The term “Zen” (_ch‘an_ in Chinese), is an abbreviated form of _Zenna_
or _Ch‘anna_,[2.2] which is the Chinese rendering of “dhyāna,” or
“jhāna,” and from this fact alone it is evident that Zen has a great
deal to do with this practice which has been carried on from the early
days of the Buddha, indeed from the beginning of Indian culture. Dhyana
is usually rendered in English meditation, and, generally speaking,
the idea is to meditate on a truth, religious or philosophical, so
that it may be thoroughly comprehended and deeply engraved into the
inner consciousness. This is practised in a quiet place away from
the noise and confusion of the world. Allusion to this abounds in
Indian literature; and “to sit alone in a quiet place and to devote
oneself to meditation exclusively” is the phrase one meets
everywhere in the Āgamas.
The following conversation between Sandhana, a Buddhist, and
Nigrodha, an ascetic, which is recorded in the _Udumbarika Sīhanāda
Suttanta_,[f37] will throw much light on the habit of the Buddha. Says
Sandhana, “But the Exalted One haunts the lonely and remote recesses of
the forest, where noise, where sound there hardly is, where the breezes
from the pastures blow, yet which are hidden from the eyes of men,
suitable for self-communing.” To this, the ascetic wanderer answers:
“Look you now, householder, know you with whom the Samana Gotama talks?
with whom he holds conversation? By intercourse with whom does he
attain the lucidity in wisdom? The Samana Gotama’s insight is ruined by
his habit of seclusion. He is not at home in conducting an assembly. He
is not ready in conversation. So he keeps apart from others in solitary
places. Even as a one-eyed cow that, walking in a circle, follows only
the outskirts, so is the Samana Gotama.”
Again we read in the _Sāmañña-phala Sutta_[f38]: “Then, the master of
this so excellent body of moral precepts, gifted with this so excellent
self-restraint as to the senses, endowed with this so excellent
mindfulness and self-possession, filled with this so excellent content,
he chooses some lonely spot to rest at on his way—in the woods, at the
foot of a tree, on a hill side, in a mountain glen, in a rocky cave, in
a charnel place, or on a heap of straw in the open field. And returning
thither after his round for alms he seats himself, when his meal is
done, cross-legged, keeping his body erect, and his intelligence alert,
intent.”
Further, in the days of the Buddha, miracle-working and sophistical
discussions seem to have been the chief business of the ascetics,
wanderers, and Brahman metaphysicians. The Buddha was thus frequently
urged to join in the debates on philosophical questions and also
to perform wonders in order to make people embrace his teaching.
Nigrodha’s comment on the Buddha conclusively shows that the Buddha was
a great disapprover of empty reasoning, devoting himself to things
practical and productive of results, as well as that he was always
earnestly engaged in meditation away from the world. When Chien-ku,
son of a wealthy merchant in Nalanda, asked the Buddha to give his
command to his disciples and make them perform for the benefit of his
townspeople, the Buddha flatly refused, saying, “My disciples are
instructed to sit in solitude quietly and to be earnestly meditating on
the Path. If they had something meritorious, let them conceal it, but
if they had faults, let them confess.”[f39]
An appeal to the analytical understanding is never sufficient to
thoroughly comprehend the inwardness of a truth, especially when it is
a religious one, nor is mere compulsion by an external force adequate
for bringing about a spiritual transformation in us. We must experience
in our innermost consciousness all that is implied in a doctrine, when
we are able not only to understand it but to put it in practice. There
will then be no discrepancy between knowledge and life. The Buddha
knew this very well, and he endeavoured to produce knowledge out of
meditation, this is, to make wisdom grow from personal, spiritual
experience. The Buddhist way to deliverance, therefore, consisted
in threefold discipline: moral rules (_śīla_), tranquillisation
(_samādhi_), and wisdom (_prajñā_). By Śīla one’s conduct is regulated
externally, by Samādhi quietude is attained, and by Prajñā real
understanding takes place. Hence the importance of meditation in
Buddhism.
That this threefold discipline was one of the most characteristic
features of Buddhism since its earliest days is well attested by
the fact that the following formula, which is culled from the
_Mahāparinibbāna-Sutta_, is repeatedly referred to in the Sutra as
if it were a subject most frequently discussed by the Buddha for
the edification of his followers: “Such and such is upright conduct
(_śīla_); such and such is earnest contemplation (_samādhi_); such
and such is intelligence (_prajñā_). Great becomes the fruit, great the
advantage of intellect when it is set round with earnest contemplation.
The mind set round with intelligence is set quite free from the
intoxications (_āśrava_), that is to say, from the intoxication of
sensuality (_kāma_), from the intoxication of becoming (_bhāva_), from
the intoxication of delusion (_dṛishti_), from the intoxication of
ignorance (_avidyā_)[f40].”
Samadhi and dhyana are to a great extent synonymous and
interchangeable, but strictly samadhi is a psychological state
realised by the exercise of dhyana. The latter is the process and
the former is the goal. The Buddhist scriptures make reference to so
many samadhis, and before delivering a sermon the Buddha generally
enters into a samadhi,[f41] but never I think into a dhyana. The
latter is practised or exercised. But frequently in China dhyana and
samadhi are combined to make one word, _ch‘an-ting_;[2.3] meaning a
state of quietude attained by the exercise of meditation or dhyana.
There are some other terms analogous to these two which are met with
in Buddhist literature as well as in other Indian religious systems.
They are _Saṁpatti_ (coming together), Samāhita (collecting the
thoughts), Śamatha (tranquillisation), _Cittaikāgratā_ (concentration),
_Dṛishta-dharma-sukha-vihāra_ (abiding in the bliss of the Law
perceived), _Dhāraṇi_ or _Dhāraṇa_ (abstraction), etc. They are all
connected with the central idea of dhyana, which is to tranquillise
the turbulence of self-assertive passions and to bring about a state
of absolute identity in which the truth is realised in its inwardness,
that is, a state of Enlightenment. The analytical tendency of
philosophers is also evident in this when they distinguish four or
eight kinds of dhyana.[f42]
The first dhyana is an exercise in which the mind is made to
concentrate on one single subject until all the coarse affective
elements are vanished from consciousness except the serene feelings
of joy and peace. But the intellect is still active, judgment and
reflection operate upon the object of contemplation. When these
intellectual operations too are quieted and the mind is simply
concentrated on one point, it is said that we have attained the second
dhyana, but the feelings of joy and peace are still here. In the third
stage of dhyana, perfect serenity obtains as the concentration grows
deeper, but the subtlest mental activities are not vanished and at the
same time a joyous feeling remains. When the fourth and last stage
is reached, even this feeling of self-enjoyment disappears, and what
prevails in consciousness now is perfect serenity of contemplation. All
the intellectual and the emotional factors liable to disturb spiritual
tranquillity are successively controlled, and mind in absolute
composure remains absorbed in contemplation. In this there takes
place a fully-adjusted equilibrium between Samatha and Vipasayana,
that is, between tranquillisation or cessation and contemplation. In
all Buddhist discipline this harmony is always sought after. For when
the mind tips either way, it grows either too heavy (_styānam_) or
too light (_auddhatyam_), either too torpid in mental activity or too
given up to contemplation. The spiritual exercise ought to steer ahead
without being hampered by either tendency, they ought to strike the
middle path.
There are further four stages of dhyana called “Arūpa-vimoksha”
which are practised by those who have passed beyond the last stage
of dhyana. The first is to contemplate the infinity of space, not
disturbed by the manifoldness of matter; the second is on the infinity
of consciousness as against the first; the third is meant to go still
further beyond the distinction of space and thought; and the fourth is
to eliminate even this consciousness of non-distinction, to be thus
altogether free from any trace of analytical intellection. Besides
these eight Samāpatti (“coming together”) exercises, technically so
called, the Buddha sometimes refers to still another form of meditation
which is considered to be distinctly Buddhist. This is more or less
definitely contrasted to the foregoing by not being so exclusively
intellectual but partly affective, as it aims at putting a full stop
to the operation of Samjñā (thought) and Vedita (sensation), that
is, of the essential elements of consciousness. It is almost a state
of death, total extinction, except that one in this dhyana has life,
warmth, and the sense-organs in perfect condition. But in point of fact
it is difficult to distinguish this Nirodha-vimoksha (deliverance by
cessation) from the last stage of the Aruppa (or Arūpa) meditation, in
both of which consciousness ceases to function even in its simplest and
most fundamental acts.
