This temple is the only temple

from Hoko

One characteristic of nyoho things that we’ve considered previously is that there is only this one thing.  Each thing is the complete expression of everything.  There is only this one robe, or this one bowl of soup, or this one temple.  In the most traditional sense, when we’re talking about nyoho shelter, we’re talking about temples, but we can certainly apply nyoho teachings to other buildings, our homes or offices or dog houses or anything.

In Buddha’s day, he and his sangha weren’t living or practicing in temples.  They were wandering around for most of the year, sharing the dharma.  During the monsoon, or the rainy season, when traveling around like that wasn’t safe or comfortable, they all got back together for three months in one place and they held an ango, literally peaceful dwelling—what we call a practice period in North America.  Every year they practiced in a different place, probably a park or some piece of land that a donor made available to support their practice.  Wherever they found themselves, that was their temple simply because they had gathered there to practice.  At the moment of their coming together, there were the three treasures. even without walls and pillars.  

Of course, this is really close to home for us because of Sawaki Roshi,  also known as yadonashi or Homeless Kodo.  Although he was asked to settle down in various temples and run them, he never agreed to do it.  Instead he traveled all over Japan to lead sesshin.  He visited training temples, local temples and laypeople’s houses and called his activities a “moving monastery.”  Wherever he gathered with people, that was his temple, even if it was someone’s living room.  The structure wasn’t important.  The nature of the place and what held it together was that it was a place of practice, full of Buddhas sitting shikantaza.

In the early days of Buddha’s sangha, as they gathered somewhere for the ango, probably what shelters there were were temporary, like tents or shacks, and those might come down at the end of the ango when the sangha would disperse again.  However, over the course of time, some of these gathering places became sort of regular venues.  Maybe there was a tent one year, and it became sturdier structure next year, and eventually there was something more solid, like a temple.

This seems like a logical, natural development, but I imagine it changed the quality of the practice.  Up to this point, wherever the sangha gathers is the practice space.  It might be here this year, and over there next year.  It doesn’t matter, because what’s important is that Shakyamuni and his followers are there doing the practice.  That’s what defines the space.  Yet now there are temple buildings, and people go there rather than the temple being wherever the people happen to be.  It becomes an ongoing spiritual or practice space.  People go there consistently and it takes on a certain purpose or function.  This is where we go to practice together as a community; this is a temple.

Over time, our understanding of the temple space develops.  Probably it’s been there for some time, becoming a space with a certain feeling or atmosphere.  When we walk into a temple or dharma center or zendo, we understand why it’s important and that there are many hours and people and intentions that have gone into making that up.  Every temple or zendo is slightly different, depending on where it is and how old it is and who practices there.  The reality is that every place is subject to causes and conditions; the land has this kind of topography and this kind of weather, it’s next to resources or we have to bring in resources.  The temple is made from what’s around it, including the people who practice there, so it changes as causes and conditions change.  It’s moving all the time according to its individual circumstances, and we can’t ignore that world of form.

However, there’s also a throughline that connects all the temples everywhere throughout space and time, and in that way, there’s just one temple -- that’s it!  This one temple is an expression of all temples.  We experience this in other kinds of buildings as well.  When we visit a hospital, in a way we’re not just in THIS hospital.  There’s just one hospital that exists across space and time, because we have a shared understanding of what it’s for and how we act there and what we do.  Being in a hospital is like THIS -- and we do this and behave like this.

The same is true for airports or libraries or post offices or other places.  Oh, this is an airport, I know what it’s for and how to be here.  It’s the same for the airport I just left and the airport where I’m arriving and every airport I’ve ever been in, even though every hospital or airport or library or post office is different.

When we consider temples as nyoho shelter, part of that practice is to consider how they’re built: what they’re made out of, how big they are, what they look and feel like, and how well they function to support practice.  Yet the point is not to build a temple that gets compared with other temples: ours is different or special because [fill in the blank].  I’m pretty sure other zendos don’t have a bespoke altar that swings open to reveal an escape hatch out to the moss garden like we have at Sanshin.  It's fun to show this clever surprise element to visitors.  Wow!  Aren’t we a particularly impressive or effective sangha because we’ve built a temple that is uniquely like THIS?

In a temple as nyoho shelter, you step inside for first time and say to yourself: yup, it’s a temple.  I’ve been here before, even though I’ve never been here before to this temple.  I know what this is and what we do here and how to behave.  Thus this temple includes all other temples.  There’s just this one.

The first time I went to Japan, I was a layperson with a rakusu.  I went to a service at a temple, and even though I didn’t understand Japanese I knew what to do and when to bow because the bells were the same and the order was the same and the forms were the same.  I had a very direct understanding that we were all doing the same practice together all over the world in the same space.  Rohatsu sesshin is like that, when we all do sesshin at the same time all over the world.  In a way, we’re all in the same zendo.  Don’t try to get any business done that week in the North American Zen world, because everyone is in sesshin!

Hosshin recently held a workshop during which five people built small altars for their homes.  Although he  provided the pieces and participants followed a pattern, probably each altar was a bit different because it was made by a different person.  When they got home, I’m sure everyone put their own things on the altar, and probably everyone has a different Buddha figure or image, a different candle, a different incense burner, a different flower, a different altar cloth.  However, if we went to each of their houses and looked at their altars, we’d say yup, that’s an altar, and I know what that’s about.  When these folks are practicing with their altars, and I’m practicing with mine, we’re doing that in the same space.

Even though with nyoho practice we’re concerned with physical characteristics like size and shape and location, a nyoho temple doesn’t have one fixed size or shape or location.  It’s the only temple, wherever we are, not disconnected from all other temples.

