Taiwan Today

The story goes that Bodhidharma, the legendary Indian Buddhist patriarch who brought Ch'an teaching to China, sat for nine years facing a wall in medita­tion at Shao-Lin Temple until he lost the use of his legs. His disciple, Hui-ke, was no less devoted than his master: he is said to have cut off his arm as a testimony to his desire to study Ch'an.

Nowadays, almost 1,500 years after Bodhidharma's mythical deeds, few people even know what the study of Ch'an entails, and few indeed are those who would savage their bodies in its honor. Yet at the Nong Chan Temple in Peitou, a suburb of Taipei, the students of Master Sheng-yen meet regularly to do rigorous Ch'an meditation and keep alive the magic of the old Chinese Buddhist practice.

What is Ch'an? Ch'an or Zen as it is known in Japan and the West, literally means "to clean" or "to purge," but is usually translated as "meditation." Devotees sit cross-legged on small, round pillows, usually facing a wall, and focus all their attention upon their meditation practice, which may simply be counting breaths or may be the insistent self-questioning of the kung-an (the brief for society). In either case, Ch’an enthusiasts will often sit in the meditation pos­ture for an hour - even hours - at a time, ignoring discomforts such as numb legs, sore backs, and stiff necks.

When I first stumbled upon Master Sheng-yen's temple on a warm Sunday afternoon, soon after my arrival in the Republic of China last summer, I quickly got a taste of how demanding the practice of Ch'an can be. The Nong Chan (literally, "farming Ch'an") Temple seems unassuming enough, a small, grey, box­ like structure surrounded by rice paddies and the vegetable gardens and fruit trees the residents assiduously cultivate. No­thing you wouldn't expect to find a few miles outside of Taipei proper. Or was it?

Inside the temple, the students of Master Sheng-yen had their minds on other things than agricultural pursuits. Mostly students of nearby universities such as National Taiwan University and Chengchih University, these young people meditated with a skill that left my poor, American legs far behind. An hour of sitting meditation, twenty minutes outside of slow, measured walking medi­tation, and then another hour on the pillow. When the bell signaling the end of the final sitting rang, I was wondering whether a lazy Sunday afternoon really ought to be spent putting oneself through this kind of pain.

Obviously, a number of ROC resi­dents find Master Sheng-yen's practice worth the pain, as is testified by the large crowds of people who flock to hear him discourse on the dharma (the Sanskrit word for "law"). And in New York City, where Master Sheng-yen spends six months of every year at the Ch'an Center he established in 1976, he is receiving growing recognition as a true representative of the Chinese tradition.

Born in mainland China in the countryside near Shanghai in 1930, Master Sheng-yen became a monk in a local temple at the age of 13. He joined the Nationalist army and left the mainland in 1949, taking up residence in Taiwan. He soon once again donned the monk's robe, however, and at one point spent six years alone in the mountains of southern Taiwan deepening his practice of Buddhism and Ch'an. The Buddhist Cultural Institution of China and Nong Chan Temple, Master Sheng-yen's bases of operation in the ROC, were established in 1956 and 1974, respectively. In the late 1960's, he studied Buddhism at Rissho University in Japan, and later re­ceived a doctorate - one of a very few Chinese monks who have done so at a Japanese university, in recent years. After his teacher Master Tung-chu died in 1977, Master Sheng-yen began in ear­nest to teach his understanding of Ch'an in the ROC.

What sets Master Sheng-yen apart from most other Buddhist teachers in Taiwan is his refusal to compromise what he sees as the central spirit of tradi­tional Chinese Buddhism and his com­mitment to bringing that spirit to the people of a rapidly modernizing country. At a time when much of Buddhist prac­tice in the ROC has been diluted with Taoist rites and ancestor worship, his ap­proach is like a breath of fresh air.

"We are fortunate to have such an advanced Master," admits Huang Chung-cheng, a student of Master Sheng-yen who studies medicine at Na­tional Taiwan University's medical school. A thoughtful young man with serious eyes but a ready smile, he speaks slowly and precisely when explaining his beliefs.

"Why do so many university students come to hear Master Sheng-yen? Most important, he personally guides us in our practice and in our meditation. When we run into barriers, he is there to help us break through. In Taiwan, to find this sort of personal instruction is almost unheard of."

