Inconceivably Wondrous

Dharma Discourse by John Daido Loori, Roshi

Featured in Mountain Record 26.1, Fall 2007

The Main Case

Changsha was once asked by Government’s Secretary Du, “When you chop an earthworm into two pieces, both pieces keep moving. I wonder, in which piece is the buddha nature?”
Changsha said, “Don’t have illusory thoughts.”
Du said, “How are we to understand that they are both moving?”
Changsha said, “Understand that air and fire are not yet scattered.”
Du said nothing.
Changsha called Du, and Du responded, “Yes?”
Changsha said, “Isn’t that your true self?”
Du said, “Apart from my answering, is there another true self?”
Changsha said, “I can’t call you Emperor.”
Du said, “If so, would my not answering also be my true self?”

Changsha said, “It’s not a matter of answering me or not. But since the beginningless kalpa, the question to answer or not has been the root of birth and death.” Then he recited a verse:

Students of the Way don’t know the truth.
They only know their past consciousness.
This is the basis of endless birth and death.
The deluded call it the original self.

The Commentary

The buddha nature is inconceivably wondrous. It has nothing to do with cosmic consciousness or the divine self. Buddha nature exists in life and in death, as well as prior to life and death and after life and death.

Aside from the words and ideas, Secretary Du doesn’t understand the truth of the buddhadharma. Caught up in his illusory thinking, he searches for buddha nature. Like searching for nature in the midst of nature, like a fish trying to find water, he only seems to mire himself more deeply with each question, while Master Changsha compassionately tries to extricate him.

Before there ever was scattering or no scattering, movement and stillness, being and nonbeing, there has always been buddha nature. Sutras, koans, words, silence, the cooing of an infant, images, gestures, right action, the sounds of the river valley and the form of the mountain are all expressions of the buddha nature.

The Buddha said, “All living beings totally exist as buddha nature.” Master Dogen said, “Total existence is the buddha nature.” Mountains, rivers, and the earth are all the ocean of buddha nature. Also, “To express the buddha nature further, it is fences, walls, tiles, and pebbles.” I ask you, isn’t this nature itself? Isn’t this nothing other than the manifestation of the Diamond Net of Indra?

Buddha nature is all-inclusive—sentient as well as insentient. Indeed, if we examine this teaching carefully, we see that all phenomena of this great earth are constantly expressing the truth of the universe—the buddha nature. It’s the natural order of things. Do you hear it? Can you see it? If not, then heed the instructions of the great Master Dongshan and see with the ear and listen with the eye. Only then will you understand this ineffable reality.

This is a truth that is not to be found in metaphors, images, or thoughts. Indeed, it’s not like anything. And yet, it is not hidden. Don’t be deluded. It is nothing other than what you do morning and night.

The Capping Verse

Bright day, blue sky—
in a dream he tries to explain his dream.
See! The myriad forms arising and vanishing,
constantly reveal the buddha nature.

“The buddha nature is inconceivably wondrous. It has nothing to do with cosmic consciousness or the divine self,” says the commentary to this koan. There are endless explanations of buddha nature—ideas, theories and all kinds of scholarly commentary on it. Within Buddhism, buddha nature is a doctrinal phrase that differs from school to school and is known by many names: self nature, true nature, original nature, original face, emptiness, prajna, nirvana. In Mahayana Buddhism, it’s called the tathagarbha—the buddha womb or true self—and references to it are found in the Paranirvana Sutra.

The next line of the commentary reads, “Buddha nature exists in life and in death, as well as prior to life and death and after life and death.” That is, it transcends time and space. “Aside from the words and ideas, Secretary Du doesn’t understand the truth of the buddhadharma.” I ask you, what is the truth of the buddhadharma—not the words and ideas that describe it, but the buddhadharma itself, the buddha’s teachings?

“Caught up in his illusory thinking, he searches for buddha nature.” Illusory thinking is fundamentally dualistic thinking. It’s one of the characteristics of human consciousness. It’s part of our survival mechanism. It would have been very difficult for us to get to where we are in the process of evolution without being able to see things in terms of self and other. However, we should understand that this is only one aspect of human consciousness. We can see everything in terms of this and that, and we can also see it in terms of a single reality. The truth is to be found in neither, nor in both, nor in one side or the other side. Then where is it?

Master Dongshan, a contemporary of Changsha, wrote the following poem:

Don’t seek it from others or you’ll estrange yourself.
I now go out alone. Everywhere I encounter it.
It now is me, I now am not it.
One must understand it in this way to merge with being as it is.

It now is me, I now am not it. That’s the same as saying, you and I are the same thing, but I’m not you and you’re not me. Both of those facts exist simultaneously. But this doesn’t compute, because we’re trying to understand it intellectually, just as Du was trying to understand buddha nature intellectually. And yet, to his credit, Du must have known he hadn’t completely realized it because he was still studying with Changsha. He was willing to keep going, keep questioning, no matter how far he thought he had developed.

“Like searching for nature in the midst of nature, like a fish trying to find water, he only seems to mire himself more deeply with each question.” In the dedication for the first service we do each morning at the Monastery we chant: “Buddha nature pervades the whole universe, existing right here now.” I ask you, what does that mean? If it’s all-pervading and it’s right here now, can you show it to me? This was the heart of Secretary Du’s dilemma. He knew the doctrine, he understood all the various teachings, but lacked personal insight.

Du’s first question is, “When you chop an earthworm into two pieces, both pieces keep moving. I wonder, in which piece is the buddha nature?” I would say that when the buddha nature is chopped in two, which has the worm?

“Changsha said, ‘Don’t have illusory thoughts.’” That’s nice, but will it awaken Du who seems to be fast asleep? “Du said, ‘How are we to understand that they are both moving?’” The more you question, the more you answer, the deeper you get, and the mire gets stickier. You end up filled with ideas, notions, permutations and combinations, without getting any closer to the truth. “Changsha said, ‘Understand that air and fire are not yet scattered.’” When they do scatter, where will the buddha nature be? That’s a good question. Does it just disappear? Keep in mind that at that time, air and fire were seen as two of the elements that made up life. So what happens when those elements scatter? When you die, does the buddha nature die? Does it come and go? Where does it go?

Du did not respond to Changha’s question. He just stood there. Then Changsha called out to him, “Du!” and Du responded, “Yes?” It’s right under his nose, but does he see it? Do you see it? “Changsha said, ‘Isn’t this your true self?’” He’s referring to Du’s “Yes?” But now he’s trying to explain it. This is why Zen has slowly declined over the years—a lot of talking and very little sitting. We should leave discussions to the scholars and philosophers. We’re practitioners. We should shut up and sit.

“Changsha said, ‘I can’t call you Emperor.’” “Du said, ‘If so, would my not answering also be my true self?’” Obviously, Du is no slouch. Even with all his knowledge, he hasn’t given up. “Changsha said, ‘It’s not a matter of answering me or not, but since the beginningless kalpa’—that is, since the beginning of time—‘the question to answer or not has been the root of birth and death.’” True enough, but will Du get it? “To answer or not has been the root of birth and death.” The root of birth and death is the root of all dualistic thinking.

Then Changsha recited a verse: Students of the Way don’t know the truth. They only know their past consciousness. Past consciousness already happened. That was yesterday. It doesn’t exist—unless you carry it around in your head and recreate it periodically. The question is, what’s right here, right now, where your life is taking place?

This is the basis of endless birth and death. The deluded call it the original self. We confuse our ideas of who we are with who we really are. We live our lives out of our conditioning, out of the things we’ve been told about who we are, or what we should or shouldn’t do. The buddhadharma, on the other hand, points deeply into ourselves, beyond that conditioning, to the ground of being. Realizing that ground of being, we can learn to live our lives out of what we’ve realized—our own direct, immediate experience.

