Chan | |
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Introduction |
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Precursors |
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Sengzhao
The first of these precursors of Chan, Sēngzhào
(僧肇)
(384-416,) was, so it is said, originally a Taoist who upon reading an old
translation of the
Vimalakirti Sutra became an
enthusiastic Buddhist, and eventually
a disciple of Kumarajiva – whom we mentioned in the last lecture as one
of the most productive of the earliest translators and interpreters of
Buddhist documents. In
Xi’an (which was then the capital Chang’an)
Sengzhao assisted his master
in the translation and interpretation of Indian texts but he also began to
make his own contributions. These can be found in his
Book of Zhao (肇论,
Zhao Lun,) a collection of essays, of which three are of primary significance in
preparing the ground for Chan. It is particularly worth noticing
that the arguments made in all three essays might be made in essentially
the same way by a Neotaoist as easily as by a Buddhist.
1.
Objects Do Not Move
(物不迁,
wù bù qiān)
In the essay on mutability and immutability Sengzhao argued the
paradoxical point that there is at once no change and no immutability; or
equivalently, that everything is both changeful and immutable; or even
better that changefulness and immutability are equally vacuous terms
referring to nothing. To make this claim he observes that any entity that
is in the past never becomes an entity in the present because it is always
in the past. Everything is therefore absolutely immutable, frozen in the
instant of its existence (whether present or past.) On the other hand,
since the passage of time must necessarily involve the sequential being
and non-being of all things absolutely, there is nothing but mutability.
By way of a clarifying example he gives us the man who left his village as
a youth and returns as an old monk. We observe here that everything about
the man has changed so he is a different entity, but he is nevertheless
still the same man (called Fanzhi) so he is the same entity, so what is
the same and immutable is also different and mutable. Unfortunately, this
is just the old problem of the preservation of identity through change
that we recognise from such classic examples as the Ship of Theseus, and
rather detracts from than advances the purely conceptual argument that it
is supposed to illustrate.
2.
Unreal Emptiness
(不真空, bù zhēn kōng)
In the essay on Being and Not-being he argues that nothing purely exists
or does not exist; in everything that exists there is the quality of
non-existence and in everything that does not exist there is the quality
of existence. Of everything, whether it exists or not, it may therefore be
said that it both exists and does not exist. His argument is that if
something purely exists and has no quality of non-existence, then it would
always be so qualified and so could never fail to exist. In particular,
its origination is not dependent on the operation of causes in the world –
contrary to what the Buddha claimed about all existent things. Similarly,
for anything that does not exist, if it has no quality of existence within
it then it can never do other than not exist, with all the same unwelcome
consequences as for necessary existence. This is a marvellously
paradoxical result, but its conviction for modern audiences is undermined
by the inadmissibility of the assumption upon which the argument is based:
that existence – and non-existence too, for that matter – may be treated
in the same way as property predicates like ‘tall’, ‘happy’, or ‘blue.’
This assumption is known to lead to all sorts of problems and is almost
universally rejected now.
3.
Wisdom Has No Knowing
(般若无知, bō rě wú zhī)
Finally, in the essay on wisdom he argued that that could not be
considered as a kind of knowledge – or at least not any kind of
propositional knowledge. Such knowledge, we observe, is knowledge
of something – we cannot speak having that sort of knowledge without
acknowledging that there is an object of knowledge. Such knowledge
essentially involves an apprehension of the qualities of a known thing. If
prajña (般若, bō rě), or sage-wisdom (圣知,
shèng zhī) as Sengzhao calls it, is an apprehension of the Absolute Truth,
then, given that the Absolute Truth is that there is nothing to be
apprehended, sage-wisdom cannot involve the apprehension of the qualities
of some object, and therefore cannot count as knowledge in the normal
sense. In fact sage-wisdom is more like knowledge by acquaintance
of Non-being, or even an actual identification with that state, a kind of
knowing how to be non-existent. Claims of this sort have an impact
on the kinds of methods by which one might aspire to gain sage-wisdom: the
thing’s particular nature recommends a certain method of achievement.