Strictly speaking, Master Sheng-yen brings nothing strikingly new to the practice of Ch'an. As in the Japanese Zen tradition, Ch'an devotees who come for a day of meditation at the temple are expected to alternate their sittings with hard physical labor, and when they take their meals with the Master, they are expected to speak only when absolutely necessary. When listening to the Master discourse, the students sit erect, often in the meditation posture, striving to absorb every word. The object is to understand through direct perception rather than just by using the intellect.

But concentration is not only limited to the meditation hall. Practitioners of Ch'an are expected to apply the principle of "one-pointedness"-in-action to their daily lives. Ch'an masters have always maintained that samadhi, or concentration, is the key to becoming enlightened. Thus the Ch'an trainee makes strenuous efforts to concentrate all his energy on the task at hand. Even a seemingly small job like selling the table or brushing the teeth can become meditation exercise.

"Ch'an has an old saying: 'The day you do not work is the day you do not eat,'" reflects Nun Kuo-hsiang, who lives at Nong Chan Temple. "It comes from the story of Ch'an Master Pai-chang, who told his disciples to work their hardest every day. And he would do the same himself, even when he was very advanced in years. But his disciples thought, 'Our Master is so old, yet he still does physical labor. We should not allow that.' So they hid his tools. When Pai-chang couldn't find his tools he refused to eat. He said, 'I am old and my usefulness is ended. I need now only waft for death,'''

The residents of Nong Chan Temple build their lives around a rigorous daily schedule which would have endeared them to old Master Pai-chang. Every morning at precisely 4:30 the four nuns and four lay people wake up to the clap­ping of wooden blocks, calling them to meditation. They ascend the stairs and do yoga exercises in the quiet, pre-dawn darkness. As the cocks begin to crow on nearby farms, they fold their legs into the lotus or half-lotus positions and meditate, motionless, for an hour.

The sharp tinging of the yin-ching bell signals the end of the meditation and the time for beginning the morning ser­vices. As drums, gongs, and the tapping of wooden blocks, called the mu-yu ("wooden fish"), blend into a steady rhythm, the precentor for the morning solemnly intones the word Namo, a Pali word expressing homage. Each part of the service melts into the previous part, so that the casual observer might think the service was one unbroken incantation.

At 6:30 the service is over and the sun has risen.

After a generous breakfast of rice porridge and fried vegetables, the residents of Nong Chan Temple begin housecleaning. Considering the general tidiness of the place, though, the process can be rather discouraging. At times I have found myself desperately chasing stray dust motes with my broom to convince myself I was actually doing something,

But outside much remains to be done. There are vegetables to be grown, earth to be hoed, weeds to be picked, and wood to be chopped. Much of the potentially arable soil around the temple remains fallow, a situation Master Sheng-yen's students hope to remedy as more people come to Nong Chan Temple.

In this atmosphere, surrounded, by lush vegetation and misty mountains, it is easy to understand why students of Ch'an have always had a love affair with nature, regarding every opportunity to labor outdoors as a chance to meditate.

In the late afternoon the residents cease their labor and file upstairs for the evening service. After dinner, if Master Sheng-yen has returned to the Republic of China, he may lecture for a while. Otherwise they return to their rooms to study scriptures or meditate as they see fit.

Catching a flick at Hsimenting or watching a Peking opera is definitely out of the question – at least for those who have taken the vows of priesthood. According to the traditional Buddhist canon, all forms of “frivolous” entertainment are forbidden. So, for that matter, are romantic relations with members of the opposite sex, drinking, and carrying money. This last is often modified some what these days. After all, how could the ancient Bodhisattvas (holy men am women dedicated to guiding all leading creatures toward enlightenment) have foreseen that monks and nuns might need small change for buses and taxis?

Naturally, most people could not and should not live the highly disciplined life of a monk or nun. But Master Sheng-yen believes that serious training ought not to be just the prerogative of those who have shaved their heads. So four times every year he holds a week-long Ch'an meditation retreat open to monk and layman alike. Once rituals deeply rooted in Chinese Buddhism, extended meditation retreats have all but disappeared in recent years in the ROC. Master Sheng-yen is one of a handful of Ch'an masters who still conduct them regularly.

