5. Factors Determining the Zen Experience

From the above examples chosen rather at random from the earlier history of Zen in China, I wish to observe the following main facts concerning the Zen experience: (1) There is a preliminary intellectual equipment for the maturing of Zen-consciousness; (2) There is a strong desire to transcend oneself, by which is meant that the true student of Zen must aspire to go beyond all the limitations that are imposed upon him as an individual being; (3) A master's guiding hand is generally found there to open the way for the struggling soul; and (4) A final upheaval takes place from an unknown region, which goes under the name of 'satori'.

1. That the content of the Zen experience is largely intellectual is easily recognizable, and also that it shows a decided non-theistic or pantheistic tendency, if the theological terms, though with a great deal of reservation, are at all applicable here. Bodhidharma's demand: 'Bring your own soul and I will have it pacified'; Hui-nêng's, 'Think not of good, nor of evil, and at that very moment what are your original features?'; Nan-yiieh's, 'When it is said to be a somewhat, one altogether misses the mark'; Ma-tsu's, 'I will tell you what, when you drink up in one draught all the water of the Western Lake'—all these utterances are characteristically non-sentimental, 'non-religious', and, if anything, simply highly enigmatical, and to a certain extent intellectual, though of course not in the technical sense. Compared with such Christian expressions as 'the glory of God', 'love of God', 'the Divine Bride', etc., the Zen experience must be judged as singularly devoid of human emotions. There is in it, on the contrary, something that may be termed cold scientific evidence or matter-of-factness. Thus in the Zen consciousness we can almost say that what corresponds to the Christian ardour for a personal God is lacking.

The Zen followers are not apparently concerned with 'trespasses', 'repentance', 'forgiveness', etc. Their mentality is more of a metaphysical type, but their metaphysics consists not of abstractions, logical acuteness, and hairsplitting analysis, but of practical wisdom and concrete sense-facts. And this is where Chinese Zen specifically differs from Indian Mahāyanā Dhyāna. Hui-nêng is generally considered, as was mentioned before, not to be especially scholarly, but his mind must have been metaphysical enough to have grasped the import of the Vajracchedikā, which is brimful of high-sounding metaphysical assertions. When he understood the Prajñāpāramitā sūtra, the highly philosophical truth contained in it was turned into the practical question of 'Your original features even prior to your birth', and then into Ma-tsu's 'drinking up the whole river in one draught', etc.

That Zen masters were invariably students of philosophy in its broadest sense, Buddhist or otherwise, before their attention was directed to Zen, is suggestive. I say here 'Buddhist philosophy' but it is not philosophy in the strict sense of the term, for it is not the result of reasoning; especially such a doctrine as that of Emptiness is not at all the outcome of intellectual reflection, but simply the statement of direct perception in which the mind grasps the true nature of existence without the intermediary of logic. In this way 'sarvadharmānām Śūnyatā:' is declared.

Those who study Buddhism only from its 'metaphysical' side forget that this is no more than deep insight, that it is based on experience, and not the product of abstract analysis. Therefore, when a real truth-seeker studies such sūtras as the Lahkāvatāra or the Vajracchedikā, he cannot lightly pass over those assertions which are made here so audaciously and unconditionally; in fact he is dazzled, taken aback, or becomes frightened. But still there is a certain power in them which attracts him in spite of himself. He begins to think about them, he desires to come in direct touch with the truth itself, so that he knows that he has seen the fact with his own eyes. Ordinary books of philosophy do not lead one to this intuition because they are no more than philosophy; whatever truth philosophy teaches is exhausted within itself, and fails to open up a new vista for the student. But in the study of Buddhist sūtras which contain the utterances of the deepest religious minds, one is inwardly drawn into the deeper recesses of consciousness; and finally one becomes convinced that those utterances really touch the ground of Reality.

What one thinks or reads is always qualified by the preposition 'of', or 'about', and does not give us the thing itself. Not mere talk about water, nor the mere sight of a spring, but an actual mouthful of it gives the thirsty complete satisfaction. But a first acquaintance with the sūtras is needed to see the way pointed and know where to look for the thing itself. Without this pointing we may be at a loss how and where to concentrate our efforts. Therefore say the sūtras, 'I am both the director [or leader] and the truth itself.'

We can thus see that the antecedent that leads to the Zen experience is not adoration, obedience, fear, love, faith, penitence, or anything that usually characterizes a good Christian soul; but it is a search for something that will give mental peace and harmony by overruling contradictions and joining tangled threads into one continuous line. Every Zen aspirant feels this constant and intense seeking for mental peace and wholeness. He generally manages to have an intellectual understanding of some sort concerning himself and the world, but this invariably fails to satisfy him thoroughly, and he feels an urge to go on deeper so that the solid ground of Reality is finally reached.

