FromChapter 5: The Spirit of Zen

After introducing Dr. Suzuki, I asked him "to help us to understand something of the spirit of Zen." The following article, from Buddhism in England, is a slightly edited transcript of a full note taken in short-hand by a member present.—Ed.

Seeing that we are endowed with the power of speech and understand one another by means of this power, we have to appeal to words. But words are such an intractable medium. If we become masters of words we are all right, but sometimes we are too willingly slaves to words, and when words enslave us we become perfect fools. Zen Buddhism tries to master words, but the means it uses to help us in mastering them are strange, though not so strange to those who are used to them. But to others, they seem extraordinary.

How did Zen come to use such extraordinary methods in its teaching? When we ask that question we have to trace the history of the human intellect, and when we have traced it to its very source we will understand that the methods of Zen were something inevitable in the development of our spiritual life. As I cannot give the whole history of Zen, you must be satisfied with a very brief outline of how it developed in China and Japan. The Indian mind was rich in imagination and wonderful in its capacity for speculation. Indian metaphysics are the deepest in the world, and their dialects are incomparable. All nations of the world have to bow to the Indians in this respect. To them, religion was philosophy and philosophy religion, for whatever religion there is in India is backed by philosophy. Intellect should always be backed by certain deeper understandings which we may call faith. Intuition is the affirmation of a certain fundamental belief on which and with which and by which we stand and live our life. This must be associated with the intellect, and when it is associated it becomes a certain philosophy. That is the reason why, in India, religion is always associated with philosophy.

In Christianity theology is separate from Faith, but when Faith is left to itself it is apt to go astray. It becomes superficial and superstitious, leading in the end to bigotry. Faith represents the emotional side of human life, while philosophy is its intellectual side. Faith and philosophy must always go hand in hand, for when they are separated the result is lame. In India this philosophy was well on its way, but it lacked something which was supplied by the Chinese mind, something which we may call a consciousness of practical life, of life itself. In China morality became the foundation of society, and the Chinese people are prone to things practical. That is where the true greatness of the Chinese lies.

When Indian philosophy came to China as Buddhism, the Chinese people took to it partly, but at the same time there was something that did not quite appeal to them, something against which they revolted. "Zen," said a Chinese scholar, "is the revolt of the Chinese mind against Buddhism." It is a revolt. Yet while it is not quite Buddhism, it still is Buddhism. It developed from Buddhism, and in fact it could not have developed from anything else. Zen has its origin in India, but when it came to China this revolt of the Chinese mind gave it a somewhat different form.

The Zen form of Buddhism is deeply imbued with a practical spirit. For while there was logic and metaphysics in ancient China, it was never highly developed. They had a very subtle way of reasoning, but we find little of it in the greatest era of Chinese culture—the T'ang Dynasty, which was some twelve hundred years ago. Certainly China has had its great philosophers, but Chinese philosophy was the result of Buddhist philosophy stimulating the Chinese mind. If China had to stand against Buddhism, it had to take Buddhist philosophy and assimilate it into its own body and make it its own blood. The result of this assimilation was Zen—and the work of assimilation was completed by the Sung Dynasty, which followed the T'ang.

The T'ang Dynasty represents the highest point of Chinese culture. With T'ang the Chinese mind developed to its fullest extent, and everything associated with this dynasty represents the flower of the Chinese mind—art, literature, poetry and religion. Zen is one aspect of that golden age.

In the early days of Buddhism in China the monks used to live in the monastery and devote themselves entirely to the practice of Dhyana. They did not eat after midday, but because of its colder climate, this practice had to be changed. They considered it contrary to the spirit of the Buddha's teaching to refuse to adapt themselves to climatic conditions because of a blind reverence for mere formalities and rules devised for people living in the tropics. If we had to follow man-made rules which are only applicable to India, the result would be comic; things have to be adjusted in accordance with circumstances.

Thus while some monasteries adhered to the Indian rules and customs, these monks who desired a Buddhism more after the heart of the Chinese people formed monasteries of their own. These became the Zen monasteries. They undertake all kinds of manual work. They cultivate rice and vegetables and cut trees for fuel. Even now in Japan they follow that custom, and monks are seen doing all kinds of work which is usually left to laymen.

But teaching is carried on while they are engaged in manual work—not necessarily, however, by giving sermons or lecturing on abstruse subjects. Zen teaching is to be carried on in close connection with our daily life. As we walk in the fields, Zen teachings are to be demonstrated and understood—not outside the work, but with the work and in the work. One day a monk came to a master and asked him, "I have been here under you for many years, and my coming to you was expressly to study Buddhism. But so far you have not imparted to me any Buddhist teaching. If this continues, I shall have to leave you to my great regret." The master replied, "In the morning when you come and salute me with 'Good morning!' I salute you back, 'Good morning! How are you!' When you bring me a cup of tea I gratefully drink it. When you do anything else for me I acknowledge it. What other teachings do you want to have from me?"

There is no special teaching—the most ordinary things in our daily life hide some deep meaning that is yet most plain and explicit; only our eyes need to see where there is a meaning. Unless this eye is opened there will be nothing to learn from Zen. Another teacher said, "In Zen there is nothing special except our everyday thought (shin—mind-consciousness)." When we give something, someone receives it and is grateful. Everybody is called upon to do acts of kindness and to acknowledge them, and when it is done to forget all about it. That is the way we go on in this world! There is Zen!

If you say anything more about it—philosophical or ethical or anything else—you are not a Zen man or woman. In fact, when we carry on as we do in our everyday life, there is plenty of Zen in that. But an eye is needed—a third eye. We have two eyes to see two sides of things, but there must be a third eye which will see everything at the same time and yet not see anything. That is to understand Zen. Our two eyes see dualistically, and dualism is at the bottom of all the trouble we have gone through. This does not mean that dualism is to be abolished, only that there ought to be a third eye. The important thing is that the two eyes must remain, but at the same time there ought to be another. When I speak according to the ordinary way of talking, I have to say that a third eye is needed, but in fact this third eye is outside the two eyes we already have. But again, the third eye is not between or above the two eyes—the two eyes are the third eye. I am beginning to philosophize, and when we philosophize we are no more followers of Zen. Therefore Zen people always close their mouths when they are pressed. But that does not mean they cannot say anything.

That which is not mind nor matter is not Buddha nor anything else. The Absolute seems to be something beyond human understanding. But in discussing the Absolute it is no longer Absolute. We say God is everywhere, but we like to put God in Heaven. How can we conceive God as giving rules to us? If God is immanent, God is ourselves. But Zen does not say that God is transcendent or immanent. When you try to comprehend a fact by means of words, the fact disappears. When we use our minds we have to understand things dualistically—either transcendentally or immanently. When I have explained that, there is nothing more to say. All that is needed is the opening of the third eye. When we have a third eye, it does not annihilate the two eyes. So the world of dualities is not annihilated at all.

Let me tell you a Zen story about this. It is a sort of joke. Yejaku called on Yenen, and asked, "What is your name?" Yenen replied, "Yejaku." Yejaku said, "But that's my own name." Then Yenen said, "My name is Yenen." Whereupon Yejaku gave a hearty laugh. You are I, and I am you; in oneness there is manyness, and in manyness there is oneness. The transcendental and the immanent God exist at the same time. When they exist at the same time, you cannot say anything about them (i.e., affirm or deny one or the other)—the only thing is to laugh.

You are you and I am I, but at the same time you are not me and I am not you. This particularization cannot be analyzed. So when things are brought to you, you just accept them and say thank you, but do not talk about it. This is the Zen attitude. Zen tries to make you accept things, and when you have accepted them you give a hearty laugh.