促小師大義歸家山侍養
Urging the junior disciples to return to their home mountain to care for their teacher.
余少讀史。竊慕程嬰公孫杵臼之為人。念曰。持此心為人臣子者。可謂不忝所生矣。及長出家。乃曰。吾佛為三界法王。四生慈父。苟能持二子之心。為弟子者。可謂不負己靈矣。及讀傳燈諸祖機緣。見神光之斷臂。船子之覆舟。百丈之於馬祖。楊岐之於慈明。歎曰。苟忘身為法。若諸老之為心者。何患祖道之不昌。法門之不振乎。嗟夫。丈夫處世。既不能盡命竭力。以事人主榮名顯親。即當為法王忠臣慈父孝子。易地皆然。又何屑屑以事齷齪乎。故予自知。有向上事以來。此心翩翩。負超世之思。即處樊籠遊廛市。未嘗不置身冰雪。千巖萬壑中也。隆慶初。予居龍河講肆。識妙峰師。於稠人中。覩其貌悴骨剛。知為法器。雖未語而心許之矣。萬歷癸亥。余北遊上都。適遇於長安市。共坐龍華樹下。一語而決生死。乃結伴同參。共遊方外。過河中。山陰檀越。延之道院數月。是時宗尚童年。為沙彌。明年余同妙師。入清涼。置身萬年冰雪中嚴寒徹骨。幾死者數矣。時予幸有自信之地。越丁丑山陰檀越。以書抵清涼。屬宗從事法門。因著入槽廠。宗躍然負米採薪。履水踏雪。百務惟先。日夜無隙。眾皆推其精勤。然殊無短長。越辛巳冬。奉 慈旨。求 皇儲。薦 先帝。建大會於臺山。日集萬指。宗獨任點茶湯。晝則周旋不失一人。夜則以餘力課誦。余始心知其力能荷負。第未察其信根耳。明年壬午春。臺山會罷。余與妙師訣。師曰。某即不能荷錫相從。柰何吊影長途乎。乃目宗謂此子可代執役。因命宗曰。古人從師為法。誓死為期。爾其盡形竭力。儻中道志沮。當此生不面爾。其志之。明發。即理䇿東西。余同龍華老人。養痾於大行之障石巖。宗隻身以從。百務惟勤。凡操食時。必侍立輟餐而後已。察意之可否。以為憂喜。予飽亦飽。予偶不欲食。則涕泗交頤。亦終日不餐也。余每每私察。久之如一日。因謂龍華老人。此子天性純孝人也。子夏問孝。孔子曰色難。其是之謂乎。明年癸未。余即東蹈海上。藏修於牢山深處。人跡所不能至。神鬼之鄉也。余因入那羅窟而居之。披荊榛。臥草莾。犯風濤。涉險阻。艱難辛苦。不可殫述。人不堪其憂。而宗實甘心焉。余亦將謂老死丘壑。無復人世矣。居三年丙戌。蒙 聖天子詔。為 慈聖聖母頒大藏經。布天下名山。及二牢焉。余乃喟然歎曰。因緣障道。往哲痛心。福始禍先。前修明誡。意欲避之。宗與同伴安桂二侍者。進曰。師即無意人世。豈不上念 聖心。所以隆重法門。為斯民之福利乎。余乃翻然念曰。惟我 聖天子仁孝 聖母慈恩。以法為社稷蒼生福。某敢不竭躬盡瘁。以敷揚法化。上報 聖恩。法王忠臣。慈父孝子。實予所圖。第此海嶠遐陬。故稱蔑戾。苟不等心死誓。何以轉魔界而成佛土。爾輩試揣其衷。果能以法為心。畢命從事。則止之。否則去之。無使異日。作世諦流布。昧人天眼目也。安等唯唯。進曰。師唯何人。此惟何事。願師安意。以道自任。為法忘情。我輩敢不視師為行止。余於是拜受慈命。尅意建立。經營事務。無論巨細。一切委宗。而以安桂二人為知事。予但總其綱要耳。上賴 聖慈寵靈。不三年叢林告成。法道聿興。四方衲子日益至。時則東海洋洋佛國之風焉。天人冥會。轉化之機。蓋亦神且速矣。山門供眾。法物畢備。秋毫皆出宗心。建立規模。居然不減在昔。觀者以為天降地湧將為東鄙法幢盛世永永福田也。豎立未幾。狂魔競作。己丑歲即遭侵撓。余所經涉。無論污辱。即祁寒溽暑。奔走於風塵道路。冐生死之際者。不可指陳。而此心一念孤光。未嘗少易。宗輩之志愈益堅。三年如一日也。或謂余曰。古人言到處家山。以師高致。道眼視此。不啻輕塵聚沫。柰何惓惓於此。余曰。嘗聞世之君子。以身殉國則死國。以身殉法則死法。今蒙 慈恩。以法見托。而且表揚 聖孝。其事雖異其命實均。避難不義。棄命不忠。不義不忠。何以為法。假而以此即有封疆尺寸之寄。苟臨難而去之。又何以自處。寧效死而弗去。不為苟生以失經。或者唯唯。頃亦魔風頓息矣。又四年乙未。春二月。釁從中起。以魔事為借資。致 聖天子震怒。詔下金吾。逮及者眾。是時安已先去。宗與桂共嬰此難。余則以一死肩之。荷蒙 聖恩 詔遣雷陽。於是冬十月。出長安。與宗別。余觀往事如夢遊。亦未嘗一語及世諦常情也。宗送余河梁。余乃謂之曰。丈夫處世。固不戀戀為兒女態。況吾釋子。學出情法者乎。第爾從老人幾二十年矣。老人固未嘗以一語佛法累汝。不知汝於何處見老人乎。宗稽首曰。宗自事師以來。自知愚鈍。不敢外求。上不見有佛祖。下不見有禪道。唯知作務供眾生。於動靜閒忙疾病禍患死生之際。止此一念。直觀師心而已。是故師生則生。師死則死。余曰。我心無相。汝作麼觀。宗曰。師心若有相弟子則無今日也。余乃大笑而別。獨擕善侍者而南。明春三月抵雷陽。頻歲饑荒。瘴癘大作。余坐尸陀林中。毒氣炎蒸。交攻而至。殆者亦數矣。秋八月。奉檄來五羊。昔之在門者。亦接踵而至余見則詬罵曰。爾等各有出生死路脚跟。誰無一尺土。見我何為。皆痛斥而去。頃之宗亦自蒲中萬里相尋。躬事㸑煑。無閒在昔。粵省會亦遭疫癘。骸骼蔽野。余命宗率人親撿埋葬。不下萬餘。作津濟道場以拔之。會罷。促宗歸曰。爾何戀戀於此耶。余生平志在忘生。以學出情法者。今雖荷戈行伍。何莫非佛事。萬里比隣。太虗咫尺。以法界海慧觀之。了無去來生死之跡。又何嗟嗟作夢中顛倒耶。但冀爾識心達本。以金剛𦦨。爍破歷劫情塵。務使愛根習氣緣影蕩盡。毫無自欺。如此可謂不負佛恩。不辜本有。方是老人不負汝處也。否則抱佛而眠。猶不免為魔伴。況復守此幻身。而增空華障翳。究竟何為。且爾父母師長。今皆老矣。若棄彼取此。亦為法中之愚也。豈正信哉。爾其行矣。幸為謝諸故人。生當重相逢。死則長別離。異日常寂光中。回視今日。猶作夢中事也。爾其識之。無忘所囑(丁酉仲春二十五日書於壘壁之旅泊齊)。
