Essays in Zen Buddhism · 29 of 66

History of Zen: Bodhi-dharma to Hui-neng, Part 5

After Bodhi-Dharma, Hui-k‘ê (486–593) was the chief exponent of Zen Buddhism. He was already a learned scholar before he came to his teacher for instruction, not only in the Chinese classics but in Buddhist lore. No amount of learning however satisfied him; indeed he seems to have had a sort of enlightenment in his way, which he wanted to be testified to by Dharma. After he left the master, he did not at once begin his preaching hiding himself among the lower strata of society. He evidently shunned being looked up to as a high priest of great wisdom and understanding. However, he did not neglect quietly preaching the Law whenever he had an occasion. He was simply quiet and unassuming, refusing to show himself off. But one day when he was discoursing about the Law before a temple gate, there was another sermon going on inside the temple by a resident priest, learned and honoured. The audience however left the reverend lecturer inside and gathered around the street-monk probably clad in rags and with no outward signs of ecclesiastical dignity. The high priest got angry over the situation. He accused the beggar-monk to the authorities as promulgating a false doctrine, whereupon Hui-k‘ê was arrested and put to death. He did not specially plead innocent but composedly submitted, saying that he had according to the law of karma an old debt to pay up. This took place in A.D. 593, and he was one hundred and seven years old when he was killed.

According to Tao-hsüan, Hui-k‘ê’s eloquence flew directly from his heart, not encrusted with learning or scholarly discourse. While he was preaching in an important city on the meaning of Zen, those who could not rise above “the letter that killeth” took his teaching for heresy, as the words of a devil devoid of sense. Especially among them a master of meditation called Tao-hüan who had about one thousand followers about him, at once assumed an offensive attitude towards Hui-k‘ê. He sent one of his disciples to the Zen exponent, perhaps to find out what kind of man he really was. As soon as the disciple learned what was the teaching of the so-called heretic, he was so deeply impressed by this man that he was converted into a Zen advocate. Tao-hüan despatched another of his followers to call the first one back, but he followed the example of the predecessor. Several other messengers were sent one after another, but the result was altogether discouraging. Later when Tao-hüan happened to meet his first messenger, he asked; “How was it that I had to send for you so many times? Did I not open your eye after taking pains so much on my part?” The former disciple however mystically answered; “My eye has been right from the first, and it was through you that it came to squint.” This stirred the master’s ire, and it was through his machination, writes Tao-hsüan, that Hui-k‘ê had to suffer official persecution.

This story taken from Tao-hsüan’s Biographies varies from that in the Tao-yüan’s Records, but they both agree in making Hui-k‘ê a martyr at the hands of his enemy. There is no doubt that in the Zen teaching of Bodhi-Dharma and his first Chinese disciple, Hui-k‘ê, there was something that was unintelligible to most of the Buddhists of the time who had been trained either in the abstract metaphysics or in the tranquillising exercises, or in the mere morality, of Buddhism. The exponents of Zen then must have emphasised the truth to be awakened in one’s inner consciousness, even at the expense of the canonical teaching as is variously elucidated in the Sutras and Śastras, many of which in translations had already been in circulation. This must have excited the conservatists and literalists.

Like Bodhi-Dharma, Hui-k‘ê did not leave any literary writing though we know from their biographies that both had their sermons collected and in the case of Hui-k‘ê “classified,” whatever this may mean. The following extracts preserved however may throw light on the teaching of Hui-k‘ê. A lay-disciple called Hsiang wrote a letter to Hui-k‘ê: “Shadow follows a body and echo rises from a sound. He who in pursuit of the shadow tires out the body, does not know that the body produces the shadow; and he who attempts to stop an echo by raising his voice, does not understand that the voice is the cause of the echo. [In a similar way] he who seeks Nirvana by cutting desires and passions is to be likened to one who seeks a shadow apart from its original body; and he who aspires to Buddhahood thinking it to be independent of the nature of sentient beings is to be likened to one who tries to listen to an echo by deadening its original sound. Therefore, the ignorant and the enlightened are walking in one passageway; the vulgar and the wise are not to be differentiated from each other. Where there are no names, we create names, and because of these names judgments are formed. Where there is no theorising, we theorise, and because of this theorising, disputes arise. They are all phantom creations and not realities, and who knows who is right and who is wrong? They are all empty, no substantialities have they, and who knows what is and what is not? So we realise that our gain is not real gain and our loss not real loss. This is my view and may I be enlightened if I am at fault?”

To this Hui-k‘ê answered: “You have truly comprehended the Dharma as it is; the deepest truth lies in the principle of identity. It is due to one’s ignorance that the mani-jewel is taken for a piece of brick, but lo! when one is suddenly awakened to self-enlightenment, it is realised that one is in possession of the real jewel. The ignorant and the enlightened are of one essence, they are not really to be separated. We should know that all things are such as they are. Those who entertain a dualistic view of the world are to be pitied, and I write this letter for them. When we know that between this body and the Buddha there is nothing to separate one from the other, what is the use of seeking after Nirvana [as something external to ourselves]?”

