集沙門不應拜俗等事 3.43

3.43

Your servants have heard that when the three disasters transform into fire, the six perfections become ever more steadfast; when the two words become the classic, a hundred generations look up to them. For this reason, the white curl manifest its mark, expounding the One Vehicle across myriad kalpas; the purple vapor drifted in shadow, harmonizing the myriad diversities into a single uniformity. Then there is the ford of Confucianism, which sets a different wheel on a different track: it displays the endowment of heaven and earth, yin and yang, and solemnizes the harmony of ruler and minister, father and son. Thus we know that following the name to demand the reality, rectifying the traces and uprighting the form, instruction begins at the Village of Que; purifying the mind and striving in practice, cultivating the future and repenting the past, transformation gradually advances by the Lian River. Buddhism serves as the inner defense, admirably providing restraint from within the palace; Confucianism serves as the outer check, but cannot encompass the spiritual terrace. Separately, there is the mysterious school's pure model that stirs and sweeps over the wind and things: the soaring peng and the carefree quail, the fleeting chun tree and the short-lived fungus—acting through non-action and attending to nothing, what gain or what loss is there? Thus, the two teachings of Daoism and Buddhism both constitute the Three Jewels: Buddhism takes the Buddha, Dharma, and Saṃgha as its core purport, while Daoism takes the Dao, Scriptures, and Masters as its principle. How could it be merely that the nourishment of life has something to rely upon and the cultivation of nature is broadly aided? Truly it is also the foundation of governing the state, enriching renown and deepening moral transformation. Yet bhikṣus may not have comprehended, and Daoist gentlemen have many eccentricities: relying on leaving the world, they are fleeting and unrestrained; taking pride and arrogance, they are boastful and extravagant. Dwelling in the lowly status of common men, they stiffen their bodies before the lord of ten thousand chariots; forgetting the kindness of parental upbringing, they do not bow down before the three greats. This is indeed what ruler and father should reform, and what ministers and sons understand. However, to issue imperial edicts to alter their defects suddenly—though practicing filial piety and abiding in loyalty, boldly arguing for changing course—one must also examine antiquity, cherish the Way, and take into account the sentiments of the multitude. The valley that holds an echo does not obliterate sound; the mountain that gathers dust does not reject fine grains. One must gather the songs of the people of the carriages to offer up the opinions of the grass-cutters. Why is this? The Scribe of the Pillar traveled west more than a thousand years ago; the Dharma stream flowed east for some six hundred years. Although changing through marketplaces and courts, the matter has suffered neither loss nor gain. Only Yu Bing demanded the bowing of śramaṇas, and Huan Xuan deliberated on the etiquette of bhikṣus. Fortunately, He Chong submitted a memorial, and Huiyuan presented a letter; the matter ultimately was not put into practice, and the Way in the end did not fall. Thus, the Great Changes was ordered by the three sages, and the Gu hexagram's image "does not serve kings and princes"; the Great Rites fill heaven and earth, and the Confucian Conduct "does not act as a subject to the Son of Heaven." There was also Yan Ling who sat casually before Guangwu, and Yafu who gave a deep bow to Han Wendi. How could wearing armor be called offending the imperial dragon-scales? An old friend is not caught in the worldly net. Regarding the past, how could the way of the teacher precede it? How could the Dharma companions be placed behind military attire? Above, there are the True Sovereigns of the Nine Heavens and the Bodhisattvas of the Ten Stages; below, there are the Four Whiteheads of Mount Shang and the Eight Immortals of Huainan. Some paid homage and had audience by following the wind; some traveled and dwelt by riding the clouds. A single principle runs through them all; they cannot be bent. In a hamlet of ten households with loyalty and faithfulness, could there be no such men? When the five punishments are instituted, those bound in the three wooden instruments do not bow; how could those endowed with the five virtues and wearing the three robes bow? If guilt is not rebuked for lack of reverence, virtue is truly sufficient to receive forbearance. Now, among all sentient beings and the classes of living things, there is none who does not dedicate his body to render loyalty, yet these do not serve the king as subjects; there