Essays in Zen Buddhism · 58 of 66

The Meditation Hall and Monastic Life, Part 5

The monks thus develop their faculties all round. They receive no literary, that is, formal education which is gained mostly from books and abstract instruction. But their discipline and knowledge are practical and efficient; for the basic principle of the Zendo life is “learning by doing.” They despise the so-called soft education which is like those predigested foods meant for the convalescent. When a lioness gives birth to her children, it is proverbially believed that after three days she will push them down over a deep precipice and see if they can climb up to her. Those that fail to come out of this trial are not taken care of any more. Whether this is true or not, something like that is aimed at by the Zen master who will treat the monks with every manner of seeming unkindness. The monks have not enough clothes to put on, not enough food to indulge in, not enough time to sleep, and, to cap these, they have plenty of work to do, menial as well as spiritual. The outer needs and the inward aspirations, if they work on harmoniously and ideally, will finally end in producing fine characters well-trained in Zen as well as in the real things of life. This unique system of education which is still going on at every Zendo is not so well known among the laity even in this country. And then the merciless tides of modern commercialism leave no corner uninvaded, and before long the solitary island of Zen may be found buried, as everything else, under the waves of sordid materialism. The monks themselves are beginning not to understand the great spirit of the successive masters. Though there are some things in the monastic education which may be improved, its highly religious and reverential feeling must be preserved if Zen is at all to live for many years yet to come.

Theoretically, the philosophy of Zen transcends the whole range of discursive understanding and is not bound by rules of antithesis. But this is very slippery ground, and there are many who fail to walk erect. When they stumble, the result is sometimes disastrous. Like some of the Medieval mystics, the Zen students may turn into libertines, losing all control over themselves. History is a witness to this, and psychology can readily explain the process of such degeneration. Therefore, says a Zen master, “Let one’s ideal rise as high as the crown of Vairochana, (the highest divinity), while his life may be so full of humility as to make him prostrate before a baby’s feet.” Which is to say, “if any man desire to be first the same shall be last of all, and servant of all.” Therefore, the monastery life is minutely regulated and all the details are enforced in strict obedience to the spirit already referred to. Humility, poverty, and inner sanctification—these ideals of Zen are what saves Zen from sinking into the level of the Medieval antinomians. Thus we can see how the Zendo discipline plays a great part in the teachings of Zen and their practical application to our daily life.

When Tanka (Tan-hsia T‘ien-jan, 738–824) of the T‘ang dynasty stopped at Yerinji of the Capital, it was so severely cold that he finally took one of the Buddha-images enshrined there and made a fire with it in order to warm himself. The keeper of the shrine seeing this was greatly exercised.

“How dare you burn up my wooden Buddha?”

Said Tanka who looked as if searching for something with his stick in the ashes, “I am gathering the holy śaīras in the burnt ashes.”

“How,” said the keeper, “could you get śaīras by burning a wooden Buddha?”

“If there are no śaīras to be found in it, may I have the remaining two Buddhas for my fire?” retorted Tanka.

The shrine-keeper later lost his eye-brows for remonstrating against the apparent impiety of Tanka, while the Buddha’s wrath never was visited upon the latter.

Though one may doubt its historical occurrence, this is a notable story, and all the Zen masters agree as to the higher spiritual attainment of the Buddha-desecrating Tanka. When later a monk asked a master about Tanka’s idea of burning a Buddha’s statue, said the master,

“When cold, we sit around the hearth with burning fire.”

“Was he then at fault or not?”

“When hot, we go to the bamboo grove by the stream,” this was the answer.

I cannot help quoting another comment on the story as this is one of the most significant subjects in the study of Zen. When Suibi Mugaku (Ts‘uiwei Wu-hsiao), a disciple of Tanka, was making offerings to the Arhats, probably carved in wood, a monk came up and asked, “Tanka burned a wooden Buddha and how is it that you make offerings to the Arhats?” The master said, “Even when it was burned, it could not be burned up; and as to my making offerings, just leave me alone as I please.” “When these offerings are made to the Arhats, would they come to receive them, or not?” “Do you eat everyday, or not?” the master demanded. As the monk remained silent, the master declared, “Intelligent ones are hard to be met with!”

