Essays in Zen Buddhism: First Series

TO get a glimpse into the practical and disciplinary side of Zen, we have to study the institution known as the Meditation Hall. It is an educational system quite peculiar to the Zen sect. Most of the main monasteries belonging to this sect are provided with Meditation Halls, and in the life of the Zen monk more than anywhere else we are reminded of that of the Buddhist Brotherhood (Saṁgha) in India. This system was founded by the Chinese Zen Master, Hyakujo (Pai-chang, 720–814), more than one thousand years ago. Until his time the monks used to live in monasteries belonging to the Vinaya sect, which were governed by a spirit not quite in accordance with the principles of Zen. As the latter grew more and more flourishing and its followers kept on increasing in number and in influence, there was need for its own institution, exclusively devoted to the promotion of its objects. According to Hyakujo, the Zen monasteries were to be neither Hinayanistic nor Mahayanistic, but they were to unite the disciplinary methods of both schools in a new and original manner, best suited to the realisation of the Zen ideals, as they were conceived by the masters of the earlier days.

The original book compiled by Hyakujo giving detailed regulations of the Zen monastery was lost. The one we have now was compiled during the Yüan dynasty from the actual life in the monastery at the time, which was then supposed to be a faithful continuation of the old institution though naturally with some modifications and transformations due to historical exigencies. This book was compiled under the auspices of the reigning Emperor Shuu, and is known as “The Imperial Edition of the Regulations in the Zen Monastery.”[7.1] In Japan the Zen monasteries have never been established on such a grand scale as in China, and as the result all the regulations as detailed in the Imperial Edition were not practised. But their spirit and all that was applicable to Japanese life and conditions were adopted. The ideals of Zen life were never lost sight of anywhere. And before I proceed further I wish to speak briefly of one of such ideals set before the eyes of all Zen students, for it is really the most important and noteworthy feature in the monastery life of Zen.

It is indeed this that distinguishes Zen from the other Buddhist schools originated in China, and is to be considered most characteristically Zen and at the same time animating its long history. By this I mean the notion of work or service. Hyakujo left a famous saying which was the guiding principle of his life and is pre-eminently the spirit of the Meditation Hall. It is this: “No work, no eating.” When he was thought by his devoted disciples too old to work in the garden, which was his daily occupation besides lecturing and educating the monks in Zen, they hid all his garden implements, as he would not listen to their repeated oral remonstrances. He then refused to eat, saying, “No work, no eating.” At all the Meditation Halls work is thus considered a vital element in the life of a monk. It is altogether a practical one and chiefly consists in manual labour, such as sweeping, cleaning, cooking, fuel-gathering, tilling the farm, or going about begging in the villages far and near. No work is considered beneath their dignity, and a perfect feeling of brotherhood and democracy prevails among them. How hard, or how mean from the ordinary point of view a work may be, they will not shun it. They believe in the sanctity of manual labour. They keep themselves busy in every way they can; they are no idlers as some of the so-called monks or mendicants are, physically at least, as in India for instance.

We can see in this sanctification of work the practical attitude of the Chinese mind well reflected. When I said that Zen was the Chinese interpretation of the doctrine of Enlightenment, the Zen conception of work did not essentially or theoretically enter into my conclusion. But from the practical point of view work is such an integral part of the Zen life now that the one cannot be conceived as independent of the other. In India the monks are mendicants; when they meditate they retire into a quiet corner from worldly cares; and inasmuch as they are supported economically by their secular devotees, they do not propose to work in any menial employment such as Chinese and Japanese Zen monks are used to. What saved Zen Buddhism from deteriorating into quietism or mere intellectual gymnastics, which was more or less the fate befalling other schools of Buddhism, was surely due to the gospel of work. Apart from its psychological value, it proved an efficient agency in preserving the health and sanity of Zen Buddhism throughout its long history of growth.

