The Praises of Amida/Chapter 2
II.
Idols and Religious Symbols.
"Thus spake Buddha to Fu-Ō: The Forest of Iran is in area ten yojanas square, and there is in it one plant only of sendan. The sendan being as yet only a root, and not having appeared above-ground, the whole forest of iran is foul and devoid of fragrancy, so that when the iran is in flower and puts forth fruit, all other plants and animals droop and die. But afterwards, when the sendan pushes up and grows into a bush, the air is filled with beauty, and all living creatures are renovated.
"Then Buddha spake again to Fu-Ō: It is just the same when living creatures in the midst of life and death, think of the Buddha in their heart. If they meditate on Him well and without ceasing they will certainly come into His presence. If once they pass from death unto life, then will they put away from them all Evil and Sin and make perfect the Great Mercy. The Meditation on Buddha is like the plant of sendan, which puts new life into the whole forest of iran."[1]
1. In the days before the Restoration of Meiji, when the whole country was bubbling over with talk about the "bringing back of the Mikado," "the up-holding of the Shogunate," and other kindred subjects, there was a samurai of Mito, Takeda Kōunsai by name, who conceived a great desire to serve his country by some distinguished deed of valour or act of wisdom, and who, for that purpose, collected a band of like-minded knights and set out for Kyōto. But the fear of the Tokugawa Government still lay heavy on the majority of the clans, and travelling from district to district was both dangerous and and difficult, and so it came to pass that after making their way safely, through many perils, as far as Echizen, the little band was one day suddenly arrested, and forthwith clapped into prison.
2. At this the whole of the samurai were thrown into an agony of despair and indignation, their anger being especially furious when they thought of the unjust way in which had been arrested; and once they went so far in their fury as to seize the arm of the officer who was passing their food into the cell through a little window, and to maltreat it shamefully.
3. But I must tell you that in this band of wandering knights there was one, a mere lad of some twelve or thirteen years of age, who, in spite of his youth, won golden opinions for himself by the quiet dignity of his behaviour and the practical wisdom of his sentiments, and who, while the others were uproarious and insubordinate, was always respectful and obedient to the prison authorities, who, in their turn, came to think very highly of him.
It was noticed after a while that the lad constantly carried with him two dolls. These dolls were at first supposed to be mere playthings,—toys utterly unworthy of a boy who aspired to be a knight-errant;—but such was far from being the case. The lad treated these dolls with the utmost reverence. In the morning, on rising from his bed, he would set them before him, reverently fold his hands, and greet them as though they were his real parents.
6. "Good morning, Father," he would say, "Good morning, Mother." When meal-time came, he would set them before his tray and again bow down to them with respectful reverence. "By your leave," he would say to them, "I will now take my dinner. I thank you for for what you have provided for me."
Never a night passed but he bade them sleep well, and took them to bed in his arms. This he did every day without change, until at last even his hard-hearted gaolers noticed that the dolls had something to do with the lad's constantly quiet and respectful demeanour, and took to treating his doll-playing (as they had at first deemed it to be) with sympathetic regard.
4. I am free to say that I was much struck when I first heard this story. Looked at from the point of view of ethics alone, the extreme reverence which this young lad had for his parents and the warmth of the affection which led him, even in prison, never to omit the proper expression of his regard for them, is for us of this generation, who are so constantly guilty of breaches of filial piety, a most excellent teaching and example. If we go a step further, and reflect on this incident from the point of view of religion, we shall find that it also contains doctrinal elements of the greatest value.
5. It was a saying among the Sages of old that the body was a prison. By this they meant that man, by reason of his body, was tied and bound with the chains of mean lusts, and that his heart, for the same reason, could never have free play for its affections and desires. This is a self-evident truth; if, however, we enlarge this thought, it is not merely the individual body of man, but the whole of human life[2] which is a prison,—and a prison, moreover, the bars of which it is impossible to break.
