Essays in Zen Buddhism: First Series

Besides this orthodox line of patriarchs, there were some sporadic expositors of Zen throughout the sixth and the seventh century. Several of them are mentioned, but there must have been many more such who were either altogether forgotten or not at all known to the world. The two best known are Pao-chih (died 514)[4.46] and Fu-hsi (died 569)[4.47]; and their lives are recorded in the Records as “adepts in Zen but not appearing in the world though well-known at the time.” This is a strange phrasing, and it is hard to know definitely what “not appearing in the world” means. Usually it applies to one who does not occupy any recognised position in an officially registered monastery. But of those that are classed under this heading, there is one at least to whom the designation does not properly apply; for Chi-i was a great high priest occupying an influential ecclesiastical post in the Sui dynasty. Whatever this was, those recorded here did not belong to the orthodox Zen school. The Tendai (T‘ien-tai) followers object to see two of their Fathers Hui-szŭ and Chi-i mentioned as “adepts in Zen but not appearing in the world though well-known at the time.” They think that these two are great names in the history of their school and ought not to be so indifferently referred to in the records of the Zen masters.

But from the Zen point of view this classification is justifiable for the reason that the Tendai, except its metaphysics, is another current of Zen started independently of the line of Bodhi-Dharma, and if this were allowed to take a more practical course of development, it should surely have resulted in Zen as we have it now. But its metaphysical side came to be emphasised at the expense of the practical, and for this reason the Tendai philosophers were ever at war with the Zen, especially with the ultra-left wing which was inflexible in denouncing an appeal to ratiocination and literary discoursing and Sutra-learning. In my view the Tendai is a variation of Zen and its first promulgators may justly be classed as Zen masters though not of the pedigree to which belong Shih-t‘ou, Yüeh-shan, Ma-tsu, Lin-chi, etc.

While there were thus in the sixth and the seventh century some other lines of Zen about to develop, the one started by Bodhi-Dharma was uninterruptedly carried on by Hui-k‘ê, Shêng-t‘san, Tao-hsin, and Hung-jên, who proved to be the most fruitful and successful. The differentiation of two schools under the fifth patriarch, by Hui-nêng and Shên-hsiu, helped the further progress of pure Zen by eliminating unessential or rather undigested elements. That the school of Hui-nêng survived the other proves that his Zen was in perfect accord with Chinese psychology and modes of thinking. The Indian elements that had been found attached to the Zen of Bodhi-Dharma and his successors down to Hui-nêng, were something grafted and not native to Chinese genius. And therefore when Zen came to be fully established under Hui-nêng and his followers, it had nothing further to obstruct its free development until it became almost the only ruling power in the Chinese world of Buddhism. We must carefully watch how Hui-nêng came to be Hung-jên’s successor and where he differed from his rival school under Shên-hsiu.

Hui-nêng (637–713)[4.48] came from Hsin-chou in the southern parts of China. His father died when he was yet young. He supported his mother by selling wood in town. When one day he came out of a house where he sold some fuel, he heard a man reciting a Buddhist Sutra. The words deeply touched his heart. Finding what Sutra it was and where it was possible to get it, a longing came over him to study it with the master. The Sutra was the Diamond Sutra (Vajracchedikā-sūtra ) and the master was the fifth patriarch residing at Yellow Plum in Chin-chou. Hui-nêng somehow managed to get money enough for the support of his aged mother while he was gone.