The next line of the commentary says, “Before there ever was scattering and no scattering, movement and stillness, being and non-being, there’s always been buddha nature.” According to Mahayana Buddhism, buddha nature is immutable. It’s the eternal nature of all beings. Since all beings possess it, it’s possible for each to attain enlightenment regardless of who they are. When the Buddha said upon his own enlightenment: “All sentient beings and I and the great earth have at once entered the Way,” he was including everything—beings sentient and insentient, the earth, the sky, the rivers, the mountains.

“Sutras, koans, words, silence, the cooing of an infant, images, gestures, right action, the sounds of the river valley, and the form of the mountain are all expressions of the buddha nature.” That is, they are communicating the truth of buddha nature, just as the sutras and teachings communicate it. “The Buddha said, ‘All living beings totally exist as buddha nature.’ Master Dogen said, ‘Total existence is the buddha nature.’ Mountains, rivers, and the earth are all the ocean of buddha nature. Also, ‘To express the buddha nature further, it is fences, walls, tiles, and pebbles.’” Again, the sentient, the insentient and the great earth itself are all the buddha nature.

“I ask you, ‘Isn’t this nature itself? Isn’t this nothing other than the manifestation of the Diamond Net of Indra?’” The Diamond Net of Indra is a description of the universe in which all things have a mutual identity, an interdependent origination. When one thing arises, all things arise simultaneously. Everything in this net has a mutual causality—what happens to one thing, happens to the entire universe. It’s a self-creating, self-maintaining, and a self-defining organism—a universe in which all of its parts and the totality are a single entity.

This is not some kind of holistic hypothesis or an idealistic dream. It’s your life. It’s my life, the life of the mountain, the river, a blade of grass. These things are not related to each other. They’re not part of the same thing. They’re not similar. They’re identical. What kind of world would this be if our appreciation and activity were based on this kind of non-duality?

“Buddha nature is all-inclusive—sentient as well as insentient. Indeed, if we examine this teaching carefully, we see that all phenomena of this great earth are constantly expressing the truth of the universe—the buddha nature. It’s the natural order of things.” How can we separate humanity and human consciousness from the buddha nature—or from nature itself, for that matter? When we see ourselves as separate from nature, we abdicate our responsibility to it. We are nature—just as much as a tree or a wolf or a fish is nature. The spider web and the Brooklyn Bridge are both works of nature. We must learn how the delicate dynamics of this unlikely relationship really work.

The common understanding of nature, in its broadest sense, is that it is made up of phenomena in the physical world. Generally it doesn’t include manufactured objects and human interaction. But how can the activities of human beings not be considered our natural environment? How can we discount our role in creating this earth the way it is? We’ve altered it—irreversibly altered it. That’s a work of nature. If the cause of global warming was a number of volcanoes spewing greenhouse gases into the ozone layer, we would call it an act of nature. Well, we created automobiles and they spew. We created diesel fuel and it spews. We’ve created global warming and it’s a work of nature—human nature.

Most of the disasters we face are human-created. Tsunamis and volcanoes and earthquakes kill tens of thousands, but we kill millions, and we do it for profit. Yet most of the killing is hidden. When we include the human element in our understanding of nature, we become conscious of the fact that we are responsible, not only for our own bag of skin, but for the totality of existence.

“Buddha nature is the natural order of things. Do you hear it? Can you see it? If not, then heed the instructions of the great Master Dongshan and see with the ear and listen with the eye.” When we listen with the ear, we hear the insentient speaking our language. And in doing so, we usurp the real voice of the insentient. When, we listen with the eye and see with the ear, the insentient speak insentient, and they teach endlessly. How can we hear with the eye and see with the ear? Get out of the way. “Only then will you understand this ineffable reality.” Nothing I’ve said so far has anything to do with reality.

These are just words that point to where you have to go to find the truth. But don’t take my word for it, or the Buddha’s word, or anybody’s word. Realize and actualize it for yourself.

“This is a truth that is not to be found in metaphors, images, or thoughts. Indeed, it’s not like anything.” There’s no reference system. There’s nothing to allude or compare it to. There’s nothing out there. “And yet, it’s not hidden. It is nothing other than what you do morning and night.” It’s just this. It reaches everywhere. It’s all-pervading. We just need to shift our way of seeing and experiencing in order to make contact with it. The question is—where do you find yourself? Who are you really? That’s what this koan is addressing.

The capping verse:

Bright day, blue sky—
in a dream he tries to explain his dream.
See! The myriad forms arising and vanishing,
constantly reveal the buddha nature.

Bright day, blue sky—in a dream he tries to explain his dream. The bright day, blue sky are clear, boundless, reaching everywhere. There’s nothing lacking, nothing extra. In a dream, he tries to explain his dream. The whole thing is a dream. The teachings, the buddhadharma, our ideas and notions—all a dream. What I’m doing right now is speaking of a dream within a dream. So forget all of that and see the myriad forms arising and vanishing, and know that they’re constantly revealing their buddha nature.

John Daido Loori, Roshi is the abbot of Zen Mountain Monastery. A successor to Hakuyu Taizan Maezumi, Roshi, Daido Roshi trained in rigorous koan Zen and in the subtle teachings of Master Dogen, and is a lineage holder in the Soto and Rinzai schools of Zen.

source

http://www.mro.org/zmm/teachings/daido/teisho53.php

Quote

Ten thousand flowers in spring
the moon in autumn,
a cool breeze in summer,
snow in winter.
If your mind isn’t clouded by unnecessary things,
this is the best season of your life.

Wu-men

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FROM A PAPER BY:
Albert Welter

A special transmission outside the
scriptures;
No dependence upon words and letters;
Direct pointing to the soul of man:
Seeing into one’s own nature and
attainment of
Buddhahood

Bodhidharma, First Patriarch of Zen (4-6 Cent. AD)

T’ANG DYNASTY (618-907); SUNG DYNASTY (960-1279);

MING DYNASTY (1368-1644)

The figure of Bodhidharma casts a large shadow over Ch’an and Zen studies. The fact that little is known about Bodhidharma is hardly unusual in the history of religions, where historical obscurity often serves as a prerequisite for posthumous claims regarding sectarian identity. Indeed, one learns much about the nature and character of Ch’an through Bodhidharma, around whose image the most successful challenge to Chinese Buddhist scholasticism was mounted.

T’ANG DYNASTY

According to currently accepted views of Ch’an history, the successful assault of Ch’an on Buddhist scholasticism coincided with a period of vibrant dynamism, during which the activities of a core group of Ch’an masters, Ma-tsu Tao-i, Pai-chang Huai-hai, Huang-po Hsi-yun, Lin-chi I-hs¸an, and Hui-neng, et al, formed the basic components of Ch’an identity. Following this so-called “golden age”, Ch’an dynamism was reduced to static formalism, and fell into a state of decline. According to this view, Sung Buddhism represents the “sunset period”, the twilight glow of a once strong, vital tradition, reduced to a shadow of its former glory. From this perspective, the golden age of Buddhism in China, including Ch’an, was unequivocally the T’ang dynasty (618-907). The Sung represents the beginning of a period of unremitting decline.

Bodhidharma has a special place in this story. As champion of a “mind to mind transmission,” focusing on the enlightenment experience occurring in the context of the master-disciple relationship, Bodhidharma initiated the alternative to the textually-based teachings of the scholastic tradition. Bodhidharma’s role in the transformation of Chinese Buddhism was widely acknowledged by the beginning of the Sung. The early Sung Buddhist historian, Tsan-ning (919-1001), spoke positively of Bodhidharma’s role in criticizing prevailing exegetical conventions within Chinese Buddhist scholasticism. He acknowledged Bodhidharma as the first to proclaim: “Directly point to the human mind; see one’s nature and become a Buddha; do not establish words and letters.”