6. Why this should be is a point that can be verified from our experience. For consider. We are hedged in on all sides, within and without, so that we cannot always do what we should like to do. Try as we will, we cannot alter the changes of the seasons: indeed, to come down from great things to small, we can not make our friends do what we would have them do, we cannot force our brothers and sisters to fashion themselves to our tastes, nor guide our parents, wives, and children, to conform in all things to our ways. Nay, we cannot even absolutely control our own bodies or regulate our own hearts. We will say nothing about exercising influence over others; we cannot, with all our efforts, drag ourselves away from sin, or force ourselves into the paths of virtue: the perverse tendency of our human nature impels us to do the evil that we would not, and to leave undone the good that we fain would do. And this is not the only ill that flesh is heir to: birth, age, disease, and death, press upon all with an impartial severity which there is no mitigating and no avoiding. We may wear the red garb of the convict or not, it makes no difference: all alike receive the sentence of death. One day, without any warning, and without chance of reprieve, this sentence will be executed upon us, and we shall stand helplessly there, riveted, as it were, with fetters of necessity, whilst our doom is fulfilled upon us.
7. "The word cannot," said Napoleon, "is only to be found in the dictionary of the fool." In the days when our experience was limited, we admired this sentence as containing a mighty truth. As we grew in wisdom and knowledge, we found that Napoleon himself ended his days a prisoner in St. Helena, whence escape was impossible, and so we learned that the word cannot is certainly to be found in the dictionary of the wise man as well as in that of the fool. We now know that this human life, which in our youth seemed to us a pleasure-park through which we might roam at will, is in reality nought but a prison-house, in which we find ourselves cribbed and confined, and from which we shall never escape till the sentence of death comes to set us free. We may say what we please about the justice or injustice of the proceedings which have brought us to this place of confinement. We may chafe and fret as we will, but we cannot break through the prison gate nor climb over the encircling wall. What then are we to do?
8. Now we get the excellent lesson to be learned from the lad in Takeda Kōunsai's band of wandering knights. The lad was, as we have seen, in the company of a set of wrathful, shouting, impatient, bravoes, and received exactly the same treatment as they did. Young, however though he was, he was no partaker with them in their turbulent behaviour, but remained patiently in prison, possessing his soul. It was the dolls, the symbols of his absent parents, that enabled him thus meekly to bear his sufferings. The dolls helped him to keep his mind fixed on his parents, and whensoever he thought of them his heart broke through its prison-gates, and transported him to his distant home, and to the happiness of being at his father's and mother's side. In other words, the dolls were the flying-machine which carried his heart beyond the narrow bounds of the prison cell. Just as the general, besieged in an isolated fortress, is able, by means of a balloon, to communicate with his friends outside, so, by means of the dolls, this lad was enabled to fly to his parents' side, to be warmed and comforted by their tender love, and to forget for a while the pains of the cheerless dungeon.
We men, living in the prison of human life, have likewise a need of similar dolls. We need "dolls" to act as flying machines to enable our hearts to soar to the place where dwells the true Father of us all, to the Presence of the Hotoke. In other words, we need to have some representation of the Tathāgata which can be apprehended by the senses. The lad of our story,—he was only a lad,—got his pleasure from the reverence he paid to the dolls which symbolized his earthly parents: and we,—poor prisoners, fretting and chafing in the dungeon of human life,—need as aids to our perfect comfort, case, and spiritual strength, some symbolic representation of our true Father, the Tathāgata.
Now, where shall we get this symbol of the Tathāgata from? Shall we get an image or a picture to represent Him, and pay it reverence? We may. An image is a precious thing, and so is a picture; but we cannot always be worshipping them. Is there any symbol that we can always reverence, and if so, where? Yes, gentlemen, there is:—there is the Sacred Name to which we ascribe all honour. That is for us the true "doll," the real image of our true worship.
