Another time, “Lo, and behold! No life’s left!” So saying, he acted as if he were falling. Then he asked, “Do you understand? If not, ask this staff to enlighten you.”
As soon as Yōgi (Yang-ch‘ih),[7.45] a great master of the eleventh century under the Sung dynasty, got seated in his chair, he laughed loudly, “Ha, Ha, Ha!” and said, “What is this? Go back to your dormitory hall and each have a cup of tea.”
One day Yōgi ascended the seat, and the monks were all assembled. The master, before uttering a word, threw his staff away and came right down jumping from the chair. The monks were about to disperse, when he called out, “O monks!” The latter turned back, whereupon said the master, “Take my staff in, O monks!” This said, the master went off.
Yakusan (Yüeh-shan, 751–834)[7.46] gave no sermons for some little time and the chief secretary came up to him asking for one. The master said, “Beat the drum then.” As soon as the congregation was ready to listen to him, he went back to his own room. The secretary followed him and said, “You gave consent to give them a sermon, and how is it that you uttered not a word?” Said the master, “The Sutras are explained by the Sutra specialists, and the Śastras by the Śastra specialists; why then do you wonder at me? [Am I not a Zen master?].”
One day Goso (Fa-yen)[7.47] entered the Hall and seated himself in the chair. He looked one way over the shoulder and then the other. Finally he held out his staff high in his hand and said, “Only one foot long!” And without a further comment he descended.
The foregoing selections from Ummon and Jōshu and others will be sufficient to acquaint the reader with what kind of sermons have been carried on in the monastery for the intellectual or super-intellectual consumption of the monks. They are generally short. The masters do not waste much time in explaining Zen, not only because it is beyond the ken of human discursive understanding, but because such explanations are not productive of any practical and lasting benefits for the spiritual edification of the monks. The masters’ remarks are therefore necessarily laconic; sometimes they do not even attempt to make any wordy discussion or statement, but just raising the staff, or shaking the hossu, or uttering a cry, or reciting a verse, is all that the congregation gets from the master. Some, however, seem to have their own favourite way of demonstrating the truth of Zen; for instance, Rinzai is famous for his “Kwatsu” (hê in Chinese), Tokusan for his flourishing staff, Gutei for his lifting up a finger, Hima for a bifurcate stick, Kwasan for beating a drum, and so on.[f158] It is wonderful to observe what a variety of methods have sprung up, so extraordinary, so ingenious, and so original, and all in order to make the monks realise the same truth, whose infinite aspects as manifested in the world may be comprehended by various individuals, each according to his own capacity and opportunity.
Taking it all in all, Zen is emphatically a matter of personal experience; if anything can be called radically empirical, it is Zen. No amount of reading, no amount of teaching, and no amount of contemplation will even make one a Zen master. Life itself must be grasped in the midst of its flow, to stop it for examination and analysis is to kill it leaving its cold corpse to be embraced. Therefore, everything in the Meditation Hall and every detail of its disciplinary curriculum is so arranged as to bring this idea into the most efficient prominence. The unique position maintained by the Zen sect among other Mahayana schools in Japan and China throughout the history of Buddhism in the Far East is no doubt due to the institution known as the Meditation Hall or Zendo.
THE TEN COW-HERDING PICTURES
THE TEN COW-HERDING PICTURES