The traditional position of Ch’an and Zen orthodoxy has been that the slogans originated with Bodhidharma and that they represent the implicit message of Ch’an teaching from its outset. Ch’an historians, following contemporary Zen scholarship, regard the slogans as products of the T’ang period, reflecting the rise to prominence of the Ch’an movement in the eighth and ninth centuries during its “golden age.” As a result, the slogans are typically regarded as normative statements for a Ch’an identity fully developed by the end of the T’ang. Knowledgeable observers will note, however, that one slogan is missing from Tsan-ning’s list. The principles of Ch’an identity are usually expressed through four slogans, not just the three mentioned by Tsan-ning here. The importance of the missing slogan, “A special transmission outside the scriptures” (chiao-wai pieh-ch’¸an/ kyÙge betsuden), is highlighted by the fact that it usually heads the list. The purpose of the present investigation is to inquire into the origins of these slogans and the way they came to represent the Ch’an tradition of Bodhidharma, highlighting the disputed position of Ch’an as “A special transmission outside the scriptures” in Sung discourse.

Ch’an Slogans and the Formation of Ch’an Identity Individually, the four slogans are found in works dating before the Sung, but they do not appear together as a four part series of expressions until well into the period when they are attributed to Bodhidharma in the Tsu-t’ing shih-y¸an (Collection from the Garden of the Patriarchs) in 1108. Even then, their acceptance was not without controversy. Mu-an, the compiler of the Collection from the Garden of the Patriarchs, remarked contemptuously: “Many people mistake the meaning of ‘do not establish words and letters.’ They speak frequently of abandoning the scriptures and regard silent sitting as Ch’an. They are truly the dumb sheep of our school.” In reality, three of the slogans- “do not establish words and letters”; “directly point to the human mind”; “see one’s nature and become a Buddha”- were well established as normative Ch’an teaching by the beginning of the Sung. The status of the fourth slogan, “a special transmission outside the scriptures,” as an interpretation of the true meaning of “do not establish words and letters” (pu li wen-tzu, literally “no establish words-letters”) was the subject of continued controversy.

“Seeing one’s nature” was an old idea in China that was promoted by Tao-sheng (355-434), a disciple of Kumarajiva. Drawing from Mahayana doctrine, Tao-sheng advocated the notion of an inherent Buddha-nature in everyone. The full phrase chien-hsing ch’eng-fo (”see one’s nature and become a Buddha”) first appeared in a commentary to the Nirv‚na s˚tra, in a statement attributed to Seng-lang prior to the T’ang dynasty. The slogans “do not establish words and letters” and “directly point to the human mind” became common parlance in Ch’an circles by the end of the T’ang period. Eight-hundred years after Tao-sheng, Dogen Zenji (1200-1253), wrestled with the “inherent Buddha-nature in everyone” question and came to much different interpretation based more closely around Nagarjuna’s Sunyata.

The first use of the phrase “a special transmission outside the scriptures” (chiao-wai pieh-ch’uan) that can be documented with historical certainty is in the Tsu-t’ang chi (Collection of the Patriarch’s Hall), compiled in 952. The phrase is also included in a “tomb-inscription” of Lin-chi I-hs¸an (?-866), attributed to Lin-chi’s disciple, Yen-chao, appended to the end of the Lin-chi lu, the record of Lin-chi’s teachings. The historical authenticity of this inscription as the work of Lin-chi’s disciple is highly dubious, as the Rinzai scholar Yanagida Seizan has pointed out. The connection of the phrase “a special transmission outside the scriptures” with the Lin-chi lu (Record of Lin-chi) is highly suggestive, however, of a Ch’an identity that developed in the Lin-chi lineage during the Sung.

SUNG DYNASTY

The Wu-y¸eh Kingdom

While the Lin-chi lu professes to be the record of Lin-chi’s words and deeds as recorded by his disciples, the current form of the text dates from an edition issued in 1120. The beginning of the twelfth century is also the time when the slogan “a special teaching outside the scriptures” was mentioned in the list of Ch’an slogans attributed to the Ch’an patriarch Bodhidharma in the Collection from the Garden of the Patriarchs, mentioned above. The association of this slogan with Lin-chi and Bodhidharma was the culmination of a process through which the identity of Ch’an was transformed by members of the Lin-chi lineage.

Ch’an Orthodoxy at the Outset of the Sung: Ch’an as “A Special Transmission Within the Scriptures” In the tenth century, the period of the so-called “Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms,” China was without effective central control and the country was politically and geographically divided into several autonomous regions. The fate of Buddhism fell into the hands of warlords who controlled these regions. Given the recent experience of dynastic collapse and the perception of Buddhist culpability for T’ang failings, most warlords continued policies established in the late T’ang designed to restrict Buddhist influence over Chinese society. As a result, support for Buddhism during this period was geographically isolated to a few regions. Ch’an lineages emerged as the principal beneficiaries of this regionally-based support.

The Buddhist revival in tenth century China was dominated by supporters of the Fa-yen lineage. Fa-yen’s teachings attracted numerous students, many of whom achieved considerable fame. The normative definition of Ch’an in Fa-yen circles envisioned Ch’an as the quintessential teaching of Chinese Buddhism, and the basis for the revival of Chinese Buddhist civilization. It was rooted in a T’ang vision of Buddhism as an indispensable force in the creation of a civilized society. As a result, the Wu-y¸eh kingdom depended on the re-establishment of Buddhist institutions as central features of Wu-y¸eh society and culture. To this end, Wu-y¸eh rulers made a concentrated effort to rebuild temples and pilgrimage sites, and to restore the numerous Buddhist monuments and institutions that had suffered from neglect and the ravages of war. Historically important centers in the region, such as Mt. T’ien-t’ai, were rebuilt. New Buddhist centers, like the Yung-ming Temple in Lin-an (Hang-chou), were established. Ambassadors were sent abroad, to Japan and Korea, to collect copies of important scriptures no longer available in China. After several decades of constant dedication to these activities, the monks and monasteries of Wu-y¸eh acquired considerable reputations. Monks throughout China fled to Wu-y¸eh monasteries.

In addition to embracing Ch’an innovations, Wu-y¸eh Ch’an identified with old T’ang traditions, and this identification with the larger Buddhist tradition became a standard feature in the collective memory of Wu-y¸eh Ch’an. The distinguishing character of the Fa-yen lineage within Ch’an is typically recalled through the syncretic proclivities of its patriarchs, normally reduced to the harmony between Ch’an and Hua-yen in Wen-i’s teachings, between Ch’an and T’ien-t’ai in Te-shao’s teachings, and between Ch’an and Pure Land in Yen-shou’s teachings.

The Wu-y¸eh view of Ch’an was officially represented at the Sung court by Tsan-ning, a scholar-monk who served as a leading official in Wu-y¸eh, and in turn, at the Sung court. The “official” view of Wu-y¸eh Ch’an presented to the Sung court by Tsan-ning accepted three slogans attributed to Bodhidharma as defining normative Ch’an teaching, and a characterization of Ch’an as the quintessential teaching of Buddhism (”the ch’an of the Supreme Vehicle”). The fact that the fourth slogan, “a special transmission outside the scriptures”, was missing from this normative definition is closely connected to the view of Ch’an as the quintessential teaching of Buddhism, which presupposes harmony between Ch’an and Buddhist teaching. Rather than “a special transmission outside the scriptures,” Tsan-ning considered Bodhidharma’s teaching as a branch of the larger tradition of Buddhism stemming from Shakyamuni. According to Tsan-ning, those who conceive of a Ch’an identity independent of Buddhist teaching do not understand that “the scriptures (ching) are the words of the Buddha, and meditation (ch’an) is the thought of the Buddha; there is no discrepancy whatsoever between what the Buddha conceives in his mind and what he utters with his mouth.”

