Recorded Sayings of Chan Master Chulin of Beijing (北京楚林禪師語錄)

Preface to the Recorded Sayings of Chan Master Chulin Rui

Xuefeng asked Deshan, "In the great matter of the ancestral teaching, does a student have any part in it?" Deshan struck him with his staff and said, "What are you saying?" In that moment, Xuefeng felt as if the bottom had fallen out of a barrel. Yet Yantou remarked, "What enters through the gate is not the family treasure. If you wish to spread the great teaching, it must flow directly, one by one, from your own heart and mind—only then can it cover heaven and earth."

Nowadays, most people cannot emulate the ancients in truly awakening to clarity and truly practicing it. Their study deepens day by day, their intellectual understanding broadens day by day, but when they encounter a genuine patch-robed monk who casually gives them a sharp poke, they remain like a lacquer bucket still holding lacquer—they haven't yet reached the point where the bottom falls out. How can we then hope for them to meet conditions without borrowing, to penetrate everywhere they touch, to turn their bodies and cast shadows outside the night-bright curtain, to stride broadly through the thorny forest?

In various places, three hundred or five hundred expound on Chan in grand fashion, opening side doors and carving narrow paths—how is this any different from chanting spells to feed feathers or grafting wings onto melons? There are even those who tread the hall in the morning and transmit the robe and bowl by evening, walking in lines along the streets, too numerous to count, all calling themselves guests of the ancestral school. Compared to those who wore out seven meditation mats and endured three severe blows, why is the difference in speed and sharpness so vast?

If the Yellow-Faced Ancient One were still here, he would surely cast off jewels for rags, turn the wheel of Dharma differently, take up the dung-removing tool, and urge diligent work. He would first have them thoroughly clean up the filth and disorder from before, waiting until they themselves despised their former minds and accomplished great resolve—only then could he speak with them about the family business of the ancestors. Otherwise, it would be like burning sandalwood together with thorns, treating treasures as no better than mud and sand. Those with discernment would surely stamp their feet, wring their wrists, and deeply lament this.

In the past, Fachang sought someone who didn't understand Chan to be the National Teacher, but to this day no one has answered the call. Is it because they disdain to curry favor? Or is it because people's faculties are inferior? I once said to a group of students: "The entire canon of teachings and the seventeen hundred cases—the Buddhas and ancestors pointed directly to the matter of being human—all boil down to a single word: 'turn.' If you can penetrate this meaning, you are one who understands. If you glue the tuning pegs and hope to continue ancient melodies, if you look at a diagram to seek a fine steed or search for a fine forest in a different place, you are far from forgetting words and grasping the meaning."

Chulin Ruigong is like a nephew to me in the Dharma gate. His spirit is lofty, his mind free and unrestrained. In middle age, he broke open the cage, suddenly abandoning worldly glory. Receiving the seal of approval at Hongshan, he became known as a Chan general. In the path of knives and the sea of blood, he offers people sweet dew; within the clash of metal spears and iron horses, he shows people the broad road. Thus, lords and great men sincerely turn to him, receiving him with bowed heads and reverent faces, welcoming him to the capital, seating him on the high seat, causing the cloud of compassion to spread equally and the sun of wisdom to shine anew. The Venerable Ruigong certainly has the means to bring this about.

His disciples collected the records of his talks from five assemblies, from his teaching in Hunan to his support of the teaching in the Golden Terrace, totaling several volumes. Patrons further pooled resources to carve blocks for printing, to widely circulate them. They asked me for a preface. Having read it through, I see that he does not follow contemporary habits, does not tread worn-out phrases, but according to his capacity points things out, naturally and aptly. Each instance unfolds from his own heart and mind, without borrowing others' strength, not seeking to match the ancients yet fitting with them, not striving to cut off from the present yet uniquely differing from it. Brother Xiaotang can be said to have a true successor.

Some may say, "In the clear eye, why put in dust?" I reply: "The entire great earth is the single eye of a monk—why begrudge these few pages? It is like the eye's light illuminating the scene before it: its light is perfect and lacks love or hate. If you insist on removing mountains, rivers, and the great earth to make the eye's light broad and spacious, that is like grasping at empty flowers as having stems and exhausting yourself to sweep them away—different from the vast, empty clear sky. Your foolishness surpasses foolishness; this is surely not a wise plan. If the film over the eye is not yet gone, then using this as a golden scraper for one sweep is not without its use." The other fell silent, so I wrote this and gave it to him.