Daosheng
The second of the philosophical precursors of Chan, the monk Dàoshēng
(道生)
(c. 360-434,) was also for a short time a student of Kumarajiva at
Chang’an, but is more associated with Huiyuan in Lushan. He is best known
for the defence of several theses which were eventually accepted and
expanded by the Chan school.
1.
Sudden Enlightenment Daosheng
was not the first to suggest that enlightenment could be sudden. The monk
Zhidun (支遁)
(314–366) had previously argued that at the 7th stage of the
Bodhisattva Path, when the candidate is prepared to reached nirvana
without cessation of this life, enlightenment can come suddenly – but
incompletely. Complete illumination might not come until the final stage,
when it might be suddenly achieved. Daosheng extended this idea to the
claim that enlightenment might be sudden and complete at any point.
Unfortunately, Daosheng’s own works containing his arguments for this
claim haven’t come down to us: we have to infer the arguments from the
texts of other later authors whom we conclude were appealing to Daosheng’s
ideas. Nevertheless, we can suppose that Daosheng pointed out that to
become enlightened is to become one with Non-being (Wu) [You might remember Sengzhao making something like this claim in
his essay on wisdom.] and that because Non-being has no parts but is a
single thing (or non-thing) there can be no question of partial
identification. To be identified at all is to be identified completely. This was
a particularly controversial claim and occasioned a great deal of debate.
Some contrasted the Indian practitioners and the necessity for them of
gradual enlightenment with the Chinese practitioners and their ability to
short-circuit that process. The difficulty with accepting the possibility
of sudden enlightenment is that it seems to set at nought all the effort
that previous monks and bodhisattvas had made, and to call into question
the worth of the protracted study and contemplation of the Buddhist
literature. Those who did not accept the universal possibility of sudden
enlightenment but believed rather in a process of gradual enlightenment
held that the practitioner was able to gradually learn the various truths
about the universe – like the four noble truths, or the Eight-fold Path,
and so on, and that the enlightenment that thus slowly emerged was the
result of the apprehension of the truth and consequences of all those
facts. We think that Daosheng, however, would not have disagreed with the
value of all this work, but would have seen it as merely preparatory –
like a golfer checking the lay of the ground, the wind, the obstacles,
etc. and selecting the proper club for his attempted shot: even though all
of that contributes to the success of the shot, it is not the same as the
shot itself, which is either successful – putting the ball in the hole –
or not.
2.
Buddha-Nature The
Buddha-nature (佛性, fóxìng
– which translates Sanskrit tathāgatagarbha meaning the ‘matrix of
the thus gone’ or buddhadhātu
meaning ‘the realm of the enlightened one’) was the subject of the
second of Daosheng’s teachings that we will consider. The Buddha-nature
was supposed to be that part of a being’s nature which made it possible
for the being to achieve the enlightenment that the Buddha achieved. It
was thus that part of the Being’s nature that approximated to (shared in /
was identical with / what you will) the essential nature of the Buddha.
Although most schools would agree on the purely functional
characterization just given, yet there is little agreement on what exactly
it was that instantiated the function or realised the potential. Some
considered it to be a quality of Mind, or the undefiled mind, or (in the
Lankavatarasutra) the universal
mind (of the Yogacaras,) while others considered it to be simply
nothingness or non-being itself. In any case, it was disputed whether
every sentient being possessed the Buddha-nature and was thus able to
achieve enlightenment. Daosheng was amongst those who thought that it
was a universal quality of sentient beings and that certain
important consequences followed from this fact. Since his
treatise on this has not survived his relevant arguments have to be
extrapolated from his other commentaries, but they seem clear enough in
general. From his reading of the various sutras he concludes that every
being does have the Buddha-nature, although not every being
realises that they do. The task
for each being is to achieve this realisation and to use that realisation
to become enlightened and thus fully actualise their Buddha-nature.
Daosheng envisioned the Buddha-nature as being whatever it was that was
able to enjoy nirvana given that
according to the most basic truth of
anatman there was ‘no self.’ He further held that Buddha-nature was
identical with nirvana and
sunyata. His arguments for this point are not specified but we might
assume that since nirvana
(extinction) and sunyata
(emptiness) are without characteristics or parts it is not possible to
enjoy them or to participate in them while having characteristics and
parts; therefore this thing, if it was to ‘enjoy’ extinction and emptiness
could only do so as a kind of participation – and by the nature of
extinction and emptiness, participation in them could only be
identification with them. This being the case, and Buddha-nature being
thus without characteristics, there would be two further consequences.
First, being indivisible into parts, it could not be grasped in parts: it
was all or nothing, which supported the claim of sudden enlightenment.
Second, being inapprehensible from outside – since it has no qualities for
any perception or comprehension to grasp – to know the Buddha-nature is to
participate in it; so that the understanding of the Buddha-nature leads to
instant enlightenment and liberation. |
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Founders |
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Bodhidharma
According to the traditional account Bodhidharma was the founder
of Chan in China, although since it is accepted that the school
itself did not exist at that time, his role as ‘founder’ has to be
understood more as providing an example of attitudes and practices
for the Chan school than anything more concrete. This Bodhidharma,
whose name means the ‘dharma (law) of enlightenment’ in Sanskrit
was said to be a Buddhist monk from the ‘Western regions’ –
probably Central Asia or North India – who came to China in the 5th-6th
C. Quite why he came all that way is not known – or at least is
not publicised. Indeed, the question became a favourite in
collections of inspirational prompts for practitioners of Chan –
but the answers recorded are not very helpful. In Case 37 of the
Mumonkan (a text which
we’ll talk more about later) we find, for example:
A monk asked Jôshû,
“What is the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming to China?” In fact it is
unlikely that much of what is traditionally recorded of
Bodhidharma can be trusted. There may well have been a Western
monk, perhaps called Bodhidharma, and he was perhaps an impressive
teacher, but little else can be surmised concerning him. The
miraculous legends, of course, can be discounted; but even the
more plausible general outlines are now thought to be later
inventions intended to provide such a figure as a founding
patriarch for the Chan ‘school’ (obviously, you can’t be a real
school without a patriarch) and to provide a bridge between the
Chan practitioners of the time and the Buddha. Whatever
Bodhidharma might have thought he was doing in coming to China,
his actual role was to provide a hook upon which various useful
items might be hung. Nevertheless, just because these impositions
were thought to be useful, it is worthwhile describing some of them.
1.
Meeting Wu-Ti
There is the story of his early meeting with the emperor Wu-Ti,
himself a champion of Buddhism.[1]
In that meeting Wu-Ti wanted to know how much merit he had
acquired by his building of temples, but Bodhidharma tells him
that such things don’t count towards merit just because they were
done with the wrong intention of gaining merit. Here Bodhidharma
is dismissive of the institutions of Buddhism, seeing them as
irrelevant or perhaps even obstacles to true ‘merit.’ Merit, so
far as that means anything in Buddhism, is just knowledge of the
nature of things. And that is to know that there is nothing. Not
even the person standing before you. In this story are combined
expressions of antinomianism, Emptiness, even skepticism.
2.
Staring at the Wall
There is the story of his Wall-Staring (壁观 bìguān).[2]
He is supposed to stand at the head of a great meditative
tradition therefore he is known for his own strange practice of
staring at a wall. He once stared for nine years at the wall of a
cave near the Shao-Lin monastery to which he could not gain
admittance. (The story also says his legs fell off, therefore the
popular Daruma doll
representing him is legless.) It is said that this wall-gazing
exercise is the ancestor of the Sitting Meditation (坐禅,
zuòchán) style (that we know better by the Japanese name
zazen.)
3.
His Farewell Discourse
There is the story of his farewell discourse with his disciples.
Before returning to India he wanted to know how his disciples had
progressed.
Bodhidharma asked, “Can each of you say something to
demonstrate your understanding?” The truth is
inexpressible, but expressions which approach the truth tell of
the way that expressions can help bring one to the truth, and how
the truth is that there is nothing to be expressed. This teaching
was summarised in a late stanza attributed to Bodhidharma:
A special transmission
outside the scriptures Huineng
The second supposed founder of Chan is a little more solidly based
in history and his role in the establishment of the school is a
little more direct. According to the traditional account again,
Huineng (惠能;
638–713) and Shenxiu were monks at the Eastern Meditation
Monastery of Huangmei in Qi who submitted rival poems to justify
their succession to leadership of the monastery. Shenxiu wrote:
The body is like unto
the Bodhi-tree,
And in reply, Huineng wrote:
Originally there was
no Bodhi-tree, The poem by Shenxiu
reflects the teaching of Daosheng regarding the Buddha-nature as
universal mind, while the poem of Huineng is rather inspired by
the teachings of Sengzhao regarding emptiness. In the event
Huineng was declared the winner and became the ‘sixth patriarch’
of the school. As with Bodhidharma, however, there is not much in this story in which we can put much faith. All the details come from sources hundreds of years later than the period in question and are widely thought now to be more or less complete inventions intended to provide an authoritative origin for the mature doctrines and teachings of the school – which are attributed to this Huineng figure. |
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Philosophical Postures |
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Limits Concerning
Truths
Foremost amongst the postures that give rise to such difficulties
is the claim that the first principle of the Chan School may not
be put into words. Fung gives a nice illustration of this claim:
The Ch’an master
Wen-yi was once asked: “What is the First Principle?” To which he
answered: “If I were to tell you, it would become the second
principle.”[1]
This would follow naturally enough from the observations of
Sengzhao noted above that wisdom could not be considered as any
sort of propositional knowledge. If that were the case, and if all
propositional knowledge is expressible (which it is,
tautologically,) and if wisdom involved knowledge of the first
principle, then it would very nearly logically follow that the
first principle was inexpressible. One could further trace it back
to the Tiantai doctrine of Three Truths that we looked at
previously. The third level of Truth, you will recall, is the
level at which we pay attention to the fact that statements
describing reality can be equally sincerely asserted and denied at
the same time. That being the case, and accepting that the
assertion of contradictions leaves all our statements void of
content, it follows that nothing can really be asserted and that
even the truth of the first principle cannot be asserted. Finally,
we can note that the claim that truths exist that are
inexpressible takes us back once again to the first verse of the
Daodejing (which more
and more seems central to this style of philosophizing) which just
emphasizes the effect that the existing Daoist speculations had
had on the development of early Buddhism in China. Thus it was
said:
The way that can be spoken of
As the truth is inexpressible, it equally follows that thought
which partakes of the nature of propositional expression cannot
approach to truth. If we are thinking in the way we think when we
can put our thoughts into sentences, then we are on the wrong
path, apparently. This does not mean, however, that
thoughtlessness is recommended: just that the type of thought that
is useful is of a peculiar non-conceptual or non-propositional
kind. Since what we think of when we think about thinking is
usually exactly the conceptual style, this allows the Chan
philosophers to propound many apparently paradoxical claims.
Huineng, for example, put forward the necessity of
wú niàn (无念)
or ‘non-thought’ in such passages as the following
No-thought is not to
think even when involved in thought.
It would also seem to follow that the sutras and other documents –
which are nothing but expressions of propositions – can have only
a very limited usefulness in cultivating the wisdom that Chan
teaches. All the teachings contained therein can only be
expressions uttered by teachers, which cannot carry the truth.
Thus, in a very famous passage, the monk Yìxuán stated that
If you want to have
the right understanding, you must not be deceived by others. You
should kill everything that you meet internally or externally. If
you meet the Buddha, kill Buddha. If you meet the patriarchs, kill
the patriarchs.[4]
Limits Concerning
Wisdom
All of this has a direct effect on the methods by which the Chan school thinks it possible to cultivate the wisdom it values. Briefly, it does not believe that efforts to cultivate wisdom can be successful. This does not mean that wisdom cannot be gained, or that it cannot be gained as a result of the actions that one takes; it means that actions directed at cultivation are ineffective. The reason for this is supposedly that acts of deliberate cultivation are by their nature deliberate, which is to say that they are conceived as having a purpose and as being fitted to achieving that purpose, and so on. Such conceptual thought is exactly what the Chan school deprecates. Presumably, any deliberate act of cultivation would require the conception of an end or a final goal in terms of a final truth to be realised; and since that truth is inexpressible, the thought may not be formulated and therefore cannot be part of a piece of practical reasoning that tries to fit means to an end. Thus Xi Yun said
If you do not
understand wú xīn (无心,
no mind; equiv. to wú niàn,) then you are attached to objects, and suffer from
obstructions.[5]
Moreover, how is it imagined that deliberate action will result in
a desired end? Clearly, there are imagined to be causes that
relate the actions to their effects and those effects are imagined
to include the enlightenment of the actor. This effect, however,
would be temporary in just the same way that the effects of all
causes are temporary. Nothing lasts forever that is part of the
cycle of dependent origination, and so enlightenment gained by
causal processes will decay and end leaving the creature in the
same position it was in before. Deliberate action is unfit for the
purpose of cultivation. Therefore Xi Yun said:
All deeds are
essentially impermanent. All forces have their final day. They are
like a dart discharged through the air; when its strength is
exhausted, it turns and falls to the ground. They are all
connected with the wheel of Birth and Death. To practise
cultivation through them is to misunderstand the Buddha’s ideas
and to waste labour.[6]
But if no deliberate action is to be undertaken then what should
one do? Apparently, one is advised to live one’s life without
thought directed at these higher things – and to live ‘naturally’
as the Taoists would say. So Yixuan says:
To achieve Buddhahood
there is no place for deliberate effort. The only method is to
carry on one’s ordinary and uneventful tasks: relieve one’s
bowels, pass water, wear one’s clothes, eat one’s meals, and when
tired, lie down. The simple fellow will laugh at you, but the wise
will understand.[7] A
recommendation such as the last one might suggest that there is no
distinction between a person belonging to the Chan school and a
normal person unaffiliated with any such school. What is the
difference between the Chan person and the non-Chan person, a
farmer, official, or soldier? It seems not to be in their actions,
for they are explicitly told to behave like normal people. It
can’t be in their beliefs, because clinging to views is to be
condemned (and the true belief is inconceivable anyway.) It can’t
be in the goals, because any effort or intention to gain
enlightenment is deprecated. What then distinguishes the Chan
follower from others?
Well, it seems that the distinction is that the normal person does
form goals and has intentions – about getting the crop in,
completing the task at hand, in order to profit from that, in
order to be able to do something else he desires, which will
satisfy yet another purpose, and so on. The Chan follower, like
the Taoist practising wu wei
will avoid any such formation of intentions and grasping at
results and achievements. In this way the Chan follower prepares
himself for the enlightenment that will descend upon him like the
grace of God which he neither earns nor desires. (Makes you wonder
why he would bother, really.)
This makes the matter of practice fundamental to the Chan
follower. Clearly, given the belief that the truth is
inexpressible, inconceivable, and incommunicable, there can be no
question of achieving enlightenment through studying what can be
read in texts, or what can be explained by a teacher. Indeed, Chan
was known as the doctrine ‘not founded on words or scriptures.’
For Chan, the practice of meditation was identified with the
gaining of the appropriate knowledge: to come to know the
appropriate truths was just to practise a certain type of
mediation. This approach makes a little sense if you consider – as
we have suggested above – that the knowledge that is important to
the Chan school is practical knowledge rather than propositional
knowledge; a ‘knowing how’ rather than a ‘knowing that.’ The
knowledge is more like knowing how to ride a bike than knowing
that a bike can be ridden. Explanations are beside the point.
Practice is all. On the other hand, although such knowledge is
strictly speaking incommunicable, it doesn’t mean that you can’t
be helped along the way by those who already know how to get it.
You can be helped to learn how to ride a bike, not by explanation
but by example or by practical guidance. This is the reason for
teachers in Chan monasteries.
This brings us to the most remarkable aspect of Chan practice and
theory: the apparent irrationality of much of what goes on there.
The apparent irrationality is quite deliberate, and given what has
been said above, it should be obvious why: rationality is rendered
irrelevant to the achievement of the goal of the Chan school
because of the inexpressibility of the first truth, the consequent
inconceivability of the same, and the rejection of all forms of
ordered conceptual thought in the pursuit of that goal. It
follows, quite reasonably actually, that if rationality is a trap
to be avoided, then those who would guide the student towards the
goal (which is not desired) should act so as to prevent the
student from falling into that trap. Some such guides take the
rather extreme action of striking their students when they feel
that they are becoming stuck in conceptualisations and thoughts. A
less violent technique is to offer nonsensical answers to
questions posed by students. Presumably – and so it is reported –
the students are knocked out of their incorrect forms of thinking
and become open to whatever form of intuition is required to
achieve enlightenment. It is reported of Mazi (d. 788,) for
example, that he was once asked by a pupil ‘Why do you say that
the very mind is Buddha?’ to which he replied ‘’I simply want to
stop the crying of children.’ ‘Suppose they do not stop crying?’
‘Then not-mind, not-Buddha.’ On another occasion he was asked
‘What kind of man is he who is not linked to
all things?’ ‘Wait until in one gulp you can drink up all the water
in the West River, then I will tell you.’[8]
Another related technique is the contemplation of brief anecdotes
that we know by the name of
koan, which is just the Japanese reading of their Chinese name
gōng'àn (公案,
‘public case.’) They originated as records of conversations or
episodes in the life of previous Chan masters together with a
commentary intended to aid in the illumination of the reader.
There are several collections of these, such as the
Blue Cliff Record (碧岩录,
Bìyánlù; J: Hekiganroku)
and the Gateless Barrier
(无门关,
Wúménguān; J: Mumonkan,) from which we get a pretty good idea of the type of thing
that the Chan practitioners thought was likely to be useful.
These anecdotes are so structured that they transgress the normal
rules of conversational or narrative coherence. The reader is
supposed to meditate upon the
gongan, using its
‘irrationality’ to interrupt the rational conceptual thought
processes that block true enlightenment. When posed as questions
–as in ‘what is the sound of one hand clapping?’ – the point is
not to discover the root of a paradox or to ‘solve’ the problem,
but rather to accept its contra-rationality and to leap from that
acceptance to the enlightenment concerning things that are closed
to the reasoning mind. Questions, however, are not the classic
form of a gongan which
is better exemplified by such encounters as
Zhaozhou‘s
Dog which
is case 1 of the Gateless
Barrier. Thus:
A monk asked Zhaozhou, "Has a dog the Buddha
Nature?" Zhaozhou answered, "Wu."
‘Wu’
means ‘nothingness,’ or perhaps’ no,’ or perhaps ‘woof.’ Well,
perhaps that’s more of a joke than an inspiration; let’s try the
second case:
Baizhang’s Fox.
When
Baizhang Huaihai
delivered a certain series of sermons, an old man always followed
the monks to the main hall and listened to him.
Baizhang
had the
director of the monks strike with the gavel and inform everyone
that after the midday meal there would be a funeral service for a
dead monk. Which you can interpret in your own time
[1]
Wen-yi Ch’an-shih
Yü-lu (‘Sayings of the Chan master Wen-yi’) in Fung
Yu-lan (1964) Short
History of Chinese Philosophy New York: Macmillan, p.
257
[2]
Dàodéjīng
1
[3]
The
Platform Sutra of
the Sixth Patriarch
c. 17
[4]
Recorded Sayings of
Ancient Worthies,(古尊宿語錄, gǔ zūn
sù yǔ lù)
chüan 4. [Dainippon zokuzôkyô
(1905-12) Kyoto: Zôkyôshoin, vol. 118]
[5]
Op. cit. chüan 1
[6]
Ibid.
[7]
Op. cit. chüan 4
[8]
Op. cit. chüan 1 (Fung Yu-Lan (1948)
Short History of
Chinese Philosophy, NY: Macmillan, p. 258.)
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