Essays in Zen Buddhism · 64 of 66

The Meditation Hall and Monastic Life, Part 11

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: “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 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,

“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?”

“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.

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), 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) 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) 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. 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.