The Praises of Amida/Chapter 4
IV.
The True Heart.
[The underlying thought of this sermon, which is founded on two texts, taken, the one from the Yuigwa Kyō, and the other from a later Japanese book named Sanzengi, is the same as in the following poem by the late Miss Havergal.]
UNDER THE SURFACE.
I.
On the surface, foam and roar,
Restless heave and passionate dash,
Shingle rattle along the shore,
Gathering boom and thundering crash.
Under the surface, soft green light,
A hush of peace and an endless calm,
Winds and waves, from a choral height,
Falling sweet as a far-off psalm.
On the surface, swell and swirl,
Tossing weed and drifting waif,
Broken spars that the mad waves whirl,
Where wreck-watching rocks they chafe.
Under the surface, loveliest forms,
Feathery fronds with crimson curl,
Treasures too deep for the raid of storms,
Delicate coral and hidden pearl.
II.
On the surface, lilies white,
A painted skiff with a singing crew,
Sky reflections soft and bright,
Tremulous crimson, gold, and, blue.
Under the surface, life in death,
Shiny tangle and oozy moans,
Creeping things with watery breath,
Blackening roots and whitening bones.
On the surface, a shining reach,
A crystal couch for the moon-beam's rest,
Starry ripples along the beach,
Sunset songs from the breezy west.
Under the surface, glooms and fears,
Treacherous currents, swift and strong,
Deafening rush in drowning ears,—
Have ye rightly read my song?
1. I once read a story written by an American novelist, the hero of which was a young Christian preacher who enjoyed a great reputation for holiness among his fellow-believers. This man had in times past been guilty of impure relations with a young lady, the memory of which so tormented his conscience that he could not never obtain for himself that Peace of which he preached to others. His congregation, however, knew nothing of this, and thought so highly of their minister's piety and learning that they almost worshipped him as though he were Christ come again in the flesh. All this was a great source of trouble to him, and the more he saw himself honoured by his flock, the more acute became his distress, until at last he could bear his grief no longer, but made an open confession of his guilt to his assembled parishioners and died of a broken heart.
2. The first time I read this story I was rather puzzled by it. The man was a scholar and a theologian, and, though there was nothing strange about his being troubled in conscience, I felt that he ought to have known that Jesus in Whom he believed had promised forgiveness of sins, "not seven times only but unto seventy times seven;" and I could not, therefore, understand why he should not have trusted to Christ's Mercy to pardon his sin, grievous though it undoubtedly was, now that he had come to Him with heartfelt contrition and open confession. Nor was there any reason why he should have troubled himself about his worldly reputation; for when a man enters the paths of religion he leaves these things behind him, and there is no question about his having been a good man or a bad one in the past. I could not understand, therefore, why he should have despaired, or given way to remorse and shame.
3. On second thoughts, however, I saw that it was not quite so strange; for the true cause of his sorrow flashed across me, and I realized that his pain all came from the deceitful heart within him. Deep down in his inmost soul, he felt the shame of the sin he had committed, and it was an unbearable thought that he, with such a load of guilt on his conscience, should enjoy such a reputation for sanctity among the members of his flock. But for a long time he lacked the courage to break down and destroy his false reputation. His resolution failed him, time and time again, for in his heart there still lurked the desire to preserve his false glory. And so, on the one hand, he was conscious of being a sinner, whilst, on the other, he was anxious to retain the reputation of a saint. This is what I mean by saying that his heart was deceitful: and it was this deceitful heart that was the cause of his intolerable unrest.
4. What I have said does not apply only to the case of this young Minister: it is equally applicable to us all. Human life is full of Suffering and Unrest, of which there may be many immediate causes, but which can almost always be ultimately traced to the one principal cause, the Lying Heart. Falsehood is the foundation of evil, and it produces duplicity. A bad man pretends to be good, an ugly woman tries to look pretty, a lustful person puts on the airs of a prudish man: there is duplicity in them all, and where there is duplicity there is no inward peace. The tranquillity of the heart is disturbed, and continual strife ensues.
5. We need not look far for illustrations of this. When a poor man lives as a poor man, he is free from care; but he is often not satisfied unless he is reputed to be rich. He will borrow money to buy himself fine clothes, and will stoop to all sorts of meanness in order to live in a grand house. A man whose knowledge is limited may get on very well, so long as he does not pretend to be wiser than he actually is; but let him once go beyond the narrow limits of his knowledge, and he will bring himself into all manner of difficulties; for even if he avoid actual difficulties, he will certainly disturb his own peace of mind. Sometimes, too, when a man has brought himself into trouble, he might, by an open confession of his error, get himself out of his entanglement, with comparatively little inconvenience either to himself or his friends. But no: he puts on a brave face, and keeps the mischief to himself, till he ends by bringing no end of trouble on himself and others. Or else, he finds his efforts at concealment have been like the struggles of a flea that buries its head to conceal its body, and he awakes one day to find himself the laughing-stock of his neighbours. I think that all my hearers have had some experience of such cases in their daily lives.