Whatever may be this historical importance of work, Hyakujo must have had a profound knowledge of human psychology when he made work the ruling spirit of the monastery life. His idea of “No work, no eating”f133[7.2] did not necessarily originate from an economic or ethical valuation of life. His sole motive was not that nobody deserved his daily bread if he did not earn it with the sweat of his face. True, there is a virtue in not eating the bread of idleness, and there have been so many Buddhists since the early days of Buddhism, who thought it a most disgraceful thing to be living on others’ earnings and savings, Hyakujo’s object, while it might have been unconsciously conceived, was more psychological in spite of his open declaration, “No work, no eating.” It was to save his monks from a mental inactivity or an unbalanced development of mind which too often results from the meditative habit of the monkish life. When the muscles are not exercised for the execution of spiritual truths, or when the mind and body is not put to practical test, the severance generally issues in inimical results. As the philosophy of Zen is to transcend the dualistic conception of flesh and spirit, its practical application will naturally be, dualistically speaking, to make the nerves and muscles the most ready and absolutely obedient servants of the mind, and not to make us say that the spirit is truly ready but the flesh is weak. Whatever religious truths of this latter statement, psychologically it comes from the lack of a ready channel between mind and muscles.

Unless the hands are habitually trained to do the work of the brain, the blood ceases to circulate evenly all over the body, it grows congested somewhere, especially in the brain. The result will be not only an unsound condition of the body in general but a state of mental torpidity or drowsiness, in which ideas are presented as if they were wafting clouds. One is wide awake and yet the mind is filled with the wildest dreams and visions which are not at all related to realities of life. Fantasies are fatal to Zen, and those who practise Zen considering it a form of meditation are too apt to be visited upon by this insidious enemy. Hyakujo’s insistence upon manual work has saved Zen from falling into the pitfalls of antinomianism as well as a hallucinatory mode of mind.

Apart from these psychological considerations, there is a moral reason which ought not to escape attention in our estimate of Hyakujo’s wisdom in instituting work as a vital part of Zen life. For the soundness of ideas must be tested finally by their practical application. When they fail in this, that is, when they cannot be carried out in everyday life producing lasting harmony and satisfaction and giving real beneficence to all concerned,—to oneself as well as to others, no ideas can be said to be sound and practical. While physical force is no standard to judge the value of ideas, the latter, however logically consistent, have no reality when they are not joined to life. Especially in Zen abstract ideas that do not convince one in practical living are of no value whatever. Conviction must be gained through experience and not through abstraction, which means that conviction has no really solid basis except when it can be tested in our acting efficient life. Moral assertion or “bearing witness” ought to be over and above an intellectual judgment, that is to say, the truth must be the product of ones’ living experiences. An idle reverie is not their business, the Zen followers will insist. They, of course, sit quiet and practise “zazen”f134[7.3]; for they want to reflect on whatever lessons they have gained while working. But as they are against chewing the cud all the time, they put in action whatever reflections they have made during hours of quiet-sitting and test their validity in the vital field of practicality.

It is my strong conviction that if Zen did not put faith in acting its ideas, the institution would have long before this sunk into a mere somniferous and trance-inducing system, so that all the treasure thoughtfully hoarded by the masters in China and Japan would have been cast away as heaps of rotten stuff.

Perhaps unwittingly supported by these reasons, the value of work or service has been regarded by all Zen followers as one of their religious ideals. No doubt the idea was greatly enforced by the characteristic industry and practicalness of the Chinese people by whom Zen was mainly elaborated. The fact is that if there is any one thing that is most emphatically insisted upon by the Zen masters as the practical expression of their faith, it is serving others, doing work for others, not ostentatiously indeed but secretly, without making others know of it. Says Eckhart, “What a man takes in by contemplation he must pour out in love.” Zen would say, “pour it out in work,” meaning by work the active and concrete realisation of love. Tauler made spinning and shoe-making and other homely duties gifts of the Holy Ghost; Brother Lawrence made cooking sacramental; George Herbert wrote:

These are all expressive of the spirit of Zen, as far as its practical side is concerned. Mystics are thus all practical men, they are far from being visionaries whose souls are too absorbed in things unearthly or of the other-world to be concerned with their daily life. The common notion that mystics are dreamers and star-gazers ought to be corrected, as it has no foundation in facts. Indeed, psychologically, there is a most intimate and profound relationship between a practical turn of mind and a certain type of mysticism; the relationship is not merely conceptual or metaphysical. If mysticism is true, its truth must be a practical one verifying itself in every act of ours, and, most decidedly, not a logical one, to be true only in our dialectics. Sings a Zen poet known as Hō-kōji:f135[7.4]

