The Zennist

Throwing a shoe

I came across this passage the other day which I wish to comment on.  It is from D.T. Suzuki's book, Essays in Zen Buddhism.  As the reader may soon learn, I plan to get wordy (but I promise I won't give Joshu's secret away).

"To cite another instance before going further into the subject proper.  The same old Jôshu was asked another time, 'One light divides itself into hundreds of thousands of lights; may I ask where this one light originates?'  This question like the last mentioned is one of the deepest and most baffling problem of philosophy.  But the old master did not waste much time in answering the question, nor did he resort to any wordy discussion.  He simply threw off one of his shoes without a remark.  What did he mean by it?"

First let me say, that we encounter the enigmatic almost always in any treatment of Zen Buddhist literature.  The reason why this happens is because for a Zen master like Joshu the radiant, animative power of Mind, that is the "light", is not hidden from him.  He has come into communion with it it—which I hasten to add is also the Buddha.  Joshu's light animates Joshu.  Joshu knows this.  This is Joshu's wisdom or sapience.  

Any student who, after a long journey, comes to abbot Joshu’s temple seeking the essence of Zen is pretty much clueless, otherwise why would he travel so far?  He is not wise but is engaged, nevertheless, in seeking wisdom.

Let's now try to put our mind in Joshu's big Mind.  When the student asks his question, Joshu fully understands the originary power of the light.  But if the student is to receive the correct enlightening answer, he needs to be baptized by this light which obviously he isn’t.  So when Joshu gives the student the correct, enlightening answer, he misses it altogether.

The enlightening answer is, in fact, Joshu throwing off one of his shoes. To be sure, Joshu’s act is illustrative of the light’s power.  But since the student is wholly identified with his temporal body he doesn’t get Joshu’s timely and correct answer to his question (and probably Suzuki didn’t get it either).  He draws a blank from seeing Joshu’s unexpected antic.

Despite Joshu’s own profound wisdom—even he couldn’t get this dull fellow to see the obvious.  And why?  Because this student is, by desire, fixated on the animate, viz., the physical body and its representational mental system.  The student believes that the body, itself, is capable of realizing what made Joshu throw his shoe.  Or worse still, he believes he can capture it with a net of words.

My history lesson

When interpreted retrospectively, the history of Buddhism is not so much about Buddhism as if we were looking at some archeological dig.  It is more about the interpretation of words and discourses.  I should back up and say that this is the case with all religions.  They don’t provide us with archeological artifacts like pottery shards.  The present us with linguistic artifacts such as words that appear on stone or clay, or on some form of paper or palm-leaf.  It is the words that have to be examined asking, “What do they mean?”

So the history of Buddhism is mainly about the meaning of certain words and what they imply for the one translating them who may or may not be in sympathy with Buddhism, itself.

Given this, when I first began my study of the history of Zen Buddhism it was through the works of D.T. Suzuki, a noted Japanese Buddhist scholar.  His interpretation of Zen Buddhism was satisfying, at least at the time.  Moreover, his translations were above average for the time.  But, overall, I learned from Suzuki’s historical representation of Zen Buddhism and Mahayana Buddhism that the Buddha’s words and those of the great Zen masters were always alluding to something beyond the pale of ordinary human perception.  To be sure, this is not something an historical treatment of Buddhism can present as if it were an objective fact like a document.  It can only be alluded to because the subject is indefinite, although not unrecognizable in satori.  

However, to be fair, a Buddhist historian can treat Buddhism in a very spiritual way so as to present a history of Buddhism as a method by which individuals awaken to the living, eternal spirit within them.  But such a history can never present us with the living spirit itself.  Pages of words cannot do this.  They may excite us and this is all well and good.  