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Next to Hui-k‘ê came Sêng-ts‘an (died 606), who succeeded as the third patriarch. The interview between master and disciple took place in this manner: A layman of forty troubled with fêng-yang according to the Records, came to Hui-k‘ê and asked;

“I am suffering from fêng-yang; pray cleanse me of my sins.”

“Bring your sins here,” said Hui-k‘ê, “and I will cleanse you of them.”

The lay-disciple was silent for a while but finally said, “As I seek my sins, I find them unattainable.”

“I have then finished cleansing you altogether. You should thenceforth take refuge in the Buddha, Dharma, and Saṁgha (Brotherhood), and abide therein.”

“As I stand before you, O master,” asked Sêng-ts‘an, “I know that you belong to the Brotherhood, but pray tell me what are the Buddha and the Dharma.”

Replied the master, “Mind is the Buddha, Mind is the Dharma; and the Buddha and the Dharma are not two. The same is to be said of the Brotherhood (saṁgha).”

This satisfied the disciple who now said, “To-day for the first time I realise that sins are neither within nor without nor in the middle; just as Mind is, so is the Buddha, so is the Dharma; they are not two.”

He was then ordained by Hui-k‘ê as a Buddhist monk, and after this he fled from the world altogether, and nothing much of his life is known. This was partly due to the persecution of Buddhism carried on by the Emperor of the Chou dynasty. It was in the twelfth year of K‘ai-huan, of the Sui dynasty (A.D. 592), that he found a disciple worthy to be his successor. His name was Tao-hsin. He asked the master,

“Pray show me the way to deliverance.”

“Who has ever put you in bondage?”

“Nobody.”

“If so,” said the Master, “why should you ask for deliverance?”

This put the young novice on the way to final enlightenment, which he attained after many years’ study under the master. When Sêng-ts‘an thought that the time was ripe to consecrate him as his successor in the faith, he handed him as the token of the rightful transmission of the Law the robe which had come down from Bodhi-Dharma, the first patriarch of Zen in China. He died in A.D. 606. While much of his life is obscure, his thought is gleaned from a metrical composition known as Hsin-hsin-ming, or “Inscribed on the Believing Mind,” which is one of the most valuable contributions by the masters to the interpretation of Zen teaching. Here follows a somewhat liberal translation of the poem:

Inscribed on the Believing Mind.

The Perfect Way knows no difficulties Except that it refuses to make preference: Only when freed from hate and love, It reveals itself fully and without disguise. A tenth of an inch’s difference, And heaven and earth are set apart: If you want to see it manifest, Take no thought either for or against it.

To set up what you like against what you dislike— This is the disease of the mind: When the deep meaning [of the Way] is not understood Peace of mind is disturbed and nothing is gained.

[The Way is] perfect like unto vast space, With nothing wanting, nothing superfluous: It is indeed due to making choice That its suchness is lost sight of.

Pursue not the outer entanglements, Dwell not in the inner void; When the mind rests serene in the oneness of things, The dualism vanishes by itself.

And when oneness is not thoroughly understood, In two ways loss is sustained— The denial of reality may lead to its absolute negation, While the upholding of the void may result in contradicting itself. Wordiness and intellection— The more with them the further astray we go; Away therefore with wordiness and intellection, And there is no place where we cannot pass freely.

When we return to the root, we gain the meaning; When we pursue the external objects, we lose the reason. The moment we are enlightened within, We go beyond the voidness of a world confronting us.

Transformations going on in an empty world which confronts us, Appear real all because of Ignorance: Try not to seek after the true, Only cease to cherish opinions.

Tarry not with dualism, Carefully avoid pursuing it; As soon as you have right and wrong, Confusion ensues, the mind is lost.

The two exist because of the one, But hold not even to this one; When the one mind is not disturbed, The ten thousand things offer no offence.

When no offence is offered by them, they are as if not existing; When the mind is not disturbed, it is as if there is no mind. The subject is quieted as the object ceases, The object ceases as the subject is quieted.

The object is an object for the subject, The subject is a subject for an object: Know that the relativity of the two Rests ultimately on the oneness of the void.

In the oneness of the void the two are one, And each of the two contains in itself all the ten thousand things: When no discrimination is made between this and that. How can a one-sided and prejudiced view arise?

The Great Way is calm and large-minded, Nothing is easy, nothing is hard: Small views are irresolute, The more in haste the tardier they go.

Clinging never keeps itself within bounds, It is sure to go in the wrong way: Let go loose, and things are as they may be, While the essence neither departs nor abides.

Obey the nature of things, and you are in concord with the Way, Calm and easy and free from annoyance; But when your thoughts are tied, you turn away from the truth, They grow heavier and duller and are not at all sound.

When they are not sound, the soul is troubled; What is the use of being partial and one-sided then? If you want to walk the course of the One Vehicle, Be not prejudiced against the six sense-objects.

