not separated from mind, nor is it together with mind; though enveloped in habit-energy, mind has no marks of difference.

“Habit-energy which is like a soiled garment produced by manovijñāna, keeps mind from shining forth, though mind itself is a robe of the utmost purity.

“I state that the ālaya is like empty space, which is neither existent nor non-existent; for the ālaya has nothing to do with being or no-being.

“Through the transformation of manovijñāna, mind is cleansed of foulness, it is enlightened as it now thoroughly understands all things:—this I preach.”[f153]

XII

The monastery life is not all working and sitting quiet meditating on the “_kō-an_.” There is something of intellectual life, in the form of lecturing as has already been referred to. Anciently, however, there was no regular “_sesshin_,” and all the lecturing or giving sermons to the congregation was carried on the feast days, memorial days, or on other auspicious occasions such as receiving visitors, honourably discharging the officials, or completing given pieces of work. Every available opportunity was thus used intellectually to enlighten earnest seekers of the truth. These discourses, sermons, exhortations, and short pithy remarks so characteristic of Zen are recorded in its literature, the bulk of which indeed consists of nothing but these. While claiming to be above letters, Zen is filled with them, almost overfilled. Before giving some of such sermons, let me digress and say a few words about the Chinese language as the vehicle of Zen philosophy.

To my mind, the Chinese language is pre-eminently adapted for Zen, it is probably the best medium of expression for Zen as long as its literary side alone is thought of. Being monosyllabic the language is terse and vigorous, and a single word is made to convey so much meaning in it. While vagueness of sense is perhaps an unavoidable shortcoming accompanying those advantages, Zen knows how to avail itself of it, and the very vagueness of the language becomes a most powerful weapon in the hand of the master. He is far from wanting to be obscure and misleading, but a well-chosen monosyllable grows when it falls from his lips into a most pregnant word loaded with the whole system of Zen. Ummon is regarded as the foremost adept in this direction. To show the extreme laconism of his sayings, the following[7.42] are quoted:

When he was asked what was the sword of Ummon, he replied, “Hung!”

“What is the one straight passage to Ummon?” “Most intimate!”

“Which one of the Trikāya [Three Bodies of Buddha] is it that will sermonise?” “To the point!”

“I understand this is said by all the old masters, that when you know [the truth], all the karma-hindrances are empty from the beginning; but if you do not, you have to pay all the debts back. I wonder if the second patriarch knew this or not.” Replied the master, “Most certainly!”

“What is the eye of the true Dharma?” “Everywhere!”

“When one commits patricide, or matricide, one goes to the Buddha to confess the sin; when however one murders a Buddha or Patriarch, where should one go for confession?” “Exposed!”

“What is the Tao [path, way, or truth]?” “Walk on!”

“How is it that without the parent’s consent one cannot be ordained?” “How shallow!” “I cannot understand.” “How deep!”

“What kind of phrase is it that does not cast any shadow?” “Revealed!”

“How do you have an eye in a question[f154]?” “Blind.”

Just one monosyllable, and the difficulties are disposed of. The Zen master has generally nothing to do with circumlocution; if any one is a direct and plain speaker, he is the directest in hitting the point and the plainest in expressing his thoughts without any encumbering appendages. To these purposes, the Chinese language is eminently suited. Brevity and forcefulness are its specific qualities, for each single syllable is a word and sometimes even makes a complete sentence. A string of a few nouns with no verbs or with no connectives is often sufficient to express a complex thought. Chinese literature is naturally full of trenchant epigrams and pregnant aphorisms. The words are unwieldy and disconnected: when they are put together, they are like so many pieces of rock with nothing cementing them to one another. They do not present themselves as organic. Each link in the chain has a separate independent existence. But as each syllable is pronounced, the whole effect is irresistible. Chinese is a mystic language par excellence.