But also a Buddhist historian, by contrast, can lead us away from a spiritual interpretation of Buddhism presenting Buddhism as the history of religious nihilism that teaches us that all we do in this life is finite and ultimately worthless and empty; that accepting this, nevertheless, gives us some measure of peace before we die.  Observe also, that this seems to be the road modern history wants Buddhism to walk down—although it might be strongly denied by those scholars who harbor this viewpoint.

What is of interest to underscore, is that much of the history of Zen Buddhism and for that matter Buddhism, in general, which consists mainly of discourses, not only alludes to something mysterious beyond the pale of human thought, for example, nirvana, but also informs us that we must realize it in this lifetime; that without a proper realization of it we are little more than practitioners of “wild fox Zen” in which the bulk of our human will and intelligence is directed to various degrees of logomachy.

Thankfully, Zen Buddhism’s history offers very little room in which to engage in logomachy which, offhand, is refreshing in this day and age.  Perhaps this is why I found the history of Zen Buddhism so interesting whereas this is not always the case with Buddhism found in the Nikayas which is mainly studied by Theravadins (i.e., the elders).  The latter, in my opinion, tend to value dogma over the satorical acquisition of what the Buddha realized under the Bodhi-tree while placing, at the same time, a huge emphasis on the monastic life although living the life of a monk or a nun was never a prerequisite for the realization of nirvana or being an Arhat according to the Buddha. 

A higher authority

Buddhism is based on introspective authority which is something extrasensory; which begins when we no longer are confused by the Five Aggregates (skandha), believing them to be ourself.  In the words of the Buddha, we realize that physical shape (rupa) is like foam and not ourself.  Feeling or sensation (vedana) is like a bubble which also is not who we are.  Concepts (samjña) are like a mirage and not the self.  Experience (samskara) is like a plantain tree which has no core.  It cannot be who we really are.  And sensory consciousness (vijñana) is like a magician’s creation which is not our innermost self.

In a state of confusion, we lived under the spell of the magician’s creation which is sensory consciousness.  This is what we identified with as being our true nature or who we are.  By it, the internal and external world comprised by the rest of the aggregates (skandha) seemed all too real for us.  Even the tools we had available for existing in this spell-made world are also like magical creations—yet, of no real value for breaking the spell.

The Buddha takes this up with Mahamati in the Lankavatara Sutra under the notion of “maya” which is an illusory creation.

“Said the Blessed One:  It is not, Mahamati, that all things are Maya because they are both alike in being imagined and clung to as having multitudinousness of individual signs, but that all things are like Maya because they are unreal and like a lightning-flash which is seen as quickly disappearing” (trans. Suzuki).

Important to underscore, maya is also a power.  Such power causes us to see illusion as being true reality so that it is difficult for us to let go of the illusion.

To realize the fullness of introspective authority, like the Buddha, means to have disengaged from illusion.  It also mean to be disengaged from the sensory world in the sense of being able to apperceive the spiritual substance from which the Five Aggregates are made.  Indeed, this who we really are which has nothing to do with aggregation (skandha). 

The ineffable ache

An ineffable ache or sadness lies below the surface of most people’s lives which constantly needs to be covered up by using what popular religion or pop culture offer.  To be sure, neither popular religion nor pop culture are the cause of this ineffable ache; nor can they really help us.  Both religion and pop culture offer a kind of cornucopia of distractions.  They help treat the symptoms, so to speak, ignoring the cause.

But if one were to retire to the woods and try to live alone for a couple of months, limiting all worldly distractions, the ineffable ache would be much easier to see, provided that one goes with it in order to see where it leads.  This ache, in itself, is not unlike an unwelcome guide who leads us through our own underworld.  But as we become more familiar with this guide, it turns out that this ache is the disparity between our unrealized spiritual nature (i.e., our Buddha-nature) and the brute factuality of our temporal bodies that have a short life span.  This disparity further wants us to resolve the problem—not just run from it.  The message to us is stop distracting yourself and get on with the business of seeing the spiritual nature which is immortal and, moreover, is greater than the sum of the body’s anatomical parts.