Whatever the merit of Tanka from the purely Zen-point of view, there is no doubt that such deeds as his are to be regarded as highly sacrilegious and to be avoided by all pious Buddhists. Those who have not yet gained a thorough understanding of Zen may go all lengths to commit every manner of crime and excess, even in the name of Zen. For this reason, the regulations of the monastery are very rigid that pride of heart may depart and the cup of humility be drunk to the dregs.

When Shukō (Chu-hung) of the Ming dynasty was writing a book on the ten laudable deeds of a monk, one of those high-spirited, self-assertive fellows came to him, saying, “What is the use of writing such a book when in Zen there is not even an atom of thing to be called laudable or not?” The writer answered, “The five aggregates (skandha) are entangling, and the four elements (mahābhūta) grow rampant, and how can you say there are no evils?” The monk still insisted, “The four elements are ultimately all empty and the five aggregates have no reality whatever.” Shukō, giving him a slap on his face, said, “So many are mere learned ones; you are not the real thing yet; give me another answer.” But the monk made no answer and went off filled with angry feelings. “There,” said the master smilingly, “why don’t you wipe the dirt off your own face?” In the study of Zen, the power of an all-illuminating insight must go hand in hand with a deep sense of humility and meekness of heart.

Let me cite, as one instance of teaching humility, the experience which a new monk-applicant is first made to go through when he first approaches the Meditation Hall. The applicant may come duly equipped with certificates of his qualifications and with his monkish paraphernalia consisting of such articles are already mentioned, but the Zendo authorities will not admit him at once into their company. Generally, some formal excuse will be found: they may tell him that their establishment is not rich enough to take in another monk, or that the Hall is already too full. If the applicant quietly retires with this, there will be no place for him anywhere, not only in that particular Zendo which was his first choice, but in any other Zendo throughout the land. For he will meet a similar refusal everywhere. If he wants to study Zen at all, he ought not to be discouraged by any such excuse as that.

The persistent applicant will now seat himself at the entrance porch, and, putting his head down on the box which he carries in front of him, calmly, wait there. Sometimes a strong morning or evening sun shines right over the recumbent monk on the porch, but he keeps on in this attitude without stirring. When the dinner hour comes, he asks to be admitted in and fed. This is granted, for no Buddhist monasteries will refuse food and lodging to a travelling monk. After eating, however, the novice goes out again on the porch and continues his petition for admittance. No attention will be paid to him until the evening when he asks for lodging. This being granted as before, he takes off his travelling sandals, washes his feet, and is ushered into a room reserved for such purposes. But most frequently he finds no bedding there, for a Zen monk is supposed to pass his night in deep meditation. He sits upright all night evidently absorbed in the contemplation of a “kō-an.” In the following morning he goes out as on the previous day to the entrance hall and resumes the same posture as before expressive of an urgent desire to be admitted. This may go on three or five or sometimes even seven days. The patience and humility of the new applicant are tried thus hard until finally he will be taken in by the authorities, who, apparently moved by his earnestness and perseverance, will try somehow to accommodate him.

This procedure is growing somewhat a formal affair, but in olden days when things were not yet settled into a mere routine, the applicant monk had quite a hard time, for he would actually be driven out of the monastery by force. We read in the biographies of the old masters of still harder treatments which were mercilessly dealt out to them.

The Meditation Hall is regulated with militaristic severity and precision to cultivate such virtues as humility, obedience, simplicity, and earnestness in the monkish hearts that are ever prone to follow indiscriminately the extraordinary examples of the old masters, or that are liable to put in practice in a crude and undigested manner the high doctrines of a Śūnyatā philosophy such as is expounded in the Prajñā-pāramitā class of Mahayana literature. A partial glimpse of such life we have already gained in the description of the table manners as above.