The Meditation Hall[7.6] (Zendo in Japanese and Ch‘an T‘ang in Chinese), as it is built in Japan, is generally a rectangular building of various size according to the number of monks to be accommodated. One at Engakuji,f136 Kamakura, was about 36 feet by 65 feet. The floors about eight feet wide and three feet high are raised along the longer sides of the building, and an empty space is left in the middle throughout the entire length of the Hall. This space is used for practising an exercise known as “kinhin”[7.7] (ching-hsing) which means literally “sutra-walking.” The space allotted to each monk on the tatami floor does not exceed one mat, three by six feet, where he sits, meditates, and sleeps at night. The bedding for each is never more than one large wadded quilt, summer or winter. He has no regular pillow except that which is temporarily made up by himself out of his own private possessions. These latter, however, are next to nothing: for they are kesa (kashāya in Sanskrit) and koromo (priestly robe), a few books, a razor, and a set of bowls, all of which are put up in a box about three by ten by three and a half inches large. In travelling this box is carried in front supported with a sash about the neck. The entire property thus moves with the owner. “One dress and one bowl, under a tree and on a stone,”[7.8] was the graphical description of the monkish life in India. Compared with this, the modern Zen monk must be said to be abundantly supplied.

The desire to possess is considered by Buddhism to be one of the worst passions mortals are apt to be obsessed with. What in fact causes so much misery in the world is due to a strong impulse of acquisitiveness. As power is desired, the strong always tyrannise over the weak: as wealth is coveted, the rich and poor are always crossing their swords of bitter enmity. International wars rage, social unrest ever goes on, unless the impulse to have and hold is completely uprooted. Cannot a society be reorganised upon an entirely different basis from what we have been used to see from the beginning of history? Cannot we ever hope to stop the amassing of wealth and the wielding of power merely from the desire for individual or national aggrandisement? Despairing of the utter irrationality of human affairs, the Buddhist monks have gone to the other extreme and cut themselves off even from reasonable and perfectly innocent enjoyments of life. However, the Zen ideal of putting up the monk’s belongings in a tiny box a little larger than a foot square and three inches high, is their mute protest, though so far ineffective, against the present order of society.

In this connection it will be of interest to read the admonition left by Daito the National Teacher (1282–1337),[7.9] to his disciples. He was the founder of Daitokuji, Kyoto, in 1326, and is said to have spent about one-third of his life which was not a very long one, among the lowest layers of society under the Gojo bridge, begging his food, doing all kinds of menial work, and despised by the so-called respectable people of the world. He did not care for the magnificence of a prosperous and highly-honoured temple life led by most Buddhist priests of those days, nor did he think much of those pious and sanctimonious deeds that only testify to the superficiality of their religious life. He was for the plainest living and the highest thinking. The admonition reads:

“O you, monks, who are here in this mountain monastery, remember that you are gathered for the sake of the religion and not for the sake of clothes and food. As long as we have shoulders [that is, the body], we have to wear clothes, and as long as we have a mouth, we have to eat; but be ever mindful, throughout the twelve hours of the day, to apply yourselves to the study of the Unthinkable. Time passes like an arrow, never let your minds be disturbed by worldly cares. Ever, ever be on the look-out. After my wandering away, some of you may have fine temples in prosperous conditions, towers and halls and holy books all decorated in gold and silver, and devotees may noisily crowd into the grounds; some may pass hours in reading the Sutras and reciting dharanis, and sitting long in contemplation, may not give themselves up to sleep; they may, eating once a day and observing the fastdays, and, throughout the six periods of the day, practise all the religious deeds. Even when they are thus devoted to the cause, if their thoughts are not really dwelling on the mysterious and intransmissible Way of the Buddhas and Fathers, they may yet come to ignore the law of moral causation, ending in a complete downfall of the true religion. Such all belong to the family of evil spirits; however long my departure from the world may be, they are not to be called my descendants.

