The Function of Chan Gong'an (Zen Koans)

The question of whether the Buddha-Dharma harms or does not harm worldly dharma became a koan precisely so that you may investigate it through the matter itself—it is an investigation of the mind. Once you have seen the mind and understood the mind, you will know the relationship between the Buddha-Dharma and worldly dharma, and all that profusion of theories and views becomes useless, nothing but tangled vines of conceptual proliferation. Since it is called a Chan koan, it must be related to Chan, and Chan is the mind. The mind requires you to realize it, to see it, to manifest it; it does not require a heap of theories and views from you. All views are useless—even expounding the entire Tripitaka of teachings is mere idle talk.

When the disciple said the word "harms," that was the Buddha-Dharma; when the disciple said the two words "does not harm," that too was the Buddha-Dharma. Harm or no harm, spoken or unspoken—all is the Buddha-Dharma. Master and disciple understood each other perfectly and clearly, knowing each other's mind without needing to speak; it was merely an act put on. Bodhisattvas perform the play, ordinary beings watch the show. The expert sees the subtleties, the layman sees only the spectacle—and when one cannot even comprehend the spectacle, what more is there to say? All those various arguments about harm and no harm—to whom would such reasoning be spoken?

The scriptural teachings are used to explain and expound principles; at such times, if you have a principle, you may speak freely, speak at great length. But koans use concrete matters to reveal principle—on the surface they speak only of matters, and within those matters the true principle is revealed: the true mind, the self-nature, the tathāgatagarbha. Sometimes without even opening one's mouth to speak, the principle manifests itself. Simple, clear, direct, and immediately present—those with discernment understand at a glance, mind sealing mind. In truth, expounding the Dharma does not necessarily require speaking of the profound and the wondrous or lecturing on piles of theory; without uttering a single word, one can still authentically teach the Dharma and deliver beings. In the Buddha-land of the Buddha Fragrant Accumulation (Gandhakūṭa), the Buddha and bodhisattvas need only smell incense for the bodhisattvas to awaken to the Way. In other Buddha-lands, the Buddha need only share a single meal with the bodhisattvas for them to awaken to the Way. There are no lengthy theories to expound; language is not necessary, nor are words—the Way has nothing to do with language or letters. Only the sentient beings of the Sahā world have the habit of language and letters, delighting in using words to express their thoughts and feelings, flaunting their wealth of theoretical knowledge, believing that the longer the articles they write the better, and the more books they publish the better. In truth, it is mostly verbiage; lengthy discourses are utterly unnecessary—a few strokes that dot the dragon's eyes are enough. The Way is something very simple. Without the Way, even writing hundreds of millions of words merely exhausts one's own and others' minds and energy. Those with the Way love silence; those without the Way love to talk on and on, to hold forth grandiosely with lengthy discourses, in order to highlight the self.