Books
In part 1 he has singled out those scriptures that use the term tathāgatagarbha as their principal term and identified three scriptures—Tathāgatagarbha-sūtra, Anūnatvāpurṇatvanirdeśa, and Śrīmālādevīnirdeśa—as the basis for the formation of the tathāgatagarbha theory. Next, he has placed the Mahāyāna Mahāparinirvāṇa-sūtra, which uses the term buddhadhātu for the first time as a synonym of tathāgatagarbha, and associated scriptures in a second group, while in the third group we have the Laṅkāvatāra-sūtra and so on, in which the concept of tathāgatagarbha is identified with ālayavijñana, the basic concept of the Vijñānavāda.
In part 2, he has dealt with the prehistory of the tathāgatagarbha theory in Mahāyāna scriptures that use terms synonymous with tathāgatagarbha, such as gotra and dhātu, tathāgatagotra, tathāgatotpattisambhava, āryavaṃsa, buddhaputra, dharmadhātu and dharmakāya, cittaprakṛti, and so on. The main points made in this work are discussed in the papers that have now been brought together in the present volume.
This volume has for convenience' sake been divided into seven parts according to subject matter. Part 1 presents a textual study, namely, a critical edition of chapter 6 of the Laṅkāvatāra. Part 2 deals with subjects concerning scriptures such as the Laṅkāvatāra, part 3 with technical terms and basic concepts of the tathāgatagarbha theory, part 4 with tathāgatagarbha doctrine in general, and part 5 with Japanese Buddhism and Buddhism in East Asia (on the basis of scriptures translated into Chinese). Part 6 presents a historical survey of Japanese scholarship on Buddhism, and part 7 consists of several book reviews. (Source: Motilal Banarsidass)
However, being a living or animate being (e.g. p(r)āṇa/p(r)āṇin, satt(v)a, jīva, bhūta) is, in India, at any rate in theoretical contexts, by and large equated with being sentient ((sa)cetana, sacittaka, cittamaṃta, etc.), with being, to a certain extent at least, capable of perception and sensation, and in doctrinally developed Buddhism it is, apart from men and mythological beings, only animals that are regarded as sentient beings. Except for certain developments
in the Far East and perhaps Tantric Buddhism (which requires special investigation), plants are not admitted in Buddhism as sentient beings, let alone crystals, stones, earth, water or other inorganic things. These are hence not, at least not directly, protected by the precept to abstain from killing/injuring animate beings.
The question is, however, whether this restriction of living, sentient beings, in the sphere of nature, to animals only was the position of Buddhism from the outset. Actually, from what we know about other Indian religions prior to or contemporary with earliest Buddhism, such a position would seem to have been anything but a matter of course.
As for Vedic religion, there is sufficient evidence that not only animals but also plants as well as seeds and even water and earth were, more or less naively, believed to be living and even sentient, and fire and wind had at least a personalized, divine aspect (viz. the gods Agni on the one hand, and Vāyu and Vāta on the other; cp. also the idea of water and fire as principles of life in late Vedic thought). Even in post-Vedic Hinduism, at least the view that plants and seeds capable of germination are sentient beings is still well documented, although some circles and authors disagree. Occasionally, even stones, water or the earth are admitted as living or sentient.
In Jainism the view that plants and seeds are sentient beings is clearly expressed and undisputed, and according to the view prevailing in Jaina sources even earth, water, wind and fire are alive, i.e., consist of minute living beings possessing, like plants, the sense of touch.
Against this background, it appears natural to raise the question whether in earliest Buddhism, too, at least plants and seeds (but perhaps even earth and water) may still have been viewed as living, sentient beings, in spite of the later rejection of such a view. To be sure, in this case it would be necessary to explain how the later view arose. But in the opposite case, too, one would have to search for a reason why the Buddhists, or the Buddha, abandoned the view, current at their time, that plants are sentient beings.
It would be easy to determine the status of plants and seeds in earliest Buddhism if the canonical Buddhist texts, and especially such layers as can be regarded as comparatively old, did contain fully explicit statements either rejecting or
asserting the sentience of plants. But there are none, as far as I can see. Hence, the matter has to be decided by induction. In view of the later doctrinal position of Buddhism that plants (etc.) are not sentient beings, the onus probandi is, of course, incumbent on him who maintains that in earliest Buddhism the situation was different. Therefore, I shall, in the following chapters (II-IV), discuss passages which may indicate that in earliest Buddhism plants were still regarded as living, sentient beings, or at least not yet definitely considered to be lifeless and insentient. (Schmithausen, The Problem of the Sentience of Plants in Earliest Buddhism, 1–4)
East Asian Buddhism has developed a series of concepts that
refer to the realm of the nonsentients-material objects and entities devoid of a conscious mind-which constitute and furnish the material space where both sentient beings in the Six Destinations (rokudō or rokushu) and buddhas live and operate. In particular, hijō or mujō (nonsentients) and kikai (realm of objects) refer to the milieu of buddhas and sentient beings. They are therefore related to such concepts as ujō (sentient beings), shujō (living beings), shujōkai (realm of sentient beings) and bukkai (realm of the buddhas). On the other hand, ehō, which literally means "karmic support," is the material environment (space and circumstances with the related set of objects) in which sentient beings find themselves as a consequence of karmic retribution. This notion is related to that of shōbō, "karmic retribution proper," the particular body-mind complex that forms the subjectivity of a sentient being as a result of karma.
