Essays in Zen Buddhism: First Series

During the “sesshin,” they have besides lectures what is known as “sanzen.”f147[7.29] To do “sanzen” is to go to the master and present one’s views on a kō-an for his critical examination. In those days when a special “sesshin” is not going on, “sanzen” will probably take place twice a day, but during the period of thought-collection—which is the meaning of “sesshin”—the monk has to see the master four or five times a day. This seeing the master does not take place openly,f148 the monk is required to come up individually to the master’s room, where the interview goes on in a most formal and solemn manner. When the monk is about to cross the threshold of the master’s room, he makes three bows prostrating himself on the floor. He now enters the room keeping his hands folded, palm to palm, before the chest, and when he comes near the master, he sits down and makes another bow. Once in the room, all worldly convention is disregarded. If absolutely necessary from the Zen point of view, blows may be exchanged. To make manifest the truth of Zen with all sincerity of heart is the sole consideration here, and everything else receives only a subordinate attention. Hence this elaborate formalism. The presentation over, the monk retires in the same way as before. One “sanzen” for over thirty monks will occupy more than one hour and a half, and this is the time of the utmost tension for the master, too. To have this four or five times a day must be a kind of ordeal for the master himself, if he is not of robust health.

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 accidentf149 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?”

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.”

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

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.

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.”

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]: