It was around 2010.
In my twenties, I was an extreme workaholic. This took a significant toll on my health. The worsening condition eventually led me to sell my company. It’s funny how life works; when one door closes, another opens.
The intensity with which I threw myself into business was recognized by the current head of the Engaku-ji branch of Rinzai Zen, Rōshi Nanrei Yokota (then the head of the training monastery), as equivalent to the strict discipline of Zen training. He essentially told me that I was naturally suited to be a monk.
Consequently, I was heavily scouted by many in the monastic community. However, Rōshi Daishin Adachi, the teacher of Rōshi Yokota, advised me: “The world of the monk is too restrictive for you. You should pursue the Buddhist path without becoming a priest.”
Normally, a young layperson talking directly with masters of the stature of Rōshi Yokota and Rōshi Adachi is a rare privilege. At the time, I was attending the Kojirin—a residential Zen retreat for the public at Engaku-ji. I had become quite arrogant because I had solved the “Mū” Kōan (a primary Zen riddle that takes most monks three years) in just two months. I went from the depths of despair after quitting my company to feeling I was on top of the world.
I was convinced that Rinzai Zen was the only true Buddhism.
I had attended a Sōtō Zen session once, and I held the foolish, youthful belief that: “Just sitting? Isn’t that just a gathering of people running away because they can’t solve Kōans?”
A lay practitioner (non-monk) is called a Koji (居士). While I was still so full of myself, I met Mr. M, a Sōtō Zen Koji.
He became one of my companions as we toured various Rinzai and Sōtō Zen centers. He was about ten years my senior and had also apparently been burnt out by his work, just as I was. There was one area where I absolutely could not beat him.
He always approached me from behind. I had briefly practiced Kyūdō (Japanese archery), and in the martial arts, being taken from the back signifies death. Even when practicing Ken Zen Ichinyo (Sword and Zen as One) and sharpening my senses as I walked to the sessions, I could never manage to get behind him.
It wasn’t just because his training was necessarily more advanced than mine. The reason was entirely different.
The simple answer is that the fault lay in my disdain for Sōtō Zen. At that time, I was incapable of respecting the faith of others. I couldn’t view things from the other person’s perspective, only my own. When I finally recognized this and changed my attitude, I suddenly found that I could freely get behind him.
In Sōtō Zen, this teaching is called Dōji (同事), meaning “same matter” or “Harmony”. It is the teaching of the Sōtō school to respect the other person’s standpoint and interact with them with empathy. After recognizing this, I began to treat Sōtō Zen, and indeed all traditional Buddhist schools, with the same respect I held for Rinzai Zen.
I believe Rinzai Zen is a religion of the individual, emphasizing solo effort. Evidence of this lies in its fifteen different Head Temples (Honzan). In contrast, Sōtō Zen has only two Head Temples: Eihei-ji and Sōji-ji. I understand Sōtō Zen to be a tradition that emphasizes the harmony of the collective whole over the individual. Most of the historically famous Zen abbots you read about are Rinzai monks. In Sōtō Zen, you tend to get frowned upon if you stand out too much.
However, similar to “individuality” is the concept of “Kafū” (家風, tradition/house style), which each tradition possesses. I feel each of the fifteen Rinzai schools has its own Kafū, and Eihei-ji and Sōji-ji have theirs. Yet, from the perspective of pure Zen, I often wonder if even this Kafū is superfluous. Transparent, colorless, just sitting. That is the most comfortable state. The temples that offer this kind of Zazen are often surprisingly small, unnamed branch temples.
A truly accomplished master cannot be distinguished from an ordinary person. That is the goal we should also strive for.
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