As terseness and directness is the life of Zen, its literature is full of idiomatic and colloquial expressions. The Chinese as you all know, being such partisans to classic formalism, scholars and philosophers did not know how to express themselves but in elegant and highly polished style. And consequently all that is left to us in ancient Chinese literature is this classicism, nothing of popular and colloquial lore had come down to posterity. Whatever we have of the latter from the T‘ang and the Sung dynasty is to be sought in the writings of the Zen masters. It is an irony of fate that those who so despised the use of letters as conveyor of truth and directly appealed to the understanding of an intuitive faculty became the bearers and transmitters of ancient popular idioms and expressions which were thrown away by the classical writers as unworthy and vulgar from the main body of literature. The reason however is plain. The Buddha preached in the vernacular language of the people; so did Christ. The Greek or Sanskrit (or even Pali) texts are all later elaboration when the faith began to grow stale, and scholasticism had the chance to assert itself. Then the living religion turned into an intellectual system and had to be translated into a highly but artificially polished and therefore more or less stilted formalism. This has been what Zen most emphatically opposed from the very beginning, and the consequence was naturally that the language it chose was that which most appealed to the people in general, that is, to their hearts open for a new living light. The Zen masters, whenever they could, avoided the technical nomenclature of Buddhist philosophy, not only did they discuss such subjects as appealed to a plain man, but they made use of his everyday language which was the vehicle appreciated by the masses and at the same time most expressive of the central ideas of Zen. Thus Zen literature became a unique repository of ancient wisdom. In Japan, too, when Hakuin modernised Zen, he utilised profusely slangy phrases, colloquialisms, and even popular songs. This neological tendency of Zen is inevitable, seeing that it is creative and refuses to express itself in the worn-out lifeless language of scholars and stylists. As the result even learned students of Chinese literature these days are unable to understand the Zen writings, and their spiritual meanings as well. Thus has Zen literature come to constitute a unique class of literary work in China, standing all by itself outside the main bulk of classical literature.

As I said elsewhere, Zen became truly the product of the Chinese mind by thus creating a unique influence in the history of Chinese culture. As long as Indian influence predominated, Zen could not be free from the speculative abstraction of Buddhist philosophy, which meant that Zen was not Zen in its specialised sense. Some scholars think that there is no Zen in the so-called primitive Buddhism and that the Buddha was not at all the author of Zen. But we must all remember that such critics are entirely ignoring the fact that religion when transplanted adapts itself to the genius of the people among whom it is introduced, and that unless it does so it gradually dies out, proving that there was no life-giving soul in that religion. Zen has claimed from the beginning of its history in China that it is transmitting the spirit and not the letter of the Buddha, by which we understand that Zen, independent of traditional Buddhist philosophy including its terminology and modes of thinking, wove out its own garment from within just as the silkworm weaves its own cocoon. Therefore, the outer garment of Zen is original, befitting itself wonderfully well, and there are no patchings on it, nor any seams either: Zen is truly the traditional celestial robe.

XIII

Before closing I must not forget to give some of the sermons by the masters which are recorded chiefly in _The Record of the Transmission of the Lamp_, as well as in the “Sayings.”

Jōshu says[7.43]: “This thing is like holding up a transparent crystal in your hand. When a stranger comes, it reflects him as such; when a native Chinese comes, it reflects him as such. I pick up a blade of grass and make it work as a golden-bodied one[f155] sixteen feet high. I again take hold of a golden-bodied one sixteen feet high and make him act as a blade of grass. The Buddha is what constitutes human desires and human desires are no other than Buddhahood.” A monk asked,[f167]

“For whom are the Buddha’s desires roused?”

“His desires are roused for all sentient beings.”

“How does he get rid of them then?”

“What is the use of getting rid of them?” answered the master.

On another occasion he said: “Kāśyapa handed [the Law] over to Ānanda, and can you tell me to whom Bodhi-Dharma handed it over?”

A monk interposed: “How is it that we read about the second patriarch’s getting its marrow from Dharma?”[f157]

“Don’t disparage the second patriarch,” Jōshu continued: “Dharma claims that the one who was outside got the skin and the inside one got the bone; but can you tell me what the inmost one gets?”

A monk said, “But don’t we all know that there was one who got the marrow?”

Retorted the master: “He has just got the skin. Here in my place I do not allow even to talk of the marrow.”

“What is the marrow then?”

“If you ask me thus, even the skin you have not traced.”

“How grand then you are!” said the monk. “Is this not your absolute position, sir?”