Yet, even knowing this, it is difficult to let go of our old religious habits or the pop culture world.  In the past, they’ve succeeded in numbing the ache, like toothache medicine.  To a certain extent, we have even gotten used to living with this ineffable ache.  Nor do we wish to be reminded of it although it lies just below the surface of our everyday consciousness.

How Zen training deals with this ineffable ache is quite simple.  It begins by pointing us in the direction of our unrealized spiritual nature.  It is as if the guide, mentioned earlier, has shown us the perils of non-realization and then lifting his arm, points in an other direction, then suddenly disappears.  It is now up to us to walk in this new territory, alone, and decipher the amazing sights we behold which give us a clue as to where our Buddha-nature really resides.

Admittedly, not many will take such a path who may really want to know their Buddha-nature but haven’t the courage to stop their reliance on popular religion or the mind-numbing pleasures of pop culture.  There is almost a superstitious fear that keeps people connected with popular religion and especially the belief in God.  Turning to pop culture, its addiction is supported by the fear of alienation:  that if one drifts away from the herd, the ineffable ache will destroy them!

This certainly bespeaks to a kind of phobia most people seem to have.  They’re over-exaggerating their ongoing fear of this ineffable ache when it is really their ally trying to summon them so it can guide them to where their real journey begins which is wholly spiritual. 

The book transmission

Hui-neng, the Sixth Patriarch, did not actually appoint a successor before he died but made, instead, The Platform Sutra the authority of Zen which was his creation.  Citing from Yampolsky’s translation, The Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch, before his death Hui-neng says the following to his ten disciples: 

"You ten disciples, when later you transmit the Dharma, hand down the teaching of the one roll of the Platform Sutra; then you will not lose the basic teaching.  Those who do not receive the Platform Sutra do not have the essentials of my teaching.  As of now you have received them; hand them down and spread them among later generations.  If others are able to encounter the Platform Sutra, it will be as if they received the teaching personally from me" (p. 173). 

Hui-neng's Sutra, thus, served as a kind of certificate of transmission.  In section 38 of the Sutra, Hui-neng says that, “Unless a person has received the Platform Sutra, he has not received the sanction.”  He then goes on to stipulate that the “place, date, and the name of the recipient must be made known, and these are attached to it [i.e., the Platform Sutra] when it is transmitted.” 

Does the aforementioned add problems to the so-called Zen transmission history?  There is every reason to believe that it does.  To be sure, the Fifth Patriarch of Zen, Hung-jen, had a different method of transmission than Hui-neng.  Hung-jen emphasized the “Mind-to-Mind” transmission (i-hsin ch’uan-hsin).  In such a transmission, one awakened to the truth, directly, without recourse to any kind of scripture.  In the extant records, there is no evidence that Fifth Patriarch Hung-jen transmitted a special Sutra to Hui-neng.  Even to this day the Platform Sutra is not treated in high regard in modern circles of Zen.  It only achieved this special place briefly through Hui-neng, the Sixth Patriarch.  

On the other hand, the history of Zen teaches us that before Hui-neng the transmission was different. What was of great importance was awakening to the pristine nature of Mind, itself.  This alone is the imprimatur—not a text.  After one's spiritual sleep is ended by the direct acquaintance with the animative power of Mind there is no need to depend on anything except pure Mind.  Mind is self-sufficient, in other words.  Its journey has been from ignorance to enlightenment, finally validating itself. 

A new religion

If someone were to ask me is there a new religion on the horizon that makes much more sense than believing in God? I would have to say yes, there is.  It lies embedded in Buddhism.  It is almost implicit in everything the Buddha teaches, especially in Mahayana Buddhism.  Not less striking, such a religion teaches us how to directly apperceive the undying medium of spirit.  