Let however there be just one individual, who may be living in the wilderness in a hut thatched with one bundle of straw and passing his days by eating the roots of wild vegetables cooked in a pot with broken legs; but if he single-mindedly applies himself to the study of his own [spiritual] affairs, he is the very one who has a daily interview with me and knows to be grateful for his life. Who should ever despise such a one? O monks, be diligent, be diligent.”f137

In India, the Buddhist monks never eat in the afternoon. They properly eat only once a day as their breakfast is no breakfast in the sense that an English or American breakfast is. So, the Zen monks too are not supposed to have any meal in the evening. But the climatic necessity in China and Japan could not be ignored, and they have an evening meal after a fashion; but to ease their conscience it is called “medicinal food” (yüeh-shih).[7.10] The breakfast which is taken very early in the morning while it is still dark, consists of rice gruel and pickled vegetables (tsukemono).

The principal meal at 10 a.m. is rice (or rice mixed with barley), vegetable soup, and pickles. In the afternoon, at four, they have only what is left of the dinner—no special cooking is done. Unless they are invited out or given an extra treatment at the house of some generous patrons, their meals are such as above described, year in year out. Poverty and simplicity is their motto.

One ought not, however, to consider asceticism the ideal life of Zen. As far as the ultimate signification of Zen is concerned, it is neither asceticism nor any other ethical system. If it appears to advocate either the doctrine of suppression or that of detachment, the supposed fact is merely on the surface; for Zen as a school of Buddhism more or less inherits the odium of a Hindu discipline. The central idea, however, of the monkish life is not to waste, but to make the best possible use of things as they are given us, which is also the spirit of Buddhism in general. In truth, the intellect, imagination, and all other mental faculties as well as the physical objects surrounding us, our own bodies not excepted, are given us for the unfolding and enhancing of the highest powers possessed by us as spiritual entities and not merely for the gratification of our individual whims or desires, which are sure to conflict with and injure the interests and rights asserted by others. These are some of the inner ideas underlying the simplicity and poverty of the monkish life.

At meal times a gong is struck, and the monks come out of the Meditation Hall in procession carrying their own bowls to the dining room. The low tables are laid there all bare. They sit when the leader rings the bell. The bowls are set,—which by the way are made of wood or paper and well lacquered. A set consists of four or five dishes, one inside the other. As they are arranging the dishes and the waiting monks go around to serve the soup and rice, the Prajñā-pāramitā-hṛidaya-sūtraf138 is recited followed by the “Five Meditations” on eating, which are: “First, of what worth am I? Whence is this offering? Secondly, accepting this offering, I must reflect on the deficiency of my virtue. Thirdly, to guard over my own heart, to keep myself away from faults such as covetousness, etc.,—this is the essential thing. Fourthly, this food is taken as good medicine in order to keep the body in a healthy condition. Fifthly, to ensure spiritual attainment this food is accepted.” After these “Meditations,” they continue to think about the essence of Buddhism: “The first mouthful is to cut off all evils; the second mouthful is to practise every good; the third mouthful is to save all sentient beings so that everybody will finally attain to Buddhahood.”

They are now ready to take up their chop-sticks, but before they actually partake of the sumptuous dinner, the demons or spirits living somewhere in the triple world are remembered; and each monk taking out about seven grains from his own bowl, offers them to those unseen, saying, “O you, demons and other spiritual beings, I now offer this to you, and may this food fill up the ten quarters of the world and all the demons and other spiritual beings be fed therewith.”

While eating quietude prevails. The dishes are handled noiselessly, no word is uttered, no conversation goes on. Eating is a serious affair with them. When a second bowl of rice is wanted, the monk folds his hands before him. The monk-waiter notices it, comes round with the rice-receptacle called ohachi, and sits before the hungry one. The latter takes up his bowl and lightly passes his hand around the bottom before it is handed to the waiter. He means by this to take off whatever dirt that may have attached itself to the bowl and that is likely to soil the hand of the serving monk. While the bowl is filled, the eater keeps his hands folded. If he does not want so much, he gently rubs the hands against each other, which means “Enough, thank you.”