Whatever this was, it is evident that the Buddha like the other
Indian leaders of thought endeavoured to make his disciples realise
in themselves the content of Enlightenment by means of dhyana, or
concentration. They were thus made to gradually progress from a
comparatively simple exercise up to the highest stage of concentration
in which the dualism of the One and the Many vanished even to the
extent of a total cessation of mentation. Apart from these general
spiritual exercises, the Buddha at various times told his followers
to meditate on such objects[f43] as would make them masters of their
disturbing passions and intellectual entanglements.
We can now see how Zen developed out of this system of spiritual
exercises. Zen adopted the external form of dhyana as the most
practical method to realise the end it had in view, but as to its
content Zen had its own way of interpreting the spirit of the Buddha.
The dhyana practised by primitive Buddhists was not in full accord
with the object of Buddhism, which is no other than the attaining of
Enlightenment and demonstrating it in one’s everyday life. To do away
with consciousness so that nothing will disturb spiritual serenity was
too negative a state of mind to be sought after by those who at all
aspired to develop the positive content of the Buddha’s own enlightened
mind. Tranquillisation was not the real end of dhyana, nor was the
being absorbed in a samadhi the object of Buddhist life. Enlightenment
was to be found in life itself, in its fuller and freer expressions,
and not in its cessation. What was it that made the Buddha pass all
his life in religious peregrination? What was it that moved him to
sacrifice his own well-being, in fact his whole life, for the sake
of his fellow-creatures? If dhyana had no positive object except in
pacifying passions and enjoying absorption in the unconscious, why
did the Buddha leave his seat under the Bodhi-tree and come out into
the world? If Enlightenment was merely a negative state of cessation,
the Buddha could not find any impulse in him that would urge him to
exertion in behalf of others. Critics sometimes forget this fact
when they try to understand Buddhism simply as a system of teaching
as recorded in the Agamas and in Pali Buddhist literature. As I said
before, Buddhism is also a system built by his disciples upon the
personality of the Buddha himself, in which the spirit of the Master
is more definitely affirmed. And this is what Zen has in its own
way been attempting to do—to develop the idea of Enlightenment more
deeply, positively, and comprehensively by the practice of dhyana and
in conformity with the spirit of general Buddhism, in which life,
purged of its blind impulses and sanctified by an insight into its real
values, will be asserted.
_Zen and, the Laṅkāvatāra_
Of the many Sutras that were introduced into China since the first
century A.D., the one in which the principles of Zen are more expressly
and directly expounded than any others, at least those that were in
existence at the time of Bodhi-Dharma, is the _Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra_.
Zen, as its followers justly claim, does not base its authority on
any written documents, but directly appeals to the enlightened mind
of the Buddha. It refuses to do anything with externalism in all
its variegated modes; even the Sutras or all those literary remains
ordinarily regarded as sacred and coming directly from the mouth of the
Buddha are looked down upon, as we have already seen, as not touching
the inward facts of Zen. Hence its reference to the mystic dialogue
between the Enlightened One and Mahākāśyapa on a bouquet of flowers.
But Bodhi-Dharma, the founder of Zen in China, handed the _Laṅkāvatāra_
over to his first Chinese disciple Hui-k‘ê as the only literature in
existence at the time in China, in which the principles of Zen are
taught. When Zen unconditionally emphasises one’s immediate experience
as the final fact on which it is established it may well ignore all
the scriptural sources as altogether unessential to its truth; and on
this principle its followers have quite neglected the study of the
_Laṅkāvatāra_. But to justify the position of Zen for those who have
not yet grasped it and yet who are desirous of learning something
about it, an external authority may be quoted and conceptual arguments
resorted to in perfect harmony with its truth. This was why Dharma
selected this Sutra out of the many that had been in existence in China
in his day. We must approach the _Laṅkāvatāra_ with this frame of mind.
There are three Chinese translations of the Sutra still in existence.
There was a fourth one, but it was lost. The first in four volumes
was produced during the Lu-Sung dynasty (A.D. 443) by Guṇabhadra, the
second in ten volumes comes from the pen of Bodhiruci, of the Yüan-Wei
dynasty (A.D. 513), and the third in seven volumes is by Śikshānanda,
of the T‘ang dynasty (A.D. 700).[2.4] The last-mentioned is the easiest
to understand and the first the most difficult, and it was this,
the most difficult one, that was delivered by Dharma to his disciple
Hui-K‘ê as containing the “essence of mind”. In form and in content
this translation reflects the earliest text of the Sutra, and on it are
written all the commentaries we have at present in Japan.
The special features of this Sutra, which distinguish it from the other
Mahayana writings, are, to give the most noteworthy ones: first, that
the subject-matter is not systematically developed as in most other
Sutras, but the whole book is a series of notes of various lengths;
secondly, that the Sutra is devoid of all supernatural phenomena,
but filled with deep philosophical and religious ideas concerning
the central teaching of the Sutra, which are very difficult to
comprehend, due to tersity of expression and to the abstruse nature
of the subject-matter; thirdly, that it is in the form of dialogues
exclusively between the Buddha and the Bodhisattva Mahāmati while in
the other Mahayana Sutras the principal figures are generally more than
one besides the Buddha himself who addresses them in turn; and lastly,
that it contains no Dharanis or Mantrams—those mystical signs and
formulas supposed to have a miraculous power. These singularities are
enough to make the _Laṅkāvatāra_ occupy a unique position in the whole
lore of the Mahayana school.
In this characterisation of the _Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra_, I am referring to
the first Chinese text of Guṇabhadra. The two later ones have three
new chapters in addition: one of which forming the first chapter is
a sort of introduction to the whole Sutra, giving the main idea of
what is discussed in the body of the text itself; the remaining two
are attached to the end. Of these, the one is a short collection of
Dharanis, and the other which is the conclusion is known as the Gāthā
chapter written throughout in verse and summarises the contents of
the whole Sutra. It has, however, no paragraph making up the “regular
ending” in which the whole congregation unites in the praise of the
Buddha and in its assurance of observing his instructions. There is no
doubt that these three new chapters are of later growth.
The main thesis of the _Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra_ is the content
of Enlightenment, that is, the Buddha’s own inner experience
(_pratyātmagati_) concerning the great religious truth of Mahayana
Buddhism. Most of the readers of the Sutra have singularly failed to
see this, and contend that it principally explains the Five Dharmas,
the Three Characteristics of Reality (svabhāva), the Eight Kinds of
Consciousness (_vijñāna_), and the Two Forms of Non-Ego (_nairātmya_).
It is true that the Sutra reflects the psychological school of Buddhism
advocated by Asaṅga and Vasubandhu, when for instance it refers to the
Ālayavijñāna as the storage of all karmic seeds; but such and other
references in fact do not constitute the central thought of the Sutra,
they are merely made use of in explaining the “noble understanding
of the Buddha’s inner experience” (_pratyātmāryajñāna_). Therefore
when Mahāmati finishes praising the Buddha’s virtues before the whole
assembly at the summit of Mount Laṅkā, the Buddha is quite definite in
his declaration of the main theme of his discourse in this Sutra. Let
us however first quote the song of the Bodhisattva Mahāmati since it
sums up in a concise and definite manner all the essentials of Mahayana
Buddhism and since at the same time it illustrates my statement
concerning the union of Enlightenment and Love.
The hymn runs as follows:
“When thou reviewest the world with thy wisdom and compassion, it is to
thee like the ethereal flower, and of which we cannot say whether it
is created or vanishing, as the categories of being and non-being are
inapplicable to it.
“When thou reviewest all things with thy wisdom and compassion, they
are like visions, they are beyond the reach of mind and consciousness,
as the categories of being and non-being are inapplicable to them.
“When thou reviewest the world with thy wisdom and compassion, it is
eternally like a dream, of which we cannot say whether it is permanent
or it is subject to destruction, as the categories of being and
non-being are inapplicable to it.
“The Dharmakāya whose self-nature is a vision and a dream, what is
there to praise? Real existence is where rises no thought of nature and
no-nature.