The Wu-y¸eh perspective on the harmony between Ch’an and the scriptures was not unprecedented, but represented the “official” view in the T’ang. A century earlier, Tsung-mi (780-841), an influential interpreter of Buddhism recognized as a patriarch in both the Ch’an and Hua-yen traditions, promoted harmony or correspondence between Ch’an and Buddhist teachings, arguing that Ch’an teachings are in accord with the Buddhist canon, on the one hand, and the doctrinal positions of Chinese Buddhist schools, on the other. Tsung-mi’s views provided the model for Wu-y¸eh Ch’an, both for Tsan-ning and for Yung-ming Yen-shou (904-975), Wu-y¸eh Ch’an’s greatest spokesperson.

Yen-shou recommended pluralism as the guiding principle governing Buddhist teaching and practice. For Yen-shou, Ch’an suggested the principle of inclusion in which the entire Buddhist tradition culminated in a grand epiphany. Doctrinally, this meant that the entire scriptural canon became united in a great, all encompassing harmony. From the perspective of practice, all actions, without exception, became Buddha deeds. Yen-shou clearly advocated a Ch’an practice based in the Buddhist traditions of the past, opposing those who “have become attached to emptiness, and [whose practice] is not compatible with the scriptures.”

In the end, much was at stake over the two competing interpretations of Ch’an. The two conceptions of Ch’an as “harmony between Ch’an and the scriptures,” or “a special transmission outside the scriptures,” reflect different religious epistemologies. In essence, the distinction here is between a form of rationalism, a view that reasoned explanation is capable of communicating the truth coupled with the belief that the vehicle of this reasoned explanation is Buddhist scripture, and a type of mysticism, a view that the experience of enlightenment is beyond reification, verbal explanation, or rational categories, and that Buddhist scripture is incapable of conveying that experience. The debate in early Sung Ch’an was whether Ch’an is acquiescent with the tradition of Buddhist rationalism or belongs to an independent mystical tradition.

The history of Ch’an and Zen is generally presented as denying Buddhist rationalism in favor of a mysticism that in principle transcends every context, including even the Buddhist one. The “orthodox” Ch’an position maintains that the phrase “do not establish words and letters” is consistent with “a special transmission outside the scriptures,” treating the two slogans as a pair. In this interpretation, both phrases are said to point to the common principle that:

True Enlightenment, as experienced by the Buddha and transmitted through the patriarchs, is independent of verbal explanations, including the record of the Buddha’s teachings (i.e., scriptures) and later doctrinal elaborations.

However, this interpretation was not acknowledged in Wu-y¸eh Ch’an, which distinguished the phrase “do not establish words and letters” from the principle of an independent transmission apart from the scriptures, and treated the two as opposing ideas. Wu-y¸eh Ch’an acknowledged the validity of Bodhidharma’s warning against attachment to scriptures and doctrines, but did not accept that this warning amounted to a categorical denial. As Ch’an became established in the Sung, monks and officials rose to challenge the Wu-y¸eh interpretation, and insist on an independent tradition apart from the scriptures.

MING DYNASTY

Han-shan Te Ch’ing (Hanshan Deqing, 1546-1623) is considered one of the four most eminent Buddhist monks in the late Ming Dynasty partly for his social-political interactions with Ming court, exegesis of Buddhist texts, and most importantly, for his C’han practice.

In all of the history of C’han, there is not a single master that has written in such detail about his own practice and experiences, especially in describing the Enlightened state of mind. According to a compiled record, The Dream Roaming of Great Master Hanshan, he had numerous and extraordinary Enlightenment experiences.

According to the record, Han-shan served as proofreader of the Book of Chao, the source of “Things do not Move.” Han-shan came across the stories of a Bramacharin who had left home in his youth and returned when he was white-haired. When people saw him, the neighbors asked, “Is that man [whom we know] still living today?” The Bramacharin replied, “I look like that man of the past, but I am not he.” On reading this story ,, Han-shan suddenly understood that all things do not come and go.

When he got up from his seat and walked around, he did not see things in motion. When he opened the window blind, suddenly a wind blew the trees in the yard, and the leaves flew all over the sky. However, he did not see any signs of motion. When he went to urinate, he still did not see signs of flowing. He understood what the text spoke of as, “Streams and rivers run into the ocean and yet there is no flowing.

Related here as well, Pai-chang Huai-hai known throughout Zen lore for Hyakujo’s Fox is also known for the response Ma-tsu gives Pai-chang regarding the flying away of ducks when Ma-tsu says: “When have they ever flown away, they have been here since the beginning.”

Also known throughout Zen lore is Tokusan Senkan (Te Shan) (781-867), infamous for burning his commentaries on Buddhism within hours of his Awakening experience. The following is offered for your own elucidation:

The famous image of Te-shan ripping up the sutras in liberated ecstasy is the image of Te-shan in the moment of having appropriated and internalized the sutras. Is Te-shan destroying the text and subverting its authority because his Realization is in conflict with that projected by the text? Emphatically No! Te-shan’s Realization is understood to be an actualization of the same ‘way’ that gave rise to the Buddha’s Realization which is written into the sutra, just as Te-shan’s Realization is imprinted into the textual account of his iconoclastic act.

That iconoclastic acts are not denunciations of an authority that has been broken and overcome is similarly implied in the life of Lin-chi. After having slapped his teacher, Huang-po, thus flaunting his freedom from Buddhist authority, Lin-chi settles down in the monastery to study under the master, possibly for as long as two decades. The liberating act of ‘casting off’ was incorporated into a more encompassing intention directed towards communal practice which included obedience, loyalty and learning.

NOTE: It should be mentioned, in perhaps some CONTRAST to the gist of the content and thesis of the above paper by Welter, that the view as taken by the Wanderling and presented through the various offerings of AWAKENING 101 coincides more closely with the THREE quotes BELOW and CONSIDERS IT THE MOST CREDIBLE VIEW:

“Being neither teacher nor guru, and since from the first not a thing is, the most one can do is to offer a glimpse or help point the way. In the end it resides in you”

the Wanderling, Awakening 101

True Enlightenment, as experienced by the Buddha and transmitted through the patriarchs, is independent of verbal explanations, including the record of the Buddha’s teachings (i.e., scriptures) and later doctrinal elaborations.

Albert Welter, T’ang Ch’an and the Myth of Bodhidharma

Do not go upon what has been acquired by repeated hearing; nor upon tradition; nor upon rumor; nor upon what is in a scripture; nor upon surmise; nor upon an axiom; nor upon specious reasoning; nor upon a bias towards a notion that has been pondered over; nor upon another’s seeming ability; nor upon the consideration that ‘The monk is your teacher.’

Ven. Wapola Rahula, What the Buddha Taught

HOWEVER…

the intent of the three quotes should be taken in conjuction with the ingrained view presented within the final two paragraphs inserted ABOVE relating to Te Shan:

IN OTHER WORDS:

A special transmission outside the
scriptures;
No dependence upon words and letters;
Direct pointing to the soul of man:
Seeing into one’s own nature and
attainment of Buddhahood

THE QUESTION ARISES:

Is the practice of Zen, which by its own nature explores or professes the Enlightenment experience as attained by the Buddha and the ancient masters Outside the Doctrine, in direct contrast with or violate the premises of the Buddhist concept of Wrong Practice (silabbata paramasa)?

