廣弘明集 24.68

24.68

I have heard that leaving household life is spacious and vast like empty space, whereas dwelling in the secular world is an enclosing cage comparable to a prison. This is not only explicitly stated in the scriptures, but also witnessed by all throughout the world. Suddenly I hear that the Master of the Dharma has overturned that boat and is hastening to return from the clerical robes to worldly tasks. This may be seen as a momentary brilliance, but it is not a deep plan for the long run. How do we know this is so? Going from suffering to joy, one does not yet know the joy within joy; going from joy to suffering, one only then realizes the suffering within suffering. Although this disciple had no ancient ties with the Master of the Dharma, since becoming acquainted we have not been distant. Good medicine is naturally never sweet; loyal admonitions are unfailingly jarring to the ear. Seeing this error, I cannot bear to remain silent. Furthermore, having built up a magnificent undertaking over thirty years, how could you abandon the achievements already accomplished in a single day? How deeply regrettable this would be! Respectfully conjecturing your lofty thoughts, I still do not understand the deeper intent. Could it be that you wish to match the Marquis of Liu in the stratagems of the command tent, or seek out Zhuge Liang from afar in the guise of the Crouching Dragon? Yet can the military treatises of Old Man Yellow Stone ever be encountered a second time? The three visits to the thatched cottage cannot be met twice. The five ranks of nobility are only seen to be missed. For the inner pavilions and outer gates, it is hard to put on the scarlet and easy to wear the plain white. The sounding pipes and phoenix flutes are not things one can count on hearing; dancing girls and singing courtesans merely tire one in vain dalliance. Those who seek them are as numerous as hairs on an ox; those who obtain them are as few as the horns of an ox. Beyond these, what else is there to peer after? If the Master of the Dharma now retrogresses, you may not obtain a single thing to your heart's desire, while certainly losing ten great benefits presently before you. What are they? The Buddha's Dharma does not exclude minor streams: those who enter it become venerable, and those who take refuge in it become exalted. Above, one does not pay court to the Son of Heaven; below, one does not yield to the feudal lords. Solitary and delighting in the world, unconditioned and free at ease—this is the first benefit. One's body is free from the toil of manual labor; one's mouth eats the food of Xiangji. One's mind is free from the affairs of wives and concubines; one's body is adorned with kṣauma robes. In the morning there is no anxiety over patrolling borders; in the evening there is no hardship of traveling a thousand li. Moving about in leisure and contentment, how could this not be joyful? This is the second benefit. Personally carrying no heavy burdens, one's residence is surely secure as a walled city; white walls and vermilion gates naturally show respect. The lute by night and the zither by day entertain one's own heart; the brush at dawn and poetry at dusk allow one to express feelings and dance for joy. This is the third benefit. Even if thorns overgrow the king's highway and bridges collapse into long trenches, on what grounds could alley bailiffs or gate officers summon you from below? Not an inch of silk is paid to the official treasuries; not a peck of grain is brought to the public granaries, so what need is there to seek out the storehouses or granary directors? This is the fourth benefit. Before the gates there may be turmoil, yet I sleep peacefully; in the alleys there may be clamor, yet I show no look of alarm. The household is exempt from corvée levies, large and small; the family is spared providing adult males, strong or weak. Entering and leaving as the heart wills, coming and going at complete ease—this is the fifth benefit. Even an unworthy monk who has left the household is still superior to a gentleman in the secular world. Even if his mind harbors slaughter, his hands commit no sin of ending life; secretly conveying sentiments, his victory is clear and distinct. Even if he indulges in worldly affectations to such a degree, and his defilements are ten-thousand-fold greater than those of a layman, once one enters the river of desire, one sinks forever with no way out. This is the sixth benefit. Hearing the sound of the bell, one pays reverence; seeking the fragrance of incense, the mind arises. In the morning one gazes upon the venerable images; in the evening one opens the precious scrolls. Wholesome moments arise in succession through this; the slight merits of water drops gradually fill a great vessel. Even without knowing causes, conditions, and retributions, good and bad are clearly distinct; speaking in this regard, its benefits are difficult to relate fully. Even if a layman has attained comprehension of the marks of things, he still has dusty worldly affairs: even if he sends a finger-snap from afar, or bows his head near and far, though his form departs his mind remains, and though his body moves his thoughts run on. The obstructed and wealthy can barely manage this, while the poor and suffering have no opportunity at all. It is right before the eyes, plainly visible without words—this is the seventh benefit. Lodging among the mountains and beneath trees is indeed hard to reckon upon; pillowed on rocks and rinsing with streams is truly rare. Those of this kind are inconceivable: such people are hard to meet, and single-minded persons are seldom encountered. The Master of the Dharma has not failed to study, thoroughly cultivating the causes of brilliance and preeminence; if you suddenly retrogress in your mind, in terms of principle you will be far astray. This is the eighth benefit. Opening brocade wrappers, one sees the causes of the past; unfurling lapis-lazuli scrolls, one verifies the fruits of the future. Recognizing causes and karma, one does not commit offenses; knowing blessings and retribution, how could one produce sin? Above, having no boat or oars, one inevitably sees the sorrow of drowning; below, losing the life-float, there is the disaster of sinking one's body. This is the ninth benefit. Vastly delivering all beings, one serves as a teacher of gods and humans; creatures that travel in water, on land, or through the air all hold you in honor and esteem. In address they unfailingly say Ācārya and Upādhyāya; in writing they always convey respect with a vandanā. Near and far sing praises; the noble and the lowly look up in reverence. If the Master of the Dharma now must retrogress, this will be immediately proved: the moment you take off the kāṣāya, whoever meets you will readily address you as 'you' and 'I'; as soon as you undo the robe baring one shoulder, your personal name can be shouted out. Equals in rank are naturally not to be mentioned, but even subordinates, I fear, will not yield. In slight terms they will refer to you by name; the couch and mat will be vastly different from before. If they have even slight independence, they will use your ordinary title on the envelope. If you do not bend the knee and furrow the brow, you will have no way to present yourself; bowing and scraping to receive others, you are not yet accustomed to the proper measure. With things entirely like this, how could one bear it? This is the tenth benefit. Briefly stating these ten matters, you are casting away this opportunity in vain; how could the profound Way among them be described in full? Respectfully I surmise that the Benevolent One's mind is dwelling in the realm of māras, deluded by māras; your intention adheres to perverse paths, corrupted by perversity to change your nature. Even if eyebrows are like slender willows, why are they worthy of your concern? Even if cheeks are like red peaches, how could they endure for long? Sharing the quilt yet parting the pillow, there remains the sorrow of the Changxin Palace; forgetting the hours while sitting and lying down, one cannot escape the resentment of Qiu Hu's wife. Even the goddess of the River Luo could not bewitch the Prince of Dong'a; how should the Lady Ban of this world concern you, sir? For the face is the mirror of the mind: if speaking of tender love, one shares breath and mind, yet once passion passes, revulsion arises night after night. The Master of the Dharma has not yet achieved inward reflection; how can you realize the illusion of the flower-seller? Not having attained knowledge of the minds of others, how can you know her thoughts? Alas! The cassia tree is ultimately consumed by a great fire; how lamentable that the bright pearl is buried beneath mire! This disciple's unsolicited counsel today will certainly be mocked by the Master of the Dharma. Yet how can one blame or restrict the laymen of this world? Furthermore, for a single person to abandon the Way brings neither safety nor danger [to the world at large]; examining this, it is truly hard to comprehend. It is like rubble filling the road, which alarms no one, whereas a single piece of yellow gold halts ten thousand men in their tracks. It is precisely because the Master of the Dharma's achievements in entering the Way are already complete, and the defilements of the secular world have not yet tainted you. How is this different from trading gold for red copper, or exchanging silver for lead and tin? It is sorrowful and pitiable! You can still carefully weigh the matter: to be able to endure what is hard to endure is known to be the supreme virtue. I pray you abandon worldly affairs, put an end to dusty toils, correspond with correct mindfulness, and keep both your conduct and aspiration intact. Give it a little careful deliberation and reflect on it further; repentance in advance avoids regret afterwards. By this disciple's calculation, in the long term, within ten-odd years, you will surely know grief and sorrow; in the short term, within three to five years, you will lament in vain, 'What can be done?' Who can say whether ten thousand regrets and ten thousand sorrows will extend to distant times? In self-delusion and self-pity you will forever cast away an entire lifetime. Only then will you know that broken strings may be restrung, but departing love can hardly be detained. Or if a flower blooms within fire, it may indeed be called rare. A deluded person who knows how to return is not far from the Way. Fortunately, quickly cast aside these thoughts and swiftly ascend the correct path! The Master of the Dharma is not without understanding, yet has been deluded by foolish persons, resembling Ānanda when harassed by māras. You must still rely on the power of the triratna to subdue those many evils; raise the banner of prajñā, and the deva-māras will naturally submit. If these words hit the mark, please promptly discard this humble advice; if they do not suit your lofty sentiments, I hope you will withhold deep resentment.