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.
One day Ōbaku was weeding with a hoe, and seeing Rinzai without one
asked, “How is it that you do not carry any hoe?” Answered Rinzai,
“Somebody has carried it away, sir.” Thereupon, Ōbaku told him to come
forward as he wanted to discuss the matter with him. Rinzai stepped
forward. Said Ōbaku, lifting his hoe, “Only this, but all the world’s
unable to hold it up.” Rinzai took the hoe away from the master, and
lifted it up, saying, “How is it that it is now in my own hands?” Ōbaku
remarked, “Here is a man doing a great piece of work to-day!” He then
returned to his own room.[7.16]
Another day, observing Rinzai resting on a hoe, Ōbaku said to him, “Are
you tired?” Rinzai replied, “I have not even lifted my hoe, and how
should I be tired?” Ōbaku then struck him, who, however, snatching the
stick away from the master, pushed him down. Ōbaku called out to the
Yino (_karmadāna_) to help him up from the ground. The Yino responded
to the call and helped up the master, saying, “Why do you permit this
crazy fellow’s rudeness?” As soon as the master was again on his feet,
he struck the Yino. Rinzai then began to dig the earth and made this
announcement, “In other places they cremate, but here you will all be
buried alive.”[7.17]
The story of Isan and Kyōzan while they were out picking tea leaves
has already been told in one of the preceding Essays. Zen history
indeed abounds with such incidents as here referred to, showing how
the masters try to discipline their pupils on every possible occasion.
The events of daily life manifestly trivial on the surface, thus
handled by the masters, grow full of signification. At any rate all
these “mondoes” most eloquently illustrate the whole trend of the
monastery life in olden days, where the spirit of work and service
was so thoroughly and harmoniously blended with the high thinking on
matters deeply spiritual.
V
The monks thus develop their faculties all round. They receive no
literary, that is, formal education which is gained mostly from books
and abstract instruction. But their discipline and knowledge are
practical and efficient; for the basic principle of the Zendo life is
“learning by doing.” They despise the so-called soft education which
is like those predigested foods meant for the convalescent. When a
lioness gives birth to her children, it is proverbially believed that
after three days she will push them down over a deep precipice and see
if they can climb up to her. Those that fail to come out of this trial
are not taken care of any more. Whether this is true or not, something
like that is aimed at by the Zen master who will treat the monks with
every manner of seeming unkindness. The monks have not enough clothes
to put on, not enough food to indulge in, not enough time to sleep,
and, to cap these, they have plenty of work to do, menial as well as
spiritual. The outer needs and the inward aspirations, if they work on
harmoniously and ideally, will finally end in producing fine characters
well-trained in Zen as well as in the real things of life. This unique
system of education which is still going on at every Zendo is not so
well known among the laity even in this country. And then the merciless
tides of modern commercialism leave no corner uninvaded, and before
long the solitary island of Zen may be found buried, as everything
else, under the waves of sordid materialism. The monks themselves
are beginning not to understand the great spirit of the successive
masters. Though there are some things in the monastic education which
may be improved, its highly religious and reverential feeling must be
preserved if Zen is at all to live for many years yet to come.
Theoretically, the philosophy of Zen transcends the whole range of
discursive understanding and is not bound by rules of antithesis. But
this is very slippery ground, and there are many who fail to walk
erect. When they stumble, the result is sometimes disastrous. Like some
of the Medieval mystics, the Zen students may turn into libertines,
losing all control over themselves. History is a witness to this,
and psychology can readily explain the process of such degeneration.
Therefore, says a Zen master, “Let one’s ideal rise as high as the
crown of Vairochana, (the highest divinity), while his life may be so
full of humility as to make him prostrate before a baby’s feet.”[7.18]
Which is to say, “if any man desire to be first the same shall be
last of all, and servant of all.” Therefore, the monastery life is
minutely regulated and all the details are enforced in strict obedience
to the spirit already referred to. Humility, poverty, and inner
sanctification—these ideals of Zen are what saves Zen from sinking
into the level of the Medieval antinomians. Thus we can see how the
Zendo discipline plays a great part in the teachings of Zen and their
practical application to our daily life.
When Tanka[7.19] (Tan-hsia T‘ien-jan, 738–824) of the T‘ang dynasty
stopped at Yerinji of the Capital, it was so severely cold that he
finally took one of the Buddha-images enshrined there and made a fire
with it in order to warm himself. The keeper of the shrine seeing this
was greatly exercised.
“How dare you burn up my wooden Buddha?”
Said Tanka who looked as if searching for something with his stick in
the ashes, “I am gathering the holy śaīras[f141] in the burnt ashes.”
“How,” said the keeper, “could you get śaīras by burning a wooden
Buddha?”
“If there are no śaīras to be found in it, may I have the remaining two
Buddhas for my fire?” retorted Tanka.
The shrine-keeper later lost his eye-brows for remonstrating against
the apparent impiety of Tanka, while the Buddha’s wrath never was
visited upon the latter.