When you are not prejudiced against the six sense-objects, You in turn identify yourself with Enlightenment; The wise are non-active, While the ignorant bind themselves up; While in the Dharma itself there is no individuation, They ignorantly attach themselves to particular objects. It is their own minds that create illusions— Is it not the greatest of self-contradictions?

Ignorance begets the dualism of rest and unrest, The enlightened have no likes and dislikes: All forms of dualism Are ignorantly contrived by the mind itself. They are like unto visions and flowers in the air: Why should we trouble ourselves to take hold of them? Gain and loss, right and wrong— Away with them once for all!

If an eye never falls asleep, All dreams will by themselves cease: If the mind retains its oneness, The ten thousand things are of one suchness. When the deep mystery of one suchness is fathomed, All of a sudden we forget the external entanglements: When the ten thousand things are viewed in their oneness, We return to the origin and remain what we are.

Forget the wherefore of things, And we attain to a state beyond analogy: Movement stopped is no movement, And rest set in motion is no rest. When dualism does no more obtain, Even oneness itself remains not as such.

The ultimate end of things where they cannot go any further, Is not bound by rules and measures: The mind in harmony [with the Way] is the principle of identity In which we find all doings in a quiescent state; Irresolutions are completely done away with, And the right faith is restored to its native straightness; Nothing is retained now, Nothing is to be memorised, All is void, lucid, and self-illuminating, There is no stain, no exertion, no wasting of energy— This is where thinking never attains, This is where the imagination fails to measure.

In the higher realm of True Suchness There is neither “other” nor “self”: When a direct identification is asked for, We can only say, “Not two.”

In being not two all is the same, All that is is comprehended in it: The wise in the ten quarters, They all enter into this absolute faith.

This absolute faith is beyond quickening [time] and extension [space]. One instant is ten thousand years; No matter how things are conditioned whether with “to be” or “not to be,” It is manifest everywhere before you.

The infinitely small is as large as large can be, When external conditions are forgotten; The infinitely large is as small as small can be, When objective limits are put out of sight.

What is is the same with what is not, What is not is the same with what is: Where this state of things fails to obtain, Be sure not to tarry.

One in all, All in one— If only this is realised, No more worry about your not being perfect!

The believing mind is not divided, And undivided is the believing mind— This is where words fail, For it is not of the past, future, or present.

Under Tao-hsin (580–651), the fourth patriarch, Zen was divided into two branches. The one known as Godzuzen (Niu-t‘ou Chan), did not live long after the passing of its founder, Fa-jung, who lived at Mount Niu-t‘ou, and is considered not belonging to the orthodox line of Zen. The other branch was headed by Hung-jên who is regarded by historians as the fifth patriarch, and it is his school that has survived. He came to the master when he was still a mere boy, and what pleased his master at their interview was the way he answered. When Tao-hsin asked what was his family name 姓 (hsing), he said,

“I have a nature 性 (hsing), and it is not an ordinary one.”

“What is that?”

“It is the Buddha-nature (fo-hsing).”

“Then you have no name?”

“No, master,” said the boy, “for it is empty in its nature.” Here is a play of words; the character denoting “family name” and that for “nature” are both pronounced hsing. When Tao-hsin was referring to the “family name” the young follower took it for “nature” purposely, whereby to express his view by a figure of speech.

Tao-hsin’s interview with Fa-jung, the founder of the Niu-t‘ou school of Zen, was significant, showing where their views differed and how the one came to be converted into the orthodox understanding of Zen. It was during the Chên-kuan era of the T‘ang dynasty that Tao-hsin, learning of the presence of an extraordinary saintly man in Niu-t’ou mountains, decided to see who he could be. When Tao-hsin came to a Buddhist temple in the mountains, he inquired after the man and was informed of a lonely anchorite who would never rise from his seat nor salute people even when they were approaching him. When Tao-hsin proceeded further into the mountains, he saw him as he was told sitting quietly and paying no attention to the presence of a stranger. He then asked the hermit what he was doing here. “I am contemplating on Mind,” was the reply. Tao-hsin then demanded, “What is he that is contemplating? What is Mind that is contemplated?” Fa-jung was not prepared to answer such questions. Thinking that the visitor was a man of deep understanding, he rose from the seat and saluting him asked who he was. When he found that the visitor was no other personage than Tao-hsin himself whose reputation he was not ignorant of, he thanked him for the visit. They were now about to enter a little hut near by where they might talk about religion, when Tao-hsin saw some wild animals such as tigers and wolves wandering about the place, and he threw up his hands as if he were greatly frightened. Fa-jung remarked, “I see this is still with you.” The fourth patriarch responded at once, “What do you see yet?” No answer came from the hermit. After a while the patriarch traced the character “Buddha” (fo) on the stone on which Fa-jung was in the habit of sitting in meditation. Seeing it, the latter looked as if shocked. Said the patriarch “I see this is still with you.” But Fa-jung failed to see the meaning of this remark and earnestly implored to be instructed in the ultimate teaching of Buddhism. This was done, and Fa-jung became the founder of the Niu-t‘ou school of Zen Buddhism.

Tao-hsin died at the age of seventy-two, A.D. 651.