This pleased the master very much. Hui-nêng was given an office as rice-pounder for the Brotherhood. More than eight months, it is said, he was employed in this menial labour, when the fifth patriarch wished to select his spiritual successor among his many disciples. One day he made an announcement that any one who could prove his thorough comprehension of the religion would be given the patriarchal mantle and proclaimed as his legitimate heir. Shên-hsiu (died 706)[4.49] who was the most learned of all the disciples and thoroughly versed in the lore of his religion, and who was therefore considered by his brethren in the faith to be in possession of an unqualified right to the honour, composed a stanza expressing his view, and posted it on the outside wall of the meditation hall, which read:

All those who read these lines were greatly impressed, and secretly cherished the idea that the author of this gatha would surely be awarded the prize. But when they awoke the next morning, they were surprised to see another written alongside of it, which ran as follows:

The writer of these lines was an insignificant layman in the service of the monastery, who spent most of his time in pounding rice and splitting wood for the Brotherhood. He had such an unassuming air that nobody ever thought much of him, and therefore the entire community was now set astir to see this challenge made upon its recognised authority. But the fifth patriarch saw in this unpretentious monk a future leader of mankind, and decided to transfer to him the robe of his office. He had, however, some misgivings concerning the matter; for the majority of his disciples were not enlightened enough to see anything of deep religious intuition in the lines by the rice-pounder, Hui-nêng: and if he were publicly awarded the honour they might do him harm. So the fifth patriarch gave a secret sign to Hui-nêng to come to his room at midnight, when the rest of the Brotherhood was fast asleep. Then he gave him the robe as insignia of his authority and in acknowledgment of his unsurpassed spiritual attainment and with the assurance that the future of their faith would be brighter than ever. The patriarch then advised him that it would be wise for him to hide his own light under a bushel until the proper time arrived for his public appearance and active propaganda, and also that the robe which was handed down from Bodhi-Dharma as the sign of faith should no more be given up to Hui-nêng’s successors, because Zen was now fully recognised by the outside world in general and there was no more necessity to symbolise the faith by the transference of the robe.

This narrative is taken from the literature left by the followers of the sixth patriarch and is naturally partial in his favour. If we had another record left by Shên-hsiu and his school, the account here reproduced may materially differ. In fact, we have at least one document telling Shên-hsiu’s relation to Hung-jên. It is the memorial inscription on his grave-stone written by Chang-shuo,[4.52] one of his lay-disciples. In this inscription Shên-hsiu is referred to as the one to whom the Dharma has been transmitted from his master, Hung-jên. Judging from this, the patriarchal authority of Hui-nêng was not an undisputed one at the time, or the orthodox order of succession was not settled until some time later when the school of Hui-nêng had been well established in authority over all the other schools of Zen that might have been existing then. Unfortunately, this memorial inscription does not give any further information concerning Hui-nêng’s relation to Hung-jên, but even from the above narrative we can gather certain facts of importance which will shed light on the history of Zen.

First, what necessity was there to make Hui-nêng an unlearned rustic in contrast with the erudition and wide information ascribed to Shên-hsiu? Or was Hui-nêng really such an ignoramus as could not read any thing written? But the Fa-pao-t‘an-ching,[4.53] a collection of his sermons, contains passages quoted from such Sutras as the Nirvāna, Vajracchedikā, Laṅkāvatāra, Saddharma-puṇḍarika, Vimalakīrti, Amitābha, and Bodhisattva-śīla-sutra. Does this not evince the fact that the author was not altogether unacquainted with Mahayana literature? Probably he was not a learned scholar as compared with Shên-hsiu, but in the narratives of his life we can trace some systematic effort to make him more unlettered than he actually was. What, let me ask, do we read in this attempt at the hand of the editors? In my opinion, this emphasising of the contrast between the two most eminent disciples of the fifth patriarch was at the same time the emphasising of the real character of Zen as independent of learning and intellectuality. If Zen is, as its followers claim, a “special transmission outside the scriptural teaching,” the understanding of it must be possible even for the unlettered and unphilosophising. The greatness of Hui-nêng as Zen master is all the more enhanced. This was in all likelihood the reason why the sixth patriarch was unreasonably and sometimes even dramatically made unlettered.