There are those that say Zen is Wrong Practice because the concept of “outside the doctrine” is in itself, Wrong Practice. Not true.

The Buddha’s Enlightenment transpired long before there was a “doctrine,” long before rules had been thought of or traditions established. Zen harkens back to those same days of purity. As stated above: Zen Buddhism is a break away experiment within the Mahayana tradition, which again uses non-religious meditation to understand the emptiness of Self. That is to say, Zen returns to the original roots of Vipassana Meditation while other traditions seem to have strayed:

The Buddha’s Teaching was recorded in the Tipitaka several hundred years after the Buddha passed away, and this text was then copied and recopied over a period of thousands of years. The teachings were probably recorded very well, but it is possible to doubt that the reader will now understand what those who recorded the teachings meant. For me to refer merely to the texts all the time would be like guaranteeing the truth of the claims of another, claims of which I am not certain. But the things that I tell you I am able to guarantee, because I speak from my own direct experience.

The text is like a map: it is suitable for those who don’t know the way to go, or have not yet arrived at the destination. For one that has arrived, the map no longer means anything.

source

http://www.angelfire.com/electronic/awakening101/welter.html

Quote

Unfettered at last, a traveling monk,
I pass the old Zen barrier.
Mine is a traceless stream-and-cloud life,
Of these mountains, which shall be my home?

- Manan (1591-1654)

More on Chan/Zen Schools, Koans and Teachings
Zen Teachings: Zen Schools, Koans, Zazen

Other Articles on Chan/Zen History
A Short History of Chan Buddhism and Its Meeting With Taoism
An Introduction to Zen its History and the Essence of its Teachings
An Introduction to Taoism and its Influence on Chinese Culture and its Relation with Chan Buddhism
Dhyana: The Indian Sudden Awake School and its Travel to China

Chan/Zen and Chinese Philosophy
Zen Chan Philosophy - translated Texts from the Chan/Zen Masters
A collection of links to the Inner Chapters by Chuang Tzu and Chuang Tzu Poems and Sayings

Chan/Zen Schools, Koans and Teachings
Zen Teachings: Zen Schools, Koans, Zazen
A collection of Chan/Zen Texts and Scriptures

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A Collection of Chan/Zen Poems on No-mind, Satori and Dharma
Haiku - A Collection of Links to the Famous Haiku Poets

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Ta-hui Tsung-kao and Kung-an Ch’an
By Chun-Fang Yu
Journal of Chinese Philosophy
V. 6 (1979)
pp. 211-235
Copyright 1979 by D. Reidel Publishing Co.

A biography of Chan master Ta-hui and a discussion of the use of koans to achieve enlightenment.

Ta-hui Tsung-kao[a] (1089-1163) was a monk belonging to the Lin-chi school of Ch’an Buddhism. He was the 12th generation heir of the Lin-chi line. He emphasized, like all true Ch’an masters before him, the primacy of the enlightenment experience.

However, unlike many other Ch’an masters, he insisted upon the exclusive use of the so-called “public cases” (Ch. kung-an,[b] J. koan) in Ch’an meditation and opposed the practice of quiet-sitting, for he believed that the latter was conducive to lifeless emptiness and passive escapism. He called the teachers of quiet-sitting heretical and referred to their Ch’an practice as the “heretical Ch’an of silent illumination” (mo-chao hsieh-ch’an)[c] and his own school came to be known as the “Ch’an of kung-an introspection” (k’an-hua ch’an).[d]

Several scholars[1] have suggested that Ta-hui was a seminal figure in the development of Ch’an Buddhism, a view also shared by Chinese Buddhists since Ta-hui’s time. His importance undoubtedly lies mainly in his successful creation of an “orthodox” teaching on the use of kung-an in Ch’an meditation, which held sway during the succeeding centuries in China and to some extent in Japan as well through the activities of the Tokugawa Zen master Hakuin, who also belonged to the same Lin-chi tradition.

By the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the time of Ta-hui, Ch’an Buddhism had come a long way from its obscure beginnings as one among many groups of meditation teachers who taught ways to achieve spiritual awakening. We can quickly summarize its early development. After Ch’an Buddhism was first introduced into China by the Indian monk, Bodhidharma, in the early part of the 6th century, it gained increasing influence during the next two hundred years until it split into two main schools, the Northern and Southern schools, after the Fifth Patriarch Hung-jen.

By the middle of the ninth century, the Southern School of Ch’an had won the day. This school regarded Hui-neng (638-713) as the Sixth Patriarch and the legitimate heir to the Ch’an teachings brought to China by Bodhidharma.

The Northern School, which claimed the famous priest Shen-hsiu as its leader, came to prominence before the Southern School, but it was unable to hold out against the latter.[2] It was from the Southern School that all later Ch’an sects were to trace their line of descent. The exact date when the five Ch’an sects or the “Five Houses” (wu-chia)[e] came to be generally recognized cannot be ascertained. The term, however, appears to have been in use during the later period of the Five Dynasties (907-960), not long after the death of Fa-yen (885-985), the founder of the last of the “Five Houses”.[3] While all of them traced their lineages directly to Hui-neng, it was really Hui-neng’s disciples, Nan-yu Huai-jang (677-744) and Ch’ing-yuan Hsing-ssu (d. 740), and especially their famous heirs, Ma-tsu Tao-i (709-78 and Shih-t’ou Hsi-ch’ien (700-790), who were the real founders of the later sects.[4]

Many legends grew up around Ma-tsu and Shih-t’ou. Both produced many disciples, and their schools developed into flourishing establishments; indeed, all the famous masters of the late T’ang dynasty derived from them. An often quoted passage describes their fame: “in Kiangsi, the master was Tao-chi [Ma-tsu]; in Hunan the master was Shih-t’ou. People went back and forth between them all the time, and those who never met these two great masters were completely ignorant.” Their connection with the Sixth Patriarch is obscure. but there is no doubt that they adopted him as their Patriarch.[5]

The Lin-chi and Kuei-yang sects were traced to Ma-tsu, while the Ts’ao-tung, Yun-men and Fa-yen sects were traced to Shih-t’ou. Although these five sects were all still active by the beginning of the twelfth century, the Lin-chi and Yun-men occupied a dominant position. Emperor Hui-tsung of the Northern Sung, who, reigned from 1101 to 1125, summarized the situation of the Ch’an sects in his time in a preface he wrote for Hsu ch’uan-teng-lu, a sequel to the Transmission of the lamp (Ching-te ch’uan-teng-lu).[f]

After Nan-yu and Ch’ing-yuan [Ch'an Buddhism] has been divided into five sects (wu-tsung). Each developed its own tradition and taught according to the differences in the learners’ talents. Although they differ in particular emphases, their goal is still the same…. These sects have benefited sentient beings and enabled many people to reach enlightenment. Each has spread wide in its influence and put forth luxuriant foliage, but the two sects of Yun-men and Lin-chi now dominate the whole world.[6]

The Lin-chi sect continued to play a dominant role during the Southern Sung, but the Yun-men sect was supplanted by Ts’ao-tung which first emerged in importance during the Southern Sung and achieved a position of prominence by the end of the dynasty.[7] However, within Lin-chi itself, there was a split at the end of the tenth century. The direct heir of Lin-chi in the seventh generation left two distinguished disciples, each of whom established his own line of transmission: Yang-ch’i Fang-hui (992-1049) established the Yang-Ch’i[g] line and Huang-lung Hui-nan (1002-1069) established the Huang-lung[h] line. The Huang-lung line never produced any master of great stature and died out soon after the twelfth century. The Yang-ch’i line continued to rise in influence and came to combine all the previously separate schools of Ch’an teaching that had arisen after the Sixth Patriarch, with the exception of the Ts’ao-tung school.