6. These things may be but trifles; but when sin is added to sin, the suffering gradually increases, and the load of care grows heavier, until the man is at last overwhelmed with a restlessness and fear that he can no longer conceal. The young pastor in the American novel was an example of this. Another instance that comes to my mind is Jean Valjean in Les Miserables, who could find no peace after he had escaped from prison. A few years ago, a prisoner escaped from a House of Correction in Hokkaido, and having done so, found that he could not get a moment's peace, so great was his fear of being taken and sentenced to another term of punishment. When the breeze rustled in the trees, he thought it was a detective on his track, the sound of dropping water filled him with apprehensions of a policeman on the watch, the bark of a dog set him trembling, the shadow of a man gave him the shudders. The thing at last got so much on his nerves that, with a spirit broken by fear, he concluded that prison was the right place for him, and quietly returned to give himself up to the authorities. This is a case in point. The man had been putting a fictitious value on himself, and had considered that he was a good man unjustly treated. And so he ran away. Presently his conscience showed him what was his real value, and then he went back to prison, and found peace.
7. There is another form of deceit which is the exact opposite of the "fictitious value" to which I have just alluded. It is when a man tries to make himself out worse than he really is. For instance, a man knows that he is really a good man, but he shows himself off to others in a bad light: he knows that he is upright, but puts on the airs of a cunning knave: he is conscious of possessing a loveable character, but does his best to disguise it. A lie of this sort is not condemned by the world: on the contrary, the world praises it as a form of modesty, as a grace that becomes a man. But there is no grace in it, and no modesty. Modesty lies in the true acknowledgement of sin when it exists, and of virtue when it is found, and this form of lying, which itself partakes of the nature of sin, cannot possibly be a grace. Nay, if we could look right into the heart of the man who puts on this outward show of mock-modesty, we should find it full of arrogance and pride, and actuated by self-seeking motives. The heart of the mock-modest man is never clear and bright as a cloudless sky: there is always something that he is holding back, some "hidden root of bitterness" laid up within. It is true that the Suffering caused by this mock-modesty is not so conspicuous as that caused by the deceit of which I spoke before. There is always something of dimness and uncertainty about it; but, for that very reason, it is more difficult to do away: the Suffering which it causes always lies deep down in the hidden recesses of the heart, and is the secret cause of constant distress. Any one who has had practical experience of religious or ethical work will bear me out from his own knowledge.
8. Deceit, then, whether it take the form of a fictitiously high estimation of oneself or the reverse, is the seed that produces an ill crop of Suffering. And we, if we would escape from Suffering and gain peace of mind, must rid ourselves of this self-deceit by all means in our power. It is above all things necessary that we possess an honest and up right heart.
9. This honest and upright heart is the key that unlocks the Gate of Peace. It is the Well within us from which flows rest to the soul, and it is through this honest and upright heart only that we can enter into the Contented Life. But let there be no misunderstanding about this. When we speak of honesty and uprightness, we do not mean that the bad man is to turn into a good man, or the unloveable character into a man of good report. The honesty and uprightness of which we are speaking is something quite different: we mean by it the opposite of falsehood, the unvarnished truth, the thing as it is. The good man shows himself to the world as the good man, the bad man as the bad man,—just as he is,—that is what we mean by honesty and and uprightness. Let every man show himself in his true colours, whether they be fair, or whether they be foul, that is honesty and uprightness. It is the nature of snow to be white, of charcoal to be black: let each be true to its nature, and then there is honesty and uprightness. When the heart is like that, there is no duplicity or discord: there is harmony, there is clearness, there is an absence of confusion and noise, and, therefore, of pain and restlessness. We can walk on in peace and spiritual tranquility.
10. This is what the American novelist had in mind. The young Minister of whom he wrote knew quite well that he would incur the contempt of his congregation; but in the end he made up his mind to face the ordeal and put himself before them in his true colours, as a sinful man, as a religious humbug, without concealment, and without glossing things over. A convict in a prison at Zeze, in Gōshiū, once said to the chaplain: "So long as I was in the world outside, I could never get a moment's peace, nor enjoy a single night of quiet rest. Since I have been here, I have always slept peacefully." This is again a case in point. As long as this man was in the world outside, he was sailing under false colours, and pretending to be an honest man, and it was no wonder that he could not rest. In prison, he stood before men in his right colours, as a convict, without concealment or disguise, and so he gained peace of mind.
Peace of mind, therefore, has, as we see, no connection with pride of birth or station, with reputation or wealth, with life or death, with the outside world, or the body of flesh; it depends entirely on the presence or absence of falsehood. Be our station never so lowly, our rank never so mean, let our names be branded as criminals or rogues, let poverty or death stare us in the face,—so long as our inmost heart is free from falsehood, so long shall we be at peace. When this peace is attained the Gate of True Religion opens to us.