“He whose appearance is beyond the senses and sense-objects and is not
to be seen by them or in them—how could praise or blame be predicated
of him, O Muni?
“With thy wisdom and compassion, which really defy all qualifications,
thou comprehendest the ego-less nature of things and persons and art
eternally clean of the evil passions and of the hindrance of knowledge.
“Thou dost not vanish in Nirvana, nor does Nirvana abide in thee; for
it transcends the dualism of the enlightened and enlightenment as well
as the alternatives of being and non-being.
“Those who see the Muni so serene and beyond birth, are detached from
cravings and remain stainless in this life and after.”
After this says the Buddha: “O you, sons of the Jina, question me
anything you feel like asking. I am going to tell you about the
state of my inner attainment (_pratyātmagatigocaram_).” This is
conclusive, nothing is left to discussion concerning the theme of the
_Laṅkāvatāra_. The five Dharmas, the three Characteristics, etc.,
are referred to only in the course of the Buddha’s exposition of the
principal matter.
The two later translations, which, as aforementioned, contain some
extra chapters, are divided regularly in the one into ten and in the
other into eighteen chapters, while the earliest one of Gunabhadra
has just one chapter title for the whole book, “The Gist of all
the Buddhawords.” The first extra chapter which is not found in
Gunabhadra’s text is remarkable in this that it gives the outlines
of the whole Sutra in the form of a dialogue between the Buddha and
Rāvana, Lord of the Yakshas, in the Isle of Laṅkā. When the Buddha,
coming out of the Nāga’s palace, views the castle of Laṅkā, he smiles
and remarks that this was the place where all the Buddhas of the
past preached regarding the excellent understanding of Enlightenment
realised in their inner consciousness, which is beyond the analysis of
logic and is not the state of mind attainable by the Tīrthya, Śrāvaka,
or Pratyekabuddha. The Buddha then adds that for this reason the
same Dharma will be propounded for Rāvana, Lord of the Yakshas. In
response to this, the latter, making all kinds of costly offerings
to the Buddha, sings in the praise of his insight and virtues: “O
Lord, instruct me in thy system of doctrine which is based on the
self-nature of mind, instruct me in the doctrine of non-ego, free from
prejudices and defilements, the doctrine that is revealed in thy inmost
consciousness.”
In the conclusion of this chapter, the Buddha reaffirms his doctrine
of inner realisation which is Enlightenment: “It is like seeing one’s
own image in a mirror or in water, it is like seeing one’s own shadow
in moonlight or lamplight, again it is like hearing one’s voice echoed
in the valley: as a man clings to his own false assumptions, he
erroneously discriminates between truth and falsehood, and on account
of this false discrimination he fails to go beyond the dualism of
opposites, indeed he cherishes falsity and cannot attain tranquillity.
By tranquillity is meant singleness of purpose (or oneness of things),
and by singleness of purpose is meant the entrance into the most
excellent samadhi, whereby is produced the state of noble understanding
of self-realisation, which is the receptacle of Tathagatahood
(_tathāgatagarbha_).”
From these quotations we can easily see why Bodhi-Dharma recommended
this Sutra for the special perusal of his Zen disciples. But in
order to impress the reader further with the great importance of
the _Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra_ in the historical study of Zen in India
and China, I quote a few more passages showing how the teaching of
self-realisation is developed in the Sutra.
According to the author, the anuttara-samyak-sambodhi attained by the
Muni of the Śākyas, whereby he became the Buddha, is realisable by
transcending the ideas of being and non-being (_nāsy-asti-vikalpa_).
This being the fundamental error—this cherishing of dualism—must
be got rid of as the first necessary step to reach the state of
self-realisation. The error comes from not perceiving the truth
that all things are empty (_śūnya_), uncreated (_anutpāda_),
non-dualistic (_advaya_), and have no immutably individualistic
characters (_niḥsvabhāvalakshaṇa_). By the emptiness of things
is meant principally that their existence being so thoroughly
mutually conditioning, nowhere obtains the false notion of
distinctive individuality, and that when analysis is carried to
its logical consequence there exists nothing that will separate
one object from another in a final way; therefore says the Sutra,
“Sva-para-ubhaya-abhāvāt” (there exists neither one nor another
nor both). Secondly, things are uncreated, because they are not
self-created, nor are they created by an outside agency. Thirdly, as
their existence is reciprocally conditioning, a dualistic conception
of the world is not the ultimate one, and thus it is a mistake, due
to this wrong discrimination (_vikalpa_), to seek Nirvana outside of
Samsara (birth-and-death) and Samsara outside of Nirvana. Fourthly,
this principle of mutuality means the denial of individuality as
absolute reality, for there is nothing in existence that will
absolutely maintain its individuality standing above all conditions of
relativity or mutual becoming—in fact, being is becoming. For these
reasons, we can realise the truth of Enlightenment only by transcending
the first condition of intellection, which is, according to the
_Laṅkāvatāra_, Parikalpa, or Vikalpa (discrimination). The warning
against this Vikalpa which is the analysing tendency of mind, or, we
may say, the fundamentally dualistic disposition of consciousness is
the constant refrain of the Sutra, while on the other hand it never
forgets to emphasise the importance of self-realisation which is
attained by overcoming this fundamental tendency.
By thus transcending the intellectual condition, Paramārthasatya
is realised, which is the ultimate truth, and which subjectively
constitutes Pratyātmajñāna; it is also the eternally abiding law of
the universe (_paurāṇasthitidharmatā_). This inwardly realised truth
has many names as it is viewed in various relations in which it stands
to human activities, moral, spiritual, intellectual, practical, and
psychological. “Bodhi” is enlightenment and used most generally, in
Mahayana as well as in Hinayana literature, to designate the mind in
which Ignorance is completely wiped out; Tathatā (thatness) or Bhūtatā
(reality) is metaphysical. Nirvana is conceived as a spiritual state
in which all passional turmoil is quieted; Tathāgatagarbha is more
psychological than ontological; Citta is used as belonging to the
series of mental terms such as Manas, Manovijñāna, and other Vijñānas,
and is not always synonymous with Bodhi or Pratyātmajñāna unless it
is qualified with adjectives of purity; Śūnyatā is a negative term
and distinctively epistemological, and Buddhist scholars, especially
of the Prajñāpāramitā school, have been quite fond of this term, and
we see that the _Laṅkāvatāra_ too has indulged in the use of it. It
goes without saying however that these synonyms are helpful only as
sign-posts indicating the way to the content of self-realisation.
Besides these, we have two or three most frequently repeated phrases
to characterise the central idea of the Mahayana text. In fact, when
the meaning of these phrases is grasped together with psychological
discourse on the Citta and Vijñāna, the whole philosophy of Zen
as it is expounded in the Sutra grows transparent, and also with
it the general tendency of Mahayana thought. The phrases are:
“_Vāg-vikalpa-ahita_” or “_vāg-akshara-prativikalpanaṁ vinihata_” or
“_śāśvata-uccheda-sad-asad-dṛishṭi-vivarjita_.” With these the reader
is most frequently greeted in the Sutra. The first and the second
phrases mean that the inner content of the noble understanding is
beyond the reach of words and analytical reasoning, and the third
phrase says that the ultimate truth is not to be found in eternalism,
or nihilism, or realism, or non-realism. The Sutra sometimes goes so
far as this: “O Mahāmati, it is because the Sutras are preached to all
beings in accordance with their modes of thinking, and do not hit the
mark as far as the true sense is concerned; words cannot re-instate
the truth as it is. It is like mirage, deceived by which the animals
make an erroneous judgment as to presence of water where there is
really none; even so, all the doctrines in the Sutras are intended to
satisfy the imagination of the masses, they do not reveal the truth
which is the object of the noble understanding. Therefore O Mahāmati,
conform yourself to the sense, and do not be engrossed in words and
doctrines.”[f44]
The purport of these adjectives and phrases is that no conceptual
interpretation is possible of Enlightenment or self-realisation and
that the realisation must issue from one’s own inner consciousness,
independent of scriptural teaching or of another’s help. For all
that is needed to lead one to the attainment of Pratyātmāryajñāna is
within oneself, only that it is in a state of confusion owing to wrong
judgments (_vikalpa_) cherished and infused (_vāsanā_) in the mind
since beginningless time. It requires a direct, personal confirmation
or transmission from the Buddhas, but even these latter are unable to
awaken us to the exalted state of Enlightenment unless we ourselves
concentrate our spiritual efforts in the work of self-emancipation.