Although there were such divisions, students of Ch’an could apparently work under masters of different schools, transfer from one monastery to another, and had access to recorded sayings of former masters of all the five sects. Ta-hui, in his training, served as a good example of the students’ freedom of choice and the cooperation between rival schools of Ch’an. According to his biographers,[8] Ta-hui was a native of Hsuan-chou in modern Anhwei province. The family fortune was already in decline when he was born and a fire wiped out everything when Ta-hui was ten years old. At thirteen he entered the local school and already felt the attraction of Buddhism (”How much better to study the transcendental Dharma than to read secular books”.)[9] He received the precepts for a monk at the age of seventeen and started to read the recorded sayings of earlier Ch’an masters. He was particularly fond of the sayings of Yun-men. At first he studied under a teacher of the Ts’ao-tung school and mastered the essentials of the “Five Ranks (wu-wei p’ien-cheng)”[i] [10] in two years. However, believing that there was more to Ch’an than dialectical subtleties, at twenty-one he went over to Chan-t’ang Wen-chun, a master belonging to the Huang-lung branch of the Lin-chi School. In the next few years he became very knowledgeable about Ch’an Buddhism in an intellectual manner, but failed to have any personal experience of enlightenment. When Ta-hui was twenty-six years old, Chan-t’ang called him over one day and said to him, “You can talk about Ch’an very well; you can quote the sayings of former masters and write commentaries on them. You are eloquent in giving sermons and quick with the exchanges during interviews. But there is one thing which you still do not know”. When Ta-hui asked what it was, the master answered,”What you do not have is the awakening. Thus, when I talk with you in my room, you have Ch’an. But as soon as you leave the room, you lose it. When you are awake and attentive, you have Ch’an. But as soon as you fall asleep, you lose it. If you continue like this, how can you ever conquer life and death?” Ta-hui agreed, saying that he himself had been agonized over this for a long time.[11] Only the enlightenment experience can solve the riddle of life and death. Unless one confronts one’s mortality, a person will not have the necessary determination to achieve enlightenment. As we shall see later, this was to be a central theme in Ta-hui’s sermons and letters.

Before Chan-t’ang’s death, the master told Ta-hui that the only person who could help him to reach his goal was Yuan-wu K’o-ch’in[j] (1063-1135), a master belonging to the Yang-ch’i branch of the Lin-chi School - the same Yuan-wu whose commentaries on the sayings of former masters were to be compiled into the Pi-yen lu[k] (The Record of the Blue Cliff) one of the most celebrated Ch’an classics. Various things intervened, and it was not until ten years later, when Ta-hui was thirty-six years old, that he finally had an opportunity to become a student of Yuan-wu, who was then the abbot of a great monastery, the T’ien-ning Wan-shou-ssu in the northern Sung capital of Pien-liang. According to Ta-hui’s testimony, he had by then become almost despaired of ever attaining awakening, and vowed to himself that this was to be his last experiment with Ch’an meditation.

I will give this master nine summers as the limit. If his teaching does not differ from other masters and if he gives me his approval easily. I will then write a treatise denouncing Ch’an Buddhism. Instead of taxing my spirit and wasting precious time on it. I will devote myself to a suutra or a treatise and cultivate virtue so that I can be reborn again as a Buddhist.[12]

Having made up his mind, he threw himself into intense struggle. He was told to work on the koan “The East Mountain walks over the water”. He made forty-nine attempts to answer it, but was rebuked each time. Finally on the thirteenth day of the fifth month in the year 1125, he experienced a break-through. He recalled the great event this way.

Master Yuan-wu ascended the high seat in the lecture hall at the request of Madame Chang K’ang-kuo. He said, “Once a monk asked Yun-men this question, ‘where do all the Buddhas come from?’ Yun-men answered. ‘The East Mountain walks over the water’ (Tung-shan shuei sheng hsing).[l] But if I were he, I would have given a different answer. ‘Where do all the Buddhas come from?’ ‘As the fragrant breeze comes from the south, a slight coolness naturally stirs in the palace pavilion.’ When I heard this, all of a sudden there was no more before and after. Time stopped. I ceased to feel any disturbance in my mind, and remained in a state of utter calmness.[13]

While the first answer still implied a dichotomy between motion and rest, Yu-wu stressed the unity of the two. Apparently, this remark had enough suggestive power to enable Ta-hui to achieve a new state of consciousness. However, the master regarded Ta-hui’s realization as still imperfect. He said to Ta-hui, “It is indeed not easy to arrive at your present state of mind. But unfortunately, you have only died but are not yet reborn. Your greatest problem is that you do not doubt words enough (pu-i yu-chu shih-wei ta-ping).[m] Don’t you remember this saying? ‘When you let go your hold on the precipice, you become the master of your own fate; to die and afterward come to life again, no one can then deceive you.” Ta-hui was then assigned the koan, “To be and not to be - it is like a wisteria leaning on a tree”(yu-chu wei-chu ju t’eng i chu)[n] and told to work on it. He had to see the master three or four times a day to report on his understanding. But as soon as he started to say something, the master would at once say it was wrong. This continued for half a year. Eventually, Ta-hui had another enlightenment experience upon hearing Yuan-wu’s discussion of this koan. Let Ta-hui tell the story in his own words.

One day while I was having supper in the abbot’s quarters, I was so absorbed in the koan that I just held the chopsticks and forgot to eat. The master remarked to a bystander that my progress in Ch’an was as slow as the growth of the Huang-yang plant [Buxus mycrophylla, a plant which allegedly grows only one inch every year]. I then told him by a simile what position I was in. “I am like a dog who stands by a pot of boiling fat: he cannot lick it however badly he wants to, nor can he go away from it though he may wish to quit.” The master said, “This is exactly the case. [The koan] is really a vajra cage and a seat of thorns to you.” I then said to him. “When you were with your teacher, Wu-tsu, you asked him about the same koan, and what was his answer?” The master at first refused to say anything. But I insisted, saying, “When you asked him about it, you were not alone, but with an assembly. I am sure that there are people who know all about it.” The master then said; “I ask him, ‘To be and not to be - it is like a wisteria leaning on a tree. What is the meaning of it?’ Wu-tsu replied, ‘You cannot paint it, you cannot sketch it, however much you try.’ I further said, ‘What if the tree suddenly breaks down and the wisteria dies?’ Wu-tsu said, ‘You are following the words’.”[14]

Ta-hui claimed that as soon as he heard this, he saw the whole point of the koan most clearly. His master tested him further with a few other koans all of which Ta-hui successfully answered one by one. Yuan-wu recognized him as a true heir to the Lin-chi tradition. Many years later, when he gave a sermon to his disciples, he would recall the years of spiritual struggle in this way:

There is no language to describe Ch’an. One must achieve his understanding through an enlightenment experience. Since I was seventeen years old I had been seized with doubt concerning this matter. After I struggled for seventeen years I finally could rest. Before I achieved enlightenment I often thought to myself: I am now already of such and such an age. Before I was born on this earth, where was I? My mind was pitch-black and had no idea where I came from. Since I did not know my origin, this was what Buddhism called, “Life is a great matter” (sheng ta).[o] When I die in the future, where shall I go? When I thought about this, my mind was also totally dark and had no idea where I would go from here. Since I did not know my destiny, this was what Buddhism called, “Death is a great matter” (ssu ta)[p] “Existence is impermanent and life ends quickly. Life and Death is a Great Matter”.[15]

Again, we find the crucial factors in Ta-hui’s spiritual struggle were the existential confrontation with his mortality and the burning need to solve the great mystery of samsara.