Though one may doubt its historical occurrence, this is a notable
story, and all the Zen masters agree as to the higher spiritual
attainment of the Buddha-desecrating Tanka. When later a monk
asked a master[7.20] about Tanka’s idea of burning a Buddha’s statue,
said the master,
“When cold, we sit around the hearth with burning fire.”
“Was he then at fault or not?”
“When hot, we go to the bamboo grove by the stream,” this was the
answer.
I cannot help quoting another comment on the story as this is one of
the most significant subjects in the study of Zen. When Suibi Mugaku
(Ts‘uiwei Wu-hsiao)[7.21], a disciple of Tanka, was making offerings
to the Arhats, probably carved in wood, a monk came up and asked,
“Tanka burned a wooden Buddha and how is it that you make offerings to
the Arhats?” The master said, “Even when it was burned, it could not
be burned up; and as to my making offerings, just leave me alone as
I please.” “When these offerings are made to the Arhats, would they
come to receive them, or not?” “Do you eat everyday, or not?” the
master demanded. As the monk remained silent, the master declared,
“Intelligent ones are hard to be met with!”
Whatever the merit of Tanka from the purely Zen-point of view, there
is no doubt that such deeds as his are to be regarded as highly
sacrilegious and to be avoided by all pious Buddhists. Those who have
not yet gained a thorough understanding of Zen may go all lengths to
commit every manner of crime and excess, even in the name of Zen. For
this reason, the regulations of the monastery are very rigid that pride
of heart may depart and the cup of humility be drunk to the dregs.
When Shukō (Chu-hung)[7.22] of the Ming dynasty was writing a book
on the ten laudable deeds of a monk, one of those high-spirited,
self-assertive fellows came to him, saying, “What is the use of writing
such a book when in Zen there is not even an atom of thing to be called
laudable or not?” The writer answered, “The five aggregates (_skandha_)
are entangling, and the four elements (_mahābhūta_) grow rampant, and
how can you say there are no evils?” The monk still insisted, “The
four elements are ultimately all empty and the five aggregates have no
reality whatever.” Shukō, giving him a slap on his face, said,
“So many are mere learned ones; you are not the real thing yet; give
me another answer.” But the monk made no answer and went off filled
with angry feelings. “There,” said the master smilingly, “why don’t you
wipe the dirt off your own face?” In the study of Zen, the power of
an all-illuminating insight must go hand in hand with a deep sense of
humility and meekness of heart.
Let me cite, as one instance of teaching humility, the experience
which a new monk-applicant is first made to go through when he
first approaches the Meditation Hall. The applicant may come duly
equipped with certificates of his qualifications and with his monkish
paraphernalia consisting of such articles are already mentioned, but
the Zendo authorities will not admit him at once into their company.
Generally, some formal excuse will be found: they may tell him that
their establishment is not rich enough to take in another monk, or
that the Hall is already too full. If the applicant quietly retires
with this, there will be no place for him anywhere, not only in that
particular Zendo which was his first choice, but in any other Zendo
throughout the land. For he will meet a similar refusal everywhere. If
he wants to study Zen at all, he ought not to be discouraged by any
such excuse as that.
The persistent applicant will now seat himself at the entrance porch,
and, putting his head down on the box which he carries in front of him,
calmly, wait there. Sometimes a strong morning or evening sun shines
right over the recumbent monk on the porch, but he keeps on in this
attitude without stirring. When the dinner hour comes, he asks to be
admitted in and fed. This is granted, for no Buddhist monasteries will
refuse food and lodging to a travelling monk. After eating, however,
the novice goes out again on the porch and continues his petition
for admittance. No attention will be paid to him until the evening
when he asks for lodging. This being granted as before, he takes off
his travelling sandals, washes his feet, and is ushered into a room
reserved for such purposes. But most frequently he finds no bedding
there, for a Zen monk is supposed to pass his night in deep meditation.
He sits upright all night evidently absorbed in the contemplation
of a “kō-an.”[f142][7.23] In the following morning he goes out as on
the previous day to the entrance hall and resumes the same posture as
before expressive of an urgent desire to be admitted. This may go on
three or five or sometimes even seven days. The patience and humility
of the new applicant are tried thus hard until finally he will be taken
in by the authorities, who, apparently moved by his earnestness and
perseverance, will try somehow to accommodate him.
This procedure is growing somewhat a formal affair, but in olden days
when things were not yet settled into a mere routine, the applicant
monk had quite a hard time, for he would actually be driven out of the
monastery by force. We read in the biographies of the old masters of
still harder treatments which were mercilessly dealt out to them.
The Meditation Hall is regulated with militaristic severity and
precision to cultivate such virtues as humility, obedience, simplicity,
and earnestness in the monkish hearts that are ever prone to follow
indiscriminately the extraordinary examples of the old masters, or
that are liable to put in practice in a crude and undigested manner
the high doctrines of a Śūnyatā philosophy such as is expounded in the
Prajñā-pāramitā class of Mahayana literature. A partial glimpse of such
life we have already gained in the description of the table manners as
above.