Therefore, meditation (_dhyāna_) is recommended in the Sutra as the
means of attaining to the truth of the inmost consciousness.
The idea of dhyana as explained in the _Laṅkāvatāra_, however, is
different from what we generally know in Hinayana literature,[f45]
that is, from those kinds of dhyana mentioned in the previous part
of this essay. The Sutra distinguishes four dhyanas: the first is
practised by the unlearned (_bālopacārika_), such as the Śrāvakas,
Pratyeka-buddhas, and devotees of the Yoga. They have been instructed
in the doctrine of nonātman, and regarding the world as impermanent,
impure, and pain-producing, they persistently follow these thoughts
until they realise the samadhi of thought-extinction. The second
dhyana is designated “statement-reviewing” (_artha-pravicaya_) by
which is meant an intellectual examination of statements or
propositions, Buddhist or non-Buddhist, such as “Each object has its
individual marks,” “There is no personal Atman,” “Things are created
by an external agency,” or “things are mutually determined”; and after
the examination of these themes the practiser of this dhyana turns
his thought on the non-atman-ness of things (_dharma-nairātmya_) and
on the characteristic features of the various stages (_bhūmi_) of
Bodhisattvaship, and finally in accordance with the sense involved
therein he goes on with his contemplative examination. The third dhyana
is called “Attaching oneself to Thatness” (_tathatālambana_) whereby
one realises that to discriminate the two forms of non-atman-ness
is still due to an analytical speculation and that when things are
truthfully (_yathābhūtam_) perceived, no such analysis is possible,
for then there obtains absolute oneness only. The fourth and last is
“Tathāgata-dhyāna.” In this one enters into the stage of Buddhahood
where he enjoys a threefold beatitude belonging to the noble
understanding of self-realisation and performs wonderful deeds for the
sake of all sentient beings. In these dhyanas we observe a gradual
perfection of Buddhist life culminating in the utmost spiritual freedom
of Buddhahood, which is above all intellectual conditions and beyond
the reach of relative consciousness. Those wonderful, unthinkable
(_acintya_) deeds issuing from spiritual freedom are technically called
“deeds performed with no sense of utility” (_anābhogacaryā_), or the
“deeds of no purpose” as referred to elsewhere, and mean the perfection
of Buddhist life.
The _Laṅkāvatāra_ was thus handed over by Bodhi-Dharma to his first
disciple Hui-k‘ê as the most illuminating document on the doctrine of
Zen. But the development of Zen in China naturally did not follow the
line as was indicated in the Sutra, that is, after the Indian fashion;
the soil where the dhyana of the _Laṅkāvatāra_ was transplanted did
not favour its growth in the same manner as it did in the original
climate. Zen was inspired with the life and spirit of the dhyana of the
Tathagata, but it created its own mode of manifestation. Indeed this
was where it showed its wonderful power of vitality and adaptation.
_The Doctrine of Enlightenment as Zen in China_
To understand how the doctrine of Enlightenment or self-realisation
came to be translated in China as Zen Buddhism, we must first see where
the Chinese mind varies from the Indian generally. When this is done,
Zen will appear as a most natural product of the Chinese soil where
Buddhism has been successfully transplanted in spite of many adverse
conditions. Roughly, then, the Chinese are above all a most practical
people while the Indians are visionary and highly speculative. We
cannot perhaps judge the Chinese as unimaginative and lacking in the
dramatic sense, but when they are compared with the inhabitants of the
Buddha’s native land, they look so grey, so sombre. The geographical
features of each country are singularly reflected in the people. The
tropical luxuriance of imagination so strikingly contrasts with the
wintery dreariness of common practicalness. The Indians are subtle
in analysis and dazzling in poetic flight; the Chinese are children
of earthly life, they plod, they never soar away in the air. Their
daily life consists in tilling the soil, gathering dry leaves, drawing
water, buying and selling, being filial, and observing social duties,
and developing the most elaborate system of etiquette. Being practical
means in a sense being historical, observing the progress of time
and recording its traces as they are left behind. The Chinese can
very well boast of their being great recorders,—such a contrast to
the Indian lack of sense of time. Not satisfied with books printed
on paper and with ink, the Chinese would engrave their deeds deep in
stone, and have developed a special art of stone-cutting. This habit
of recording events has developed their literature, and they are
quite literary and not at all warlike, they love a peaceful life of
culture. Their weakness is that they are willing to sacrifice facts for
literary effects, for they are not very exact and scientific. Love of
fine rhetoric and beautiful expressions has frequently drowned their
practical sense, but here is also their art. Well restrained even in
this, their soberness never reaches that form of fantasy which we
encounter in most of the Mahayana texts.
The Chinese are in many ways great, their architecture is great
indeed, their literary achievements deserve the world’s thanks; but
logic is not one of their strong points; nor are their philosophy and
imagination. When Buddhism with all its characteristically Indian
dialectics and imageries was first introduced into China, it must
have staggered the Chinese mind. Look at its gods with many heads and
arms—something that has never entered into their heads, in fact into
no other nation’s than the Indian’s. Think of the wealth of symbolism
with which every being in Buddhist literature seems to be endowed.
The mathematical conception of infinities, the Bodhisattva’s plan
of world-salvation, the wonderful stage-setting before the Buddha
begins his sermons, not only in their general outlines but in their
details—bold, yet accurate, soaring in flight, yet sure of every
step—these and many other features must have been things of wonderment
to the practical and earth-plodding people of China.
* * * * *
One quotation from a Mahayana Sutra will convince readers of the
difference between Indian and Chinese minds, in regard to their
imaginative powers. In the _Saddharma-puṇḍarīka_ the Buddha wishes
to impress his disciples as to the length of time passed since his
attainment of Supreme Enlightenment; he does not merely state that it
is a mistake to think that his Enlightenment took place some countable
number of years ago under the Bodhi-tree near the town of Gayā; nor
does he say in a general way that it happened ages ago, which is very
likely the way with the Chinese, but he describes in a most analytical
way in how remote an age it was that he came to Enlightenment.
“But, young men of good family, the truth is that many hundred thousand
myriads of kotis of æons ago I have arrived at Supreme, Perfect
Enlightenment. By way of example, young men of good family, let there
be the atoms of earth of fifty hundred thousand myriads of kotis of
worlds; let there exist some man who takes one of these atoms of dust
and then goes in an eastern direction fifty hundred thousand myriads
of kotis of worlds further on, there to deposit that atom of dust;
let the man in this manner carry away from all those worlds the
whole mass of earth, and in the same manner, and by the same act as
supposed, deposit all those atoms in an eastern direction. Now would
you think, young men of good family, that any one should be able to
weigh, imagine, count, or determine the number of these worlds? The
Lord having thus spoken, the Bodhisattva Mahāsattva Maitreya and the
entire host of Bodhisattvas replied: They are incalculable, O Lord,
those worlds, countless, beyond the range of thought. Not even all the
Śrāvakas and Pratyeka-buddhas, O Lord, with their Ārya-knowledge, will
be able to imagine, count, or determine them. For us also, O Lord, who
are Bodhisattvas standing on the place from whence there is no turning
back, this point lies beyond the sphere of our comprehension; so
innumerable, O Lord, are those worlds.
“This said, the Buddha spoke to those Bodhisattvas Mahāsattvas as
follows: I announce to you, young men of good family, I declare to you:
However numerous be those worlds where that man deposits those atoms of
dust and where he does not, there are not, young men of good family, in
all those hundred thousands of myriads of kotis of worlds so many dust
atoms as there are hundred thousands of myriads of kotis of æons since
I have arrived at Supreme, Perfect Enlightenment.”[f46]
Such a conception of number and such a method of description would
never have entered the Chinese mind. They are, of course, capable of
conceiving long duration, and great achievements, in which they are not
behind any nation; but to express their idea of vastness in the manner
of the Indian philosophers would be beyond their understanding.