After his enlightenment, his fame spread far and wide. Gentry officials vied for the opportunity to study under him. The Minister of the Right, Lu Shun, presented him with a purple robe and the honorific title, Fo-jih, ”The Sun of Buddhism”. However, this was a very troublesome time for the nation. The very next year, 1126, the Nu-chen Tartars captured both Emperors Hui-tsung and Chin-tsung together with some three thousand members of the royal family. The capital was moved to the South, and the Southern Sung dynasty began.

Ta-hui spent the next several years travelling widely in southern China. He continued to carry out the work of training both monks and laymen. He also started the severe criticism of the “Ch’an of silent illumination”, a preoccupation which lasted throughout his life.

In the year 1137, when Ta-hui was forty-nine years old, upon the recommendation of the Prime Minister. Chang Chun, one of his most intimate disciples. Ta-hui was appointed the abbot of Ching-shan monastery in Lin-an, (present day Hangchow), the Southern Sung capital. This was the first time that he headed a monastery, having refused other offers previously. He now became the acknowledged leader of Buddhism. Within two years, the sangha grew to two thousand in number. Meditation semesters often drew crowds of over seventeen hundred. Among his lay followers, there were many officials holding high positions. However, his very fame and reputation apparently sowed the seeds for a fall he was to suffer later on. According to the analysis of one follower,

Since his teaching is broad, he attracts multitudes of people. However, very few people can live up to his strict standards. Since his instruction is to the point, those who become enlightened love him dearly. But, there are also people who become frightened and disconcerted by his lofty talk. I know that there is gossip, defamation and suspicion circulating about the master and cannot feel but enraged about this.[16]

The immediate cause of Ta-hui’s downfall was that one of his followers, Chang Chiu-cheng, a vice-president belonging to a party of courtiers advocating war, offended Ch’in Hui, the leader of the peace party.[17] Because of Chang’s relationship to Ta-hui, Ta-hui was punished along with his disciple for the latter’s advocacies. He was deprived of his ordination certificate and monk’s robe and was exiled to Heng-chou (present day Hunan) in the year 1141. Ten years later, at the age of sixty-two, he was transferred to Mei-chou (present day Kuangtung), a place famous for plagues and other hostile elements. All these years, despite deprivation and physical danger, he was followed by faithful disciples. He also won new converts from among the gentry and the common people wherever he went. Pardon finally came in 1155 when Ta-hui was sixty-seven years old. He was given back his monk’s robe and, at seventy, returned to his former monastery at Ching-shan where he continued to train people in Ch’an meditation until his death five years later. Over the course of his long life, Ta-hui had experienced public adulation as well as official condemnation, he was befriended by famous courtiers, but he also spent fifteen years beyond the pale of civilization. However, Ta-hui appeared to have accepted both fame and disfavor with equanimity. More significantly, he never gave up his active involvement with the lives of his followers. Chang Chun, the same disciple who recommended Ta-hui to head Ching-shan monastery, once characterized the master in the following way, and I think it was not far from the mark. “He has the will of a loyal subject and the heart of a compassionate bodhisattva. Unlike the Hinayana `sraavakas and pratyeka-buddhas. he is not tired of samsara and he does not selfishly desire nirvana”.[18]

Ta-hui wrote only one work, a collection of koans of former Ch’an masters, entitled: Cheng-fa yen-tsang[q] (True Dharma Eye). He also compiled with a fellow monk named Ta-kuei, a work entitled, Ch’an-lin pao-hsun[r] (Treasured Teachings of the Ch ‘an Monastic Tradition) in which he collected the instructions of former abbots of Ch’an monasteries on the virtues and ideals of monastic life. His sermons and letters were collected by his disciples into thirty chuan with the title: Ta-hui P’u-chueh Ch’an-shih yu-lu (T. 1998).

As Ta-hui’s enlightenment account made clear, the use of koan as a meditation device played a central role in his achieving enlightenment. He was first given Yun-men’s “East mountain walks over the water” and later, “To be or not to be - it is like the wisteria leaning on a tree”. Even though Ta-hui achieved a new insight each time only after hearing his own master’s response to the koans, it was understood that he himself had already spent a long time struggling to make sense out of these puzzling phrases. We can also assume that when Ta-hui said that he understood the koan, he did not mean an intellectual understanding. The use of koan as a meditation device started rather late in Ch’an history. The first two hundred years, from the time of Bodhidharma to Hui-neng, the Sixth Patriarch, there were no koan exercises, no shouting, kicking or beating as ways to induce enlightenment. During the eighth and ninth centuries koan was likewise not used consciously or systematically. Ch’an masters would use everyday events, homely examples or non-verbal ”body language” such as a slap, a blow, a kick, a shout or a roaring laughter to answer disciples’ questions about “the meaning of Ch’an,” or “the purpose of Bodhidharma’s coming to the east” - typical questions about the ultimate reality. Sometimes they might quote an anecdote or a saying of an earlier master to help them bring home a point. However, there was no compilation of recorded koans in existence, nor did they use such koans regularly. These masters created many koans unselfconsciously, but they themselves did not give any specific koan to their disciples as a meditation assignment.

But by the eleventh century, koans of earlier masters were eagerly collected and some masters started to create their own as well. The most famous example of compilations of the first type is The Transmission of the Lamp[19] compiled by Tao-yuan in 1004 and consists of more than a thousand koans ranging from the ancient patriarchs and masters to the disciples of Fa-yen in the tenth century. An early example of the second type koan collection is the recorded sayings of the Lin-chi master Fen-yang (947- 1024). There are three hundred koans found in three collections. The first collection consists of old koans, for each of which Fen-yang wrote a verse summarizing the general meaning of the koan in poetical language. The second consists of koans he himself had made and for which he supplied his own answer; the third is made up of old koans, together with his alternate answers to them. These three collections became the models for later literary production of a similar kind.[20] The reason for this new emphasis on koan collections was due to an internal crisis. After the persecution of Buddhism in 845, within fifty years a most illustrious generation of Ch’an masters died one by one. (Kuei-shan, 853; Huang-po, 855; Te-shan, 865; Lin-chi, 866; Tung-shan, 869; Yang-shan, 891; Ts’ao-shan, 900). The golden age of Ch’an now passed away. Ch’an Buddhism, unlike T’ien-t’ai and Hua-yen which prized scriptural knowledge, or Pure Land which emphasized piety, had always placed the most important stress on personal religious experience: namely, the experience of enlightenment. Enlightenment could not be taught by words or concepts. On the contrary, words and concepts would involve a person in discrimination and intellectualization which would lead him farther away from the realization. The ideal condition for enlightenment was to work under a master who was already enlightened. Through his skillful hints and merciless prodding, one could be forced to break through his customary mode of thinking and acting to a new mode of being. By the tenth century, with the death of great masters, a keen need was felt to find a new way of training disciples. If true masters could not always be found to serve as “mid-wives” in the miracle of self-transformation called the “enlightenment,” was there perhaps a substitute, an alternative? The alternative was the koan. It was hoped that through the collection of earlier koans, and through the concentrated meditation on these koans. the original experience of enlightenment could be re-enacted. Suzuki thought this development indispensable for the survival of Ch’an after the passing of those charismatic leaders of T’ang.[21] However, as we shall see, this emphasis on koan exercise was indeed a double-edged sword. It could grant more life to Ch’an, but if handled wrongly, it could also kill its very life.