9. Many people, who do not understand our beliefs, say that Buddhism is a despicable faith, because it recognizes the use of religious images, pictures, and symbols. That is but a shallow criticism, is it not? And yet there are some people who are afraid of this shallow criticism, and who try to deny the teachings of their faith, or to make excuses for it. But it is a great mistake to do so. It cannot be denied that Buddhism is what shallow critics would call "idolatrous." That is just what it is, and it is one of the most excellent features of our religion that it teaches and sanctions the use of sacred images. That lad in the prison in Echizen, with his images of his parents which none of the others had, how greatly he must have been comforted and cheered by their presence with him! It is precisely in the same way that we, in this world of confusion, which, whether we view it from without or from within, is a world of pain and sorrow, are cheered and comforted by visible representations of the Tathāgata who is the True Father of us all.
10. We need not trouble ourselves about the material used in making these images. Half-an inch of decayed wood, a sheet of old paper, a lump of clay, a block of metal,—anything will do so long as it is a symbolical representation, and prevents our forgetful hearts from becoming oblivious of the Tathāgata. Before these symbols we bow down, and in doing so our hearts are lifted up in thought to the Great Heart of the Tathāgata. No sooner is this done than our hearts, confined though they are within the prison of the body, break through the strong prison-gates leap over the high dungeon-walls, and rise joyfully to the enjoyment of Happiness in the Buddha's land. If it were not for them, we might forget the Buddha as many a man forgets his parents when he has nothing to remind him of them. We should be like the turbulent, quarrelsome, vagrant-knights in the prison of Echizen: we should forget the Tathāgata, and remain hopelessly involved in the meshes of Suffering.
But some will say, "We have no images, yet we never forget the Tathāgata: our hearts can never forget him." Such men are exceptions: we ordinary beings, who are always falling into habits of forgetfulness, cannot possibly afford to do without the help of images and symbols. For they are, as I have already said, the flying machines which transport our hearts to the peaceful enjoyment of the Paradise of the Pure Land.
11. Images of gold, clay, or wood, and painted pictures,—we reverence them all alike as being all equally precious. We stand on the top of a flight of moss-grown steps that lead to some venerable, half-ruined temple embowered in fallen leaves, and there comes over us an indescribable feeling of reverential awe which strikes our inmost hearts. This feeling comes to us from the sight, in the shrine, of some image or picture in which the artist has done his best to pourtray the figure and heart of the Tathāgata Who has saved us. It is, however, but an indirect, secondary, representation that we thus get, and a direct representation is far better than any symbolic portrait. And therefore we write the Holy Name to which we ascribe all Glory, and take it as a direct representation of the Being Whom we worship. We are, then, no longer concerned with the artist's conceptions about the Tathāgata: we have before us the Holy Name itself, the direct revelation of the character of Him in Whom we trust. In giving us His Name, the Tathāgata has given us a part of Himself, and that, as the Sage of Concord observes, is the truest of all gifts.
It is perfectly true. To give oneself, and not anything that merely represents oneself, is the truest and best of all gifts. And the best way to give oneself is to give oneself wholly and not in part. When a shepherd gives one of the sheep that he has reared, he gives a part of himself: when the young girl makes a present of a handkerchief which she herself has embroidered, she is giving a part of herself. But when the Tathāgata revealed to us His Name, what He gave us was the Whole of Himself. The shepherd can go on living without his sheep, and the maiden can survive the loss of her handkerchief: but the Tathāgata cannot live without His Name, for It contains the whole of His Divine Heart, and the whole of His Boundless, Ineffable, Mercy. It was the Tathāgata's desire to give us Himself wholly, and for that purpose He revealed His Sacred Name, the revelation of His Divine Heart, and gave it to us. There can be no representation of the Tathāgata more direct than this, for Rennyo Shōnin spoke the truth when He said that a picture was better than an image, but that the Divine Name was better than a picture. When we bow down before an image or a picture we have a dim and uncertain realization of the Tathāgata's Heart: the dimness is changed to bright certainty when we hear the Sacred Name and understand all that the Name implies. The Sacred Name is the True Image of the Tathāgata, the living photograph. Wherever we are we can worship it, and whenever we contemplate it we can see in it the movings of the Divine Heart. Nor is it the workmanship of some other human hand: it is the picture of Himself which He Himself has taken. Nay, it is not even a photograph: it is the Tathāgata Himself, it is His very Divine Heart. And when we hear the Name pronounced, it is the Tathāgata Himself who comes to us.
