Essays in Zen Buddhism · 28 of 66

History of Zen: Bodhi-dharma to Hui-neng, Part 4

In comparing these two texts the reader will be impressed with the most important and most striking change Bodhi-Dharma made in his quotation, which is the substituting of pi-kuan for chüeh-kuan. Pi ordinarily means “wall” or “precipice,” and is often found in combination with li, “standing,” in such phrases as pi li wan jên 壁立萬仞, to describe an unscalable wall, or figuratively to represent the attitude, for instance, of Acala-Vidyārāja standing straight up. What was the reason of Dharma’s changing chüeh, “to awaken,” or “to be enlightened” into a word which apparently has no organic relation to the following kuan, “to perceive,” or “to contemplate”? The novel combination is a very important one, for it alters the sense of the whole context in which it occurs. Tao-hsüan, the author of the Biographies, refers to Dharma’s tai ch‘êng pi kuan, Mahayanistic wall-contemplation, in his commentary notes to Zen, as the most meritorious work Dharma achieved in China. For this reason he is often spoken of as the pi-kuan Brahman, that is, wall-contemplating Brahman, and in Japan the monks belonging to the Soto school of Zen are supposed to follow the example of the founder of their religion when they keep up the practice of sitting facing the wall while meditating. But this is evidently a superficial interpretation of the phrase pi-kuan; for how could mere wall-gazing start a revolutionary movement in the Buddhist world as is implied in Tao-hsüan’s life of Dharma? How could such an innocent practise provoke a terrible opposition among scholars of those days? To my view, pi-kuan has a far deeper meaning, and must be understood in the light of the following passage in the Records, which is quoted from a work known as the Pieh Chi meaning some special document of prior existence:

“The master first stayed in the Shōrinji (Shao-lin-szŭ) monastery for nine years, and when he taught the second patriarch, it was only in the following way: ‘Externally keep yourself away from all relationships, and, internally, have no pantings (or hankerings, 喘 ch‘uan) in your heart; when your mind is like unto a straight-standing wall you may enter into the Path.’ Hui-k‘ê tried variously to explain [or to discourse on] the reason of mind, but failed to realise the truth itself. The master simply said, ‘No! No!’ and never proposed to explain to his disciple what was the mind-essence in its thought-less state, [that is, in its pure being]. [Later] said Hui-k‘ê, ‘I know now how to keep myself away from all relationships.’ ‘You make it a total annihilation, do you not?’ queried the master. ‘No, master,’ replied Hui-k‘ê, ‘I do not make it a total annihilation.’ ‘How do you testify your statement?’ ‘For I know it always in a most intelligible manner, but to express it in words—that is impossible.’ Thereupon, said the master, ‘That is the mind-essence itself transmitted by all the Buddhas. Harbour no doubts about it.’”

In fact, this passage sums up the special message contained in Dharma’s teaching, and in it we may get an adequate answer as to the exact meaning of pi-kuan. The term must have been a novel one in his day, and the originality of his views really lay in the creative sense of the one word “pi” It was so concrete, so graphic, and there was nothing abstract and conceptual about it. Hence Tao-hsüan’s special reference to Dharma’s teaching as the Tai-chêng pi-kuan. (Mahayanistic wall-contemplation). While there was nothing specifically Zen in his doctrine of “Two Entrances and Four Acts,” the teaching of Pi-kuan, wall-contemplation, was what made Bodhi-Dharma the first patriarch of Zen Buddhism in China.

The author of the Rightful Transmission of the Śākya Doctrine interprets pi-kwan as meaning the state of mind where “no external dusts get in.” This may be all right, but we are not told where he finds the authority for this way of understanding. Had he in mind Dharma’s remark to Hui-k‘ê as recorded in the document known as Pieh-chi? In any event the underlying meaning of the “wall-contemplation” must be found in the subjective condition of a Zen master, which is highly concentrated and rigidly exclusive of all ideas and sensuous images. To understand the phrase, “pi-kwan” as simply meaning “wall-gazing” will be sheer absurdity. If the specific message of Dharma as the founder of Zen in China is to be sought anywhere in the writings of his, which are still in existence, it must be in this “Mahayanistic wall-contemplation.”

Besides this writing which is the only one left by Dharma in our possession at present, we have the Laṅkāvatāra-sūtra, Vajrasamādhi-sūtra, and Vajracchedikā-sūtra, through which we can also have a glimpse into the central teaching of Bodhi-Dharma. Zen, unlike other schools of Buddhism, has no particular Sutras to be called the “foundation canon” on which its followers would base the principal tenets of their school; but Dharma recommended the Laṅkāvatāra to his first disciple Hui-k‘ê (Yeka), as containing the teaching most intimately related to Zen, and after him this scriptural writing came to be studied chiefly by Zen scholars. As to the importance of the Vajrasamādhi as expounding the philosophy of Zen, we can easily understand it from Dharma’s own reference to the Sutra in his writing as was already pointed out. With regard to the Vajracchedikā-sūtra, most people think of it as having nothing to do with Zen prior to the fifth patriarch, Hung-jên (Gunin); for it was he who for the first time introduced it among his own disciples, while Dharma himself made no allusion whatever to this, one of the most popular Buddhist texts in China. But according to Hui-nêng’s Preface to the Vajracchedikā, which is still preserved, “ever since the coming-west of Dharma he wanted to propagate the meaning of this Sutra and lead people to understand the Reason and to see into the Nature.” If this were actually the case, Dharma, to say the least, must have had some knowledge of this Sutra from the very beginning of his career in China, and the connection in a way between this and Zen must have been more fundamental than that between the Laṅkāvatāra and Zen. The prevalent notion then that the Vajracchedikā came only in vogue after Hung-jên and Hui-nêng must be revised. Whatever this may be, the Laṅkāvatāra is too difficult a material for popular consumption, and it was natural that this Sutra came to be gradually superseded by the Vajracchedikā as Zen gained more and more in power and influence. As one of the Sutras belonging to the Prajñāpāramitā class of Buddhist literature, the teaching of the Vajracchedikā was comparatively simple and had something much akin to the Laotzŭan ideas of emptiness and non-doing. It was not hard for the average Chinese to follow its philosophy of Śūnyatā, in fact this agreed well with a certain aspect of Chinese thought.

