Zen Encounters and Old Honen

20th Century Psalms: The Personal

By Justin F. Stone

From the out-of-print book, 20th Century Psalms, excerpted and reprinted with permission from Good Karma Publishing.

Here are two Zen anecdotes that both make the same point:

Dogen Zenji, founder of Japanese Soto Zen, ended his days at Eihe-ji [Temple], deep in the mountains to the north of Tokyo and Kyoto. He frequently took a dipper of pure water from the river there, but before he drank, he poured half of it back into the river. It is probable that the symbolism of this strange gesture was lost on the monks of the time.

Another Zen Master discerned great spiritual potential in a young Chinese boy, so he arranged for the child and his parents to live in a small cabin on the temple grounds while waiting for the youth to grow up. In gratitude, the boy’s mother baked some cookies every day for the Master, who received them graciously when the child brought them to him. Then, inexplicably, he would hand three cookies back to the puzzled youth.

Realizing there might be a meaning to this unusual action, one day the boy asked the Master why he always gave back the three cookies.

“What’s wrong with returning to you that which was originally yours?” was the Master’s explanation.

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A prominent lawyer and a metaphysically inclined girl from Latvia, hearing that Zen Master Joshu Sasaki was in Los Angeles, asked me if I could arrange an interview with him. When this was done, they went with me to his Zen Center on a steaming hot day in late summer. The lawyer was wearing only a t-shirt on top as we entered.

Before I could make the introductions, Roshi said to the lawyer: “Take off your coat and hat.” The lawyer looked bewildered. “Remove your gloves and scarf, too,” continued the Master. Noticing the lawyer’s lack of understanding, Roshi asked, “Unless we strip down naked, how are we going to meet?” Of course, he had observed that the lawyer arrived full of his own concepts and opinions and merely wanted them confirmed. One can only pour tea into an empty cup.

The idealistic Latvian woman asked Roshi a question. “Why are there French, Chinese, Russians and so forth? Why must there be war?”

Roshi held up one hand and spread the fingers wide. “I have five fingers; why do I have five fingers?” he asked. With that I ran over, counted his fingers one by one, and affirmed: “Yep. He has five fingers.”

After the meeting was over, the Latvian girl asked me why Roshi hadn’t answered her question. “He gave you the only possible answer.” I exclaimed.

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The Master, Takusan, was walking through the meditation hall one night when he came upon his disciple, So-So, sitting Zazen. Stopping in front of the meditator, the Master raised one eyebrow in inquiry. “A dark night and no travelers,” stated the disciple. Then, in a burst of emotion, he exclaimed: “Master, I am cold.” Anyone who has ever gone through the Dark Night of the Soul can sympathize with that complaint.

Immediately the Master brought his right hand down and cracked So-So hard across the face. An unexpected blow, it really stung. As the Master then began another blow with his left hand, So-So got up and ran, with the Master in hot pursuit. Out of the meditation hall they ran, across the walk to the Buddha Hall, through the corridors and out the other side. Running down a walk in the Zen garden, they suddenly came to a dead end. Panting, with sweat pouring down his face, So-So turned to face his tormentor. “Are you warm now?” snarled the Master. I read this great lesson in a small pamphlet printed in England, brought to my attention by Paul Reps. This is true teaching.

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One time, in Baroda, India, some graduate students at the local university asked me if I’d like to meet a great Yogi. Naturally I said yes. Accordingly, we came together in late afternoon and went in a great, old-fashioned, open touring car down a country road into the usual spectacular sunset. It was a long drive, but we finally came to a dilapidated house in which most of the roofing was missing. Entering, I saw goats and birds inside and one man was roasting something over a fire in what might have been a sitting room. The air was decidedly unreal.

We were told that the Yogi was in Samadhi (the super-conscious trance state) and had been since the previous morning. This was a disappointment, but we decided to wait; time seems unimportant in India.

After a while I looked up and saw the noted Saddhu, with only a loincloth around his middle, standing in the archway of the door, looking dazed. Though he had come out of Samadhi, sensing the presence of visitors, to all intents and purposes, he was still in it. When he seated himself cross-legged on the ground the students – who called themselves “The Young Turks” because of their skeptical attitude – rushed forward spontaneously, one by one, and, prostrating themselves, kissed his feet. He took no notice.

I then sat in cross-legged fashion in front of him, and neither of us said anything. He was completely still except for his hands, which he clasped and unclasped as though to keep from exploding. The vibration, the sheer “livingness,” was overwhelming. I have never felt such force, even while meditating under a redwood or banyan tree.

We sat that way for a long time. No thoughts entered my mind; it was just enough to be alive in that presence. Then I rose slowly and bowed. Only his eyes moved. They were focused on me, literally looking through me. Slowly I backed toward the front door.

Once outside, The Young Turks swarmed around me. “Why didn’t you ask him something?” they inquired, as though his spoken answer would open the gates to all wisdom.

I smiled. “Did you miss it all?” I asked.

“Miss what?” they replied, mystified, but I only shook my head silently. We then got in the car for the long trip back through the densely black night, and the trip was made in silence.

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Each time I go to Kyoto I visit Honen-ln [Temple] to pay my respects to old Honen, the teacher of Shinran. Honen-ln is a small Buddhist temple with beautiful grounds, located on the Tetsugakusha na Michi (Philosophers’ Walk) in the eastern mountains (hills, really) of old Kyoto. If I am fortunate enough to arrive on a day the giant Buddha (Amida Buddha, the Buddha of Infinite Light) is being aired, I can go in and see it. Only a few devotees will be there; very few people and almost no tourists go to Honen-ln, just down the road from the popular Silver Pavilion.

Honen’s student, Shinran, is certainly one of the two dominant figures in Japan’s religious history, and Shin Buddhism (remembrance of Amida Buddha through repetition of the Nembutsu, Namu Amida Butsu) is by far the largest Buddhist sect (in fact, the largest religion if we exclude Shintoism from consideration as religion) in Japan. Zen is called a religion of Self Power and has always attracted small numbers while having great cultural influence. Shin (and each branch of it) is a religion of Other Power, with complete dependence on the vows made by Amida Buddha eons ago, before he became the Buddha of Infinite Light.

Shinran came to Honen after many troubled years as a monk, searching for, and not finding, peace in a different Buddhist sect, Tendai (from the Chinese t’ien t’ai). With Honen he quickly succeeded in his search and found much more.

Honen was born a Samurai, a noble of the Warrior Caste. His father was killed in a duel and, as he was dying, he said to his son: “According to the code of the Samurai, you must avenge my death. I do not want you to do this. I want you to shave your head, become a Buddhist monk, and work for the salvation of the man who killed me!” This is, I imagine, one of the most remarkable pronouncements in history.

A Samurai did not question his father’s judgment. Honen became a monk, later taught Shinran, and because of that, Jodo Shinshu and its devotees are found throughout the world. Is it any wonder I go there to pay respects to old Honen?