In my youth, I studied history and admired the characters of Cheng Ying and Gongsun Chujiu. I thought to myself, if one can hold such dedication while serving as a minister or a son, one has surely not lived in vain. When I grew older and became a monk, I realized that the Buddha is the Dharma King of the Three Realms and the compassionate father of all living beings. If one can maintain that same dedication toward the Buddha as those two men did toward their lord, then one has surely not failed one’s own spiritual nature.
Upon reading the teachings of the patriarchs in the *Transmission of the Lamp*, such as Shenguang severing his arm, Chuanzi capsizing his boat, Baizhang’s service to Mazu, and Yangqi’s service to Ciming, I sighed and said: "If one forgets one's own body for the sake of the Dharma, following the hearts of those old masters, why should we worry about the Dharma not flourishing or the lineage not thriving?" Alas, a person of true spirit, if they cannot sacrifice their life and energy to serve their sovereign and bring honor to their parents, should at least be a loyal minister to the Dharma King and a filial son to the compassionate father. The principle is the same in both cases; why bother with petty, trivial concerns?
Therefore, since I first discovered the "matter of looking upward," my heart has been filled with the desire to transcend the world. Even when living in the "cages" of society or traveling through busy marketplaces, I have always placed myself among ice, snow, deep canyons, and vast ravines. In the early years of the Longqing reign, while teaching at Longhe, I met Master Miaofeng. Amidst the crowd, I saw his haggard appearance but resolute spirit, and I knew him to be a vessel for the Dharma. Though we had not yet spoken, I accepted him in my heart.
In the year of *Guixi* (1583) during the Wanli reign, I traveled north to the capital and happened to meet him under a *longhua* tree in Chang'an. One word settled the matter of life and death, and we vowed to practice together and roam the world. Passing through Shangyin, a patron invited us to stay at a temple for several months. At that time, Zong was a young novice. The following year, Master Miao and I went to Mount Wutai and exposed ourselves to the ten-thousand-year ice and snow. The cold was bone-piercing, and we nearly died several times. At that time, I was fortunate to have a ground of inner certainty.