Hence, when we listen to the import of the Divine Name, and when we reverently bow ourselves before it, though our bodies may be confined within the prison-walls of human life, yet the Tathāgata's Mercy and His Spirit descend straight into our hearts, lighten the darkness of our captive souls, take from our trembling minds the fear of impending doom, and deliver them from the dread anticipation of a torment which knows no end or cessation. "In the lowest depths of misery," says the Scripture, "if men have but a glimpse of the glory of this Name, their sorrows and pains shall all cease, and the joy of salvation shall be theirs." This happiness is within our reach, by virtue of this Name alone.
12. And now we have a solid reason for rejoicing in this prison-house of the human life. Let us think for a moment. How came that happiness to be ours? Was it not due to our coming into possession of the Divine Name which is the true Image of the Tathāgata? And why was this Divine Name communicated to us? And why do we yearn for it and pay it reverence? Has it not all come from the contrast to the feelings we had when we were conscious of being confined and tormented by the pains of human life, as in a prison-house? And if so, may we not consider that these very pains of ours have been the motive cause which procured for us access to this great joy? If so, the prison-house is more than just a prison: it is a place full of meaning and import, it is the vestibule of Paradise. Much more, if we consider that whenever the Divine Name comes to us, it is the Coming of the Tathāgata Himself, then the Prison becomes changed to the immediate Presence of the Tathāgata. There is now therefore no reason why we should desire to leave our prison-house. When the friends of Socrates advised him to escape from the gaol at Athens, he declined to follow their counsel, but waited quietly for the execution of the death-sentence. In like manner, we can rest tranquilly in our wretched prison-house, and wait for the right moment when the Tathāgata shall come to summon us to our rest.
13. Two poor little dolls brought peace to the lad in the Echizen prison. One leaf of the sendan-flower can affect a whole grove of the poisonous iran-tree. The One Name of the Tathāgata can bring peace to us in the prison-house of life. The lad paid worship and reverence morning and evening before his dolls: so likewise we, when we rise in the morning, when we lie down at night, when we eat and when we work, when we are in sorrow and when we are in joy, ever meditate on the Divine Name and never suffer it to be absent from us. The Name is to us the strength wherewith we conquer, and the sword wherewith we slay our foes.
14. Consider this. Two thousand four hundred years ago, in the ancient palace of Rajagriha in Central India, which was his prison, Sakyamuni revealed this name to Vaidehi the Queen, and saved her from her Sufferings. So likewise we, with this name committed to us, and worshipping it with devotion, immured though we are in our burning prison-house, desire with Vaidehi to feel the cool breezes of Salvation blowing pleasantly around us, and, together with all the Saved, to be entrusted with this Sacramental Symbol of Saving Grace.
15. The fires of the conflagration are all around us: but if our Father be with us, what shall we fear? And if the Tathāgata's Name be always in us, need we ever complain of loneliness or lack of courage?
- ↑ Sendan and Iran are the name of trees.
- ↑ This must be understood of course with reference to the doctrine of re-incarnations which is universally held by Buddhists. It is a difficult thing, they say, to be born a man. Once born as a man it is of course easy enough to fall back into one of the lower grades of sentient life. It requires a certain amount of merit to keep at the human level: to pass beyond it into the higher ranges of life can only be done by a very great effort. But, says the Amida-ist theologian, a man, quá man, is in a position to receive the call of the Tathāgata, and then he can burst through the prison-walls of human life and rise to higher planes.