The medium of spirit is what Gautama the Buddha’s enlightenment recovered that had been lost for many centuries to human consciousness.  Gautama then taught it as a matter of great importance, namely, we should comprehend “that” which animates corporeal entities.  From this, it is not surprising that he called himself, Tathagata, which means, one who has coalesced with thatness.

What made Gautama’s teaching so appealing for the average person is that anyone could directly partake of this primary spiritual medium—setting aside beliefs by relying, instead, on the immediate acquaintance with thatness or spirit that ties perfectly with reason and common sense.  

Of those who might argue in favor of theology against Gautama’s religious awakening do so from a very paradoxical standpoint which has been brought forward many times by philosophers, both ancient and modern.  Most arguments showing the paradoxical nature of God can be summed up by the words of Epicurus.

"Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?  Then he is not omnipotent.  Is he able, but not willing?  Then he is malevolent.  Is he both able and willing?  Then whence evil?"

Gautama, himself, summed up the question of God succinctly by pointing out that if creatures are created by God, they should be similar to God since they are his offspring.  The paradox here, of course, is that if God is so perfect and mighty, why are his offspring so imperfect and weak?  Obviously, the human invention of God doesn’t explain man’s suffering and how he can escape from it.

Switching back to Buddhism, it is by turing to the medium of spirit, itself, that makes our hands and feet move, according to Bodhidharma, that we eventually come to know the way the world really is thereby liberating ourselves from suffering.

Rebirth

Punarbhava or rebirth really suggests the constant conversion of the one into bhava or continuous existential diversity which we, as human beings, experience as ‘birth and death’.  To understand this more fully, it is important to keep in mind that the universe is constituted of one medium which is capable of infinite self-modification or the same, infinite diversification.  For those undergoing rebirth, this conversion process is both mysterious and perplexing since the one medium leaves no trace of its unmodified nature in the process of diversifying itself. 

Understanding the gravity of the conversion process, when we look at our own thoughts together with the emotional and bodily impressions that confront us there is not the slightest trace of the unmodified nature of this medium (which is pure Mind or cittamatra).  In fact, to seek it is still a conversion process in which the one medium undergoes modification losing its identity.  Even what we call “awareness” is just the immediacy of this conversion process, that is, the immediacy of rebirth.

If we are not thoroughly confused by this, sensing also the hopelessness of attaining enlightenment, we are not alone.  This is where the Buddha comes into the picture who found a way out of rebirth (punarbhava).

What the Buddha discovered is something akin to the negation of negation or put into the context under discussion, the Buddha found a way to convert the modified medium of mind back to pure Mind with its power and truth.  This is why the Buddha is to be revered as a great religious genius who found the way out of punarbhava.

In broad strokes, the Buddha did this by way of dhyana (J., zen-na) in which mind, as the modified medium, is transcended.  In so many words, in dhyana the turbidity of modified mind ceases, bringing forth pure Mind’s illuminating power, directly.  Worth adding, in Zen, this is the idea of the “Mind to Mind transmission”.

Perhaps “rebirth” is not an accurate translation of punarbhava.  However, it is important to realize that no living being (sattva) escapes becoming something else, that is, becoming another being who will exist again after the termination of this life.  Those who fully escape punarbhava are those who have complete mastery of the medium from which all things have the origin; who are never lost in the endless modifications of the one medium. 

The desire to know itself

Desire is borne by the unenlightened mind which does not recognize itself.  This mind is not the same Mind that recognizes itself, which is Buddha.  Desire, on the part of the unenlightened mind, is a spiritual thirst that strives to know itself so that it might unburden itself and come to rest or coolness.  Given this condition, the fact that this mind does not know itself is its suffering.

Desire, in this sense, is not some evil but the natural condition of mind’s non-knowledge of itself.  Desire, therefore, as strange as it sounds, is mind’s drive to know itself fully as Buddha.  But the knowledge that arises from mind’s desire to know itself is always more or less incomplete.  On the same track, we can say that as mind approaches itself, that is, enters its own territory, desire is much less.  On the other hand, as mind strays from itself, desire is much more.  