In the year of *Dingchou* (1577), a patron from Shangyin sent a letter to Mount Wutai requesting that Zong engage in Dharma work. He was assigned to the granary; Zong leapt to the task, carrying rice, gathering firewood, walking through water, and treading on snow. He was always first in every duty, working day and night without a moment’s rest. Everyone praised his diligence, yet he never complained of any hardship.
In the winter of the year *Xinsi* (1581), following the Empress Dowager’s command, a great assembly was held at Mount Wutai to pray for the Imperial Heir and honor the late Emperor. Ten thousand people gathered daily. Zong was solely responsible for preparing tea and broth. During the day, he moved about tending to everyone without missing a soul, and at night, he used his remaining strength for study and chanting. Only then did I realize that he was capable of bearing great burdens, though I had yet to test the depth of his faith.
The following spring, *Renwu* (1582), the assembly at Mount Wutai ended. As I was parting from Master Miao, he said, "I cannot follow you with my staff, so why should I be left to mourn my own shadow on a long journey?" He looked at Zong and said, "This youth can take my place in serving you." He then charged Zong: "The ancients followed masters for the sake of the Dharma, pledging their lives to the goal. You must exert your full strength; if you allow your resolve to falter midway, then in this life, you shall never see me again. Remember this."
At dawn, we set out. I, along with the elder Longhua, rested at Zhangshi Rock on Mount Taihang to recover from illness. Zong followed me alone, serving with utmost diligence. Whenever it was time to eat, he would stand by and wait until I had finished before taking his own meal. He observed my moods to gauge my happiness or worry; if I was full, he was full. If I happened not to want to eat, he would weep and remain hungry all day. I often observed him privately, and over a long period, he remained as consistent as on the first day. I told the elder Longhua, "This youth is a person of pure, innate filial piety. When Zixia asked about filial piety, Confucius said that the difficulty lies in one's demeanor—surely this is what he meant."
The following year, *Guiwei* (1583), I crossed the sea to the east and hid in the depths of Mount Lao—a place beyond human reach, a land of spirits and ghosts. I moved into Naluo Cave, clearing away thorns and brambles, sleeping on wild grass, braving wind and waves, and crossing dangerous paths. The hardships were beyond description. People could not bear the distress, but Zong embraced it with a sweet heart. I thought I would grow old and die in these hills, never to see the world of men again.
After three years, in the year *Bingxu* (1586), I received an edict from the Holy Emperor to distribute the Great Canon, issued by the Empress Dowager, to famous mountains across the land, including Mount Lao. I sighed, "Karma often obstructs the path; the ancients felt deep pain over this. 'Fortune is the forerunner of disaster'—the ancestors left clear warnings. I intended to avoid this." Zong and his companion, the attendant Angui, stepped forward and said, "Master, even if you have no interest in the human world, should you not consider the Holy heart? This is a way to elevate the Dharma and bring welfare to the common people."
I had a sudden change of heart: "Out of the benevolence and filial piety of our Holy Emperor and the compassionate grace of the Empress Dowager, the Dharma is being used for the welfare of the state and the people. How can I not exhaust myself to spread the Dharma and repay this Imperial Grace? To be a loyal minister to the Dharma King and a filial son to the compassionate father is truly my goal."
However, this place was a remote, rugged cliff, long considered desolate. "If we do not share the same heart and swear a death-defying oath, how can we transform the realm of demons into a Buddha-land? You must examine your own hearts. If you can truly take the Dharma as your heart and follow this work until the end of your lives, then stay. If not, then leave. Do not let this become some worldly pursuit later on, deceiving the eyes of men and gods."
An and the others replied respectfully, "Master, who are you, and what is this work? Please set your mind at ease. Take responsibility for the Way and forget yourself for the sake of the Dharma; how would we dare to look to anyone but you for our own conduct?"
I then bowed to accept the merciful command and focused my efforts on the construction. Regardless of the size of the task, I entrusted everything to Zong, with An and Gui as managers; I only oversaw the essentials. Relying on the Holy Grace and spiritual support, the monastery was completed in less than three years. The Dharma began to flourish, and monks from the four directions arrived in increasing numbers. The atmosphere was that of a magnificent Buddhist land in the East; the connection between heaven and humanity brought about transformation in a way that was truly miraculous and swift.
The monastery provided for the masses, and all the ritual implements were complete; every detail came from Zong’s efforts. The scale and order of the establishment were in no way inferior to the past. Observers believed it was a place where heaven descended and the earth emerged, destined to be a flourishing pillar of the Dharma in the East and a field of blessings for all time.