In Japan, terms referring to materiality and the environment are considered synonymous with more concrete expressions such as sōmoku kokudo (plants and the territory), sōmoku kasen gareki (plants, rivers, bricks, and stones), or more simply sōmoku (plants). This synonymity is important to recognize because in most medieval doctrinal tracts a term such as sōmoku did not refer literally to "plants" only but rather to the entire realm of the non-sentients. Most often this extended to inanimate objects of any kind, including man-made artifacts.2 Therefore, as we will see in the course of this book, "nature" is not always an accurate rendition of the doctrinal contents of these concepts.
Japanese authors have usually studied the Buddhist philosophy of objects as a purely doctrinal matter isolated from larger social and ideological issues. Most of them consider it the manifestation in Buddhist terms of an ahistorically understood Shintō animism that is believed to permeate the Japanese cultural tradition. In some cases, this is related to a vague environmental concern supposedly generated by such animism. One of the goals of the present study is to formulate a critique of such interpretations.
I will address here the Buddhist discourse of the nonsentients from the perspective of an intellectual history open to the field of
cultural studies, which I understand as a clearinghouse of tools and approaches useful in comprehending the workings of a culture. Particular emphasis will be placed on the contexts of the source material relating to the inanimate world and the processes of signification they generated. One of the problems with received
scholarship on the relationships among Buddhism, plants, and objects is over-specialization and excessive compartmentalization, which prevents it from addressing the discourse from a multidisciplinary perspective. Most studies consist of philological and doctrinal discussions of elite texts almost completely isolated
from their shifting contexts of production and interpretation. Other scholars address ideas and practices on a "folk" level, but largely ignore their doctrinal foundations. One notable exception is Taira Masayuki, who has indicated that medieval prohibitions against cutting trees issued by religious institutions were in fact attempts to apply Buddhist ethical precepts to the fields of economy and power relations.3 However, even Taira failed to connect such prohibitions to the Buddhist discourse on nonsentients and related treatments of materiality as part of a larger cultural picture.
Ecological and environmental concerns are often mentioned
in contemporary literature on plants becoming buddhas. In this monograph, Japanese Buddhist ecology is understood as a set of discursive practices related to the definition, interpretation, and uses of the environment (kikai, ehō) of sentient beings and the objects inhabiting it. Thus, whenever I refer to "ecology" I do so with this larger meaning in mind. This meaning is closely related to economy, politics, and ideology, and is not the result of a supposed "love for nature," as most authors suggest. I will show that Buddhist doctrines on plants constitute in fact a discourse on the material environment, its status and its functions. Such a discourse was articulated with respect to three orders of significance, which I define as ecosophia, ecognosis, and ecopietas. Ecosophia refers to standard Buddhist doctrines denying the nonsentients the possibility of becoming buddhas.4 With ecognosis I indicate Tendai and Shingon initiatory doctrines on the absolute and unconditioned nature of the nonsentients. Finally, ecopietas has to do with popular, widespread beliefs and attitudes about the sacredness of the natural world and material objects in general.
The medieval Japanese discourse on the material environment addresses a number of social concerns, such as the status of the members of the initiatory lineages producing these doctrines, the ontology of social order, the control of the material world of the nonsentients, and the distribution of its wealth. As such, doctrines on the Buddha-nature of plants played an important ideological role in the creation of a vision of order and of power relations in
society. We will see that this Buddhist discourse was not a mere doctrinal curiosity or a manifestation of an animistic love for nature. Rather, it went far beyond Buddhological and soteriological issues, with important practical consequences. This was particularly the case in the arenas of social ideology and economics, and
influenced the ways in which religious institutions defined themselves and their own properties.
The three chapters that compose this book address different
but related subjects. Chapter One presents the main doctrinal and philosophical aspects of the status of nonsentients and objects in general in Japan. I begin with an excursus on Chinese treatments of the subject, which constituted the background to subsequent Japanese interventions. Then, I introduce the two main forms of Japanese ecognosis, those developed within the Tendai and Shingon traditions, through a discussion of the most significant texts on plants becoming buddhas. Chapter Two discusses "popular" discourses and practices concerning trees as instances of ecopietas. I attempt to show that ecopietas-like attitudes, rather than being a mere manifestation of primordial and Shinto animistic beliefs, were also the result of struggles and negotiations between Buddhist institutions supported by the state and local social structures or life-styles. Chapter Three deals with the ideological effects of the doctrines on plants becoming buddhas. There I criticize received ideas that such doctrines are manifestations of a typically and uniquely Japanese attitude towards nature and the environment, rooted in an essentially ahistorical vision of Shinto. In particular, I discuss a number of cases of prohibitions against cutting trees issued by religious
institutions in medieval Japan: their rhetoric as well as their historical and social contexts show that religious institutions were interested in trees not particularly out of environmental concerns (even though those were present), but in their attempt to establish their own social role and influence. In this sense, the theme of plants becoming buddhas becomes a metaphor for larger issues, such as the relations between religious institutions and the state, and ideas of social order and domination. (Rambelli, introduction, 1–4)
Notes
- Throughout the book, "Buddha" (capitalized) will be used as a proper noun to refer to a specific Buddha, whereas "buddha" or "buddhas" (lower case) will indicate a general condition as a result of certain soteriologic practices.
- The role of plants as objects is particularly evident in the art form known as ikebana, in which vegetal elements are isolated from their contexts to form examples of abstract expressIonism that point to the nature of the vegetal as object. It is also seen in premodern iron sculptures representing trees and branches, known as tetsuju (iron trees).
- Taira Masayuki, Nihon chūsei no shakai to bukkyō, 1992, pp. 247-249.
- The term "ecosophia" was first used by Félix Guattari in his Les trois écologies, 1989. I employ it in a different way.
Articles
A Philosophy of Plants
The philosopher Tomonobu Imamichi (1922–2012) pointed out that most Japanese family crests are based on plant designs, indicating that, compared with cultures that employ dragons and eagles, or lions and tigers in their heraldry, Japanese cultural patterns show a strong tendency toward adaptability and harmony. Plants survive not as individuals but by species adaptation. This means that they grow where their seed randomly falls, existing within a pattern of dramatic change as their branches and leaves grow. Imamichi wrote, "In the very workings of their life, plants are a reiteration of elegant beauty as they bud, bloom, fall, proliferate, fruit, and change color, all within an intense yet inconspicuous struggle for life" (Tōyō no bigaku [Aesthetics of the East], TBS Britannica, 1980). Plants take root in that space where their seed falls and form a community with other plants. They maintain harmony with their surroundings and continually transform themselves, adapting to changes in their environment. As Imamichi stated, the workings of their life are inconspicuous, but there is no doubt a severity of struggle to survive and flourish.
Are Plants and Trees Nonsentient?
Mahayana Buddhism in general does not consider trees and plants to be capable of sensation and, with the exception of the Lotus and Śūraṅgama sutras, does not hesitate to place them on a par with tiles and stones. For example, the Mahāratnakūṭa Sūtra (Sutra of the Great Accumulation of Treasures) says, "Plants and trees, tiles and stones, like shadows, are not sentient" (Mahāratnakūṭa Sūtra, 78, Discourse to Pūrṇa, 17.2.4). Why is this so?
The geographer Yutaka Sakaguchi reports that recent research has shown that from the middle of the third century to around the sixth or seventh century the world experienced severe climate change in the form of cooling, drier conditions (see "Kako ichiman sanzennen no kikō no henka to jinrui no rekishi" [Climate change and the history of human beings
during the past thirteen thousand years], Kōza, bunmei to kankyō, 6: Rekishi to kikō [Lecture series, 6, Civilization and the environment: History and climate] [Asakura Shoten, 1995 (revised edition, 2008)], 1–11). The Mahayana sutras, with their prohibition of meat eating, were compiled at this time. Why this prohibition was added to the small simple meals demanded by asceticism can thus be explained in ecoreligious terms. In all probability, the acceptance of ascetic behavior in relation to food and the rejection of meat by religious practitioners and the societies that supported them derived from severe and long-term food shortages. At such a time, rather than rearing pigs and other animals on plant food and then eating their meat, many more human lives could be sustained by a considerably lesser volume by eating vegetable foodstuffs directly. "Hence, in order to keep both monks and lay followers free from what was deemed unnecessary inconvenience and qualms, the sentience of plants was, by and large, ignored [in the precept against the taking of life]" (Lambert Schmithausen, Buddhism and Nature: The Lecture Delivered on the Occasion of the EXPO 1990 [International Institute for Buddhist Studies, 1991], 7).
Plants and the Lotus Sutra
Chapter 5 of the Lotus Sutra, "The Parable of the Herbs," likens the teachings of the Buddha benefiting all beings equally to the rain that falls on all trees, shrubs, herbs, and grasses, enabling them to grow and blossom, producing fruits. This chapter was to have an important influence on the Chinese Tiantai and Japanese Tendai schools of Buddhism. Whereas the Chinese Huayan school held that plants are not sentient and cannot achieve enlightenment, in commentaries such as Fazang's (643–712) Huayanjing tanxuanji (Records of the search for the profundities of the Avataṃsaka Sūtra), Tiantai scholars advocated plants' capability of attaining buddhahood. This must have been because of the image presented in "The Parable of the Herbs." (Read the entire article here)Valley sounds are the long, broad
tongue.
Mountain colors are not other than
the unconditioned body.
Eighty-four thousand verses are
heard through the night.
What can I say about this in the
future?
Let’s take a look at the poem, using the above translation by Kazuaki Tanahashi (Treasury of the True Dharma Eye: Zen Master Dōgen’s Shōbō Genzō [Shambhala, 2012], 86)
Valley sounds are the long, broad tongue. "Valley sounds" are the sounds of a stream.
"Long, broad tongue" refers to the Buddha and his teachings, known as the Dharma. Restated unpoetically: natural phenomena such as streams are capable of expressing the highest truth. (Read entire article here)
For over thirty years I have been encountering a motif or set of motifs in Japanese culture that is, outside of folklore and the children's story, virtually unheard of in European literature. Japanese literature and theater are rife with stories in which the protagonists are not human but are, rather, plants, trees, animals, or supernatural beings. For many Westerners, such tales seem indicative of some kind of arrested development in the Japanese psyche, as if their culture had failed to become modern or, worse, "grow up."
When I ask my Japanese colleagues about this, most see no problem at all: both Shinto and Buddhism acknowledge that sentience can exist across a broad spectrum of life, from the simplest organic structures to supernatural entities that, though invisible, may direct our lives in ways we still don’t understand. Arguably, the Japanese themselves feel a kinship with these other entities to a degree that many people in Europe or North America do not, though such a sensibility is common among indigenous peoples around the world. As unique as they are, human beings do not occupy any God-given, privileged place in this scheme. Th e word animism is brought out to explain much of this, though the term itself is vaguely used.
I began to realize that a radically different metaphysical construct of the world gives rise to a distinctive poetics and dramaturgy, and that typical EuroAmerican critical tools fail to adequately interpret even Japanese discursive texts, to say nothing of many of their greatest works of poetry, fiction, and drama. (Poulton, "Flowers of Sentience," 20) (Read the entire article here)
Unsurprisingly, the Buddha often expressed his appreciation of trees and other plants. According to one story in the Vinaya monastic code, a tree spirit appeared to him and complained that a monk had chopped down its tree. In response, the Buddha prohibited monastics from damaging trees or bushes, including cutting off limbs, picking flowers, or even plucking green leaves. One wonders what he would say about our casual destruction of whole ecosystems today.
We may also wonder about the larger pattern: why religious founders so often experience their spiritual transformation by leaving human society and going into the wilderness by themselves. Following his baptism, Jesus went into the desert, where he fasted for forty days and nights. Mohammed's revelations occurred when he retreated into a cave, where the archangel Gabriel appeared to him. The Khaggavisana Sutta (Rhinoceros Horn Sutra), one of the earliest in the Pali canon, encourages monks to wander alone in the forest, like a rhinoceros. Milarepa lived and practiced in a cave by himself for many years, as did many Tibetan yogis after him. Today, in contrast, most of us meditate inside buildings with screened windows, which insulate us from insects, the hot sun, and chilling winds. There are many advantages to this, of course, but is something significant also lost?
Although we normally relate to nature in a utilitarian way, the natural world is an interdependent community of living beings that invites us into a different kind of relationship. The implication is that withdrawing into it, especially by oneself, can disrupt our usual ways of seeing and open us up to an alternative experience. Does that also point to why we enjoy being in nature so much? We find it healing, even when we don't understand why or how, but clearly it has something to do with the fact that the natural world offers us a temporary escape from our instrumentalized lives. (Read the entire article here.)
A monk asked Zhaozhou: ‘‘Does a dog have buddha-nature?’’ Zhaozhou replied: ‘‘No.’’
This pithy exchange between an unidentified Buddhist monk and the Tang dynasty Chan master Zhaozhou Congshen (778–897) is perhaps the best-known example of a Chan gong’an, or ‘"public case." Although the passage occurs in a collection of Zhaozhou's sayings supposedly compiled by his disciples, its notoriety is due to a Song dynasty master, Wumen Huikai (1183–1260), who placed this exchange at the beginning of his famous gong’an collection, Gateless Barrier of the Chan Tradition (Chanzong wumen guan, 1228).[1] Wumen’s compilation, consisting of forty-four such exchanges and anecdotes accompanied by Wumen’s comments, is one of the most important works of Chan literature. And as the first case in Wumen’s collection, "Zhaozhou’s dog" became the single most influential gong’an in the Chinese Chan, Korean Son, and Japanese Zen traditions. It is often the first and sometimes the only gong’an assigned to monks, and many traditional commentators claim, following Wumen’s lead, that this single gong’an holds the key to all others.
Wumen’s work was neither the earliest nor the most comprehensive compilation of Chan cases. Indeed, the Gateless Barrier is relatively short and straightforward in comparison to two earlier collections, the Blue Cliff Record of Chan Master Foguo Yuanwu (Foguo Yuanwu Chanshi Biyan lu), published in 1128, and the Congrong Hermitage Record of the Commentaries by Old Wansong on the Case and Verse [Collection] by Reverend Jue of Tiantong [Mountain] (Wansong laoren pingzhang Tiantong Jue heshang songgu Congrongan lu), published in 1224. The cases that
make up these texts are each based on an individual anecdote, verbal exchange, or quandary known as the benze (original edict), to which has been added comments in prose and verse brushed by later masters. Whereas the Gateless Barrier contains forty-four such anecdotes accompanied by a brief comment and verse by Wumen, the Blue Cliff Record and Congrong Hermitage Record each contain one hundred cases including several layers of appended judgments, verses, and interlinear glosses. (The same "original edict" may appear in two or more collections, but the exegesis will invariably differ. More will be said about the structure of these
collections below.) Many more gong’an collections gained currency in China, and the Chan tradition would come to speak of seventeen hundred authoritative cases (although this number was probably not meant to be taken literally). By the end of the Song the gong’an had assumed a central role in the ideological, literary, and institutional identity of the Chan school.
Popular books on Chan and Zen Buddhism present gong’an as intentionally incoherent or meaningless. They are, it is claimed, illogical paradoxes or unsolvable riddles intended to frustrate and short-circuit the intellect in order to quell
thought and bring the practitioner to enlightenment. This understanding of gong’an is allied with a view of Chan as an iconoclastic and anti-intellectual tradition that rejects scripture, doctrine, philosophy, and indeed all forms of conceptual understanding in favor of unmediated or "pure" experience. Gong’an are intended, according to this view, not to communicate ideas so much as to induce a transformative experience. To grasp at the literal meaning of a Chan case is to
miss its point.
Recently scholars have begun to question the instrumental view of Chan that underlies this approach to Chan cases, arguing that it is based on a misreading of the historical and ethnographic record.[2] Chan ranks among the most ritualistic forms of Buddhist monasticism, and a master’s enlightenment is constituted within a prescribed set of institutional and ritual forms.[3] Moreover, the notion that Chan is designed to induce a nonconceptual or pure experience can be traced in part to late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Japanese intellectuals such as D. T. Suzuki and Nishida Kitarō, who were culling from Western sources, notably William James.[4] The notion that Chan is anti-intellectual and repudiates "words and letters" is belied by the fact that the Chan tradition produced the largest literary corpus of any Buddhist school in East Asia.[5] This corpus consists in large part of "recorded sayings" (yulu) and "records of the transmission of the flame" (chuandenglu) texts—texts recounting the careers and teachings of past patriarchs from which the original edicts were drawn.
Scholars now appreciate that Chan is more complex than early apologists and enthusiasts cared to admit; it is no longer possible to reduce Chan practice and Chan literature to a mere means intended to engender a singular and ineffable
spiritual experience. Accordingly, scholars of Chan gong’an have begun to attend to the institutional context and literary history of the genre,[6] and one scholar has devoted an entire monograph to the folkloric themes that appear in a single case.[7] Be that as it may, little progress has been made in deciphering the doctrinal and exegetical intent of Chan gong’an; it would appear that scholars remain reluctant to treat gong’an as a form of exegesis at all. This reluctance may be due to the enduring legacy of an earlier apologetic mystification of the gong’an literature. The primary objective of this chapter is to demonstrate that such reluctance is misguided and that it is indeed possible to recover the original meaning and doctrinal purport of at least some of the cases. The task is not easy, however, as the cases are philosophically subtle and hermeneutically sophisticated, and the authors of the collections delighted in obscure allusions, clever puns, and deft wordplay. (Sharf, "How to Think with Chan Gong’an," 205–7)
Notes
My thanks to Charlotte Furth and Elizabeth Horton Sharf for their comments and
suggestions on earlier drafts of this chapter and to Ling Hon Lam for his meticulous
editorial attention.
- T 2005:48.292c20–24. The exchange is also featured in case no. 18 of the Wansong Laoren pingzhang Tiantong Jue heshang songgu Congrongan lu, T 2004:48.238b21–39a28. Textual details concerning Zhaozhou’s recorded sayings (Zhaozhou Zhenji Chanshi yulu) will be found below.
- Faure, The Rhetoric of Immediacy and Chan Insights and Oversights; Foulk, "Myth, Ritual, and Monastic Practice"; Sharf, "The Zen of Japanese Nationalism," "Whose Zen?" and "Experience."
- Foulk and Sharf, "On the Ritual Use"; Sharf, "Ritual."
- Sharf, "Whose Zen?"
- On the sometimes controversial place of literary endeavors in the Song monastic institution, see esp. Gimello, "Mārga and Culture"; and Keyworth, "Transmitting the Lamp," 281–324.
- See esp. Heine and Wright, eds., The Kōan.
- Heine, Shifting Shape.
In this chapter I examine some medieval Buddhist doctrines that, at least on the surface, seem similarly strange and implausible. Indeed, some of the Buddhist notions to be examined below were perplexing to audiences in their own day, much as discussions of brain transplants are perplexing to us today. On the Indian side, I will begin with the notion of nirodha-samāpatti, a meditative state akin to a vegetative coma in which all consciousness has ceased. I will then turn to a class of beings known as “beings without conception” (asaṃjñika-sattvāḥ), denizens of a celestial realm who are devoid of sentience, thought, and consciousness. In both cases, an insentient state seems to be followed by (or gives rise to) a sentient state, which poses serious challenges to the classical Buddhist understanding of karma. On the Chinese side, we will consider the debate over the buddha-nature of insentient objects—can an insentient thing such as a wall or roof tile attain buddhahood and preach the dharma? This doctrine too could be (and was) seen as a threat to the coherence of Buddhist teachings.
Modern scholars tend to approach such doctrines as the products of intelligent but misguided scholastics struggling to make sense of the universe, all the while hobbled by the dictates of tradition, scripture, and a prescientific understanding of the cosmos. They are the proverbial schoolmen calculating how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. But I would suggest another perspective. Such theories, I argue, serve as frames of reference for pondering issues of personal identity, ethical responsibility, sentience, and death. Given that we ourselves are still far from clarity on these issues, and given that we too devise fanciful thought experiments to help gain a conceptual toehold, perhaps it is time to look afresh at what the Buddhists might have been up to.[11] (Sharf, preamble, 144–45)
Notes
11. For an articulate defense of Buddhist scholasticism, along different lines, see Paul John Griffiths, “Scholasticism: The Possible Recovery of an Intellectual Practice,” in Scholasticism: Cross-Cultural and Comparative Perspectives, ed. José Ignacio Cabezón (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998), 201–35.With in the history of Buddhism in East Asia the world of nature gained and retained a high position —something seen as having inherent religious value. This two-part essay reviews aspects of the history of this upward valuation of nature in Chinese and Japanese Buddhism and analyzes the interpretative shifts and changes made necessary by this impulse toward the attribution of increasingly great religious significance to nature. The development is carried as far as the twelfth century in Japan and the poetry of the Buddhist monk Saigyō (1118- 90), poetry which not only itself moved the valorization of nature beyond the point where earlier writers had brought it, but also, since as poetry it gained a position in the public mind and a place in the popular imagination of the Japanese people, historically "fixed" a lasting nexus between Buddhism and nature in the popular consciousness of the Japanese people. Saigyō, therefore, is of great significance in the history of Japanese religion, a fact that has always been implicitly recognized in the Japanese regard for him as Japan's greatest "medieval Buddhist nature poet." His poetry is important not only as literature but also as a document in the history of Japanese religion.
Although in what follows I am more interested in an analysis of Saigyō's verse—in relationship to the Buddhist view of nature—than in details of his life, it is of importance to note here that Saigyō, whose name before he became a monk was Satō Norikiyo, saw his Buddhist vocation as something to be carried out in the mountains rather than in temples and monasteries. Before becoming a monk he had been a military guard in the service of Emperor Toba and a member of an elite corps of palace guards known as the Hokumen no Bushi or "North-facing warriors." But at age twenty-three he relinquished his career in court and became a Buddhist monk . He was at first loosely attached to Shingon and Tendai temples in the vicinity of Heian-kyō or Kyoto and seems to have retained a lifelong attachment to the memory of Kūkai (774-835), the Japanese founder of the Shingon school. But Saigyō's forte lay in his composition of waka or thirty-one-syllable verse and it is in the context of his writing of these verses that we gain an understanding of his vision of nature, Buddhism, and the correlation of these two. For Saigyō the world of nature was the primary world of Buddhist values, and it is this that I wish to investigate in what follows. (LaFleur, "Saigyō and the Buddhist Value of Nature," 93–94)
So far, no lifeless universe has been discovered. That is, the occurrence of matter without the occurrence of life is, judging by the available empirical evidence viewed globally, something that does not happen. In every case that matter has been there in any universe, life has occurred—eventually.
I do not mean that there has never been a time, a single snapshot moment or a billion such moments, during which there was only matter but no life. Nor do I mean that there is no part of the universe in which, considered in isolation from all other parts, there is only lifelessness. "In every case that matter has been there in any universe, life has occurred" is true even if there are immense periods of time, considered in isolation, and immense swaths of space, considered in isolation, where there is no life.
The crux of the problem, however, lies in those three words, "considered in isolation." Everything depends on how we divide things up, where our definition of "one thing" begins and ends.
For what I mean when I say that "matter without life has never existed" is that, scientifically speaking, there has never appeared even one particle of any kind of matter found in any non-life-producing universe, considering that universe as a whole. For no non-life-producing universe has yet been discovered. Likewise, there is no lifeless matter in any period of time that is not part of at least one sequence of time that produces life.
All matter that has ever been discovered has existed only in a universe that also contains life, and all lifeless times were part of this sequence of time we are now in, the total sequence of time that produced this life.
No lifeless universe has ever been discovered. Among all the universes that have been discovered so far, there is not even one that is devoid of life. I challenge you or anyone to show me even one particle of matter, or even one moment of time, from a universe without life.
At this point we have merely been speaking empirically about what has so far been discovered. There are very few things that we can know with absolute certainty without relying on empirical contingency. But in fact this is one thing we can know with absolute certainty: no universe will ever be discovered devoid of life.
We can know this for two reasons. The first is perhaps relatively trivial, although some philosophers attach great significance to it. It is that the act of "discovering" itself requires a living being. Ipso facto, wherever any discovering is done, life is also present. Therefore no universe devoid of life can ever be discovered.
The second reason has to do with how we define universe. Th is is the hidden premise of the claims I am making here: it is because we understand the idea of "universe" in a certain way that we can claim, with absolute certainty, that there is no lifeless universe. If the universe is taken in its broadest meaning, which is also its most commonsensical meaning, it means "all that exists." All that exists certainly includes this planet, this solar system, this period of time. The universe in this broadest sense is what includes any more-narrowly construed universes—for example, all alternate universes. If we call the sum total of all possible universes "the universe," then it is obvious that there is no universe but this one, and since this one contains life, no universe can be discovered that is devoid of life. Whatever might be discovered is by definition part of this totality that includes our lives.
All of the above is true even if life exists only once, for a few million years, on one small planet. Even if there was no life for billions of years—and in most of the universe there never has been and never will be life—even if the phenomenon "life" is a peculiar flash that occurs only on planet Earth between the Hadean Eon 4,500 million years ago until 2018 CE, and never arises anywhere ever again, it is still true that there is no universe devoid of life and that there can never be any universe devoid of life.
And yet people often contemplate those vast billions of years and expanses of space and speak of "lifeless matter." This makes sense only if we divide the world in a certain way. That is, it is only because we are in the habit of dividing self and other, or mind and its objects, or—to put it most generally—inside and outside, that it is possible to speak of lifeless matter. Only if any one part of the universe is thought of as an entity truly separate from all other parts can anything be lifeless. The key question is how much of the universe do we consider to be "one thing." Where do we draw the line that divides inside from outside? If "me and that rock" are one thing, that one thing has life, just as "my skin and my fingernails" has life. If me and that rock are separate, then my body has life and the rock has no life.
Mahāyāna Buddhism, particularly that developed in the Madhyamaka school and further elaborated in Tiantai Buddhism, holds that the separation of "inside and outside" is impossible to sustain in any nonambiguous way. These schools generally develop this idea logically by use of reductio ad absurdum arguments that try to demonstrate that any way of drawing common-sense dividing lines to define one object in distinction to another end up being self-contradictory. (Read the entire article here).
Buddhist doctrine refers to entities possessing mind (Skt., citta) as sentient beings (Skt., sattva) and considers them to undergo rebirth through the six realms of existence (hells, hungry spirits, animals, asuras, human beings, heavenly beings). It is because they possess mind that they give rise to the defilements, accumulating the negative karma that is the cause of rebirth. The purpose of Buddhism therefore is to release beings from the suffering associated with rebirth, a condition called liberation (Skt., vimokśa) and nirvana. Mahayana calls it the attainment of buddhahood (Jpn., jōbutsu). There also exist nonsentient beings (Skt., asattva). Since they do not possess mind, they do not undergo the cycle of rebirth and so cannot attain liberation, nirvana, or buddhahood. In principle, therefore, plants, like inorganic substances not possessing "mind," are not understood to undergo rebirth. It is therefore impossible to discuss their attainment of buddhahood. However, when Buddhism entered China, the potential for buddhahood of nonsentient beings became an important subject for debate. Since China had not previously had any concept of sentient beings, no strict distinction was made between sentient and nonsentient, which was why the question of nonsentient buddhahood was taken up. The Jingangbi lun (Diamond Scalpel Treatise) of the sixth Tiantai patriarch, Zhanran (711–82), confronted the issue directly and asserted that nonsentient beings could attain buddhahood. This did not, however, mean that they could aspire to enlightenment, practice, and achieve buddhahood of themselves. Rather, when a sentient being attains buddhahood, the whole environment becomes the Buddha's realm. A sentient being's subjective existence (Jpn., shōhō) arises from past karmic effects and this causes the realm of the environment (Jpn., ehō) to arise. Environment is thus dependent on subjective existence, and therefore, when a sentient being attains enlightenment, so do nonsentient beings. What is important here is that sentient beings attain enlightenment through their own practice, whereas nonsentient beings can only do so as the environment of sentient beings. This was a solution consonant with Chinese ideas that placed significance on a person's own actions, seen typically in Confucianism. The Japanese did not view human beings in any special way as did the Chinese. Furthermore, they tended to look on nature in terms of plants. The land of Japan was called the "middle land of the reed beds" (ashihara no nakatsu kuni), its landscape being described as a swamp where reeds grew. The fecundity of plants symbolized the evolution of the world. According to the Nihon shoki (Chronicle of Japan, eighth century), before Ninigi, grandson of the sun goddess Amaterasu, descended from the heavenly plain, the land of Japan was where "the standing trees, and even the single blade of grass, uttered words." This is thought to represent the disordered state of nature that existed before the land was civilized. Humankind was referred to as people grass (hitogusa); in other words, the mass of people was understood through the model of grasses and trees.
