Zen Masters Of China. Richard Bryan McDaniel
talk of the Buddha, the following case of Joshu [Zhaozhou] is direct and concise and disposes of the matter in a most unequivocal manner. A monk came and asked the master, “How is it when a man brings nothing with him?” “Throw it away!” was Joshu’s immediate response. “What shall he throw down when he is not burdened at all?” “If so, carry it along!”1
In a second example, Suzuki dealt with the question of who or what the Buddha was. This was a question that naturally arose in China as the teaching associated with him struggled to establish itself alongside native traditions such as Confucianism and Daoism. Suzuki’s example from India told of a woman, during the Buddha’s lifetime, who had formed an aversion to him and went out of her way to avoid him. However, no matter in which direction she turned, there he miraculously appeared. Finally, in desperation, she covered her eyes with her hands only to find him in her own mind.
The contrasting Chinese story is one of my favorite Zen tales, one of the tales that first drew me to this tradition. An inquirer asked Yanguan Qian, “Who was the Buddha?”
Yanguan replied by requesting of his visitor, “Would you please pass me that water pitcher.”
The inquirer looked around, saw the pitcher, and passed it to the master. Yanguan poured himself a cup of water and then asked the visitor to replace the pitcher. The visitor did so, then, thinking that perhaps Yanguan had not heard his original question, put it again: “About the Buddha—who was he?”
“Oh, yes,” Yanguan said. “Well, you know, he’s been dead a long time now.”
The contrast between the Indian and Chinese stories does more than demonstrate cultural differences between the two peoples. It emphasizes a difference in perspective. The Indian stories seek to make a point, to convey information. The Chinese stories, even when making a point, do so without trying. The Chinese stories are not about conveying information but about helping one achieve a different way of seeing things, an experience.
That experience has traditionally been associated with the practice of meditation. The terms Chan and Zen are derived from the Sanskrit word dhyana, which means “meditation.” The Zen tradition as it developed in China, Japan, and now in North America is not a doctrine so much as it is, and always has been, a practice. It is the meditation school of Buddhism. And to that extent, it is—as Bodhidharma was supposed to have defined it—a teaching outside the scriptures, not dependent upon words or letters.
Words and letters, on the other hand, can be intriguing, and it is in that spirit that these stories are retold. Collected together as they are here, the stories are little more than the folklore of Zen, but perhaps that folklore will draw those who encounter it to the practice of Zen.
There is no new material in this collection. All the stories collected here have been told in English elsewhere (they can be found, for example, in the books listed in the bibliography). My only contributions—minor ones at that—have been to arrange them in roughly chronological sequence and to present them in a style more in accord with Western narrative traditions than the originals were. Written Chinese is a much more terse language than English, often implying as much as it states. In order to retell the tales in English, I have given myself the storyteller’s prerogative of making minor embellishments.
This is not a work of scholarship, but one academic issue needed to be addressed early in the process of writing. Although Zen originated in China, it comes to North America and Europe as a Japanese tradition. Educated Japanese can read Chinese characters, but they do not pronounce them as the Chinese do. To confuse matters further, the way in which the Chinese pronunciations are rendered into the Roman alphabet has undergone a recent change. The name of the individual who originated the koan that is often first presented to Zen students (the same individual who asked the new monk if he had eaten yet) is written
Because the Japanese and Wade-Giles romanizations are often more familiar to actual practitioners of Zen, my original inclination had been to give all names in their Japanese forms, which would also have allowed consistency throughout the three volumes of stories. On reflection, this seemed inappropriate, and so I follow current usage and give them in the Pinyin form. In the appendix, however, I provide a table in which the names are presented in all three forms.
I have chosen, however, to retain the more familiar Japanese forms for other terms that come from these original languages. So the tradition is called Zen, not Ch’an [Wade-Giles] or Chan [Pinyin]. Where appropriate, I will first introduce a term in Chinese (gongan) followed by the Japanese form (koan), which will then become the usual form in the text.
Finally, Zen is, above all, a practice. These stories may lead one to the practice, as they did me, but on their own they do not provide the necessary instruction. For those readers who are interested in the actual practice of Zen, I recommend either Albert Low’s Zen Meditation: Plain and Simple (originally published as An Invitation to Practice Zen) or Robert Aitkin’s Taking the Path of Zen. Both are admirable for their clarity and brevity.
“Why did the First Patriarch come east?”
Zen Masters
of China
Prologue in India
The story goes that one day the Buddha’s disciples were gathered at the Bamboo Grove to listen to one of his dharma talks. Dharma is a word with several meanings. At times it simply means “phenomenon” or the way things are, the laws governing existence. When used in Buddhist texts, however, it usually refers to the general content of the Buddha’s teachings.
Among the disciples gathered that day was one named Kasyapa. To distinguish him from another disciple with the same name, he came to be known as Mahakasyapa or the “Great Kasyapa.” Mahakasyapa was the son of the richest man in the kingdom of Magadha, located in what is now the northeastern corner of India. His father’s wealth was so great that it exceeded that of the king. But wealth alone does not necessarily bring contentment or security.
Mahakasyapa was drawn to religious life after waking one morning to find a poisonous snake creeping along the bed beside his wife. Mahakasyapa froze in terror, unable to brush the serpent away for fear that if he startled it, it would bite his wife and cause her death. When at last the snake moved off the bed, onto the floor, and out of the bedchamber, Mahakasyapa woke his wife and told her of the danger in which they had been. The two of them were sensitive and reflective individuals, and the incident made them ponder the fragile nature of human life. It became clear to Mahakasyapa that he should look for a teacher who would help him understand the significance of life. So he sought out the Buddha, who accepted him as a pupil.
Those who gathered about the Buddha were referred to as the sangha. They lived collectively, following a strict discipline that included the practice of dhyana, or meditation. Kasyapa adapted to sangha life easily.
On the day in question, the disciples who gathered to listen to the Buddha probably expected him to discuss one of the many themes he returned to time and again—such as the origin of suffering and the path to freedom from suffering, or the chain of causation, or the doctrine of impermanence. However, on this occasion, instead of speaking the Buddha simply sat before the assembled monks and twirled a flower between his fingers. Some disciples shifted in their seats uneasily, some felt impatient, others wondered if there were some hidden significance in the Buddha’s silence; but Mahakasyapa smiled—even though, it is said, he attempted to control his expression because it was, after all, a solemn occasion.
The Buddha noticed that