* * * * *
When things are not within the reach of conceptual description and
yet when they are to be communicated to others, the ways open to most
people will be either to remain silent, or to declare them simply
to be beyond words, or to resort to negation saying, “not this,”
“not that,” or if one were a philosopher, to write a book explaining
how logically impossible it was to discourse on such subjects;
but the Indians found quite a novel way of illustrating philosophical
truths that cannot be appealed to analytical reasoning. They resorted
to miracles or supernatural phenomena for their illustration. Thus
they made the Buddha a great magician; not only the Buddha but almost
all the chief characters appearing in the Mahayana scriptures became
magicians. And in my view this is one of the most charming features
of the Mahayana texts—this description of supernatural phenomena in
connection with the teaching of abstruse doctrine. Some may think it
altogether childish and injuring the dignity of the Buddha as teacher
of solemn religious truths. But this is a superficial interpretation
of the matter. The Indian idealists knew far better; they had a more
penetrating imagination which was always effectively employed by them
whenever the intellect was put to a task beyond its power. We must
understand that the motive of the Mahayanists who made the Buddha
perform all these magical feats was to illustrate through imageries
what in the very nature of things could not be done in an ordinary
method open to human intellect. When the intellect failed to analyse
the essence of Buddhahood, their rich imagination came in to help them
out by visualising it. When we try to explain Enlightenment logically,
we always find ourselves involved in contradictions. But when an appeal
is made to our symbolical imagination—especially if one is liberally
endowed with this faculty—the matter is more readily comprehended.
At least this seems to have been the Indian way of conceiving the
signification of supernaturalism.
When Vimalakīrti was asked by Śāriputra how such a small room as his
with just one seat for himself could accommodate all the hosts of
Bodhisattvas and Arhats and Devas numbering many thousands, who were
coming there with Mañjuśrī to visit the sick philosopher, replied
Vimalakīrti, “Are you here to seek chairs or the Dharma?... One who
seeks the Dharma finds it in seeking it in nothing.” Then learning from
Mañjuśrī where to obtain seats, he asks a Buddha called Sumerudīparāja
to supply him with 32,000 lion-seats, majestically decorated and as
high as 84,000 yojanas. When they were brought in, his room,
formerly large enough for one seat, now miraculously accommodated all
the retinue of Mañjuśrī, each one of whom was comfortably seated in a
celestial chair, and yet the whole town of Vaiśāli and the rest of the
world did not appear on this account crammed to overflowing. Śāriputra
was surprised beyond measure to witness this supernatural event, but
Vimalakīrti explained that for those who understand the doctrine of
spiritual emancipation, even the Mount of Sumeru could be sealed up in
a seed of mustard, and the waves of the four great oceans could be made
to flow into one pore of the skin (_romakūpa_), without even giving any
sense of inconvenience to any of the fishes, crocodiles, tortoises, and
other living beings in them; the spiritual kingdom was not bound in
space and time.
To quote another instance from the first chapter of the
_Laṅkāvatārasūtra_, which does not appear in the oldest Chinese
translation. When King Rāvaṇa was requesting the Buddha through the
Bodhisattva Mahāmati to disclose the content of his inner experience,
the king unexpectedly noticed his mountain-residence turned into
numberless mountains of precious stones and most ornately decorated
with celestial grandeur, and on each of these mountains he saw the
Buddha manifested. And before each Buddha there stood King Rāvaṇa
himself with all his assemblage as well as all the countries in the ten
quarters of the world, and in each of those countries there appeared
the Tathagata, before whom again there were King Rāvaṇa, his families,
his palaces, his gardens, all decorated exactly in the same style as
his own. There was also the Bodhisattva Mahāmati in each of these
innumerable assemblies asking the Buddha to declare the content of his
inner spiritual experience; and when the Buddha finished his discourse
on the subject with hundreds of thousands of exquisite voices, the
whole scene suddenly vanished, and the Buddha with all his Bodhisattvas
and his followers were no more; then King Rāvaṇa found himself all
alone in his old palace. He now reflected: “Who was he that asked
the question? Who was he that listened? What were those objects that
appeared before me? Was it a dream? or a magical phenomenon?” He
again reflected: “Things are all like this, they are all creations
of one’s own mind. When mind discriminates, there is manifoldness of
things; but when it does not, it looks into the true state of things.”
When he thus reflected, he heard voices in the air and in his own
palace, saying: “Well you have reflected, O King! You should conduct
yourself according to this view.”
The Mahayana literature is not the only recorder of the miraculous
power of the Buddha, which transcends all the relative conditions of
space and time as well as of human activities mental and physical. The
Pali scriptures are by no means behind the Mahayana in this respect.
Not to speak of the Buddha’s threefold knowledge which consists in the
knowledge of the past, the future, and of his own emancipation, he can
also practise what is known as the three wonders which are the mystic
wonder, the wonder of education, and the wonder of manifestation. But
when we carefully examine the miracles described in the Nikayas, we
see that they have no other objects in view than the magnification and
deification of the personality of the Buddha. The recorders of these
miracles must have thought that they could thus make their master
greater and far above ordinary mortals in the estimate of their rivals.
From our modern point of view it was quite childish for them to imagine
that any unusual deeds performed by their master would attract, as
we read in the _Kevaddha Sutta_, people’s attention to Buddhism and
recognise its superior value on that very account; but in those ancient
days in India, the masses, nay even learned scholars, thought a great
deal of supernaturalism, and naturally the Buddhists made the best
possible use of this belief. But when we come to the Mahayana Sutras
we at once perceive that the miracles described here on a much grander
scale have nothing to do with supernaturalism as such or with any
ulterior motives such as propagandism or self-aggrandisement, but that
they are essentially and intimately connected with the doctrine itself
which is expounded in the texts. For instance, in the _Prajñā-pāramitā
Sūtra_ every part of the body of the Buddha simultaneously emits
innumerable rays illuminating at once the furthest ends of the
worlds, whereas in the _Avataṁsaka Sūtra_ the different parts of
his body shoot out beams of light on different occasions. In the
_Saddharma-puṇḍarīka Sūtra_, a ray of light issues from within the
circle of hair between the eyebrows of the Buddha which illuminates
over eighteen hundred thousand Buddha-countries in the eastern quarter,
revealing every being in them, even the inhabitants of the deepest
hell called Avici. It is evident that the Mahayana writers of these
Sutras had in their minds something much different from the Hinayana
compilers of the Nikayas in their narratives of the miraculous power
of the Buddha. What that something was I have here pointed out in
a most general way. A systematic study in detail of the Mahayana
supernaturalism will no doubt be an interesting one.
At all events, the above references will suffice I believe to establish
my thesis that the reason for the introduction of supernaturalism into
the Mahayana literature of Buddhism was to demonstrate the intellectual
impossibility of comprehending spiritual facts. While philosophy
exhausted its resources logically to explain them, Vimalakīrti like
Bāhva, a Vedic mystic, remained silent; not satisfied with this, the
Indian Mahayana writers further introduced supernaturalistic symbolism,
but it remained with the Chinese Zen Buddhists to invent their own
methods to cope, according to their own needs and insight, with the
difficulties of communicating one’s highest and deepest spiritual
experience known as Enlightenment in Buddhism.
* * * * *
The Chinese have no aptitude like the Indians to hide themselves in the
clouds of mystery and supernaturalism. Chwang-tzŭ and Lieh-tzŭ were
the nearest to the Indian type of mind in ancient China, but their
mysticism does not begin to approach that of the Indian Mahayanists in
grandeur, in elaborateness, and in the height of soaring imagination.
Chwang-tzŭ did his best when he rode up in the air on the back of the
Tai-p‘êng whose wings soared like overhanging clouds; and Lieh-tzŭ
when he could command winds and clouds as his charioteers. The later
Taoists dreamed of ascending to the heavens after so many years
of ascetic discipline and by taking an elixir of life concocted from
various rare herbs. Thus in China we have so many Taoist hermits
living in the mountains far away from human habitations. No Chinese
saints or philosophers are however recorded in history who have been
capable of equalling Vimalakīrti or Mañjuśrī or even any of the Arhats.
The Confucian verdict that superior man never talks about miracles,
wonders, and supernaturalism, is the true expression of Chinese
psychology. The Chinese are thoroughly practical. They must have their
own way of interpreting the doctrine of Enlightenment as applied to
their daily life, and they could not help creating Zen as an expression
of their inmost spiritual experience.
