Essays in Zen Buddhism · 31 of 66

History of Zen: Bodhi-dharma to Hui-neng, Part 7

Hui-nêng (637–713) came from Hsin-chou in the southern parts of China. His father died when he was yet young. He supported his mother by selling wood in town. When one day he came out of a house where he sold some fuel, he heard a man reciting a Buddhist Sutra. The words deeply touched his heart. Finding what Sutra it was and where it was possible to get it, a longing came over him to study it with the master. The Sutra was the Diamond Sutra (Vajracchedikā-sūtra) and the master was the fifth patriarch residing at Yellow Plum in Chin-chou. Hui-nêng somehow managed to get money enough for the support of his aged mother while he was gone.

It took him about a month to reach Yellow Plum where he at once proceeded to see Hung-jên at the head of five hundred monks (sometimes said to be seven or even ten hundred). At the first interview asked the patriarch,

“Where do you come from? and what do you want here?”

“I am a farmer from Hsin-chou and wish to become a Buddha.”

“So you are a southerner,” said the patriarch, “but the southerners have no Buddha-nature; how could you expect to attain Buddhahood?”

This however did not discourage the bold seeker after the truth, for he at once responded: “There may be southerners and northerners, but as far as Buddha-nature goes, how could you make such a distinction in it?”

This pleased the master very much. Hui-nêng was given an office as rice-pounder for the Brotherhood. More than eight months, it is said, he was employed in this menial labour, when the fifth patriarch wished to select his spiritual successor among his many disciples. One day he made an announcement that any one who could prove his thorough comprehension of the religion would be given the patriarchal mantle and proclaimed as his legitimate heir. Shên-hsiu (died 706) who was the most learned of all the disciples and thoroughly versed in the lore of his religion, and who was therefore considered by his brethren in the faith to be in possession of an unqualified right to the honour, composed a stanza expressing his view, and posted it on the outside wall of the meditation hall, which read:

“This body is the Bodhi-tree, The soul is like a mirror bright; Take heed to keep it always clean, And let not dust collect on it.”

All those who read these lines were greatly impressed, and secretly cherished the idea that the author of this gatha would surely be awarded the prize. But when they awoke the next morning, they were surprised to see another written alongside of it, which ran as follows:

“The Bodhi is not like the tree, The mirror bright is nowhere shining; As there is nothing from the first, Where can the dust itself collect?”

The writer of these lines was an insignificant layman in the service of the monastery, who spent most of his time in pounding rice and splitting wood for the Brotherhood. He had such an unassuming air that nobody ever thought much of him, and therefore the entire community was now set astir to see this challenge made upon its recognised authority. But the fifth patriarch saw in this unpretentious monk a future leader of mankind, and decided to transfer to him the robe of his office. He had, however, some misgivings concerning the matter; for the majority of his disciples were not enlightened enough to see anything of deep religious intuition in the lines by the rice-pounder, Hui-nêng: and if he were publicly awarded the honour they might do him harm. So the fifth patriarch gave a secret sign to Hui-nêng to come to his room at midnight, when the rest of the Brotherhood was fast asleep. Then he gave him the robe as insignia of his authority and in acknowledgment of his unsurpassed spiritual attainment and with the assurance that the future of their faith would be brighter than ever. The patriarch then advised him that it would be wise for him to hide his own light under a bushel until the proper time arrived for his public appearance and active propaganda, and also that the robe which was handed down from Bodhi-Dharma as the sign of faith should no more be given up to Hui-nêng’s successors, because Zen was now fully recognised by the outside world in general and there was no more necessity to symbolise the faith by the transference of the robe. That night Hui-nêng left the monastery.

This narrative is taken from the literature left by the followers of the sixth patriarch and is naturally partial in his favour. If we had another record left by Shên-hsiu and his school, the account here reproduced may materially differ. In fact, we have at least one document telling Shên-hsiu’s relation to Hung-jên. It is the memorial inscription on his grave-stone written by Chang-shuo, one of his lay-disciples. In this inscription Shên-hsiu is referred to as the one to whom the Dharma has been transmitted from his master, Hung-jên. Judging from this, the patriarchal authority of Hui-nêng was not an undisputed one at the time, or the orthodox order of succession was not settled until some time later when the school of Hui-nêng had been well established in authority over all the other schools of Zen that might have been existing then. Unfortunately, this memorial inscription does not give any further information concerning Hui-nêng’s relation to Hung-jên, but even from the above narrative we can gather certain facts of importance which will shed light on the history of Zen.