Tê-shan, for example, was content with a conceptual grasp of the doctrine of Emptiness while he was studying the Prajñāpāramitā, but when he heard of the southern teaching his peace was disturbed. His apparent motive for going down to the South was to smash the heretical Zen, but he must have felt all the time a hidden sense of uneasiness in his deeper consciousness though he was apparently determined to suppress the feeling by his reasoning. He failed in this, for the thing which he wished to suppress suddenly raised its head, perhaps to his great discomfort, when he was challenged by the woman-keeper of the teahouse. Finally, at Lung-t'an the blowing-out of a lighted candle placed him where he was to be from the very beginning. Consciously, he never had any idea as to this final outcome, for nothing could be planned out in this matter of Zen experience. After this, that is, after the attainment of Zen intuition, the swinging of a staff was thought by him to be the only necessary thing in directing his followers to the experience of Zen.

He never prayed, he never asked for the forgiveness of his sins, he never practised anything that popularly goes under the name of religious deeds;¹ for the bowing to the Buddha,² the offering of incense, the reading of the sūtras, and saying the Nembutsu³ —these were practised just because they had been practised by all the Buddhas, and manifestly for no other reason. This attitude of the Zen master is evidenced by the remarks of Huang-po⁴ when he was asked as to the reason of these pious acts.

2. This intense seeking⁵ is the driving force of Zen consciousness. 'Ask and it shall be given you; seek and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened unto you.' This is also the practical instruction leading up to the Zen experience. But as this asking or seeking is altogether subjective and the biographical records of Zen do not give much information in this regard, especially in the earlier periods of Zen history, its importance is to be inferred from various circumstances connected with the experience. The presence and intensity of this seeking or inquiring spirit was visible in Hui-k'ê when he was said to have stood for some time in the snow; so great was his desire to learn the truth of Zen. The biographers of Hui-nêng emphasize his lack of learning, make much of his poem on 'Emptiness', and neglect to depict his inner life during the months he was engaged in cleaning rice. His long and hazardous travelling from the south to the monastery where Hung-jên resided must have been a great undertaking in those days, the more so when we know that he was only a poor farmer's boy. His reading of the Vajracchedikā, or his listening to it as recorded in his biography, must have stirred up a very strong desire to know really what it all meant. Otherwise, he would not have dared such a venturesome journey; and thus, while working in the granary his mind must have been in a great state of spiritual excitement, being most intensely engaged in the search for truth.

In the case of Lin-chi, he did not even know what to ask of the master. If he had known, things would have gone probably much easier with him. He knew that there was something wrong with him, for he felt dissatisfied with himself; he was searching for some unknown reality, he knew not what. If he could define it, this meant that he had already come to its solution. His mind was just one great question-mark with no special object; as his mind was, so was the universe; just the mark, and nowhere to affix it, as there was yet nothing definite anywhere.

This groping in the dark must have lasted for some time in a most desperate manner. It was indeed this very state of mind that made him ignorant as to what specific question he might place before his master. He was not in this respect like Hui-nêng who already had a definite proposition to solve, even before he came to Hung-jên; for his problem had been the understanding of the Vajracchedikā. Hui-nêng's mind was perhaps the simpler and broader, while Lin-chi like Hui-k'ê was already too intellectually 'tainted', as it were; and all they felt was a general uneasiness of mind, as they knew not how to cut asunder all the entanglements which were made worse by their very learning. When the head-monk told Lin-chi to ask the master about 'the fundamental principle of Buddhism', it was a great help indeed, for now he had something definite to take hold of. His general mental uneasiness was brought to an acute point, especially when he was repulsed with 'thirty blows'. The fruit of his mental seeking was maturing and ready to fall on the ground.

The final shaking—quite a severe one, it must be admitted—was given by Huang-po. Between this shaking and the final fall under Tai-yü, Lin-chi's question-mark pointed to one concrete fact where all his three years of accumulated efforts were most intensely concentrated. Without this concentration he could not have exclaimed, 'There is not much after all in the Buddhism of Huang-po!'

It may not be inopportune to say a few words concerning auto-suggestion with which the Zen experience is often confused. In auto-suggestion there is no intellectual antecedent, nor is there any intense seeking for something, accompanied by an acute feeling of uneasiness. In autosuggestion a definite proposition is given to the subject, which is accepted by him unquestioningly and wholeheartedly. He has a certain practical result in view, which he desires to produce in himself by accepting the proposition. Everything is here from the first determined, prescribed, and suggested.

