Monastic Training

The Training of a Zen Monk

At the time of writing, a small group of Theravadin Buddhist monks set out on a 108-day, 2,300-mile “Walk for Peace” toward Washington, DC from their monastery in Texas. Despite cultural and religious differences with most Americans, they are touching the heart of the nation and the world with the simple activity of steadily stepping forward with clear intention, accountability, and openness. Amidst a time of social upheaval, spurred by authoritarian violence, their march shines as a beacon of equanimity and tolerance. Their presence embodies something intangible and expansive. What is it these amazing, yet so ordinary monks are offering that resonates so deeply for the world at this time?

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International Dai Bosatsu Zendo Kongo-ji was established as a Rinzai Zen Buddhist monastery to provide spiritual training for both lay and ordained practitioners. Over the past fifty years, seventy-five students have been ordained and trained as monks at Dai Bosatsu Zendo. While only slightly different expectations apply for monks and lay students, every Zen student at Dai Bosatsu Zendo receives the same teaching and resources during residential training. Lay students are not expected to become ordained, nor is any time limit to their residency imposed. Fundamentally, of course, lay and ordained practitioners have the same potential to awaken and discover their true nature. So, what is it that motivates some to don the robes and shave their heads, and what is the point?

For many lay practitioners, entering the monastery for a short-term training period is a way to deepen their Zen Buddhist practice or to challenge themselves through the discipline of monastic life. Most do not intend to ordain. For some, the aspiration to ordain arises unexpectedly only after immersing themselves in residential practice for some time. Others feel a lifelong calling to spiritual service with ordination as a natural next step. Regardless of the trajectory, the gravity of the commitment to ordain meets the individual on multiple levels. Monastic training is designed to expose the ego’s various excesses that typically go unnoticed; self-serving traits become increasingly uncomfortable to maintain. One might imagine a peaceful, gentle molting of ego-layers in the serene setting of a pristine mountain-top monastery – but, in reality, it can be a muddy scene.

Before we get to the mud, it would be incomplete to ignore the romanticized image of the archetypal Zen monk in the popular imagination as playing a part in the motivation for ordination. We imagine a singular being, composed and quietly confident, with impeccable timing, polite demeanor, quick wit, and grace in movement and speech. We may envision a seasoned adept, decked in elegant robes, a freshly shaven pate reflecting the candlelight, with delicate wisps of smoke rising as offerings are purified on the altar. The figure recedes in grace and silence, settling on the meditation cushion in perfect posture. In our idealized imagination, the Zen monk embodies an air of pure equanimity, whether sitting, standing, working, or sleeping.

Certainly, monks are admonished to adopt such qualities by lineage masters such as Hyakujo Ekai (749–814) in his Rules of Purity, and the first Zen monk to have come to the West, Soyen Shaku (1860–1919) in his Monastic Principles. But their noble guidance should in no way be confused with any idea of a Zen monk. Although readers of this article have the savvy to see through such an idyllic portrayal, it remains a stubborn stain that lingers in the unlit regions of every Zen student’s consciousness, lay and ordained alike. Further, idealized notions about identity influence interactions at the monastery much like ideas of mother and father from one’s nuclear family influence a marriage.

In practical terms, becoming ordained requires a prolonged commitment away from family and secular obligations. The initiation of “leaving home” marks the transition to fulfilling this commitment. The formal term from the Japanese is shukke tokudo. Shukke means leaving home, while tokudo refers to an achievement on a path, in this case, a graduation from the secular to a spiritual enclave. In Japan, an aspirant travels to a monastery of his choice after leaving the small home temple where he, typically the son of the osho, or temple priest, would already arrive decked in monks’ traveling robes with his head freshly shaven. His outfit would be complete with a bundle of very few possessions, which convention dictates should include cash to pay for funeral services if the aspirant were to die during the journey or training. This last point illustrates key elements of Zen Buddhist monasticism: self-reliance, accountability, and a keen awareness of impermanence.

To obtain full context, although women have numbered one-third of those ordained at Dai Bosatsu Zendo, fewer than 10% of the total Rinzai Zen Buddhist priests in Japan are women. Nuns in Japan undergo more severe hardship in training than men in certain Rinzai monasteries. Although “nun” can be used honorably, for this article readers should interpret “monk” as ordained clergy of any gender.

The traditional process still practiced in Japan today is replicated at Dai Bosatsu Zendo, albeit more symbolically and with the less rigor. In Japan, one may beg admission outside the monastery gate for days. In the Western version of leaving home as practiced at Dai Bosatsu Zendo, a date is set for an ordination ceremony, and arrangements are made in advance. Nevertheless, before the ceremony, the initiate spends the night with their head down in a humbling, deep bow on the temple steps, often after trekking up the steep mountain road. Senior monks maintain tradition by admonishing the supplicant to leave and disparaging their aspirations as a test of resolve. Although the process at Dai Bosatsu Zendo may not entail the same degree of harshness or unpredictability as in East Asia, the gravity of the commitment still rumbles in the aspirant’s gut and psyche. A night with your head on the steps, where you are left to nurse on the raw sap of your own readiness, is a night of solemn reflection.