“Do you know there is one who will not accept you?”

“If you say so, there must be one who will take another position.”

“Who is such another?” demanded the master.

“Who is not such another?” retorted the monk.

“I will let you talk all you like.”

The sermons are generally of this nature, short, and to outsiders unintelligible or almost nonsensical. But, according to Zen, all these remarks are the plainest and most straightforward exposition of the truth. When the formal logical modes of thinking are not resorted to, and yet the master is asked to express himself what he understands in his inmost heart, there are no other ways but to speak in a manner so enigmatic and so symbolic as to stagger the uninitiated. However, the masters themselves are right in earnest, and if you attach even the remotest notion of reproach to their remarks, thirty blows will be instantly on your head.

The next are from Ummon.[7.44]

Ummon ascended the platform and said: “O you, venerable monks! Don’t get confused in thought. Heaven is heaven, earth is earth, mountains are mountains, water is water, monks are monks, laymen are laymen.” He paused for a while and continued, “Bring me out here that hill of Ansan and let me see!”

Another time he said, “Bodhisattva Vasudeva turned without any reason into a staff.” So saying he drew a line on the ground with his own staff, and resumed, “All the Buddhas as numberless as sands are here talking all kinds of nonsense.” He then left the Hall.

One day when he came out in the Hall as usual to give a sermon, a monk walked out of the congregation, and made bows to him, saying, “I beg you to answer.” Ummon called out aloud, “O monks!” The monks all turned towards the master, who then came down from the seat.

Another day when he was silent in his seat for a while, a monk came out and made bows to him; said the master, “Why so late!” The monk made a response, whereupon the master remarked, “O you, good-for-nothing simpleton!”

Sometimes his sermon would be quite disparaging to the founder of his own faith; for he said, “Iśvara, great lord of heaven, and the old Śākyamuni are in the middle of the courtyard, discoursing on Buddhism; are they not noisy?”

At another time he said:

“All the talk so far I have had—what is it all about any way? To-day again not being able to help myself I am here to talk to you once more. In this wide universe is there anything that comes up against you, or puts you in bondage? If there is ever a thing as small as the point of a pin lying in your way or obstructing your passage, get it out for me! What is it that you call a Buddha or a Patriarch? What are they that are known as mountains, rivers, the earth, sun, moon, or stars? What are they that you call the four elements and the five aggregates? I speak thus, but it is no more than the talk of an old woman from a remote village. If I suddenly happen to meet a monk thoroughly trained in this matter, he will, on learning what I have been talking to you, carry me off the feet and throw me down the steps. And for this would he be blamed? Whatever this may be, for what reason is it so? Don’t be carried away by my talk and try to make nonsensical remarks. Unless you are the fellow who was really gone through with the whole thing, you will never do. When you are caught unawares by such an old man as myself, you will at once lose your way and break your legs. And for that, am I to be at all blamed? This being so, is there any one among you who wants to know a thing or two about the doctrine of our school? Come out and let me answer you. After this you may get a turning and be free to go out in the world, east or west.”

A monk came out and was at the point of asking a question when the master hit his mouth with the staff, and descended from the seat.

One day when Ummon was coming up to the Lecture Hall he heard the bell, whereupon he said, “In such a wide, wide world, why do we put our monkish robes on when the bell goes like this?”

Another time he simply said, “Don’t you try to add frost over snow; take good care of yourselves, good-bye”; and went out.

“Lo, and behold; the Buddha Hall has run into the monk’s quarters.” Later his own remark was, “They are beating the drum at Lafu (Lo-fu), and a dance is going on at Shōjū (Shao-chou).”

Ummon seated himself in a chair before the congregation, there was a pause for a while, and he remarked: “Raining so long, and not a day has the sun shone.”

Another time, “Lo, and behold! No life’s left!” So saying, he acted as if he were falling. Then he asked, “Do you understand? If not, ask this staff to enlighten you.”

As soon as Yōgi (Yang-ch‘ih),[7.45] a great master of the eleventh century under the Sung dynasty, got seated in his chair, he laughed loudly, “Ha, Ha, Ha!” and said, “What is this? Go back to your dormitory hall and each have a cup of tea.”