If the imagery of supernaturalism did not appeal to sober Chinese
character, how did the Chinese followers of Enlightenment contrive
to express themselves? Did they adopt the intellectual method of the
Śūnyatā philosophy? No, this too was not after their taste, nor was it
quite within the reach of their mental calibre. The _Prajñā-Pāramitā_
was an Indian creation and not the Chinese. They could have produced
a Chwang-tzŭ or those Taoist dreamers of the Six Dynasties, but not a
Nāgārjuna or a Śankāra. The Chinese genius was to demonstrate itself
in some other way. When they began inwardly to assimilate Buddhism as
the doctrine of Enlightenment, the only course that opened to their
concrete practical minds was to produce Zen. When we come to Zen after
seeing all the wonderful miracles displayed by the Indian Mahayana
writers, and after the highly abstracted speculations of the Mādhyamika
thinkers, what a change of scenery do we have here? No rays are
issuing from the Buddha’s forehead, no retinues of Bodhisattvas reveal
themselves before you, there is indeed nothing that would particularly
strike your senses as odd or extraordinary, or as beyond intelligence,
beyond the ken of logical reasoning. The people you associate with are
all ordinary mortals like yourselves, no abstract ideas, no dialectical
subtleties confront you. Mountains tower high towards the sky, rivers
all pour into the ocean. Plants sprout in the spring and flowers bloom
in red. When the moon shines serenely, poets grow mildly drunk and
sing a song of eternal peace. How prosaic, how ordinary, we may say!
but here was the Chinese soul, and Buddhism came to grow in it.
When a monk asks who is the Buddha, the master points at his image in
the Buddha Hall; no explanations are given, no arguments are suggested.
When the mind is the subject of discourse, asks a monk, “What is mind,
anyway?” “Mind,” says the master.[2.5] “I do not understand, Sir.”
“Neither do I,” quickly comes from the master. On another occasion, a
monk is worried over the question of immortality. “How can I escape
the bondage of birth and death?”[2.5] Answers the master, “Where
are you?” The Zen adepts as a rule never waste time in responding
to questions, nor are they at all argumentative. Their answers are
always curt and final, which follow the questions with the rapidity
of lightning. Some one asked,[2.6] “What is the fundamental teaching
of the Buddha?” Said the master, “There is enough breeze in this
fan to keep me cool.” What a most matter-of-fact answer this! That
inevitable formula of Buddhism, the Fourfold Noble Truth, apparently
has no place in the scheme of Zen teaching, nor has that persistently
enigmatic statement in the _Prajñā-Pāramitā_, “taccittam yaccittam
acittam,” threatens us here. Ummon (Yün-mên)[2.7] once appeared in
the pulpit and said, “In this school of Zen no words are needed; what
then is the ultimate essence of Zen teaching?” Thus himself proposing
the question, he extended both his arms, and without further remarks
came down from the pulpit. This was the way the Chinese Buddhists
interpreted the doctrine of Enlightenment, this was the way they
expounded the _Pratyātmajñanagocara_ of the _Laṅkāvatāra_. And for the
Chinese Buddhists this was the only way, if the inner experience of the
Buddha were to be demonstrated, not intellectually or analytically,
nor in supernatural manners, but directly in our practical life. For
life, as far as it is lived _in concreto_, is above concepts as well as
images. To understand it we have to dive into it and to come in touch
with it personally; to pick up or cut out a piece of it for inspection
murders it; when you think you have got into the essence of it,
it is no more, for it has ceased to live but lies immobile and all
dried up. For this reason, Chinese minds, ever since the coming of
Bodhi-Dharma, worked on the problem how best to present the doctrine
of Enlightenment in their native garment cut to suit their modes of
feeling and thinking, and it was not until after Hui-nêng (Yeno) that
they satisfactorily solved the problem and the great task of building
up a school to be known thenceforward as Zen was accomplished.
That Zen was the thing Chinese minds wanted to have when they
thoroughly comprehended the teaching of Buddhism is proved by the two
incontestable historical facts: first, after the establishment of Zen,
it was this teaching that ruled China while all the other schools of
Buddhism, except the Pure Land sect, failed to survive; and secondly,
before Buddhism was translated into Zen it never came into an intimate
relation with the native thought of China, by which I mean Confucianism.
* * * * *
Let us see first how Zen came to rule the spiritual life of China.
The inner sense of Enlightenment was not understood in China, except
intellectually, in the earlier days of Buddhism. This was natural,
seeing that it was in this respect that the Chinese mind was excelled
by the Indian. As I said before, the boldness and subtlety of Mahayana
philosophy must have fairly stunned the Chinese, who had, before the
introduction of Buddhism, practically no system of thought worthy of
the name, except moral science. In this latter they were conscious of
their own strength; even such devout Buddhists as I-ching (Gijō) and
Hs‘üan-chuang (Genjō) acknowledged it, with all their ardour for the
Yogācāra psychology and the Avatamsaka metaphysics; they thought that
their country, as far as moral culture was concerned, was ahead of the
land of their faith or at least had nothing to learn from the latter.
As the Mahayana Sutras and Shastras were translated in rapid succession
by able, learned, devout scholars, both native and Indian, the Chinese
mind was led to explore a region where they had not ventured very far
before. In the early Chinese biographical histories of Buddhism, we
notice commentators, expounders, and philosophers far outnumbering
translators and adepts in dhyana so called. The Buddhist scholars
were at first quite busily engaged in assimilating intellectually the
various doctrines propounded in Mahayana literature. Not only were
these doctrines deep and complicated but they were also contradicting
one another, at least on the surface. If the scholars were to enter
into the depths of Buddhist thought, they had to dispose of these
entanglements somehow. But if they were sufficiently critical, they
could do that with comparative ease, which was however something we
could never expect of those earlier Buddhists; for even in these modern
days critical Buddhist scholars will in some quarters be regarded as
not quite devout and orthodox. They all had not a shadow of doubt as
to the genuineness of the Mahayanist texts as faithfully and literally
recording the very words of the Buddha, and therefore they had to plan
out some systems of reconciliation between diverse doctrines taught in
the Scriptures. This meant to find out what was the primary object of
the Buddha’s appearance in the world ignorant, corrupted, and given up
to the karma of eternal transmigration. Such efforts on the part of
Buddhist philosophers developed what is to be distinctly designated as
Chinese Buddhism.
While this intellectual assimilation was going on on the one hand,
the practical side of Buddhism was also assiduously studied. Some
were followers of the Vinaya texts, and others devoted themselves
to the mastery of dhyana. But what was here known as dhyana was not
the dhyana of Zen Buddhism, it was a meditation, concentrating one’s
thought on some ideas such as impermanence, egolessness of things,
chain of causation, or the attributes of the Buddha, Even Bodhi-Dharma,
the founder of Zen Buddhism, was regarded by historians as belonging
to this class of dhyana-adepts, his peculiar merits as teacher of an
entirely novel school of Buddhism were not fully appreciated. This was
inevitable, the people of China were not yet quite ready to accept
the new form; for they had only inadequately grasped the doctrine of
Enlightenment in all its bearings.
The importance of Enlightenment in its practical aspects, however,
was not altogether overlooked in the maze of doctrinal intricacies.
Chi-i (Chigi, 522–597), one of the founders of the T‘ien Tai school
and the greatest Buddhist philosopher in China, was fully awake to the
significance of dhyana as the means of attaining Enlightenment. With
all his analytical powers, his speculation had room enough for the
practice of dhyana. His work on “Tranquillisation and Contemplation”
is explicit on this point. His idea was to carry out intellectual and
spiritual exercises in perfect harmony, and not partially to emphasise
either one of the two, Samādhi or Prajñā, at the expense of the other.
Unfortunately, his followers grew more and more one-sided until they
neglected the dhyana practice for the sake of intellection. Hence their
antagonistic attitude later towards advocates of Zen Buddhism, for
which however the latter were to a certain extent to be responsible,
too.
It was due to Bodhi-Dharma (died 528)[f47] that Zen came to be the
Buddhism of China. It was he that started this movement which proved
so fruitful among a people given up to the practical affairs of life.
When he declared his message, it was still tinged with Indian colours,
he could not be entirely independent of the traditional Buddhist
metaphysics of the times. His allusion to the _Vajrasamādhi_ and the
_Laṅkāvatāra_ was natural, but the seeds of Zen were sown by his hands.
