法苑珠林 96.26

96.26

During the Zhou dynasty, the śramaṇa Shi Jing’ai of Mount Zhongnan was surnamed Zheng and was a native of Xingyang. From an early age he established a worldly reputation, renowned for his gentle and refined nature, while his spiritual vessel was peaceful, simple, and stood preeminent beyond worldly concerns. Placing a hand on his heart, he sighed, “Born unfortunately into the chaos of the five turbidities, failing in public esteem is considered disgraceful. In this dilemma, would it not be better to retreat into seclusion?” Thus, consoling himself, he hid away at Mount Song. Searching through the sūtras and treatises, he forgot sleep and waking. Hearing that there was an Indian monk of profound learning and sublime conduct whom the world could not fathom, he traveled west to Xianyang to seek the Way, their minds fully communing. Keeping a low profile for ten years, he later retired to Mount Zhongnan with the intent of ending his days there. The mists, clouds, wind, and moon dispelled all thought of return. The mountain originally had no water, and one had to drink from the ravines. Once at dusk he sensed someone standing in attendance; suddenly a tiger descended, came before him, pawed the ground, and departed. When he looked at dawn, he saw it gradually moistening. He had someone dig, and a flying spring gushed forth. From then on, drawing water was effortless. This is what is now known as the Tiger Pawing Spring at the Fleeing-the-World Stronghold in Xigu. Later, Emperor Wu of the Northern Zhou destroyed the Dharma, carrying out cruelty in Guanzhong in the fifth month of the third year of Jiande. When the calamity was over, on the fifteenth day of the sixth month after court had adjourned, Ren, Duke of Jincheng and Minister of the Minbu, was at his administrative office with his attendants, gazing leisurely up at the sky, when he suddenly saw five or six objects flying up into the sky along the birds’ pathway. The larger ones brushed the blue heavens, while the smaller ones were the size of ten-hu granaries, gradually fading from sight. The other several pieces were smaller and lower down, yellow and white in color, rolling and unfurling in mid-air, resembling streamers without feet. On that day the sky was clear, the air calm, not a speck of dust stirred, and there was only an intensifying blaze of sunlight. Proceeding to the Dongguan office, he passed by the round prison, where to the north he saw yellow writing on the high wall, draped over brambles. Going to take it, it turned out to be the nineteenth fascicle of the Mahāprajñāpāramitā-sūtra. When he inquired about its origin, they replied, “It fell down here, fluttering from the sky.” At that time, as the Three Jewels had just been destroyed and the penal laws were severe, he showed it briefly to his colleagues on the bench, then hid it in his sleeve and returned to lock it in a chest. Earlier, Emperor Wu, knowing Jing’ai’s resolute character, gladly wished to see him, and ordered more than twenty men of the Three Guards to search the mountains, saying, “If I find this felt-clad monk, I will appoint him to high ministerial rank to govern the empire together with me.” Jing’ai dwelt in seclusion in the mountains, so the search did not find him. Later, hiding in Xigu on Mount Taiyi, he saw the Great Dharma ruined and both monastics and laity without refuge. Bound by karmic retribution, his body was powerless to assist. He said to his disciples, “I am of no benefit to the world, and shall now abandon this body.” Because the five groups of disciples had not previously emulated [such conduct], Jing’ai first compiled more than twenty fascicles of records on the Three Jewels in the Mahāyāna and Hīnayāna, hiding them in rock caves so that later generations might revive them. Later, feeling an urgent weariness with the body, he took his seat alone on a separate cliff. He told his disciples to descend the mountain and return early the next morning. Jing’ai then sat cross-legged on a flat rock, keeping only an inner garment. He sliced his flesh piece by piece and arranged it on the stone. He drew out his intestines and hung them on pine branches, without harming his internal organs. As for the rest of his sinews, flesh, hands, feet, head, and face, he carved and dissected them all completely until only the bones remained. Cutting his heart with the knife, he held it up and died. His attendant, struck with terror, could not sleep all night. Running back the next morning, he still saw the body with hands clasped, holding the heart, sitting cross-legged facing west as before. Among his wounded remains, there was no blood left behind at all; only white milk was seen pouring forth, congealing upon the stone. They then piled up stones around him and interred him there. This was the sixteenth day of the seventh month in the first year of the Xuanzheng era of the Zhou dynasty; his age was forty-five. His disciples were renowned in their day, as fully recounted in their separate biographies. His personal attendant, the śramaṇa Huixuan, was broadly versed in both Buddhist and non-Buddhist lore, with extraordinary resolve and strength. Grieving that the mountain had collapsed with none to look up to, and sorrowing that the beam had broken with none to rely on, he set forth his fragrant virtues and erected a stele at the stupa. Later, seekers of the Way who longed for the virtuous entered the mountain to pay homage. Following the dangerous cliffs, they saw a farewell gāthā inscribed by Jing’ai on the rock face, bearing the title: “Initially I wished to write with blood, but never expected it would turn white, which is the compassionate blood of a Bodhisattva; thus I wrote the text in ink.” It said: “Let all those with karmic affinity, monastics and laity, men and women, abide well in the Buddhadharma and do not give rise to retrogression. If you retrogress, you will lose the wholesome benefit. I abandon this body and life due to three conditions: first, seeing the many faults of the body; second, being unable to protect the Dharma; third, wishing to see the Buddha swiftly, imitating the ancient sages.” He then arranged a gāthā recounting this.