In Zen there is an intellectual quest for ultimate truth which the intellect fails to satisfy; the subject is urged to dive deeper under the waves of the empirical consciousness. This diving is beset with difficulties because he does not know how and where to dive. He is at a complete loss as to how to get along, until suddenly he somehow hits a spot that opens up a new field of vision. This mental impasse, accompanied by a steady, untiring, and whole-hearted 'knocking', is a most necessary stage leading to the Zen experience. Something of the psychology of auto-suggestion may be working here as far as its mechanical process is concerned, but the entire form into which this psychology is fitted to work is toto caelo different from what is ordinarily understood by that term.

The metaphysical quest which was designated as an intellectual antecedent of Zen consciousness opens up a new course in the life of a Zen student. The quest is attended by an intense feeling of uneasiness, or one can say that the feeling is intellectually interpreted as a quest. Whether the quest is emotionally the sense of unrest, or whether the unrest is intellectually a seeking for something definite—in either case the whole being of the individual is bent on finding something upon which he may peacefully rest. The searching mind is vexed to the extreme as its fruitless strivings go on, but when it is brought up to an apex it breaks or it explodes and the whole structure of consciousness assumes an entirely different aspect. This is the Zen experience. The quest, the search, the ripening, and the explosion—thus proceeds the experience.

This seeking or quest is generally done in the form of meditation which is less intellectual (vipaśyanā) than con-centrative (dhyāna). The sitter sits cross-legged after the Indian fashion as directed in the tract called Tso-ch'an I, 'How to sit and meditate.'

In this position, which is regarded by Indians and Buddhists generally as being the best bodily position to be assumed by the Yogins, the seeker concentrates all his mental energy in the effort to get out of this mental impasse into which he had been led. As the intellect has proved itself unable to achieve this end, the seeker has to call upon another power if he can find one. The intellect knows how to get him into this cul-de-sac, but it is singularly unable to get him out of it.

At first the seeker knows of no way of escape, but get out he must by some means, be they good or bad. He has reached the end of the passage and before him there yawns a dark abyss. There is no light to show him a possible way to cross it, nor is he aware of any way of turning back. He is simply compelled to go ahead. The only thing he can do in this crisis is simply to jump, into life or death. Perhaps it means certain death, but living he feels to be no longer possible. He is desperate, and yet something is still holding him back; he cannot quite give himself up to the unknown.

When he reaches this stage of Dhyāna, all abstract reasoning ceases; for thinker and thought no longer stand contrasted. His whole being, if we may say so, is thought itself. Or perhaps it is better to say that his whole being is 'no-thought' (acitta). We can no longer describe this state of consciousness in terms of logic or psychology. Here begins a new world of personal experiences, which we may designate 'leaping', or 'throwing oneself down the precipice'. The period of incubation has come to an end.

It is to be distinctly understood that this period of incubation, which intervenes between the metaphysical quest and the Zen experience proper, is not one of passive quietness but of intense strenuousness, in which the entire consciousness is concentrated at one point. Until the entire consciousness really gains this point, it keeps up an arduous fight against all intruding ideas. It may not be conscious of the fighting, but an intense seeking, or a steady looking-down into the abysmal darkness, is no less than that. The one-pointed concentration (ekāgra) is realized when the inner mechanism is ripe for the final catastrophe. This takes place, if seen only superficially, by accident, that is, when there is a knocking at the eardrums, or when some words are uttered, or when some unexpected event takes place, that is to say, when a perception of some kind goes on.

We may say that here a perception takes place in its purest and simplest form, where it is not at all tainted by intellectual analysis or conceptual reflection. But an epistemological interpretation of Zen experience does not interest the Zen Yogin, for he is ever intent upon truly understanding the meaning of Buddhist teachings, such as the doctrine of Emptiness or the original purity of the Dharmakāya, and thereby gaining peace of mind.

3. When the intensification of Zen consciousness is going on, the master's guiding hand is found helpful to bring about the final explosion. As in the case of Lin-chi, who did not even know what question to ask of Huang-po, a student of Zen is frequently at a loss what to do with himself. If he is allowed to go on like this, the mental distraction may end disastrously. Or his experience may fail to attain its final goal, since it is liable to stop short before it reaches the stage of the fullest maturity. As frequently happens, the Yogin remains satisfied with an intermediate stage, which from his ignorance he takes for finality. The master is needed not only for encouraging the student to continue his upward steps but to point out to him where his goal lies.

As to the pointing, it is no pointing as far as its intelligibility is considered. Huang-po gave Lin-chi 'thirty blows', Lung-t'an blew out the candle, and Hui-nêng demanded Ming's original form even before he was born. Logically, all these pointers have no sense, they are beyond rational treatment. We can say that the pointers have no earthly use as they do not give us any clue from which we can start our inference. But inasmuch as Zen has nothing to do with ratiocination, the pointing need not be a pointing in its ordinary sense. A slap on the face, a shaking one by the shoulder, or an utterance will most assuredly do the work of pointing when the Zen consciousness has attained a certain stage of maturity.