Secondly, why was not the patriarchal robe transferred beyond Hui-nêng? If Hung-jên advised him to keep it with him, what does the advice really imply? That the life of the possessor of the robe would be threatened, points to the fact that there was a dispute among the disciples of Hung-jên. Did they regard the robe as the symbol of patriarchal authority? But what advantages, material or spiritual, accrued from the ownership of it? Did the teaching of Bodhi-Dharma come now to be believed as the genuine transmission of the Buddha? And for that reason did the robe really cease to signify anything relative to the truth of Zen? If so, when Bodhi-Dharma first declared his special mission as teacher of Zen, was he looked upon as a heretic and persecuted accordingly? The legend that he was poisoned by his rival teachers from India seems to corroborate this. At all events, the question of the robe is deeply connected with the status of Zen teaching among the various schools of Buddhism at the time, and also with its firmer hold on the popular minds than ever before.

Thirdly, the secrecy observed in all the transactions between Hung-jên and Hui-nêng concerning the transmission of the Dharma naturally arrests our attention. To raise the rice-pounder who is not even an ordained monk to the rank of a patriarch, though only in name, to succeed a great master who stands at the head of several hundred disciples, seems to be a real cause for envy and jealousy and even for hatred. But if one were really enlightened enough to take charge of the important position of spiritual leadership, could not a combined effort of master and pupil withstand all the opposition? Perhaps, even enlightenment could not stand against human passions so irrational and elemental. I cannot however help imagining an attempt on the part of the biographers of Hui-nêng at the dramatisation of the whole scene. I am very likely mistaken, and there might have been some historical conditions of which we are now ignorant due to the lack of documents.

Three days after the flight of Hui-nêng from the Yellow-plum mountains, the news of what had happened in secret became noised abroad throughout the monastery, and a party of indignant monks headed by one named Ming, pursued the fugitive, Hui-nêng, who, in accordance with his master’s instructions, was silently leaving the Brotherhood. When he was overtaken by the pursuers while crossing a mountain-pass far from the monastery, he laid down his robe on a rock near by, and said to the monk, Ming: “This robe symbolises our patriarchal faith and is not to be carried away by force. Take this along with thee, however, if thou so desirest.”

Being thus demanded, Ming at once perceived the fundamental truth of things, which hitherto he had sought in things without. He now understood everything, as if he had taken a cupful of cold water and tasted it to his own satisfaction. Out of the immensity of his feeling, he was literally bathed in tears and perspirations, and most reverently approaching the patriarch he saluted him and asked; “Besides this hidden sense as is embodied in these significant words, is there anything which is secret?”

Whatever historical circumstances surrounded Hui-nêng in those remote days, it is certain that in this statement, “to see one’s own face even before one was born,” we find the first proclamation of the new message which was destined to unroll a long history of Zen and to make Hui-nêng really worthy of the patriarchal robe. We can see here what a new outlook Hui-nêng has succeeded in opening to the traditional Indian Zen. In him we do not recognise anything of Buddhism as far as phraseology goes, which means that he opened up his own way of presenting the truth of Zen after his original and creative experience. Prior to him, the Zen experience had some borrowings, either in wording or in method, to express itself. To say, “You are the Buddha,” or “You and the Buddha are one,” or “The Buddha is living in you,” is too stale, too flat, because too abstract and too conceptual. They contain deep truth but are not concrete nor vivifying enough to rouse our dormant souls from insensibility. They are filled up too much with abstractions and learned phraseology. Hui-nêng’s simple-mindedness not spoiled by learning and philosophising could grasp the truth at first hand. Hence his unusual freshness in the way he handled the problem. We may come to this again later.