In ordinary desire, mind strays from itself so that desire is never quenched and seems, in fact, to grow.  After one’s desires are seemingly fulfilled in the example of sexuality, they rise again.  It is the same with the accumulation of wealth.  The wealthy person is never satisfied—nor either is the glutton.  Of desire’s increase, we can say that mind has hypothesized itself incorrectly—it sees its imperfectly.  What it perceives as itself is not itself.  In other words, the object of desire that it believes will quench its desire does nothing of the sort—desire only increases.  Suffering, as a result of mind’s inability to know itself, continues unabated.

Just too lazy

There is not much point in explaining the Buddha’s teaching to someone who leaves their front door open in the summer; who then complains about the flies in his house—and won’t clean out the barn which is full of cow manure.  This guy doesn’t want to screen his porch or clean out his barn.  This guy is looking for a panacea, that is, a cure-all whereby he won’t have to labor very much.

In the world of religion there are plenty of people like this.  They, too, are looking for a panacea in order to avoid the hard labor of repairing their being so it can withstand the vicissitudes of life and attain some measure of confidence that they are more than the sum of their anatomy.  This panacea is the belief in a merciful god or a savior who will save them the labor of reforming themselves.  Like the guy mentioned earlier who leaves his door open then complains about the flies, those who believe in god or a savior are lazy.  They complain that they have too many other important things to do.  In this regard, it is much easier for them to turn their lives over to some preacher or priest—or believe in some ridiculous tale of a second coming (e.g., Maitreya or Jesus).

The avoidance of spiritual labor, that is, the indifference to the reformation of one’s being, is something people, in general, find easy to do.  Rationalizations are easy to come by.  Such people are still infatuated with the ordinary world.  They still believe that its reality is the true one.  This is why they cling tenaciously to their possessions, friends and family.  

It hasn’t dawned on these people that the animative principle of their body, which the Buddha uncovered, is the only true panacea.  It, so to speak, is god, or the savior that will deliver beings from their misery— but only if they turn to this animative principle.  In the example of the guy who leaves his front door open; who will not clean out the manure in his barn which is a breeding ground of flies, the savior is a fountain of enthusiasm that finds him one day screening his front porch and cleaning out the barn.  

This savior (i.e., the animative principle) comes from within which leads us to fundamentally change our relationship with the outside world.  By being more and more in accord with it we come to see the intrinsic harmony and goodness of the universe.  On the same note, we realize that suffering has a cause—it just doesn’t come out of the blue by accident. 

Words, paper and brush

Around the T’ang dynasty (618–906), generally speaking, three qualities were required to become a noteworthy Buddhist monk of high recognition.  First, one had to be extremely pious, strictly following the Vinaya (discipline) observing all of the monastic regula.  Secondly, one had to have memorized a great number of Buddhist Sutras and Shastras (treatises).  Then lastly, one had to be able to understand and lecture on the Sutras demonstrating their ability to clarify difficult subjects.  

While on the surface it is difficult to fault such a system, Zen proved to be skeptical of it although Zen masters were, themselves, also monk-scholars.  

With the rise of Zen realization (siddhanta) in China, which had no primary interest in “words, paper, and brush”, a tension began to develop and grow between Buddhist monks who were chiefly committed to literary practices, and those who were committed to mysticism seeking to comprehend the so-called "dark principle".  This principle was none other than the personal experience of Mind as a pure animative power and intelligence—hence, the idea of the "Mind—to—Mind transmission" of Zen. 

Zen realization understood that a literary understanding of Buddhism through the Sutras and the commentarial literature was insufficient to trigger illumination (bodhi).  More was required of the monk.  He or she had to walk a transcendent path which led to a kind of Buddhist baptism or anointing (abhisheka).  By this, one became truly a disciple of the Buddha who was then fit, as a genuine Bodhisattva, to become a Buddha.