And every time he does, so many people sign up that he has to turn half the applicants away.

Why do so many Chinese, especially young people of college age, flock to the retreats? You might well wonder, considering retreat regulations.

Up every morning at 4:00. Meditating countless hours every day. Remaining silent. Arriving precisely on time for every activity. Doing physical labor. All this with the knowledge that breaking the rules may mean dismissal from the retreat.

As an American, I was perplexed by Ch'an retreat rituals. For example, when I first heard about retreat practices, I could not understand why Master Sheng-yen would occasionally wallop participants with the hsiang-pan, or “incense stick." Some uses of the stick, it is true, do not offend Western sensibilities. For example, it is often used to wake up drowsy meditators or loosen up knotted shoulder muscles. There is nothing like a good slap on the shoulder blades to revive energy.

But whacking someone with a piece of wood to “shock" them into a sudden understanding was beyond me. Never mind that the impact was rarely harder than a good back-slapping, To an American, it was “'corporal punishment.”

An American friend who had completed a Ch'an retreat tried to communicate to me the challenge of finishing the week. “I ran a marathon once and I used to think that was the toughest thing I'd ever accomplish," he said, smiling. “But when I did my first Ch'an retreat I realized there was no comparison. A marathon is two or three hours of agony, and then it’s over. A Ch'an retreat lasts a week."

Why all this seeming self-flagellation?

Master Sheng-yen answers the question best in his short book Ch’an Lectures. Admitting that Ch’an trainees are sometimes subjected to ordeals, he defends this practice by stressing that Ch'an “uses extreme pressure to uncover and completely utilize a person's hidden mental power.” The goal is to force him to "utilize his hidden power to save himself."

The idea of pain or trauma as an aid to self-development is nothing unique to Ch'an. A Catholic nun friend of mine recently told me that she is happy to have an opportunity to suffer because “if I want to help somebody else, I must know what it means to have died." And also Buscaglia, author of the best-selling book Living, Loving, and Learning, writes: “There are great moments in all our lives that were despairing. If you used them well, they helped you to grow and become a far greater person."

So the point of a Ch'an retreat is not to make a fetish of pain. It is conquering the pain and reaching new insights that bring some participants to return again and again.

Without Master Sheng-yen's guidance, though, it is doubtful that most participants would reach their goal. Alternately demanding, cajoling, humorous and stern, the strength of his personality is what ultimately pulls most people through the Ch'an retreat. One moment he may lay down the line: “You must leave the world behind you for these seven days. For a week this is you world." Another moment he may be telling side-splitting stories about ghosts rising up out of coffee cups. Or comforting someone for whom the strain has been too much.

Tall, slender, and seemingly very fragile, Master Sheng-yen is nonetheless able to lead eight week-long retreats every year - four in the United States and four in the Republic of China. In addition, he heads up the Buddhist studies program at Chinese Culture University on Yangmin Mountain, lectures frequently, and recently spent several weeks speaking in Singapore at the request of its government, which is attempting to reintroduce Buddhist thought into the educational curriculum.

Buddhism, like the rest of the world's great spiritual traditions, has had its share of sectarianism and internal division. Ch'an has been no exception to this phenomenon. In the Seventh Century A.D., it split into Northern and Southern schools, which stressed “gradual” and “sudden” enlightenment, respectively. Adherents of one school often refused to admit the validity of the other school's practice.

Happily, Master Sheng-yen has managed to steer clear of teaching Ch'an dogmatically. Many of the people who flock to his temple when he returns to the ROC are adherents of the Pure Land tradition, which holds that by sincerely reciting the name of Amitabha Buddha it is possible to become enlightened. Far from discouraging such forms of worship, Master Sheng-yen encourages these people (many of whom are of the older generation) to continue their practice, regarding it merely as Ch'an in another guise. Every Saturday evening a nian-fuo (“reciting of the Buddha's name") meeting is held at the Nong Chan Temple for their benefit.

Regardless of their spiritual stripe, the students of Master Sheng-yen share the conviction that he is one of the few remaining links in the Republic of China with the vibrant Ch'an Buddhism of China's past. Whether he can help spur a resurgence of general interest in the ancient discipline is still unclear. But at Nong Chan Temple, at least, the spirit of Ch'an is still alive.