But soon after it was established, malicious demons rose in competition. In the year *Jichou* (1589), we suffered interference. Everything I went through—not to mention the humiliations, but the bitter cold and sweltering heat, the running through dusty roads, and risking life and death—is impossible to recount. Yet, the single light of my mind never wavered in the slightest. The resolve of Zong and his group only grew firmer; it was as if three years were but one day.
Someone once said to me, "The ancients said that wherever you are is home. With your high attainments, viewed through the eye of the Way, all this is no more than light dust or gathering foam. Why are you so preoccupied with this place?"
I replied, "I have heard that in this world, an honorable person dies for the country when sacrificing themselves for the state, and dies for the Dharma when sacrificing themselves for the truth. Now, I have received Imperial Grace to take charge of the Dharma, and furthermore, to manifest the Holy filial piety. Though the tasks differ, the mandate is the same. To flee from difficulty is unjust; to abandon one's duty is disloyal. If I am unjust and disloyal, how can I represent the Dharma? Even if this were merely a small patch of territory I was entrusted with, if I left in the face of danger, how could I hold my head up? I would rather die here than leave and live a life that fails the scriptural mandate." The person nodded in silence, and soon after, the demonic wind subsided.
Four years later, in the spring of the year *Yiwei* (1595), trouble started from within. Using the "demon affair" as a pretext, the Holy Emperor was greatly angered, and royal warrants were issued. Many were arrested. By then, An had already left; Zong and Gui were caught in the crisis, while I took the full weight of it upon myself. By Imperial Grace, I was exiled to Leiyang. In the tenth month of that winter, I left Chang'an and parted with Zong. I saw the past as a dream, and never once did I speak of worldly matters.
As Zong saw me off at the river, I said to him, "A person of spirit does not cling to sentimental, childish attachments, especially us, the followers of the Buddha, whose learning transcends emotions and forms. Yet, you have followed this old man for nearly twenty years. I have never burdened you with a single word of 'Dharma'—I wonder, where have you seen this old man?"
Zong bowed his head and said, "Since I began serving the Master, I have known myself to be dull-witted, so I dared not seek anything outside. Above, I do not see Buddhas or patriarchs; below, I do not see Zen or the Way. I only know how to work and provide for the assembly. Amidst movement or stillness, busyness or leisure, sickness, disaster, or death—I have only this one thought: to gaze directly at the Master’s heart. Therefore, if the Master lives, I live; if the Master dies, I die."
I said, "My heart has no form. How do you gaze upon it?"
Zong said, "If the Master’s heart had form, your disciple would not be here today." I laughed aloud and we parted.
I took only the attendant Shan south with me. The following spring, in the third month, I arrived in Leiyang. For years, there had been famine, and pestilence raged. I sat in a cemetery forest, where poisonous vapors and heat pressed in from all sides, and I nearly died several times. In the eighth month of autumn, I received an order to go to Wuyang. Those who had been with me at the gate followed one after another. Seeing them, I scolded them: "You each have your own path to birth and death; who does not have a foot of ground to stand on? Why come to see me?" They all left, stung by my rebuke.
Soon after, Zong also traveled thousands of miles from Pu to find me, personally attending to the cooking and chores, just as in the past. The capital was also suffering from the plague, and corpses covered the fields. I ordered Zong to lead others to collect and bury them—no fewer than ten thousand. I held a Dharma service to deliver them. When the service ended, I urged Zong to return: "Why do you cling to this? My life’s ambition has been to forget life itself, for my learning transcends emotions and forms. Even if I am now like a soldier in the ranks, is this not all the Buddha’s work? A distance of ten thousand miles is as close as the distance between neighbors; the vast void is but a foot away. Viewing this with the wisdom of the Dharma-realm ocean, there is not even a trace of coming or going, birth or death. Why then sigh and indulge in the delusions of a dream? I only hope that you recognize your mind and reach the source, using the fire of the Diamond to incinerate the dust of emotions accumulated over countless eons. You must strive so that the roots of desire, the habits of attachment, and the shadows of past experiences are completely exhausted, without a shred of self-deception. Only then can you be said to have not failed the Buddha’s grace, nor辜 (betrayed) your original nature. That is the only way this old man will not have failed you. Otherwise, even if you sleep while holding a Buddha, you will not escape being a companion of demons—let alone holding onto this illusory body and adding the obstructions of 'flowers in the sky.' What is the point of that? Moreover, your parents and teachers are now all old. If you abandon them for my sake, that is also a folly in the Dharma. How can this be correct faith? You must go. Please convey my thanks to all our old friends. If we live, we shall meet again; if we die, we are parted forever. In the distant future, in the Eternal Light, looking back at today, it will all seem like a dream. Remember this; do not forget what I have instructed."
(Written on the 25th day of the second month of the *Dingyou* year (1597), at the travel lodge of the Leibi walls.)