is none who does not exhaust his strength to follow filial piety, yet these do not show reverence to their parents. Although the simplified three chapters of law and the light three-foot statutes consider that having any one of these faults is among the greatest of the three thousand crimes, why are they not subjected to severe execution or placed under immense blame? Is it not because Daoism and Buddhism have systems different from Yao and Confucius, and bodily harm runs directly contrary to ritual propriety? The lotus is not of the color of bureaucratic cords; the palm-leaf manuscript is different from the purport of carved jade tablets. People consider binding the belt as the regular standard, while the Daoist wears a cap without a belt; people consider binding the hair as an ornament of beauty, while the Buddhist shaves it off and leaves no adornment. Leaving one's country is not considered disloyalty; renouncing one's family is not considered unfilial. Leaving the dust and defilement, they sever love for ruler and parents; casting off desires, they abandon attachment to wife and children. Principle indeed differs among the varieties of things, and cannot be measured and restrained by ordinary paths. In life, nothing is heavier than parents, yet a son does not thank them; in giving, nothing is thicker than heaven and earth, yet creatures do not requite them. The kindness of ruler and parents is an affair transcending names and images; how could a kowtow or prostration repay one ten-thousandth of it? As for the renunciation of worldly life regarding ruler and father, can it be said that there is entirely no repayment? In a single thought, they surely take the human king as the foremost of their vows; in the Four Truths, they bring vast benefit to their parents. Just as they dispel kalpas of dust and forever transcend birth and death, how could this be compared merely to bending the knee to exhaust loyalty or pleasing parents to achieve pure filial piety? If one must enclose them within the worldly realm and place them in the Confucian marketplace, bending their appearance and lowering their etiquette, then since nothing is more unfilial than ending one's lineage, why not regulate them by marriage? Since nothing is more disloyal than declining vassalage, why not command them to style themselves as subjects and concubines? To make the kāṣāya a court dress and to rush forward bowing while calling oneself "impoverished man of the Way" would lose both forms of decorum and confuse both names and titles. We deeply fear that the benefit of a single kneeling will add nothing to the dignity of the lord of ten thousand chariots, while the toil of a single bowing will visibly manifest the fall of the three robes. Then would not doing what should not be done be truly so? A king treats the Three Elders as if having no father, and treats the Five Experienced Ones as if having no elder brother; the honor of the ruler of men also has that which it reveres. The reverence shown to the Dharma robe is not reverence for the person. If one bends their rules, one debases their Way; if rules can be debased, then the Way is impaired. How could that compare to preserving reverence in oneself and preserving the Way in things? When reverence is preserved, oneself is at ease; when the Way exists, things are venerated. To venerate the Way is the means to revere things; to revere things is the means to venerate oneself. Moreover, form is like the body, and the Way is like the shadow; the body is like the sound, and the Way is like the echo. When the form moves, the shadow follows; when the sound is raised, the echo responds. When the Way is esteemed, the body is favored; when the body declines, the Way ceases. How could one cause the Way residing in the body to bend before a body outside the Way? How could one cause a person beyond the realm to preserve the reverence within the body? Furthermore, they preserve oneness and dwell in the Way, not mingling with worldly dust. If they could bow, this would mean the worldly is the Way and the Way can be worldly; if the worldly also mingles with the Way, then one would become two, and the Way would not operate solely. How then could one demarcate the constant realms of the Way and the world, and preserve the ultimate sincerity of devoted oneness? According to the Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, revering the kāṣāya is like revering a Buddha stūpa. It calls the kāṣāya the robe of the field of merit; the robe is named "emaciating" because it can emaciate afflictions; the armor is named "forbearance" because it can subjugate the demon armies. It is also compared to the lotus unstained by mire, and serves as the banner-mark of all Buddhas. Thus, the meaning of the kāṣāya is supreme indeed.