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Great Master Ma was ill. The abbot asked him, “Master, how are you today?”
Master Ma said, “Sun Face Buddha, Moon Face Buddha.” 

There is a story in the Zen literature about the death of Yantou Quanhuo, a dharma heir of Deshan:

At the end of the Tang Dynasty, there was great disruption and marauding bandits were everywhere. Hearing of bandits, the whole of Yantou’s monastery fled to hide in the woods. The Master stayed behind and sat in meditation. When the bandits came to the Temple, the leader of the band soon realized that there were no riches there—nothing to steal. In frustration, he pulled out his knife and stabbed Yantou. Yantou let out a loud scream that could be heard ten, some say thirty miles away.

Years later in Japan, when the young monk Hakuin heard this story, he gave up all hope of awakening. If the great Yantou could not retain his equanimity at death, what hope was there for him?

Entering the stream of practice, I carried the fantasy that the goal of practice was to live life undisturbed by circumstances. It was a way out of misfortune, to split myself off from suffering. With mature practice, my thought was that I’d be able to endure all slings and arrows without being perturbed in the least.

Maybe this was how Hakuin approached the story of Yantou: A great Zen master does not give a giant shout as he or she is run through with a sharp blade. As I write those words it seems a bit cold and cut off, numbed out. Zen loses its earthiness, its connection with life here and now.

On Thursday, using Mazu’s “Sun Face Buddha, Moon Face Buddha,” we’ll engage our practice as a movement into life, a letting go of control into whatever is appearing now. 

—David Parks

COME JOIN US at 4 pm on Thursdays for koan meditation, dharma talk and conversation.
Register to participate. All are welcome.

David Parks Roshi, Director of Bluegrass Zen