After ordination, custom prescribes a commitment of 1,000 days of residential training at the monastery, roughly three years. During that time, hurdles persist. Every aspect of life should reflect accountability: the term will involve a steadfast bond of interdependence with the residential group; a journey on an uncompromisingly transparent relationship with the Abbot; and, a commitment to serving the larger community. During this period, novice monks are called unsui (literally, cloud-water). From early Chan, the term derives from the poetic phrase “drifting clouds and flowing water,” referring to itinerant followers of the Way. Perhaps it signified the fluid, unconstrained nature of those who surrender their attachments. Alternatively, perhaps it described those readily coming and going, pursuing a perfect teacher and easily diverted by a whiff of enlightenment.

In monastic training, one has the privilege of striving to master “the form.” This term covers the conventions, etiquette, and rituals transmitted from one generation to the next within the ancestral lineage. A wide array of skills spans from the way one walks down the hall and how one opens and closes doors to navigating cordial interaction with guests, to meticulous ways of serving food and tea, to the sequence of purifying offerings: which foot comes first, in which direction one moves, or how objects are handled when and by whom. Learning the sequence, timing, and cadence of the many bells and other signals that wordlessly outline the day’s schedule is fundamental to the language of “the form.” This is not to mention the how and when of bowing, leading chanting, cleaning everything, and tending to altars.

The standard for a monk is to become fluent in all officer roles that fulfill all monastery functions, becoming generally well-rounded and firmly competent. For instance, as the jisha, one learns not only all the details of serving others, tea being primary, but also how to recognize and attend to the tangible needs of the sangha. As jikijitsu, one learns not only to engender an atmosphere of discipline in the Zendo (the meditation hall) but also to feel the tone of the room and of individuals, eventually learning to respond creatively to the intangible needs of the Sangha. When entering a space or situation, a seasoned monk can discern something needs attention, and if appropriate, acts unhesitatingly to resolve the issue harmoniously. In every role, honing keen observational skills and an intuitive relationship to action (or inaction) is foundational.

In carrying out the established form, there is a recognizably “correct” way. For instance, your hands are held in shashu, a mudra of overlapped clasped hands when in walking meditation or during some chants, but your hands would be in gassho, palms together in reverence, when entering the meditation hall or during other chants. To mix these up or even to put one hand over the other instead of vice versa, would be “wrong,” a mistake. The reader can easily imagine no shortage of opportunities for so-called mistakes when training as an unsui.

For anyone, mistakes are not only unavoidable, they are strictly necessary. When we stop making mistakes, we stop learning. Whether held to account in front of others or embarrassed even with no one watching, mistakes offer the opportunity to “stop and see,” to wake up and relinquish the egoic scenario of the moment. Mistakes are freedom, but only when freed by our caring attention and accountability. This exposure is not shame, nor is it becoming a doormat. The potency of exposure is neither about power nor victimization. Accountability becomes simply not having to hide, recognizing there is nothing to hide from and nowhere to hide. It is the openness of “no self” with the lightness of radical acceptance and a buoyant sense of wonder. Eventually we discover a surprising beauty in the exposure of accepting and embracing mistakes. The wisest teachers have said mistakes should be celebrated!

Nonetheless, all who train in the monastery predictably get ensnared in the superficial realm of right-and-wrong to a lesser or greater degree. As monastic training washes away our ego armor, we may feel increasingly vulnerable. Our response can be to unknowingly concretize our sense of self by attaching our identity to some “thing,” in this case, the form. The depth of attachment and resulting suffering that such obsession can exact within this environment cannot be overstated, whether self-inflicted or inflicted upon others—a barbed-wire mess. As experience has shown, when this pattern becomes institutional in the culture it can foster religious corruption. With great attention, authenticity, and cheerful wit, a good teacher can restore harmony and nurture humility rather than fortifying students’ internalized shame.

An underlying tenet of monastic community is the architecture of seniority. Respectful observance of seniority provides a solid foundation for healthy interdependence in the Sangha when dispensed with selfless kindness and genuineness. Yet rigid adherence to its formula can easily forge seniority into a weapon. Repeatedly, lay practitioners returning to Dai Bosatsu after long absence report what drove them away was the corrective castigation of a monk. For Buddhist clergy, weapons are entirely out of place. As a friend so beautifully said, “Take the robes 100% seriously. But for Heaven’s sake, don’t take the robes 100% seriously.” The most fundamental instructions of all, the Three Pure Precepts, should underpin all activity, whether doing nothing or intervening: 1) doing no harm, 2) doing good, and 3) committing to the awakening of all beings.

Beyond the patterns of ritual that weave through daily life, fundamental spiritual disciplines provide the framework of monastic training. Of these, surrendering our attachments to personal preference can be the trickiest discipline in the thick of the moment. After all, an intrinsic shortcoming common in being human is rationalizing getting what we want when we want it. Monastic etiquette calls for a senior to skillfully confront novitiates who insist on their own predilections out of self-centered disregard for the group. Likewise, the discipline of consistency is a precious resource for limiting distraction and fostering stability. Conformity also plays a vital role in developing restraint and mastering the full spectrum of appropriate responses in any situation. The uniformity of monastic garb, for instance, holds great significance. We wear the same modest clothing, shave our heads on the same days, and all have bare feet; the resulting anonymity becomes something one melts into, a soothing balm from the habitual burden of protecting the ego--a mission we were not even aware we were on.

In the monastery, residents are awakened well before sunrise by shinrei, a loudly shaken handbell. Monks have duties beginning before wake-up call and extending after the evening zendo closing ceremony. In addition to three or four hours of meditation and ritual on an average day, residents do samu (Zen work practice), cleaning the temple and preparing meals. Learning to cultivate and maintain equanimity is fundamental to samu. Yet, day after day of hard work combined with little sleep takes its toll. Days are long and rest periods typically short. Nonetheless, the regimen at Dai Bosatsu Zendo does not match the intensity of a Rinzai monastery in Japan. There, only a few hours of rest are permitted nightly, and one is without access to personal possessions, private space, or unlimited resources during the day. Nonetheless, everyone who has lived at Dai Bosatsu finds the bodily strain alone, at times hard to endure.

Living in community, we quickly encounter a range of rich emotional and psychological challenges layered atop the physical demands of monastic life. Out of this, a training syllabus perfectly tailored to each student is collectively created, augmented by one’s own karmic activity. This is where the spiritual curriculum of monastic training really takes off. At the center of our greatest challenges lies human relationships. Wise teachers point out in hundreds of ways that this is where real practice begins. For, relationships are the touchstone that tests the authenticity of our vows. In this realm, we can make exhaustive mistakes for which we have not only personal accountability but also can begin to take collective accountability.

What becomes problematic in relationships is always delusory in nature. We can be perfectly blissful alone or fine with others as long as things stay as we like them. We typically do not begin to recognize our delusion until it crashes up against someone else’s. And the full awareness of it is often precluded by our attachment to seeing the “other” as “wrong.” Within the ordination ceremony, we pledge to maintain Master Bodhidharma's One Mind Precepts, vowing among other things “not to be deceived by the idea of a separate self” and “to make no distinction between self and others.” Nonetheless, if we are honest, we meet ourselves repeatedly as failures in our vows when it comes to relationships, realizing we may have been hurtful. Here, we cannot force a contrived state of purity, transform into interpersonal superheroes, or shut down to avoid harm. But what we can do is to resolve to accept our own and others’ mistaken views and show up once again ready to put our views aside. Born-once-again willingness keeps blossoming, an evolving transformation, to returning home.

Whatever draws anyone toward ordination, the essence of the vow eventually distills to a deep dedication to something far greater than fixated ideas. We are often at first loosely aware of this genuine urge to serve and to do good, because it is inherent in our very being. Yet monastic training offers “power tools” to disassemble the entangled, limited views that cloud our true nature. Tools are helpful. But the willingness to give oneself completely must be summoned repeatedly, regardless of the endless obstacles encountered. Ultimately, each monk can discover the purpose for their decision to ordain.

Dai Bosatsu, means great bodhisattva: great as in beyond quantification or comparison, bodhisattva as in the human spirit that places the enlightenment of all beings before all else. The Four Great Vows repeated in the monastery several times daily epitomize the volition of the Bodhisattva Path.

SHU JO MU HEN SEI GAN DO
BO NO MU JIN SEI GAN DAN
HO MON MU RYO SEI GAN GAKU
BUTSU DO MU JO SEI GAN JO

However innumerable all beings are, I vow to save them all.
However inexhaustible delusions are, I vow to extinguish them all.
However immeasurable Dharma teachings are, I vow to master them all.
However endless the Buddha's way is, I vow to follow it.

Early on the Walk for Peace, one monk was struck by a car. His leg was amputated, and he was left behind. The way he talked about it revealed a deeply ingrained practice of attending to whatever experience presented itself. Undoubtedly, it would be torturous, life-changing, and deflating for anyone. Yet, the well-trained monk attended to the situation with complete absorption, seemingly not conflated with self-pity nor anger, but with clarity and presence. “Why me?” transforms to “Why not me?”. Saying that his limb was an offering for peace, he demonstrated the universal accountability toward which we train. The reader should not infer that the self-sacrifice of monastic training is a martyr’s choice. The belt around the waist of the unsui robe is tied in a large square knot like the wrapping of a Japanese-style gift, as if the monk is a gift to the sangha. Whether monk or layperson, when this giving of oneself manifests truly, it is an act of great love, of being in love with the universe.

May all beings attain maturity in Buddha’s wisdom.

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