One day Yōgi ascended the seat, and the monks were all assembled. The master, before uttering a word, threw his staff away and came right down jumping from the chair. The monks were about to disperse, when he called out, “O monks!” The latter turned back, whereupon said the master, “Take my staff in, O monks!” This said, the master went off.

Yakusan (Yüeh-shan, 751–834)[7.46] gave no sermons for some little time and the chief secretary came up to him asking for one. The master said, “Beat the drum then.” As soon as the congregation was ready to listen to him, he went back to his own room. The secretary followed him and said, “You gave consent to give them a sermon, and how is it that you uttered not a word?” Said the master, “The Sutras are explained by the Sutra specialists, and the Śastras by the Śastra specialists; why then do you wonder at me? [Am I not a Zen master?].”

One day Goso (Fa-yen)[7.47] entered the Hall and seated himself in the chair. He looked one way over the shoulder and then the other. Finally he held out his staff high in his hand and said, “Only one foot long!” And without a further comment he descended.

* * * * *

The foregoing selections from Ummon and Jōshu and others will be sufficient to acquaint the reader with what kind of sermons have been carried on in the monastery for the intellectual or super-intellectual consumption of the monks. They are generally short. The masters do not waste much time in explaining Zen, not only because it is beyond the ken of human discursive understanding, but because such explanations are not productive of any practical and lasting benefits for the spiritual edification of the monks. The masters’ remarks are therefore necessarily laconic; sometimes they do not even attempt to make any wordy discussion or statement, but just raising the staff, or shaking the hossu, or uttering a cry, or reciting a verse, is all that the congregation gets from the master. Some, however, seem to have their own favourite way of demonstrating the truth of Zen; for instance, Rinzai is famous for his “Kwatsu” (_hê_ in Chinese), Tokusan for his flourishing staff, Gutei for his lifting up a finger, Hima for a bifurcate stick, Kwasan for beating a drum, and so on.[f158] It is wonderful to observe what a variety of methods have sprung up, so extraordinary, so ingenious, and so original, and all in order to make the monks realise the same truth, whose infinite aspects as manifested in the world may be comprehended by various individuals, each according to his own capacity and opportunity.

Taking it all in all, Zen is emphatically a matter of personal experience; if anything can be called radically empirical, it is Zen. No amount of reading, no amount of teaching, and no amount of contemplation will even make one a Zen master. Life itself must be grasped in the midst of its flow, to stop it for examination and analysis is to kill it leaving its cold corpse to be embraced. Therefore, everything in the Meditation Hall and every detail of its disciplinary curriculum is so arranged as to bring this idea into the most efficient prominence. The unique position maintained by the Zen sect among other Mahayana schools in Japan and China throughout the history of Buddhism in the Far East is no doubt due to the institution known as the Meditation Hall or Zendo.

THE TEN COW-HERDING PICTURES

THE TEN COW-HERDING PICTURES

The attainment of Buddhahood or the realisation of Enlightenment is what is aimed at by all pious Buddhists, though not necessarily during this one earthly life; and Zen, as one of the Mahayana schools, also teaches that all our efforts must be directed towards this supreme end. While most of the other schools distinguish so many steps of spiritual development and insist on one’s going through all the grades successively in order to reach the consummation of the Buddhist discipline; Zen ignores all these, and boldly declares that when one sees into the inmost nature of one’s own being, one instantly becomes a Buddha, and that there is no necessity of climbing up each rung of perfection through eternal cycles of transmigration. This has been one of the most characteristic tenets of Zen ever since the coming-east of Bodhi-Dharma in the sixth century. “See into thy own nature and be a Buddha,” has thus grown the watchword of the Sect. And this “seeing” was not the outcome of much learning or speculation, nor was it due to the grace of the supreme Buddha conferred upon his ascetic followers; but it grew out of the special training of the mind prescribed by the Zen masters. This being so, Zen could not very well recognise any form of gradation in the attainment of Buddhahood. The “seeing into one’s nature” was an instant act. There could not be any process in it which would permit scales or steps of development.