Hung-jên died, A.D. 675, four yearsf100 after the Dharma was transmitted to Hui-nêng. He was seventy-four years old. But Hui-nêng never started his mission work until some years later, for in accordance with the advice of his master he lived a secluded life in the mountains. One day he thought that it was time for him to go out in the world. He was now thirty-nine years old, and it was in the first year of I-fêng (A.D. 676) during the T‘ang dynasty. He came to Fa-hsing temple in the province of Kuang, where a learned priest, Yin-tsung, was discoursing on the Nirvāna Sūtra. He saw some monks arguing on the flattering pennant; one of them said, “The pennant is an inanimate object and it is the wind that makes it flap.” Against this it was remarked by another monk that “Both wind and pennant are inanimate things, and the flapping is an impossibility.” A third one protested, “The flapping is due to a certain combination of cause and condition”; while a fourth one proposed a theory, saying, “After all there is no flapping pennant, but it is the wind that is moving by itself.” The discussion grew quite animated when Hui-nêng interrupted with the remark, “It is neither wind nor pennant but your own mind that flaps.” This at once put a stop to the heated argument. The priest-scholar, Yin-tsung, was greatly struck by the statement of Hui-nêng, so conclusive and authoritative. Finding out very soon who this Hui-nêng was, Yin-tsung asked him to enlighten him on the teaching of the master of Yellow Plum Mountain. The gist of Hui-nêng’s reply was as follows:

“My master had no special instruction to give, he simply insisted upon the need of our seeing into our own Nature through our own efforts, he had nothing to do with meditation, or with deliverance. For whatever that could be named leads to dualism, and Buddhism is not dualistic. To take hold of this non-duality of truth is the aim of Zen. The Buddha-Nature of which we are all in possession, and the seeing into which constitutes Zen, is indivisible into such oppositions as good and evil, eternal and temporal, material and spiritual. To see dualism in life is due to confusion of thought; the wise, the enlightened see into the reality of things unhampered by erroneous ideas.”

This was the beginning of Hui-nêng’s career as Zen master. His influence seems to have been immediate and far-reaching. He had many disciples numbering thousands. He did not however go around preaching and proselyting. His activities were confined in his own province in the south, and the Pao-lin monastery at Ts‘ao-ch‘i was his headquarters. When the Emperor Kao-tsung learned that Hui-nêng succeeded Hung-jên as one of Dharma’s spiritual descendants in the faith of Zen, he sent him one of his court officials with an imperial message, but Hui-nêng refused to come up to the capital, preferring his stay in the mountains. The messenger however wished to be instructed in the doctrine of Zen that he might convey it to his august master at Court. Said Hui-nêng in the main as follows:

“It is a mistake to think that sitting quietly in contemplation is essential to deliverance. The truth of Zen opens by itself from within and it has nothing to do with the practise of dhyana. For we read in the Vajracchedikā that those who try to see the Tathagata in one of his special attitudes, as sitting or lying, do not understand his spirit, and that the Tathagata is designated as Tathagata because he comes from nowhere and departs nowhere, and for that reason he is the Tathagata. His appearance has no whence, and his disappearance no whither, and this is Zen. In Zen therefore there is nothing to gain, nothing to understand; what shall we then do with sitting cross-legged and practising dhyana? Some may think that understanding is needed to enlighten the darkness of ignorance, but the truth of Zen is absolute in which there is no dualism, no conditionality. To speak of ignorance and enlightenment, or of Bodhi and Kleśa (wisdom and passions), as if they were two separate objects which cannot be merged in one, is not Mahayanistic. In the Mahayana every possible form of dualism is condemned as not expressing the ultimate truth. Everything is a manifestation of the Buddha-Nature which is not defiled in passions, nor purified in enlightenment. It is above all categories. If you want to see what is the nature of your being, free your mind from thought of relativity and you will see by yourself how serene it is and yet how full of life it is.”

While Hui-nêng was working for the cause of Zen in the south, Shên-hsiu representing another school was active in the north. Before he was converted into Buddhism, he was a learned Confucian and thus destined from the start to cut a different figure, compared with his brother-disciple, Hui-nêng. The Emperor Wu of the T‘ang dynasty was one of the devoted followers of Shên-hsiu, and naturally around him were gathered a large number of courtiers and government officers. When the Emperor Chung-tsung came to the throne, A.D. 685, he was all the more treated with reverence, and it was Chang-shuo, one of the state ministers, who inscribed a biographical sketch and eulogy on the memorial stone erected over his grave when he died. One of his sermons recorded reads: