- Guiding Teacher of:
- Inka Date: April 6, 2002
- Transmission Date: April 5, 2014
Recently, a friend of mine, while giving a Dharma talk, reminded me of an interesting figure in the history of Zen. This particular Zen Master was famous not only for his clear and simple teaching, but perhaps even more for his unusual lifestyle. Known as “the bird’s nest monk,” he lived in a tree, depending on his followers for help with basic necessities of life. At one time, a great Buddhist scholar from the neighboring province came to visit him. The scholar was an eighty year old monk who was very learned in all the major scriptures and commentaries, and was curious to meet someone who, although not very learned, was even more famous than himself. The scholar asked the Zen Master for his teaching. The “bird’s nest monk” replied: “Don’t do any evil; do good.” The scholar scornfully pointed out that this kind of simplistic teaching is something that even a four year old child understands. To this the Zen Master replied that while it is true that a four year old child understands it, even an eighty year old man cannot do it.
The teaching of Zen is very simple, and very clear. One way to present it is by “don’t do evil; do good.” Unfortunately, just understanding this principle, or even believing and aspiring to it, by itself cannot help us to accomplish it in our everyday endeavors. Practice is essential. The war in the Persian Gulf is a good example of this. In television interviews before the conflict started, both our President and the President of Iraq stated their abhorrence to war and support for peace. The same was true of the people interviewed in the streets, who expressed the hope that conflict would be avoided. But the Americans and the Iraqis saw the dispute very differently. As long as we hold on to our opinions, and our ideas, we will continue to face the dichotomy between our beliefs and our actions. It is only by letting go of “I,” “my,” “me” that a “correct idea”, “correct opinion,” can appear. This means “Bodhisattva idea,” which means an idea for all beings, not just for my family, my country, not even just for people; for animals, for trees, for water, for air, for this whole world. This also means that without the “l,” “my,” “me” there is no separation, no wall between our understanding and our action. The taking away of “l,” “my,” “me” brings us again to the subject of practice. Like any endeavor where we seek some kind of perfection, practice is essential. It is not enough to understand that the selfless state just described is our natural state, our natural heritage. It is not enough to understand that everyone is essentially an enlightened being, a “Buddha.” A final very important step is necessary. We must make that understanding completely ours, which means that we must attain “that.” It is for this reason that Zen Centers, retreats, and teachers are all important. It is for that reason that a regular daily formal practice schedule, as an adjunct to our everyday practice, is important. It is only for the encouragement of the practice that Dharma talks and articles like this one are important.
Finally, does it all make any sense? Then do it.
Make a daily schedule. Make the effort to practice regularly together with other Sangha members. Regularly join an intensive retreat. Make the effort to regularly attend a Dharma talk. All of these activities help your practice, and your participation and your energy help other practitioners.
(Striking the table with his Zen stick.)
Do you hear that? Then this stick, this sound, and your mind: Are they the same or different?
KATZ! Listen. In the comer, the fan: “shhhhhhhhhhh.”
An eminent teacher said, “The gate of Zen is very wide. Very easy.” Our teacher says, “Only put down your idea and your opinion, then you become complete.” But, “Put down your idea and your opinion” does not mean that you must lose your eyes.
Once a monk went to do a solo retreat. In the middle of the retreat a great bodhisattva appeared at night and said, “You are a great monk. You have special power. Tomorrow you must go to the nearby ledge. Only believe. Only trust. When you jump, you will be able to fly in the air.” The next morning this monk went to the ledge, jumped, and died.
Once, when other monks in the temple were practicing, a monk was cooking rice in a big pot. At that time, in the steam, a great bodhisattva appeared and said to him, “You are a great monk. You have special power.” Hearing this, the monk took the big ladle with which he was stirring the rice, hit the vision, and shouted, “Why do you dirty the monks’ soup?” WHACK! Later he became a great Zen Master.
If you lose your eyes, you lose your life. Get true eyes, and you get everything. Let’s consider what is True Eye. Watch carefully.
(Striking the table with his Zen stick.)
Long ago Buddha told Shariputra, “No eyes.” So perhaps to get this True Eye, you must lose your eyes. If you have no eyes, however, how do you get True Eye? (Striking the table with his Zen stick.)
Our honored guest here [Supreme Cambodian Patriarch Maha Ghosananda] says that your eyes are always eating. Eating eyes. What kind of eating? I don’t understand. Maybe eating form. Maybe eating color. Then how do they digest? What kind of eye is that? (Striking the table with his Zen stick.)
At a talk, a great Zen Master pointed to his Zen stick and said, “This stick has special eyes. They can see through everything. Even see into your mind.” Maybe that is the True Eye. But what kind of eye is that?
All these are wonderful ideas, but just now how do you get this True Eye? KATZ! Please look. (Lifting the Zen stick above his head)
This stick is brown.
Thank you very much.
Excerpted from a talk at the start of the One Day Retreat on Sunday, June 17, 1990.
One thing that is not always clear to us as we go through our daily routine is that if we look at our life, if we think about it and try to analyze it, we find that there are not so many “important” events — events that have great significance, great meaning. Mostly our life, moment by moment, is composed of very mundane tasks, very small things.
So what happens, and it’s sort of a human fallibility, is that we don’t pay attention to the small things. But the small things are also very important.
I like to tell the story of how an avalanche comes to take place. If we start to trace the cause of an avalanche, we find that often it’s a very minute action. Maybe somebody speaks too loudly and that loosens a small rock and that rock loosens a bigger rock, and so on and so on. Just one small thing that is very insignificant, through a chain of events, comes to be very meaningful and has a big impact.
In a way, it is the same with our practice. We don’t often realize the power of practice. One day, one retreat, just coming here on this Sunday morning and doing what we’re doing. What kind of significance will it have? We don’t understand right now.
What Zen teaches us is not to make those distinctions about whether something is important or not important. But as we go moment by moment, we are asked to pay attention — to give ourselves fully to this moment, one hundred percent. It doesn’t matter whether it is an important moment or not an important moment; it is the only moment we have.
So what I emphasize is that in fact the only thing, the only true thing, that we ever have is this moment. The past we cannot touch. The future we cannot grasp. And if we try to catch the present, it’s already gone.
Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind is the title of a widely read Zen book by Suzuki Roshi. Although the book presented Soto Zen teaching as typically practiced in Japan, keeping “beginner’s mind” is an attitude which cuts across any school boundaries. In our school, we may call it keeping “don’t know,” but what is important is not the name but the complete sincerity and openness of a mind in search of the truth. It is the very mind that we had when we first started to practice. Unfortunately, it is not uncommon for senior Zen students to fall into a kind of “sleeping Zen” sickness, in which that original mind of inquiry has nearly or completely disappeared.
Not long ago, I suggested to a friend that although he is surely helping many people through his work as a doctor, perhaps he has been neglecting his Zen practice. In response, he said that his work is already his practice. That is very wonderful, indeed, but a vast gulf exists between mere understanding and its actualization. Long ago an eminent teacher said, “the tongue has no bone.” It is possible to say anything, but to do as my friend has stated is not very easy without consistent effort through formal daily practice and regular intensive retreats. Even for one very accomplished, there remains the question of the direction of one’s accomplishment. Is it for me, or is it for others? If for others, then how can I help the most? Perhaps it is by helping their bodies, but not always. It is for that very reason that students seek the supportive atmosphere of a Zen community in which to practice, while others, unable to move into a Zen center, regularly join in retreats or other group practice.
The Buddha taught us the “Middle Way,” eschewing any extreme. This suggests creating a balance between all the various activities in our lives. If we are not quite sure what that balance should look like, that is even more of a reason to pursue practice in all of its forms, in all the moments of our life. Admittedly, that is not always easy to accomplish.
Mr. P’ang, an accomplished layman in eighth century China, whose wife and children were said to have also attained enlightenment, is reputed to have announced to his family: “Difficult, difficult, difficult; it is like trying to scatter ten measures of sesame seed all over a tree!” His wife said in response, “easy, easy, easy; just like touching your feet to the ground when you get out of bed.” Their daughter remarked, “neither difficult, nor easy; on the hundred grass-tips, the Patriarch’s meaning.”
If we understand this exchange correctly, we can find correct practice in our everyday life, and we can also find everyday life in our practice. If we understand this exchange correctly, we can also understand that while all the Fangs shoot sharp arrows, they all miss the bull’s eye with their remarks, How do we attain the Patriarch’s meaning, then? If we can truly attain it, then in each moment we return to the very mind with which we started practicing. Thus we prevent the “senior Zen student syndrome,” and in fact we can shake off the worst case of the “sleeping Zen” sickness.
According to tradition, there were four things seen by the young Prince Siddhartha which moved him so deeply as to give up his comfortable worldly life. He saw an old man, a sick man, a corpse, and a yogi. The first three of these brought to life for him the notion of impermanence, and the fourth inspired him to the search for the Absolute. Although too young and healthy to directly experience sickness and decrepitude, he nonetheless deeply perceived their role in human existence.
Unfortunately, most of us are not so perceptive, and it is necessary to have some personal experience before we can stop, and evaluate our life, and our direction. I have talked to several people who have had a heart attack, and in many cases heard that it was only after that experience that they started to appreciate each moment of their lives. Several of these people were actually grateful for the heart attack, for it made clear to them that their value system was perverted.
For Zen students being sick is only another opportunity to pursue clarity, and as such it is no different from any other kind of Zen practice. In fact “sickness practicing” is extremely valuable, because even for practicing people it often takes the threat of the loss of their body, or its ability to function well, before they can significantly slow down their desire mind. In the Blue Cliff Record, we have an interesting case about “sick practicing”:
Great Master Ma was unwell. The temple Housemaster asked him, “Master, how has your venerable health been lately?”
The Great Master said, “Sun Face Buddha, Moon Face Buddha.”
To attain the meaning of “Sun Face Buddha; Moon Face Buddha” is to attain “sick practicing.” To attain “sick practicing” is to attain our true self, that which has no sickness or health, no life or death. Then sickness is not our enemy; any sickness from the common cold to AIDS or angina. Any experience provides us with another opportunity to grow in wisdom, love and compassion.
Eastern Europe is in the midst of a revolution. In comparison, the recent changes in the Kwan Um School of Zen are very tiny stuff indeed. But, for those of us who are accomplishing the Dharma way, especially in Zen Master Seung Sahn’s lineage, our changes have an importance that goes beyond organizational needs and parameters of efficiency. They represent one more step in the transmission of the Dharma to the West and in the emergence of American Buddhism.
The process of change is very interesting in that it provides us with the opportunity for success or failure. This success or failure then either entraps us or becomes the very path to absolute freedom. Most people do not mind success, but are adverse to failure. Yet it is success which often becomes enfettering, and it is the suffering associated with failure that gives us energy for practice and raises the deep questions that send us on the spiritual quest.
It is a very rare person who can learn equally well from happiness and suffering. For most of us, a good situation is a bad situation and a bad situation is a good situation, as Zen Master Seung Sahn often says.
Speaking of success and failure brings to mind the 13th case- of the Mu Mun Kwan. The case reads as follows:
Duk Sahn Carrying His Bowls
One day Duk Sahn came into the Dharma room carrying his bowls. Seol Bong, housemaster, said, “Old Master, the bell has not yet been rung and the drum has not been struck. Where are you going carrying your bowls?”
Duk Sahn returned to the Master’s Room. Seol Bong told Am Du, head monk. Am Du said, “Great Master Duk Sahn does not understand the last word.”
When Duk Sahn heard of this, he became very angry and sent for his head monk, Am Du. “Do you not approve of me?” he demanded.
Then Am Du whispered in the Master’s ear. Duk Sahn was relieved.
The next day on the rostrum, making his Dharma speech, Duk Sahn was different from before. Am Du went to the front of the Dharma Room, laughed loudly, clapped his hands, and said, “Great joy! The Master has understood the last word! From now on, no one can check him.”
There are three questions from this story:
1. “The Zen Master did not understand the last word.” What was the last word? (“Last word” means correct situation.)
2. What did Am Du whisper in the Master’s ear?
3. How was the Master’s speech different from before?
If we understand these three questions, then we understand our correct situation, relationship and function. This kong-an is a “mistake kong-an.” Zen Master Duk Sahn made a small error in coming to the meal before the signal was given. His big error was in not responding correctly to the housemaster. The matter could have been ended right then. This raises a fourth question: If you were Duk Sahn, how would you have responded to the housemaster?
It is a very interesting and profound matter. If we truly attain this, then for us any mistake is no problem. Even a mistake can be used to help others, to teach them, and to open their minds.
The more rapid the pace of our lives, the more rapid the pace of change and the bigger our opportunity for failure. It is very tempting to try to be correct at all times and to not take any risks, yet our vows call on us to save all beings from suffering, a risky proposition, with endless opportunities for failure and countless chances for mistakes.
Contrary to the popular superstition that Buddhism is a “passive contemplation of emptiness” (to paraphrase the Pope), our vows and meditation are a creative unfolding that continuously strips away “l, my, me” and allows our true nature to function for the benefit of others. In this way, our practice, our lives, and even our failures are for the sake of others. That is the true vow.
Recently I glanced through a book written by a spiritual teacher. The main point seemed to be that all religious teachings and practices are totally irrelevant because everyone already has “It.”
This is almost like Zen teaching, except for the fact that this understanding alone will not help anyone’s life. It is very important to realize this understanding in your life. For that, practicing is essential. Our practicing is itself not special; practicing means to keep a clear mind and help others.
While there are many approaches to practicing, practicing with a sangha – together action – is the most powerful. It forces us to confront our limitations, which in turn helps us to overcome our limitations. In the Heart Sutra it says, “The Bodhisattva depends on Prajna Paramita and the mind is no hindrance; without any hindrance no fears exist.”
This “no fear” is our human heritage. If you like this, then throw away all thinking; throw away all liking and disliking; throw away even the most profound understanding.
Then, what is this moment’s correct job?
One of the most important roles of Providence Zen Center is its residential training program. In the Orient, where the monastic tradition has dominated Zen, residential training has historically been the main reason for the existence of Zen centers and monasteries. While Zen in the West is undergoing a phase of adaptation and experimentation, residential training is still an important part of the practice.
To live in a community such as Providence Zen Center is not easy. There is a structure and a set of rules that must be followed. There is less privacy than one would have living outside such a community. There are people living in the community or visiting it with whom one would have nothing to do if given the choice. There is sometimes food one does not like, and often a lack of food that one likes. There is the “getting up in the morning,” one of the greatest problems facing a Center resident. And there are other obstacles to a life of leisure.
There are, of course, pluses to being a resident. There is a structure and a set of rules that help us put down our checking mind and help our discipline. With less privacy, there is more openness and less need to hide behind one’s image. There are people with whom one learns to deal correctly, notwithstanding feelings of like or dislike. There is the opportunity to learn to appreciate food, and not be hindered by its taste. There is the joy and energy of getting up in the morning and practicing with the rest of the community.
To be a resident in a Zen community like Providence Zen Center is to let go completely of one’s opinions. This is something which is impossible to do without the practice of “together action.” Only by acting together with others do we discover the boundaries set up by our habits, our prejudices, our likes and dislikes – in other words, our karma. Only by experiencing our boundaries can we let go. Only by letting go can we allow our natural wisdom to grow.
While it is possible to practice together action without living at a Zen center, the Zen center is an expedient way to do this in the context of a formal practice situation. Without the structure of a community, many of us find it too tempting to relax our discipline and to hold onto our ideas.
Even if one is very disciplined and does not hold strong opinions, there is a very good reason for living in a Zen center. That reason is the wider community the center serves, and the other residents who benefit from the support of a strong housemember. Zen Master Seung Sahn calls it “potato rubbing” practice, after a method of washing potatoes in a pot so they rub the dirt off each other, rather than washing them one by one.
When the Buddha was dying, his student Ananda was upset and worried what would happen to all the students when the teacher was gone. The Buddha told him that already the students had Dharma, and, very importantly, they had each other.
When one’s life situation and obligations allow one to live in a Zen center, it is important to take advantage of that opportunity, even if only for a limited period of time.
Finally, Zen center life is not special. Un Mun Zen Master once said, “The world is vast and wide; why do you put on a seven-fold robe at the sound of a bell?” This question relates not only to temple life, but, if we understand it correctly, it relates to every one of our daily activities.
A formal dharma speech given on Buddha’s Enlightenment Day ceremonies at Providence Zen Center on December 6, 1986.
Holds the ceremonial Zen stick above his head, brings the point of it down on the altar table with force.
Buddha saw a star, got enlightenment.
Hits the table again.
Guchi’s attendant saw a finger, got great enlightenment.
Hits the table a third time.
Today we celebrate Buddha’s enlightenment, but we also celebrate Guchi’s attendant’s enlightenment. Which one is greater? Which one?
Today is Saturday.
This is the traditional form. Everybody is familiar with it. We celebrate this experience because it’s worth celebrating.
Shakyamuni Buddha – Shakyamuni means “the awakened one.” That means, prior to his enlightenment experience, he was not awake; he was asleep. In the Buddhist scriptures we often read that the way we live is as if in a dream. So it is our job, according to the Buddha and the patriarchs, to awaken from this dream.
That’s what happened one day to this person called Gautama Buddha. That’s also what happened to Guchi’s attendant. So we celebrate their experience, but of course, this experience is not just limited to Buddha or Guchi’s attendant. At any moment this experience can be ours. Someone asked about enlightenment and having problems in our lives. It’s hard for people to understand how someone can be practicing very hard and still have many problems. What’s the relationship?
Here we are in this moment. What more does there need to be? This moment is a very precious moment, and if I’ve been saying that a lot in my dharma talks lately, it’s because I’m coming to appreciate this more. You can never regain this moment. Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever. Zen Master Seung Sahn puts it a little differently. He says, “Time does not wait for you.”
Every moment of our life we have this incredible chance; every moment of our dream we have this wonderful chance to wake up. Then we can experience this moment and it can become truly ours. Buddha saw a star and experienced something. What did he experience?
There’s an interesting story about Master An Sang who had a dream. In his dream he went to Maitreya’s place. I don’t know where that place is, but it must be a very nice place where people are practicing very hard, because the moment that Master An Sang got there, he was in an assembly full of monks. He was given the third seat, one of the seats of honor in front of the assembly. Then an old monk who was head of the assembly knocked three times with the gavel on the table and said, “And now the dharma speech will be given by the monk of the third seat.”
Master An Sang also hit the table with the gavel three times and said, “The teaching of Mahayana goes beyond the four propositions and the one hundred negations. Listen carefully. Listen carefully.”
What does this mean? If we listen carefully, if we see carefully, if we pay attention to this present moment, then maybe we can find out the true meaning of Master An Sang’s dream. If we want something, if we are attached to something, then we are losing this moment. When we lose this moment, in a way we are losing our life. So our life, our practice, is to become alive. Not to lose this moment means we can then be the awakened ones.
Maybe one moment we are awake and the next moment we fall asleep. Then we travel into our dream world and lose this awakening. In the past while talking about the growth of our School, I used the image of an avalanche, how it starts off very small and very subtly. One person, two people, a Zen center starts, and then grows and grows. And it has grown.
It’s the same way in our practice. It starts off innocently. Just for one moment we make a moment of “try mind” – in order to become clear, to help others. This one moment has its own special symbolism, because it is the beginning of the dharma avalanche in our life. We lose it and we try again. Maybe this next try is not as fast, because we are busy in our lives and have many things to accomplish, but there comes a time when we try again. Then maybe we again lose it, this effort mind, this “try-mind,” this mind that tries to be awake in the present, to “be here now” as a famous book said long ago. We lose that, and we go off again into our dream world.
Whether it is caused by our ignorance or laziness or some kind of attachment, we lose that try-mind. Then, again there is the energy of this first precious moment of effort, and the second, and the third. Something is happening, so we try again. We try a little more, and before we know it we are wearing grey robes and a kasa. Many things start to happen, and the process continues because we cannot stop. Whatever we do, somehow coming to this kind of assembly, and making a decision, however weak, to try this practice will bear fruit.
At the university I came to the conclusion (this was my great “intellectual enlightenment”) that we live in order to die properly. In a way, our life is a preparation for our death. I still think this is not a bad conclusion. There will come a culmination of this vehicle when we have to put it aside. If we want something or are attached to something, this process can be very painful. If we can stay awake, this process can be very wonderful.
At that time I was disenchanted with the world of politics, through which I was hoping to make the world a better place. I started reading about yoga and Buddhism and the mind and what is our human potential, our potential as sentient beings. At that time the question of life and death became very fascinating. I enjoyed reading about great masters passing away. There are many accounts, and one that fascinated me was about the famous Chinese layman called Pang.
Layman Pang was a family man, and it was said that his entire family – his wife, son, and daughter – had attained enlightenment. He became famous when one day he put all of his worldly possessions in a cart and pushed the cart into a river. I believe his wife and son left him after that. I don’t know whether it was a coincidence or had something to do with his action, but they separated amicably. He stayed with his daughter, who made things out of bamboo and sold them in the market.
He was also a poet. In a way, he lived like a monk, but he would never cut off his hair or wear a monk’s robes. He used to go around and challenge all the teachers to Dharma combat.
When Layman Pang understood that it was time to die, he made the announcement in advance. When the day came, he washed and put on nice robes and sat on his cushion in his hut. He told his daughter, “Let me know when the sun is at the zenith.” After a while, his daughter came into the hut and said, “The sun is being eclipsed.” The Layman said, “Are you sure?” The daughter went out and came back in and said, “Yes it’s being eclipsed. You’d better take a look.”
When he went out of the hut, she quickly climbed onto his cushion, sat in meditation position, and died. He came back inside and saw her sitting in his place, dead. He said, “Oh, you beat me to it,” or something to that effect. “Wonderful, now I cannot pass away. I have to take care of business. There has to be a ceremony for her.”
In those days it was the custom to make a fire, burn the corpse, and then spread the ashes around. For one week Layman Pang postponed his death and took care of this business. Then he sat down, composed himself, and also died. A friend, with whom he had left instructions, performed the ceremony for him, burned his corpse and spread his ashes around. Half of the family was now gone.
Word got back to his wife, who was living with their son. They were supporting themselves by farming. The wife said, “Oh, that stupid old man and that foolish girl – they had to do that without letting me know.” She went out into the fields and told the son, who was working the ground with a hoe. He made an exclamation, “SSSSSAAAA!” Then he stood for a while and died, standing up.
The mother said, “Oh, that idiot son of mine.” Then she went around to take care of business, said good-bye to all her friends, and disappeared. There was never a trace of her again.
This story fascinated me because our practice means to really become alive. That’s what I understood. It also means being able to die, but most importantly it means the death of what we call “the dream.” The basic truth of Buddhism is impermanence. Nonetheless, we continue to grasp that which cannot be grasped, because it’s impermanent. In this way, we go from life to death.
On my last trip to Poland, we did a kind of religious pilgrimage. Originally our idea was to have an ecumenical meeting of Zen Master Seung Sahn with people from different religious traditions, but things did not work out. When we planned the meeting, we just picked a date, and by some coincidence it was exactly the date of a meeting of many religious leaders in Asissi, Italy, called together by the pope. So our pilgrimage came to be held in the spirit of Asissi. This was very nice because it was something the Polish Catholic Church could relate to and which opened many doors.
Usually a pilgrimage means visiting some special place or person that is important to our direction in life. This pilgrimage was to several places in Poland of special significance to Polish Catholics, in particular. (There are no holy Buddhist spots in Poland yet, but soon there will be.) Still it had special meaning for us as Buddhists. There were some parallels we could draw between this pilgrimage and the pilgrimage of our lives. The pilgrimage itself was not so special, because we are all pilgrims. The pilgrimage we have undertaken is simply the pilgrimage to become awake.
Whatever the outward form of our pilgrimage was, whatever the outward form of this assembly is, whatever the outward form of our jobs or any activity we are involved in is – the point is always the same, because we have undertaken a kind of vow. Sometime in our life we made a decision to find our true self or to help all beings. But how can I help all beings? What is this “I” that is going to help all beings?
We don’t know. Our way is the way of our pilgrimage, is the way of “don’t know.” That’s the basic speech form of our teaching. That is, what are we doing at this moment? Let’s not lose it. This way of “don’t know” or “enlightenment” or “true pilgrimage” or “true life” or “true death”; how can we make this way real in our life? With each moment, how can we make it work, make it ours?
In traditional Buddhist teaching, we talk about the “four difficult things.” To be born with this human body is considered the first “difficult thing.” For most of us it was very easy. We just appeared. The next difficult thing is to hear about the Dharma, and the next is finding a keen-eyed teacher. The final difficult thing is what we call “enlightenment.” But traditional teaching says that the most important thing is to find a keen-eyed teacher. If we find one, if we get good teaching, then surely someday we will all become awake.
“Someday” may be far away. Somebody said, “Buddha’s enlightenment is far away.” Maybe this moment now is better. Why wait?
Before, Buddha saw a star and Guchi’s attendant saw a finger. In order to find this, we must find good teaching. So listen carefully, listen carefully.
Hits the altar table with the Zen stick.
A great teacher once said, “Form is emptiness, emptiness is form.”
Hits the altar table again.
A great teacher once said, “No form, no emptiness.”
Hits the altar table a third time.
A great teacher once said, “Form is form, emptiness is emptiness.”
Which one of these teachings can help us? Which one of these teachers can help us? Which teacher is our true teacher, our enlightenment teacher, our Buddha teacher?
(Zen Master Wu Bong bows to the assembly.)