Notes Beside the Bamboo Window — Third Collection, Part 17

There was a man in my own Hangzhou, surnamed Lu — I have forgotten his given name — whose face was pockmarked, so people called him "Pockmarked Lu." In his middle years, he said to his own children: "I have finished arranging your marriages, and you are each now able to stand on your own — I intend, from now on, to seek real leisure." And so he prepared his own coffin, along with the spirit-palanquin, the funeral banner, and the musicians — everything arranged in full — and had his sons don mourning garments and carry staffs to lead the coffin, while he himself followed behind in a sedan chair. Arriving at his own villa by West Lake, he had the coffin placed in the courtyard, and sent his sons home. He then inscribed over his own gate: "Only today am I finally at leisure" — and never once entered the city again until his own death.

Ah, how truly enlightened a man! An ordinary layperson, burdened with household affairs, is naturally busy — for him to cast off that busyness and declare, "Only today am I finally at leisure," is no small thing. But a monk is, by his very nature, already at leisure from the start — and yet there are those who, like ordinary laypeople, exhaust body and mind chasing after fame and profit, busy all day long in utter confusion, never once resting. Such a person ought instead to inscribe over his own gate: "Only today am I finally busy" — that would suit him far better.

The sutras teach that entry into the womb always occurs before the tenth month of pregnancy, and yet popular reports invariably describe someone dying in one place at the very moment of birth in another. There was a man who supported a monk in the mountains, and one day suddenly saw the monk walk directly into his own inner chamber; a moment later, word came that a child had just been born within — he rushed to the mountain to check on the monk, and found he had already passed away. This does not accord with the sutras' own teaching — why is that?

Entry into the womb before the tenth month is the ordinary case; entry at the very moment of birth occurs perhaps once in a million cases. Ordinary people witness only this rare one or two instances, and never see the far more common million.

But why, then, does an early entry into the womb never manifest visibly, as this late entry apparently did? Perhaps only entry at the moment of birth can manifest visibly, while early entry cannot — the sutras offer no explicit statement on this, and I dare not speculate further. The entry of sentient beings into the womb remains genuinely inconceivable, a matter to be settled only by a sage possessing the heavenly eye.

People know that the Buddha-dharma's outer protection is entrusted to kings and ministers, but do not realize that monks themselves also bear a responsibility to protect it — and this cannot be undertaken carelessly. Protecting the Dharma involves three things: first, restoring and honoring monasteries; second, circulating the great teaching; third, encouraging and supporting junior monks.

Why must one be careful in each of these? As for protecting monasteries: if a monastery's property has genuinely been seized by the powerful, reclaiming it through proper legal means is entirely justified. But suppose the land records themselves are ambiguous, and ownership has changed hands repeatedly over a long span of time — is it right to reclaim such property through sheer force? Property given willingly is called an auspicious site; property taken by force from those unable to resist is called a den of karmic grievance. Monks often think only of persuading some powerful patron to become the great benefactor who restores an old monastery, without considering that the Buddha regards all sentient beings with the same impartial love he showed his own son Rāhula. To build a monastery at the cost of harming the common people — however vast its grounds, however towering its halls, however fine its sandalwood timber or jeweled ornaments — is something the Buddha can only pity, never rejoice in. This brings fault without merit, and cannot be undertaken carelessly — this is the first point.

As for protecting the teaching: if a written work genuinely accords with the Buddha's own mind and captures the sutras' own true meaning, then praising and circulating it is entirely justified. But suppose the work is full of heterodox rambling or purely subjective bias — is it right to praise it excessively regardless? Monks who merely seek prefaces and postscripts from famous men, without considering whether the work might mislead later students, likewise bring fault without merit, and cannot proceed carelessly — this is the second point.

As for protecting monks: if a monk has genuinely investigated and genuinely awakened, possessing real right views, then honoring and revering him is entirely justified; if another monk practices with real sincerity and steady integrity, trusting and drawing close to him is likewise justified. But suppose one honors and trusts an empty, boastful pretender, or a mediocre and inferior character all the same — is that right? Monks who merely attach themselves to the powerful, hoping for their protection, are like wrapping silk floss and fine brocade around a festering sore — only worsening the poison within. This too brings fault without merit, and cannot proceed carelessly — this is the third point.

From these three points, it becomes clear: it is kings and ministers who genuinely protect the Dharma, while monks themselves are the ones undermining it. How sorrowful!

Confucian scholars who reject Buddhism appear outwardly similar, but are, in substance, not all the same — they cannot be lumped together indiscriminately. There are three kinds of Confucians: the sincere and honest Confucian, the narrow and biased Confucian, and the transcendent Confucian.

The sincere Confucian bears no genuine ill will toward Buddhism at all — his own scholarship simply centers on the fundamental bonds and constant relationships of society, devoted to investigating things, extending knowledge, sincerity, rectifying the mind, cultivating the self, ordering the family, governing the state, and bringing peace to the realm — a genuinely correct worldly path, which naturally does not align with Buddhism's own teaching of transcending the world. Where alignment fails, disagreement inevitably follows, and disagreement may sometimes turn into outright criticism — this is hardly surprising, and figures like Yichuan and Huian belong to this category.

The narrow and biased Confucian, by nature arrogant and self-important, clings to whatever view he first adopted, indulges in reckless, mistaken claims, and heaps every possible insult upon Buddhism without ever recognizing his own error — exactly as Zhang Wujin himself once described: "hearing of the Buddha as though hearing of a mortal enemy, seeing a monk as though seeing a viper or scorpion."

The transcendent Confucian, by contrast, possesses genuine discernment and clear understanding of principle — not only does he not reject Buddhism, he believes in it deeply; and not only does he believe in it deeply, he puts it into genuine practice — this is what may truly be called a genuine Confucian. And yet, even here, there are those who treat Buddhism as a mere plaything, without any real reverence at all — outwardly appearing devout, while secretly harboring an entirely different intention — such a person is not a genuine Confucian either. Let those with genuine discernment judge for themselves.

A shaved head and square-cut robe mark the three monastic robes as belonging properly to monks alone; for someone with a full head of hair to wear a monk's robe regardless is contrary to the Buddha's own institution. The ancients held that doing so actually incurs real fault, and this teaching was set down as established doctrine. And yet ordinary people fail to realize this, and monks themselves fail to say anything about it — how truly regrettable!

When I was young, I saw that at the precept-ordination platform of Zhaoqing Temple, all the laypeople receiving the five precepts, both men and women, wore the full three-robe set — this had simply become an established custom over time, with no one realizing it was actually contrary to proper practice. This is not the fault of the laypeople themselves at all — it is because monks failed to clearly instruct them, instead simply going along with popular custom, that this situation came about. I set it down here specifically to bring this to light.