However, with Zen followers all literature was like a finger pointing at the moon, and there was not much in itself that will actually lead one to the seeing of one’s own inner nature; for this seeing was a realisation which must be attained by one’s own personal efforts apart from the mere understanding of letters. All Buddhist Sutras including the Laṅkāvatāra, Vajrasamādhi, and Vajracchedikā could not be of much help to the real earnest seekers of the truth, so long as his idea is to grasp the naked facts with his own ungloved hands. This was possible only when his own inner consciousness opened by itself, from within, through his whole-souled efforts. Literature is helpful only when it indicates the way, it is not the thing itself.

The earlier part of Bodhi-Dharma’s life while in India as is narrated in the Records may be discredited as containing a large dose of fiction, but the latter part of it cannot so easily be disposed of. This is where it supplements the story in Tao-hsüan’s Biographies, which was written by a good historian but by one who did not know anything about the future development of Zen. According to the Records then, the first great personage Dharma had an interview with when he came to China was the king of Liang, the greatest Buddhist patron of the time. And the interview took place in the following manner:

The Emperor Wu of Liang asked Dharma:

“Ever since the beginning of my reign I have built so many temples, copied so many sacred books, and supported so many monks; what do you think my merit might be?”

“No merit whatever, sire!” Dharma bluntly replied.

“Why?” demanded the Emperor astonished.

“All these are inferior deeds,” thus began Dharma’s significant reply, “which would cause their author to be born in the heavens or on this earth again. They still show the traces of worldliness, they are like shadows following objects. Though they appear actually existing, they are no more than mere non-entities. As to a true meritorious deed, it is full of pure wisdom and is perfect and mysterious, and its real nature is beyond the grasp of human intelligence. Such as this is not to be sought after by any worldly achievement.”

The Emperor Wu thereupon asked Bodhi-Dharma again, “What is the first principle of the holy doctrine?”

“Vast emptiness, and there is nothing in it to be called holy, sire!” answered Dharma.

“Who is then that is now confronting me?”

“I know not, sire!”

The answer was simple enough, and clear enough too, but the pious and learned Buddhist Emperor failed to grasp the spirit pervading the whole attitude of Dharma.

Seeing that there was no further help to be given to the Emperor, Dharma left his dominion and retired into a monastery in the state of Wei, where he sat quietly practising the “wall-contemplation,” it is said, for nine long years, until he came to be known as the Pi-kuan Brahman.

One day a monk Shên-kuang visited him and most earnestly implored him to be enlightened in the truth of Zen, but Dharma paid no attention. Shên-kuang was not to be disappointed, for he knew that all the great spiritual leaders of the past had gone through with many a heart-rending trial in order to attain the final object of their aspiration. One evening he stood in the midst of the snow waiting for Dharma to notice him when at last the fast-falling snow buried him almost as deep as his knees.

Finally, the master turned back and said, “What do you wish me to do for you?” Said Kuang, “I am come to receive your invaluable instructions; pray open your gate of mercy, and extend your hand of salvation to this poor suffering mortal.” “The incomparable doctrine of Buddhism,” replied Dharma, “can be comprehended only after a long hard discipline and by enduring what is most difficult to endure, and by practising what is most difficult to practise. Men of inferior virtue and wisdom are not allowed to understand anything about it. All the labours of such ones will come to naught.”

Kuang at last cut off his left arm with the sword he was carrying, and presented it before the teacher as a token of his sincerity in the desire to be instructed in the doctrine of all the Buddhas. Said Dharma, “This is not to be sought through another.”

“My soul is not yet pacified. Pray, master, pacify it.”

“Bring your soul here, and I will have it pacified.”

Kuang hesitated for a moment but finally said, “I have sought it these many years and am still unable to get hold of it!”

“There! it is pacified once for all.” This was Dharma’s sentence.

Dharma then told him to change his name into Hui-k‘ê.

Nine years passed, and Dharma wished to return to his native country. He called in all his disciples before him, and said, “The time is come for me to depart, and I want to see what your attainments are.”

“According to my view,” said Tao-fu, “the truth is above both affirmation and negation, for this is the way it moveth.”

Dharma said, “You have got my skin.”

Next came in the nun, Tsung-ch‘ih, and said, “As I understand it, it is like Ānanda’s viewing the Buddha-land of Akshobhya: it is seen once and never again.”

Dharma said, “You have got my flesh.”

Tao-yü was another disciple who presented his view, saying, “Empty are the four elements and non-existent the five skandhas. According to my view, there is not a thing to be grasped as real.”

Dharma said, “You have got my bone.”

Finally, Hui-k‘ê, that is, Shên-kuang, reverently bowing to the master, kept standing in his seat and said nothing.

Dharma then announced, “You have my marrow.”

Mystery envelops the end of Bodhi-Dharma’s life in China, we do not know how, when, and where he passed away from this earth. Some say that he was poisoned by his rivals, others say that he went back to India crossing the desert, and still others report that he came over to Japan. In one thing they all agree which is this: he was quite old, being, according to Tao-hsüan, over one hundred and fifty years at his death.