It now remained with his native disciples to see to it that these seeds
grew up in harmony with the soil and climate. It took about two hundred
years for the Zen seeds to bear fruit, rich and vigorous in life, and
fully naturalised while retaining intact the essence of what makes up
Buddhism.
Hui-nêng (637–713) who was the sixth patriarch after Bodhi-Dharma, was
the real Chinese founder of Zen; for it was through him and his direct
followers that Zen could cast off the garment borrowed from India and
began to put on one cut and sewn by the native hands. The spirit of
Zen was of course the same as the one that came to China transmitted
without interruption from the Buddha, but the form of expression was
thoroughly Chinese, for it was their own creation. The rise of Zen
after this, was phenomenal. The latent energy that had been stored up
during the time of naturalisation suddenly broke out in active work,
and Zen had almost a triumphal march through the whole land of Cathay.
During the T‘ang dynasty (618–906) when Chinese culture reached its
consummation, great Zen masters succeeded one after another in building
up monasteries and educating monks as well as lay-disciples who were
learned not only in the Confucian classics but in the Mahayana lore of
Buddhism. The emperors too were not behind them in paying respects to
these Zen seers, who were invited to come to the court in order to give
sermons to these august personages. When for political reasons Buddhism
was persecuted, which caused the loss of many valuable documents, works
of art, and the decline of some schools, Zen was always the first to
recover itself and to renew its activities with redoubled energy and
enthusiasm. Throughout the Five Dynasties, in the first half of the
tenth century, when China was torn up into minor kingdoms again, and
general political situations seemed to be unfavourable to the thriving
of religious sentiments, Zen prospered as before and the masters kept
up their monastic centers undisturbed.
With the rise of the Sung dynasty (960–1279) Zen reached the height
of its development and influence, while the other sects of Buddhism
showed signs of rapid decline. When history opens on the pages of the
Yüan (1280–1367) and the Ming (1368–1661) dynasty, Buddhism is found
identified with Zen. The Kegon (Avataṁsaka), Tendai (T‘ien-tai), Sanron
(San-lun), Kusha (Abhidharma-kośa), Hosso (Yogācāra) and Shingon
(Mantra), if they were not completely wiped out through persecution,
suffered tremendously from the lack of fresh blood. Perhaps they were
to die out anyway on account of their not having been completely
assimilated by Chinese thought and feeling; there was too much of an
Indian element which prevented them from being fully acclimatised. In
any event Zen as the essence of the Buddha’s mind continued to flourish
so that any Chinese minds at all inclined towards Buddhism came to
study Zen and neglected the rest of the Buddhist schools still in
existence though at the last stage of their productive activity. The
only form of Buddhism that retains its vitality to a certain extent
even to this day, is Zen, more or less modified to accommodate the Pure
Land tendency, that had been growing soon after the introduction of
Buddhism into China.
There was reason for this state of things in the religious history
of China, and it was this that Zen dispensed with the images and
concepts and modes of thinking that were imported from India along
with Buddhist thought; and out of its own consciousness Zen created
an original literature best adapted to the exposition of the truth of
Enlightenment. This literature was unique in many senses, but it was
in perfect accordance with the Chinese mental _modus operandi_ and
naturally powerfully moved them to the core. Bodhi-Dharma taught his
disciples to look directly into the essence of the teaching of the
Buddha discarding the outward manners of presentation, he told them not
to follow the conceptual and analytical interpretation of the doctrine
of Enlightenment. Literary adherents of the Sutras objected to this and
did all they could to prevent the growth of the teaching of Dharma.
But it grew on in spite of oppositions. The disciples mastered the art
of grasping the central fact of Buddhism. When this was accomplished,
they proceeded to demonstrate it according to their own methods, using
their own terminology, regardless of the traditional or rather imported
way of expression. They did not entirely abandon the old manner of
speaking; for they refer to Buddha, Tathagata, Nirvana, Bodhi, Trikāya,
Karma, transmigration, emancipation, and many other ideas making up
the body of Buddhism; but they make no mention of the Twelvefold Chain
of Origination, the Fourfold Noble Truth, or the Eightfold Righteous
Path. When we read Zen literature without being told of its relation
to Buddhism, we may almost fail to recognise in it such things as are
generally regarded as specifically Buddhist. When Yakusan (Yüeh-shan,
751–834) saw a monk, he asked,[2.8] “Where do you come from?” “I come
from south of the Lake.” “Is the Lake over-flowing with water?” “No,
sir, it is not yet overflowing.” “Strange,” said the master,
“after so much rain why does it not overflow?” To this last query, the
monk failed to give a satisfactory answer, whereupon Ungan (Yün-yen),
one of Yakusan’s disciples, said, “Overflowing, indeed!” while Dosan
(Tung-shan), another of his disciples, exclaimed, “In what kalpa did
it ever fail to overflow?” In these dialogues do we detect any trace
of Buddhism? Do they not look as if they were talking about an affair
of most ordinary occurrence? But, according to the masters, their
talks are brimful of Zen, and Zen literature is indeed abound in such
apparent trivialities. In fact, as far as its phraseology and manner of
demonstration are concerned, Zen looks as if it had nothing to do with
Buddhism, and some critics are almost justified in designating Zen as a
Chinese anomaly of Buddhism as was referred to at the beginning of this
Essay.
In the history of Chinese literature, Zen writings known as _Yü-lu_
(Goroku) form a class by themselves, and it is due to them that the
Chinese colloquialism of the T‘ang and the early Sung dynasty has
been preserved. Men of letters in China despised to write except
in classical style, deliberately choosing such words, phrases,
and expressions as enhanced the grace of the composition. All the
literature we have of those early days of Chinese culture therefore
is the model of such a cultivated style. The Zen masters were not
necessarily despisers of classicism, they took to fine literature as
much as their contemporaries, they were well-educated and learned too;
but they found colloquialism a better and more powerful medium for the
utterance of their inner experiences. This is generally the case with
spiritual reformers, who want to express themselves through the medium
most intimate to their feelings and best suited for their original
ways of viewing things. They avoid wherever possible such nomenclature
as has been in use and filled with old associations which are apt to
lack in living purposes and therefore in vivifying effects. Living
experiences ought to be told in a living language and not in worn-out
images and concepts. The Zen masters therefore did what they could
not help doing and made free use of the living words and phrases of
the day. Does this not prove that in China Buddhism through Zen
ceased to be a foreign importation and was transformed into an original
creation of the native mind? And just because Zen could turn itself
into a native product, it survived all the other schools of Buddhism.
In other words, Zen was the only form in which the Chinese mind could
accommodate, appreciate, and assimilate the Buddhist doctrine of
Enlightenment.
* * * * *
I hope I have shown how Buddhism, that is, the doctrine of
Enlightenment had to be transformed into Zen in China, and through
this transformation Zen survived the other schools of Buddhism. Let
us now take up the second point, as referred to before, in which we
will see how Zen came to create the Sung philosophy. When I say that
Buddhism did not really affect Chinese thought until it was converted
into Zen through which the creative genius of China began to formulate
its philosophy along a much deeper and more idealistic line of thought
than that of the Ante-Ch‘in period, there will be many who will object
to this view. It is true that Buddhism began to make its influence felt
among Chinese thinkers even during the Latter Han dynasty as we see,
for instance, in Mou-tzŭ’s “Essay on Reason and Error” written between
190–220 A.D. After this there were many writers who discussed the
Buddhist doctrines of Karma and Causation and Immortality; for these
were some of the ideas introduced from India through Buddhism. It was
with the Taoists, however, the Buddhists had much heated controversy
from the sixth century on. The way Buddhism exerted its influence
over Taoism was not only in the form of controversy but in actually
moulding their thought and literature. There were so many points of
contact between Taoism and Buddhism: and naturally the first object
against which Buddhism worked, as it grew in importance and power not
only as a religious system but as philosophy and the possessor of an
inexhaustible wealth of knowledge, was Taoism; while it was admitted
that Buddhism in its turn borrowed many things from Taoism in order to
make itself more easily acceptable to the native minds. On the whole,
Taoism owes more to Buddhism as far as its organisation, rituals,
literature and philosophy are concerned. Taoism systematised after the
Buddhist model all the popular superstitions native to China and built
up a religious medley in which the Indian elements are found more or
less incongruously blended with Laotzuanism and the popular desire for
immortality, worldly welfare, and what they call “purity.”