11. When we go out of town on a snowy day we are struck by the peaceful solemnity of the ancient trees among the white mountains. Why is this? Need I say that it is because the mountains and trees are so absolutely devoid of all adornments and adventitious aids to beauty? They have cast aside the leaves, green and red, which they put on in Spring, and wore right through to the end of Autumn, and now they stand there openly revealed before us. And when we have torn off the gaudy trickeries of deceit, and cast aside all its embellishments, the true heart within us raises its head and comes to the surface, and we can then, for the first time, put our foot inside the Gate of True Religion. The bare winter of self-revealment must precede the spring-time of spiritual life.
12. Religion does not, therefore, ask whether we are good or bad. The saintliest of men come to it, but so do also the profligates; the sages of austere life come, and so do the careless and the prodigal. Scholars and thieves, gentlemen and beggars,—all alike come, Men come to it, as men, women, as women: the soldier comes with his sword girt on him, the herdsman with his herds driven before him,—all alike come to the Gate of Religion. No notice is taken of worldly distinctions: all that is asked is whether we are honest or the reverse. No man that has a lie about him, of any sort or kind, may enter into religion: for religion is the country where none may dwell but those who are free from lies. And over its Entrance-Gate are carved the two words, "Honesty and Uprightness."
13. The first requisite therefore for entering upon religion is to ascertain one's own worth. If your self-examination reveals to you that you are a man capable of work and free from sin, so much the better. Go forward, as a righteous man, capable of action, and work out your own salvation bravely and thoroughly. There is absolutely no need for you to hesitate on the ground of your sinfulness or incompetency. The Gate of Self-Help should open for a man like you. Or again, if you examine your own heart, and find yourself to be neither a good man, nor one capable of exertion, you had better not try to conceal the fact, you had better make an open avowal of your wickedness and incompetency. For a man like you there is always the Gate of "Salvation-through-the-help-of-Another." But if, knowing yourself to be weak and sinful, you make a false estimation of your own powers, and try to save yourself by your own exertions, as though you had the strength and virtue to do so, you may be sure that you will never succeed. You will see, therefore, that he that would save his soul must before all things make a correct estimate of his own powers.
14. And now, which of these two alternatives shall we choose? Shall we look upon ourselves as being capable of the exertion required to work out our salvation for ourselves, or as possessed of the requisite virtue for doing so? Surely we cannot do that. We believe that we ought to place implicit confidence in our parents, yet there are times when we have to mistrust them. We try to live on brotherly terms with our brothers and sisters, yet there are times when we quarrel with them. We believe that we ought to be kind to our wives, yet there are moments when we are at variance with them. We know that we ought to respect our teachers and friends, yet we mock and despise them at times. Our tongues talk loudly of patriotism, yet there is very little of it in our hearts. We use our pens to write articles about human kindness, but there is not much of it in our actions. When we think of these things in our secret chambers, we are horrified at our own behaviour, and make resolutions of amendment,—and break them. How can we, knowing what we are, esteem ourselves to be good, or capable of working out our own salvation? It is not pleasant to have to call ourselves ignorant persons and sinners, but for the present those are the names that we must take. For, sad to say, there is within us a still worse heart of deceit. We are quite aware that we ought to reckon ourselves in the crowd of sinners, but our great aim and endeavour is to appear to be good men: we are fully alive to the ignorance within us, but we want to make a show of being wise; and so long as we have such a mind in us, how can we cast off Wickedness and Folly, and advance along the road of Honesty and Uprightness? It is this spirit of deceit that makes us dissemblers in learning, in conduct, in virtue, and by so doing troubles our hearts, and robs us, even when asleep, of our pleasant dreams.
15. But carry your thoughts one step further, and you will see that the consciousness that you have arrived at, of your own folly and sinfulness, brings other conclusions in its train. When you can see dust flying about in a room, it means that a ray of light has entered it. We were once ignorant of our sin, we are now aware of it; we did not know our folly, we now see it clearly. It is because a light from without has entered our hearts, and enlightened our minds. The Great Mercy of the Tathāgata has looked upon us: the Tathāgata has enlightened us with His Boundless Light and caused it to come over us; and where His Light is, there He is Himself,
When we thus stand in the presence of the Tathāgata, we are absolutely naked before Him. It is of no use for us to trick ourselves out with specious adornment, and try to deceive Him: He cannot be thus deceived. All we can do is to take ourselves at our real worth and without dissimulation of any kind, "just as we are," as sinners, as wicked men, as ignorant and foolish, and, taking our stand on that confession of an upright heart, to claim the great Mercy of the Tathāgata, as it is held up before our eyes in the Great Name which he has made His own. In the light of that Mercy shining on an upright heart we may see reflected our own Nature and that of the Tathāgata Himself, and we come at once into the possession of the Promised Land; for we are told in the Great Sūtra that "an honest and upright heart is the Paradise of the Bodhisatva."