The maturing on the one hand, therefore, and the pointing on the other must be timely; if the one is not quite matured, or if the other fails to do the pointing, the desired end may never be experienced. When the chick is ready to come out of the egg-shell, the mother hen knows and pecks at it, and lo, there jumps out a second generation of the chicken family.

We can probably state in this connection that this pointing or guiding, together with the preliminary more or less philosophical equipment of the Zen Yogin, determines the content of his Zen consciousness, and that when it is brought up to a state of full maturity it inevitably breaks out as Zen experience. In this case, the experience itself, if we can have it in its purest and most original form, may be said to be something entirely devoid of colourings of any sort, Buddhist or Christian, Taoist or Vedantist. The experience may thus be treated wholly as a psychological event which has nothing to do with philosophy, theology, or any special religious teaching. But the point is whether, if there were no philosophical antecedent or religious aspiration or spiritual unrest, the experience could take place merely as a fact of consciousness.

The psychology, then, cannot be treated independently of philosophy or a definite set of religious teachings. That the Zen experience takes place at all as such, and is formulated finally as a system of Zen intuitions, is principally due to the master's guiding, however enigmatical it may seem; for without it the experience itself is impossible.

This explains why the confirmation of the master is needed regarding the orthodoxy of the Zen experience, and also why the history of Zen places so much stress on the orthodox transmission of it. So we read in the Platform sūtra of Hui-nêng:

'Hsüan-chiao (d. A.D 713)¹ was particularly conversant with the teaching of the T'ien-tai school on tranquillization (śamatha) and contemplation (vipaśyanā). While reading the Vimalakīrti, he attained an insight into the ground of consciousness. Hsüan-t'sé, a disciple of the patriarch, happened to call on him. They talked absorbingly on Buddhism, and Hsüan-t'sé found that Hsüan-chiao's remarks were in complete agreement with those of the Zen Fathers, though Chiao himself was not conscious of it. T'sé asked, "Who is your teacher in the Dharma?" Chia replied: "As regards my understanding of the sūtras of the Vaipulya class I have for each its regularly authorized teacher. Later while studying the Vimalakīrti, by myself I gained an insight into the teaching of the Buddha-mind, but I have nobody yet to confirm my view." T'sé said, "No confirmation is needed prior to Bhishmasvara-rāja,² but after him those who have satori by themselves with no master belong to the naturalistic school of heterodoxy." Chiao asked "Pray you testify." T'sê said, however: "My words do not carry much weight. At T'sao-ch'i the Sixth Patriarch is residing now, and people crowd upon him from all quarters to receive instruction in the Dharma. Let us go over to him"....'¹

4. If the intensified Zen consciousness does not break out into the state of satori, we can say that the intensification has not yet attained its highest point; for when it does there is no other way left to it than to come to the final dénouement known as satori. This fact, as we have already seen, has been specially noticed by Tai-hui as characterizing the Zen experience. For, according to him, there is no Zen where there is no satori. That satori came to be recognized thus as the Zen experience par excellence at the time of Tai-hui and even previously, and that Tai-hui and his school had to uphold it so strongly against some tendencies which grew up among Zen followers and threatened to undermine the life of Zen, prove that the development of the koan exercise was something inevitable in the history of Zen consciousness—so inevitable indeed that if this failed to develop Zen itself would have ceased to exist.

Footnotes

1 When Chao-chou was asked what constituted the deeds to be properly performed by a monk, he said, 'Be detached from the deeds.'

2 A monk came to Chao-chou and said, 'I am going as a pilgrim to the South, and what advice would you be good enough to give?' Said the master, 'If you go south, pass quickly away from where the Buddha is, nor do you stay where there is no Buddha.'

3 A monk asked Ta-kuan of Ghin-shan, 'Do you ever practise the Nembutsu ("reciting the name of the Buddha")?' The master replied, 'No, I never do.' 'Why do you not?' 'For I am afraid of polluting the mouth.'

4 For Yao-shan's remark see elsewhere.

5 This 'seeking' is technically known as kufū in Japanese and kung-fū in Chinese.

1 See First Series, p. 223.

2 Wei-yin-wang. This may be considered to mean 'prior to the dawn of consciousness' or 'the time before any systematic teaching of religion started'.

1 This whole passage does not occur in the Tun-huang MS. It is probable that it was added at a much later date. But this fact does not affect the force of the argument advanced by Hsüan-t'sê.