Nothing is to be left when the meal is finished. The monks eat up all that is served them, “gathering up of the fragments that remain.” This is their religion. After a fourth helping of rice, the meal generally comes to an end. The leader claps the wooden blocks and the serving monks bring hot water. Each diner fills the largest bowl with it, and in it all the smaller dishes are neatly washed, and wiped with a piece of cloth which each monk carries. Now a wooden pail goes around to receive the slops.f139 Each monk gathers up his dishes and wraps them up once more, saying, “I have now finished eating, and my physical body is well nourished: I feel as if my will-power would shake the ten quarters of the world and dominate over the past, present, and future: turning both the cause and the effect over to the general welfare of all beings, may we all unfailingly gain in powers miraculous!” The tables are now empty as before except those rice grains offered to the spiritual beings at the beginning of the meal. The wooden blocks are clapped, thanks are given, and the monks leave the room in orderly procession as they came in.

Their industry is proverbial. When the day is not set for study at home, they are generally seen, soon after breakfast, about half past five in summer and about half past six in winter, out in the monastery grounds, or in the neighbouring villages for begging, or tilling the farm attached to the Zendo. They keep the monastery, inside as well as outside, in perfect order. When we sometimes say, “This is like a Zen monastery,” it means that the place is kept in the neatest possible order. When begging they go miles away. Commonly, attached to a Zendo there are some patrons whose houses the monks regularly visit and get a supply of rice or vegetables. We often see them along the country road pulling a cart loaded with pumpkins or potatoes. They work as hard as ordinary labourers. They sometimes go to the woods to gather kindlings or fuel. They know something of agriculture too. As they have to support themselves in these ways, they are at once farmers, labourers, and skilled workmen. For they often build their own Meditation Hall under the direction of an architect.

These monks are a self-governing body. They have their own cooks, proctors, managers, sextons, masters of ceremony, etc. In the days of Hyakujo there seem to have been ten such offices, though the details are not now known due to the loss of his Regulations. While the master or teacher of a Zendo is its soul, he is not directly concerned with its government. This is left to the senior members of the community, whose character has been tested through many years of discipline. When the principles of Zen are discussed, one may marvel at their deep and subtle metaphysics, if there is any, and imagine what a serious, pale-faced, head-drooping, and world-forgetting group of thinkers these monks are. But in their actual life they are after all common mortals engaged in menial work, but they are cheerful, cracking jokes, willing to help one another, and despising no work which is usually considered low and not worthy of an educated hand. The spirit of Hyakujo is ever manifest among them.

It was not only the monks that worked but the master himself shared their labour. This was according to Hyakujo to co-operate in and equalise the work among all concerned without distinction of rank.[7.11] Therefore, the master together with his disciples tilled the farm, planted trees, weeded the garden, picked tea-leaves, and was engaged in all other kinds of manual work. Making use of such opportunities he gave them practical lessons in the study of Zen, and the disciples too did not fail to appreciate his instructions.

When Jōshu was sweeping the courtyard, a monk asked him, “How does a speck of dust come into this holy ground?” To this Jōshu answered, “Here comes another!” On another occasion, when the master was found again sweeping the ground, Liu, minister of state, paid a visit to the temple, and said to the master-gardener, “How is it that a great wise man like you has to sweep off the dust?” “It comes from the outside,”f140[7.12] replied Jōshu.

When Nansen was working out-doors with his monks,[7.13] Jōshu who was told to watch over a fire suddenly cried out, “Fire! Fire!” The alarm made all the monks rush back to the dormitory hall. Seeing this, Jōshu closed the gate and declared, “If you could say a word, the doors would be opened.” The monks did not know what to say. Nansen, the master, however, threw the key into the hall through a window. Thereupon, Jōshu flung open the gate.

While working on the farm a monk happened to cut an earth-worm in twain with his spade whereupon he asked the master Chōsa (Chang-sha Ch‘ên), “The earth-worm is[7.14] cut in twain and both parts are still wriggling: in which of them is the Buddha-nature present?” The master said, “Have no illusion!” But the monk insisted, “I cannot help this wriggling, sir.” “Don’t you see that fire and air elements have not yet been dispersed?” When Shiko (Tzŭ-hu) and Shōkō (Shêng-kuang)[7.15] were out gardening, a similar thing happened, and Shōkō asked the master concerning the real life of the earthworm. Without answering him, the master took up the rake, first struck the one end of the worm, then the other, and finally the space between the two. He then threw down the rake and went away.