But Taoism as it is believed popularly is so full of superstitions that
it is not in vital contact with the main current of orthodox Chinese
thought which is represented, maintained, and cherished by the literati
including the government officials. To a greater extent Taoism is the
popular and superstitious Chinese rendering of Buddhism, but there
will be many critics, the present writer for one, who rather hesitate
to consider the essence of Buddhism sufficiently transcribed in terms
of the Taoists. Unless the Confucians were not moved to assimilate
Buddhist thought in their system, so naturally that they attempted to
reconstruct the whole frame of Confucian ideas, not merely for the
sake of reconciliation, but for the sake of deepening, enriching, and
resuscitating it, we cannot say that Buddhism entered into the life of
Chinese thought and became the real possession of the Chinese mind. But
this was done during the Sung dynasty when the Confucian philosophers
took in Buddhist ideas into their teaching and reconstructed the whole
system on a new basis, which, however, was considered by them to be
the necessary course of growth for Confucianism. Whatever this was,
there is no doubt that the Sung philosophy was enriched and deepened
by absorbing Buddhist views. In this, all the historians of Chinese
intellectual development agree.
There is a question, however, one may ask concerning this general
reconstruction of Confucianism on the idealistic Buddhist scheme.
If Zen did not grow up in China as the native interpretation of the
Doctrine of Enlightenment and prepared the way for the rise of such
great Confucian writers as Chou Tun-I (1017–1073),[2.9] the Ch‘eng
brothers, Ch‘eng Hao (1032–1085) and Ch‘eng I (1035–1107), and Chu
Hsi (1130–1200), would there have been a Sung revival of the orthodox
Chinese teaching? To my view, without Zen the Sung dynasty would
not have seen the phenomenal uprising of what the Chinese historians
call the “Science of Reason.” As we already said, Zen was the only
form in which Buddhism could enter into the Chinese mind. This being
the case, whatever they later produced in the realm of thought, could
not but be tinged with Zen. See how the psychological school of
Yogācāra was received by the native thinkers. It was first advocated,
propounded, and commented by Hsüan-chuang and his great disciples, but
this profound study of the human mind was too analytical even for the
best minds of China, and did not thrive very long after Hsüan-chuang.
Then how did the Prajñā-Pāramitā philosophy fare? It was brought into
China in the first century soon after the introduction of Buddhism
itself and later most ably supported and interpreted by Kumārajīva
and his Chinese pupils. It had a better prospect than the Yogācāra,
because its Chinese counterpart was found in the teaching of Lao-tzŭ
and his followers. Those two groups of philosophers, Buddhist and
Laotzŭan, may be classed as belonging to the same type of thought;
but even in this case the Chinese did not show any great disposition
to embrace this Śūnyatā system. Why was this? The reason was obvious,
seeing that in spite of a certain agreement between the two schools
on a very broad basis, the Śūnyatā mode of thinking was altogether
too metaphysical, too high-flown, or, from the Chinese point of view,
too much _in nubibus_, and the practical tendency of the native minds
naturally failed to grow on it; even in the disciples of Lao-tzŭ and
Chwang-tzŭ there was the taint or virtue of utilitarianism which is
deeply ingrained in all the Chinese modes of feeling.
Besides the Mādhyamika school of Nāgārjuna and the Yogācāra school of
Asanga both of which developed in the country of the Buddha itself,
there were Chih-I’s Tendai philosophy and Hsien-shou’s (643–712)
Avataṁsaka system of Buddhism. These latter were in a sense the
creations of the native Buddhist thinkers, and if they were at all
assimilable by their compatriots, they would not have been neglected,
and their study, instead of being confined within a narrow circle of
Buddhist specialists, would have overflowed into the Confucian as
well as the Taoist boundaries. That they did not do so proves the fact
that they were still foreign and a kind of translation, not literary
indeed, but more or less conceptional. Therefore, there was no other
way left for Buddhism but to be transformed into Zen before it could
be thoroughly acclimatised and grow as a native plant. When this was
achieved because it was in the inherent nature of Buddhism that this
achievement was to take place, Zen became the flesh and bones of
Chinese thought and inspired the Confucians of the Sung dynasty to
reconstruct the foundation of their philosophy on the idealistic plans
of Buddhism.
* * * * *
We may conclude now that Zen, in spite of the uncouthness and
extraordinariness of its outward features, belongs to the general
system of Buddhism. And by Buddhism we mean not only the teaching of
the Buddha himself as recorded in the earliest Āgamas, but the later
speculations, philosophical and religious, concerning the person and
life of the Buddha. His personal greatness was such as occasionally
made his disciples advance theories somewhat contrary to the advice
supposed to have been given by their Master. This was inevitable.
The world with all its contents, individually as well as as a whole,
is subject to our subjective interpretation, not a capricious
interpretation indeed, but growing out of our inner necessity, our
religious yearnings. Even the Buddha as an object of one’s religious
experience could not escape this, his personality was so constituted
as to awaken in us every feeling and thought that goes under the name
of Buddhism now. The most significant and fruitful ideas that were
provoked by him were concerned with his Enlightenment and Nirvana.
These two facts stood out most prominently in his long peaceful life of
seventy-nine years, and all the theories and beliefs that are bound up
with the Buddha are attempts to understand these facts in terms of our
own religious experience. Thus Buddhism has grown to have a much wider
meaning than is understood by most scholars.
The Buddha’s Enlightenment and Nirvana were two separate ideas in
his life as it unfolded in history so many centuries ago, but from the
religious point of view they are to be regarded as one idea. That is to
say, to understand the content and the value of Enlightenment is the
same as realising the signification of Nirvana. Taking a stand on this,
the Mahayanists developed two currents of thought: the one was to rely
on our intellectual efforts to the furthest extent they could reach,
and the other, pursuing the practical method adopted by the Buddha
himself, indeed by all Indian truth-seekers, endeavoured to find in the
practice of dhyana something directly leading to Enlightenment. It goes
without saying that in both of these efforts the original impulse lies
in the inmost religious consciousness of pious Buddhists.
The Mahayana texts compiled during a few centuries after the Buddha
testify to the view here presented. Of these, the one expressly
composed to propagate the teaching of the Zen school is the
_Laṅkāvatāra_, in which the content of Enlightenment is, as far as
words admit, presented from a psychological, philosophical, and a
practical point of view. When this was introduced into China and
thoroughly assimilated according to the Chinese methods of thinking
and feeling, the main thesis of the Sutra came to be demonstrated in
such a way as is now considered characteristically Zen. The truth has
many avenues of approach through which it makes itself known to the
human mind. But the choice it makes depends on certain limitations
under which it works. The superabundance of Indian imagination issued
in supernaturalism and wonderful symbolism, and the Chinese sense
of practicalness and its love for the solid everyday facts of life
resulted in Zen Buddhism. We may now be able to understand, though only
tentatively by most readers at present, the following definitions of
Zen offered by its masters:
When Jōshu was asked what Zen was, he answered, “It is cloudy to-day
and I won’t answer.”[2.10]
To the same question, Ummon’s reply was: “That’s it.” On another
occasion the master was not at all affirmative, for he said, “Not a
word to be predicated.”[2.11]
These being some of the definitions given to Zen by the masters,
in what relationship did they conceive of Zen as standing to the
doctrine of Enlightenment taught in the Sutras? Did they conceive
it after the manner of the _Laṅkāvatāra_ or after that of the
_Prajñā-pāramitā_? No, Zen had to have its own way, the Chinese mind
refused blindly to follow the Indian models. If this is still to be
contested, read the following:
A monk asked Kan (Chien), who lived in Haryo (Pa-ling), “Is there
any difference between the teaching of the Patriarch and that of the
Sutras, or not?” Said the master, “When the cold weather comes, the
fowl flies up in the trees while the wild duck goes down into water.”
Hō-yen (Fa-yen) of Gosozan (Wu-tsu-shan) commented on this, saying,
“The great teacher of Pa-ling has expressed only a half of the truth. I
would not have it so. Mine is: When water is scooped in hands, the moon
is reflected in them; when the flowers are handled, the scent soaks
into the robe.”[2.12]