But in point of fact where the time-element rules supreme, this was not necessarily the case. As long as our relative minds are made to comprehend one thing after another by degrees and in succession and not all at once and simultaneously, it is impossible not to speak of some kind of progress. Even Zen as something possible of demonstration in one way or another must be subjected to the limitations of time. That is to say, there are after all grades of development in its study; and some must be said to have more deeply, more penetratingly realised the truth of Zen. In itself the truth may transcend all form of limitation, but when it is to be realised in the human mind, its psychological laws are to be observed. The “seeing into thy nature” must admit degrees of clearness. Transcendentally, we are all Buddhas just as we are, ignorant and sinful if you like; but when we come down to this practical life, pure idealism has to give way to a more particular and palpable form of activity. This side of Zen is known as its “constructive” aspect, in contradistinction to its “all-sweeping” aspect. And here Zen fully recognises degrees of spiritual development among its followers, as the truth reveals itself gradually in their minds until the “seeing into one’s nature” is perfected.

Technically speaking, Zen belongs to the group of Buddhist doctrines known as “discrete” or “discontinuous” or “abrupt” (_tun_ in Chinese) in opposition to “continuous” or “gradual” (_chien_)[f159]; and naturally the opening of the mind, according to Zen, comes upon one as a matter of discrete or sudden happening and not as the result of a gradual, continuous development whose every step can be traced and analysed. The coming of satori is not like the rising of the sun gradually bringing things to light, but it is like the freezing of water which takes place abruptly. There is no middle or twilight condition before the mind is opened to the truth, in which there prevails a sort of neutral zone, or a state of intellectual indifference. As we have already observed in several instances of satori, the transition from ignorance to enlightenment is so abrupt, the common cur, as it were, suddenly turns into a golden-haired lion. Zen is an ultra-discrete wing of Buddhism. But this holds true only when the truth of Zen itself is considered, apart from its relation to the human mind in which it is disclosed. Inasmuch as the truth is true only when it is considered in the light it gives to the mind and cannot be thought of at all independent of the latter, we may speak of its gradual and progressive realisation in us. The psychological laws exist here as elsewhere. Therefore, when Bodhi-Dharma was ready to leave China, he said that Dōfuku got the skin, the nun Sōji got the flesh, and Dōiku the bone, while Yeka had the marrow (or essence) of Zen.[f160][8.1] Nangaku who succeeded the sixth patriarch had six accomplished disciples, but their attainments differed in depth. He compared them with various parts of the body, and said, “You all have testified to my body, but each has grasped a part of it. The one who has my eye-brows is the master of manners; the second who has my eyes, knows how to look around; the third who has my ears, understands how to listen to reasoning; the fourth who has my nose is well versed in the act of breathing; the fifth who has my tongue, is a great arguer; and finally the one who has my mind knows the past and the present.” This gradation was impossible if “seeing into one’s nature” alone was considered; for the seeing is one indivisible act, allowing no stages of transition. It is however no contradiction of the principle of satori, as we have repeatedly asserted, to say that in fact there is a progressive realisation in the seeing, leading one deeper and deeper into the truth of Zen, finally culminating in one’s complete identification with it.

* * * * *

Lieh-tzŭ, the Chinese philosopher of Taoism, describes in the following passage certain marked stages of development in the practice of Tao:

“The teacher of Lieh-tzŭ was Lao-shang-shih, and his friend Pai-kao-tzŭ. When Lieh-tzŭ was well advanced in the teachings of these two philosophers, he came home riding on the wind. Yin-shêng heard of this, and came to Lieh-tzŭ to be instructed. Yin-shêng neglected his own household for several months. He never lost opportunities to ask the master to instruct him in the arts [of riding on the wind]; he asked ten times, and was refused each time. Yin-shêng grew impatient and wanted to depart. Lieh-tzŭ did not urge him to stay. For several months Yin-shêng kept himself away from the master, but did not feel any easier in his mind. He came over to Lieh-tzŭ again. Asked the master, ‘Why this constant coming back and forth?’ Yin-shêng replied, ‘The other day, I, Chang Tai, wished to be instructed by you, but you refused to teach me, which I did not naturally like. I feel, however, no grudge against you now, hence my presence here again.’