First, what necessity was there to make Hui-nêng an unlearned rustic in contrast with the erudition and wide information ascribed to Shên-hsiu? Or was Hui-nêng really such an ignoramus as could not read any thing written? But the Fa-pao-t‘an-ching, a collection of his sermons, contains passages quoted from such Sutras as the Nirvāna, Vajracchedikā, Laṅkāvatāra, Saddharma-puṇḍarika, Vimalakīrti, Amitābha, and Bodhisattva-śīla-sutra. Does this not evince the fact that the author was not altogether unacquainted with Mahayana literature? Probably he was not a learned scholar as compared with Shên-hsiu, but in the narratives of his life we can trace some systematic effort to make him more unlettered than he actually was. What, let me ask, do we read in this attempt at the hand of the editors? In my opinion, this emphasising of the contrast between the two most eminent disciples of the fifth patriarch was at the same time the emphasising of the real character of Zen as independent of learning and intellectuality. If Zen is, as its followers claim, a “special transmission outside the scriptural teaching,” the understanding of it must be possible even for the unlettered and unphilosophising. The greatness of Hui-nêng as Zen master is all the more enhanced. This was in all likelihood the reason why the sixth patriarch was unreasonably and sometimes even dramatically made unlettered.

Secondly, why was not the patriarchal robe transferred beyond Hui-nêng? If Hung-jên advised him to keep it with him, what does the advice really imply? That the life of the possessor of the robe would be threatened, points to the fact that there was a dispute among the disciples of Hung-jên. Did they regard the robe as the symbol of patriarchal authority? But what advantages, material or spiritual, accrued from the ownership of it? Did the teaching of Bodhi-Dharma come now to be believed as the genuine transmission of the Buddha? And for that reason did the robe really cease to signify anything relative to the truth of Zen? If so, when Bodhi-Dharma first declared his special mission as teacher of Zen, was he looked upon as a heretic and persecuted accordingly? The legend that he was poisoned by his rival teachers from India seems to corroborate this. At all events, the question of the robe is deeply connected with the status of Zen teaching among the various schools of Buddhism at the time, and also with its firmer hold on the popular minds than ever before.

Thirdly, the secrecy observed in all the transactions between Hung-jên and Hui-nêng concerning the transmission of the Dharma naturally arrests our attention. To raise the rice-pounder who is not even an ordained monk to the rank of a patriarch, though only in name, to succeed a great master who stands at the head of several hundred disciples, seems to be a real cause for envy and jealousy and even for hatred. But if one were really enlightened enough to take charge of the important position of spiritual leadership, could not a combined effort of master and pupil withstand all the opposition? Perhaps, even enlightenment could not stand against human passions so irrational and elemental. I cannot however help imagining an attempt on the part of the biographers of Hui-nêng at the dramatisation of the whole scene. I am very likely mistaken, and there might have been some historical conditions of which we are now ignorant due to the lack of documents.

Three days after the flight of Hui-nêng from the Yellow-plum mountains, the news of what had happened in secret became noised abroad throughout the monastery, and a party of indignant monks headed by one named Ming, pursued the fugitive, Hui-nêng, who, in accordance with his master’s instructions, was silently leaving the Brotherhood. When he was overtaken by the pursuers while crossing a mountain-pass far from the monastery, he laid down his robe on a rock near by, and said to the monk, Ming: “This robe symbolises our patriarchal faith and is not to be carried away by force. Take this along with thee, however, if thou so desirest.”

Ming tried to lift it but it was as heavy as a mountain. He halted, hesitated, and trembled with awe. At last, he said, “I come here to obtain the faith and not the robe. O my brother monk, pray dispel my ignorance.”

Said the sixth patriarch, “If thou comest for the faith, stop all thy hankerings. Think not of good, think not of evil, but see what at this moment thy own original face doth look like, which thou hadst even prior to thy own birth.”

Being thus demanded, Ming at once perceived the fundamental truth of things, which hitherto he had sought in things without. He now understood everything, as if he had taken a cupful of cold water and tasted it to his own satisfaction. Out of the immensity of his feeling, he was literally bathed in tears and perspirations, and most reverently approaching the patriarch he saluted him and asked; “Besides this hidden sense as is embodied in these significant words, is there anything which is secret?”

The patriarch answered, “In what I have shown to thee there is nothing hidden. If thou reflectest within thyself and recognisest thy own face, which was before the world, secrecy is in thyself.”

Whatever historical circumstances surrounded Hui-nêng in those remote days, it is certain that in this statement, “to see one’s own face even before one was born,” we find the first proclamation of the new message which was destined to unroll a long history of Zen and to make Hui-nêng really worthy of the patriarchal robe. We can see here what a new outlook Hui-nêng has succeeded in opening to the traditional Indian Zen. In him we do not recognise anything of Buddhism as far as phraseology goes, which means that he opened up his own way of presenting the truth of Zen after his original and creative experience. Prior to him, the Zen experience had some borrowings, either in wording or in method, to express itself. To say, “You are the Buddha,” or “You and the Buddha are one,” or “The Buddha is living in you,” is too stale, too flat, because too abstract and too conceptual. They contain deep truth but are not concrete nor vivifying enough to rouse our dormant souls from insensibility. They are filled up too much with abstractions and learned phraseology. Hui-nêng’s simple-mindedness not spoiled by learning and philosophising could grasp the truth at first hand. Hence his unusual freshness in the way he handled the problem. We may come to this again later.