In Japan, therefore, nature was thought of in terms of plants, and people were thought to be close to them. Japan's view of nature is often described as animism, but this is not necessarily appropriate. Not all natural phenomena were regarded as spiritual entities, nor were they objects of veneration. Deities (kami) resided in the depths of nature, manifesting themselves in natural objects serving as receptacles (yorishiro). For example, at Ōmiwa Shrine in Nara Prefecture, Mount Miwa is described as the body (shintai) of its kami. Originally, though, the mountain was regarded as sacred because it was the place to which the kami descended: it was not itself the kami. The buddhahood of grasses and trees came to be a concern precisely because human beings and plants were thought of as being of the same quality. Whereas in China tiles and stones were presented as representative of nonsentient existence, in Japan it was grasses and trees. (Read the entire article here)
From this, we can draw the conclusions that for a Tang Dynasty (618–907) monk, trained on the teachings and traditions of a Sinitic school of Buddhism, the title of a Buddhist writing is highly important, for mainly two reasons: (1.) it can bear the very essence, the 'subtle' meaning of the whole work, and (2.) it can serve as an anchor, that bounds it to the 'original' Buddhist teachings, serving as a means of legitimatisation, at the same time. These two aims can be detected in Zhanran's'"`UNIQ--ref-00000046-QINU`"' 湛然 (711−782) choice of the title for his Diamond Scalpel (Jin’gang bei 金剛錍; T46:1932) treatise. The Diamond Scalpel treatise, in one fascicle, written in his old age, is a relatively short work, compared to his lengthy commentaries, yet well deserves to be considered his most creative, genuine work. The main theme of the treatise is the Tiantai interpretation of the teaching of Buddha-nature, as inherently including insentient realm, as well as all sentient beings. While expounding the topic, and presenting his arguments, the main tenets of the Tiantai school emerge one after the another, offering the reader a complete picture of the self and the world, suffering and the ways to liberation, etc. – i.e. problems of utmost importance for a Buddhist practitioner –, as seen by a Tang Dynasty Buddhist monk. At a first reading, the title of the treatise does not seem to tell us a lot about its content, but taking a closer look, and applying a more careful, meticulous examination, we find that Zhanran's choice of title must have been the result of a thoughtful consideration, for it perfectly suites the above mentioned two criteria. Following Zhiyi’s legacy, Zhanran chooses a title, which 'symbolizes and summarizes' the main issues to be discussed in his treatise. More precisely, first of all, it hides an allusion to a simile from a mahāyāna sūtra (thought to render the words of the Buddha), and thus anchors, bounds the whole work to the 'original' teachings of the Buddha, and secondly, after decoding the symbols and references, and interpreting them in the light of Tiantai philosophy, we find that these three characters can truly be regarded the quintessence of the work, the very argument in support of the theory of Buddha-nature of the insentient. Zhanran, following the example of his great predecessor, Zhiyi, expounds and argues based on the most important texts and tenets of mahāyāna Buddhism, while interpreting, reinterpreting, and often furnishing these with new, ingenious meanings.
First, we are going to examine the provenance and possible interpretations of the title – i.e. the context in which the basic notions appear, before Zhanran's time –, Zhanran's own explanation of the title, i.e. the very first paragraph of his work, and further interpretations of the title (and its explanation) found in later commentaries, written to the treatise, by Tang and Song Dynasty monks. Through this one, particular example we can get a glimpse into the complex process of how Chinese monks interpreted and reinterpreted the texts inherited from India, the way in which through focusing on, and/or consciously selecting certain motifs, similes or even terms, embellished these with new meanings, which were further used as tools to prove their own ideas and theories, as if these were identical with the original teachings of Buddha Śākyamuni. Secondly, we are going to examine the most important arguments Zhanran is using to prove his theory about the Buddha-nature of the insentient. I will argue that these arguments can be grouped around two key concepts, already concealed within the title. (Pap, "Zhanran’s Arguments in Support of his Buddha-Nature Theory," 129–130)
