A huge, rough samurai once went to see a little monk, hoping to acquire the secrets of the universe. “Monk,” he said, in a voice accustomed to instant obedience, “teach me about heaven and hell.”
The little monk looked up at the mighty warrior in silence. Then, after a moment, he said to the samurai with utter disdain, “Teach YOU about heaven and hell? I couldn’t teach you about anything. You’re dirty. You smell. Your blade is rusty. You’re a disgrace, an embarrassment to the samurai class. Get out of my sight at once. I can’t stand you!”
The samurai was furious. He began to shake all over from the anger that raced through him. A red flush spread over his face; he was speechless with rage. Quickly, menacingly, he pulled out his sword and raised it above his head, preparing to slay the monk.
“That’s hell,” said the little monk quietly.
The samurai was overwhelmed. Stunned. The compassion and surrender of this little man who had offered his life to give this teaching about hell! He slowly lowered his sword, filled with gratitude, and for reasons he could not explain, his heart became suddenly peaceful.
“And that’s heaven,” said the monk softly.
This dramatic story, typical of those found in the Zen Buddhist tradition, teaches about spiritual realities through human experience. The encounter between a person well versed in the things of the spirit and someone who understands little of that world serves to instruct us about how to live.
In this instance, the contrast between the large powerful menacing warrior and the small inoffensive man of religion is striking. The incident teems with irony because the strong comes to be revealed as weak while the powerless monk emerges as the person of strength.
Zen stories have the virtue of being open to many different interpretations. Present them to a group, as I have done, and you find that the tales say different things to different people. No single understanding is the established one.
To me, this story delivers the message that heaven and hell are not distant abstract realities, but rather can be understood in terms of emotions felt by human beings. If you want to know what spiritual realities mean, the monk suggests, look to your own life experiences. Things of the spirit are available right at hand.
All of this lies hidden from the warrior who prides himself in his power. He does not see anything of the spirit until he is taught a lesson both painful and embarrassing. Through the manipulation visited upon him by the poor simple monk, the fierce samurai attains a kind of enlightenment.
Enlightenment, in this tradition, is the goal of the spiritual life. Coming to see what really is, ought to be for spiritual seekers (and perhaps for everyone) the supreme value in life.
But enlightenment is not easily obtained. One does not arrive at it by following a rational method. Nor does it lend itself to any kind of complacency. Enlightenment is never a cure-all.
That seems the point of this second story:
One day the Master announced that a young monk had reached an advanced state of enlightenment. The news caused some stir.
Some of the monks went to see the young monk. “We heard you are enlightened. Is that true?”
“It is,” he replied.
“And how do you feel.”
“As miserable as ever,” said the monk.
One person has interpreted this last story as follows: “It doesn’t matter if you’re enlightened or not; you still have the same feelings as before. Only things are much clearer.”
But perhaps this monk has paid the price for claiming to be enlightened. It’s almost as contradictory as claiming to be humble. If you really have obtained virtue, do you not lock yourself into a contradiction by announcing that you are virtuous?
To deal with these issues, perhaps the only remedy is more stories from this spiritual tradition. If you have access to the internet, I recommend that you look for “Zen stories.” My recent search led me to dozens of them.
Richard Griffin