Now what is a koan? A good definition of this very important term was given by Chung-feng Ming-pen[s] ( 1263-1323), a Yuan monk following Ta-hui’s tradition. He said,

Kung-an may be compared to the case records of the public law court. Kung, or “public”, is the single track followed by all sages and worthy men alike, the highest principle which serves as a road for the whole world. An, or “records”, are the orthodox writings which record what the sages and worthy men regard as principles… The koans do not represent the private opinion of a single man, but rather, the highest principle received alike by us and by the hundreds and thousands of bodhisattvas of the three realms and the ten directions. This principle accords with the spiritual source, tallies with the mysterious meaning, destroys birth-and-death, and transcends the passions. It cannot be understood by logic; it cannot be transmitted in words; it cannot be explained in writing; it cannot be measured by reason. It is like a poisoned drum that kills all who hear it, or like a great fire that consumes all who come near it…. the koans are something that can be used only by men with enlightened minds who wish to prove their understanding. They are certainly not intended to be used merely to increase one’s lore and provide topics for idle discussion. The so-called venerable masters of Zen are the chief officials of the public law courts of the monastic community, as it were, and their collections of sayings are the case records of points that have been vigorously advocated. Occasionally men of former times, in the intervals when they were not teaching, in spare moments when their doors were closed, would take up these case records and arrange them, give their judgment on them, compose verses of praise on them and write their own answers to them. Surely they did not do this just to show off their erudition and contradict the worthy men of old. Rather, they did it because they could not bear to think that the great Dharma might become corrupt. Therefore they stooped to using expedient means in order to open up the wisdom eye of the men of later generations, hoping thereby to make it possible for them to attain the understanding of the great Dharma for themselves in the same way.[22

As used by Ch'an Buddhists, a koan always refers to a dialogue or an event that took place between a Ch'an master and his student. In a sense, all the stories about Ch.an masters, both short and long, are koans. As a modem student of Ch'an defined it, "In short, koan means a Zen story, a Zen situation, or a Zen problem".[23] In Sung China, however, Ch’an monks seldom employed the term koan; instead, they liked to use “hua-t’ou”[t] and referred the meditation on a koan as “ts’an hua-t’ou ” or “k’an hua-t’ou ”.[u] There are various ways to interpret this very rich Ch’an terminology. Taken literally, “hua”means ‘’speech”, “a remark” or “a sentence”, and “t’ou ” means either the beginning or the ending of something. Combined together, hua-t’ou thus means, “the end or the beginning of a sentence”. While koan refers to the whole situation or event, hua-t’ou means specifically, the critical words or points of the situation.[24] The distinction between a koan and a hua-t’ou may be illustrated by the following famous exchange between the T’ang master Chao-chou and a monk, one of the favorite koans of Ta-hui.

A monk asked master Chao-chou. “Does a dog have the Buddha-nature?” Chao-chou answered, “wu’” (meaning “No!”)

The entire dialogue is called a koan, but a Ch’an practitioner who meditates on this should not think of both the question and answer. Instead, he should concentrate whole-heatedly on the cryptic word “Wu” - this is his hua-t’ou.

A hua-t’ou may also be regarded as an incipient thought which, when subjected to proper scrutinization will reveal the nature of human consciousness. Nan Huai-chin explains it this way:

In the contemporary idiomatic Shanghai dialect, if you want to ask someone, “What is your problem?” or “What do you want?”, you say, “What is your hua-t’ou?” Whenever a thought starts to form, this is the beginning of a sentence. But what are the origin and whereabouts of an incipient thought? This is indeed a great problem. To find out the source of this thought - this is hua-t’ou. It is the beginning of a phrase, a problem. To work on a hua-t’ou is the method of dwelling upon the origin and root source of this phrase. This “dwelling upon” includes the combined effort of studying, guessing, experiencing, observation, contemplation and quiet deliberation of the hua-t’ou[25]

Ideally, a hua-t’ou leads the meditator back to the base of his consciousness and enables him to discover the real nature of this consciousness through a thorough examination of an idea. The key word here is “dwelling” (ti, chu).[v] One must dwell upon his koan, as Ta-hui had to do, with intense concentration and absorption to the exclusion of all other interests, pursuits and preoccupations. In this respect, a koan serves a function similar to that of a mantra, a mandala, or other devices used in what Naranjo calls “concentrative or absorptive meditation”.[26] Here the meditator actively focuses his entire attention on a single object, sound, or idea and reaches a new level of consciousness as a result of this concentration and restriction of his awareness. It is very different both in approach and technique from the type of meditation Naranjo calls “the negative way”[27] of which the exercise in mindfulness of the Theravada tradition and the quiet-sitting of the Ts’ao-tung Ch’an are good examples. In this case, the meditator relinquishes any active control but remains aware of everything in a state of passivity and receptivity. He relaxes his concentration and expands the domain of his attention.

This “dwelling upon”, however, is not the same as “thinking about”. In fact, the dwelling upon of a koan is the exact opposite of our ordinary discursive, ratiocinative thinking processes. For how is one seriously to think about Chao-chou’s “Wu”? Surely it makes no “sense”. The entire exchange between the disciple and Chao-chou, just as the other exchanges Ta-hui mentions, is unintelligible and cannot be thought about or understood rationally no matter how hard one tries. Actually, the very opaqueness to reason and the stubborn refusal to be “figured out” are intrinsic features of koans and constitute their effectiveness as meditative devices.

I think one useful way to understand a koan or hua-t’ou is to regard it as an opening wedge for the sudden and intuitive apprehension of a new reality. Its effectiveness is tied in with its ability to create in the meditator a sense of “doubt” (i-ching)[w] and the accompanying feelings of bewilderment, frustration, anxiety, and anger. If the meditator takes his koan seriously, we can expect that he will be impelled to “solve” his koan by the strong sense of urgency this painfully disquieting “doubt” produces. In actual practice there were probably few monks who could sustain their effort without constant prodding from their teachers. Thus Ta-hui was chastised by his master that he did not “doubt words [his hua-t'ou] enough”. Ch’an masters have always recognized the crucial role this sense of doubt plays in the mechanics of enlightenment. Some six hundred years after Ta-hui, the Japanese Rinzai master Hakuin regarded the “Great Doubt” as the indispensable driving force behind every enlightenment experience. “Once the Great Doubt arises, out of a hundred who practice, one hundred will achieve breakthrough”.[28]

But how does a hua-t’ou generate doubt? I think a hua-t’ou can do so because it works as a shock, a surprise, which breaches the meditator’s taken-for-granted expectancies. It is in this sense that I call a hua-t’ou an opening wedge. To begin with, we know that hua-t’ou was used in traditional vernacular novels and plays to mean an “opening statement” (equivalent to the modem expression “kai-ch’ang-pai”.[x] [29] The speaker delivers a short opening speech, sets up the proper dramatic situation and provides the occasion for the unfolding of the succeeding events. In the case of a koan, however, what follows is not a rational sequence of statements or events, as one would ordinarily expect, but by a totally unrelated and sometimes illogical statement, such as “The East Mountain walks over the water”. The meditator is thus made a stranger. He is estranged from the familiar world of reasonableness and becomes vulnerable to transformation.

My understanding of this function of hua-t’ou is partly inspired by the works of phenomenological sociologists and ethnomethodologists, particularly those of Schutz and Garfinkel.[30] Schutz wrote about the various “finite provinces of meaning” which are constituted by different sets of experiences. However, it is the ”reality of our everyday life”, that which William James called the “subuniverse” of senses, of physical things, that is the “paramount reality” for Schutz and other thinkers of this school.

Familiar scenes of everyday activities, treated by members as the ”natural facts of life” are massive facts of the member’s daily existence both as a real world and as the product of activities in a real world. They furnish the “fix”, the “this is it” to which the waking state returns one, and are the points of departure and return for every modification of the world of daily life that is achieved in play, dreaming, trance, th