In the last five years, virtual practice has given us a whole new way to consider the temple as nyoho shelter.  It's very direct way to understand that the temple has no fixed size or location.  Folks at home have created their own practice space, I hope with some  consideration for tai, shiki and ryo, and they’re not physically here -- and yet, when the computers are on, we’re all practicing in the same space.  Since folks are coming in from all over the world, the temple doesn’t even have a fixed time, but virtual practice isn’t the only thing about time.  As we’ve seen, one of the elements of nyoho is connection with the past, and here we can also include a connection with the future.  

The temple is 100% real and complete here and now, no matter what, and it’s also constantly negating itself toward what it’s going to be in the next moment, because all conditioned things are impermanent.  The temple is made up of all the people who’ve ever practiced here.  Everyone who ever came through the door is still here, whether or not they ever came back.  Everybody contributed to the unfolding of the life and karma of the temple and the community.  Various people have sat in this zendo over a couple of decades, and they’re not the only ones here.  The people who haven’t arrived yet are also here, because there’s nothing outside of this moment and this one unified reality.  What happens here today sets up the causes and conditions for the practice of those who come later.  This sangha in this space in this moment is the only sangha, the complete expression of awakening.

This is what Uchiyama Roshi means when he says that "Everything I encounter is my life."  This temple isn’t just one temple on a list of Sotoshu temples in North America.  It’s the only temple, the only sangha, the only dharma body.

It’s a whole new way to think about ryo, or amount.  Ryo is infinite and also, if you open the cupboard in the zendo kitchen, there’s a concrete number of mismatched cups.  When new folks come to Sanshin and ask where the bathroom is, we can show them.  The zendo isn’t the only room in the building, and still, the zendo is the whole universe.

Although we’re going to spend our nyoho time for the rest of this year considering shelter in terms of color, materials and size, I’m starting here with the most abstract view.  There is only one temple, and this is it.  When we go to visit other temples, that’s the only temple.  Whatever temple we’re in, it’s the only one.  Why?  Because that’s where we’re practicing with the community.  Practice and awakening are not two, and awakening has no boundary, so there’s no way for places of practice to be separate across space and time.

Our operations manager recently described our practice as being scaffolded by the liturgy, and we could say that this only one temple is scaffolded by things like zazen, work, study and liturgy.  That’s what provides the structure and makes the container.  Those things don’t have physical dimensions, and neither does the temple in that way.  When we think about nyoho temples as not encouraging clinging and attachment, maybe the first conclusion we draw is that the buildings themselves don’t need to be fancy and elaborate.  If our scaffolding is practice, then it doesn’t matter whether we’re practicing in a field or a palace, and that’s certainly true.  There are ways in which a thoughtful and intentional practice space really supports the sangha, and removes hindrances and obstacles, and we shouldn’t be careless about taking care of the sangha in that way, but as I mentioned earlier, the point is not to build the most uniquely amazing temple thinking somehow the practice will be better.

In the Shobogenzo Zuimonki, Dogen says: Even though the building is broken down, it is certainly a better place for practicing zazen than on the ground or under a tree. If one section is broken and leaks, we should move where there are no leaks to practice zazen. If monks could attain enlightenment by building a hall, we should construct one of gold and jewels. Enlightenment does not depend on whether the building is good or bad; it depends only upon our diligence in zazen.

Now we may hear teachings like that and decide that thinking about the nature of a practice space isn’t necessary or is a waste of time.  Oh, any old space will do.  Maybe that sort of consideration is a distraction from “real” practice -- but I think that’s a mistake.  Considering the nyoho approach to shelter is a real dharma gate.  This is the house of the Buddha, after all, and we treat the three treasures and the relics of Buddha in a certain way in this practice, not so we can get precious about them, but because taking care of the practice and the temple for everyone means we break out of self-centered habits.  It’s not this space needs to be pretty or comfortable or interesting FOR ME.  We can fall down on the side of “the temple doesn’t matter, only the practice,” or on the side of “the temple matters a lot because I have certain preferences and expectations for myself.”

Somewhere in the middle there’s the house of the Buddha as nyoho shelter, and later this year we’ll talk about what “the house of Buddha” means in historical context, which is really interesting because we get to look at the idea of buddha fields, and where buddha is, and what making offerings is about.

I’ll wrap up here with a couple of things from Dogen Zenji that seem to summarize these teachings about our understanding of the nature of temples.  From Shobogenzo Gyoji: Even if we don’t have lofty temple buildings, if we practice, this place can be called a dojo of ancient buddhas. Foolish people in this degenerate age should not be vainly engaged in construction of temple buildings. The buddhas and ancestors never had desires for buildings. Many people today meaninglessly construct a Buddha hall or other temple buildings although they haven’t yet clarified the eye of their own self. Such people build temples, not in order to offer the buildings to buddhas, but to make their own houses of fame and profit.

If we see the temple as a means simply of getting more people through the door, or housing our treasures or artworks, then our activity becomes all about managing the temple as a museum or a hotel, and about making sure it functions that way.  Sawaki Roshi had no time for that stuff; to him, if the temple wasn’t about practicing the dharma, then it was useless, and just a way for monks to get rich.  It’s the activity that makes the temple, not the buildings.

Here’s more from Dogen Zenji 
When we make a vow to found a temple, we should not be motivated by human sentiment, but we should strengthen our aspiration for the continuous practice of Buddha Dharma.  Even if we don’t have lofty temple buildings, if we practice, the place can be called a dōjō of ancient buddhas.  We hear that ancient people practiced on the ground or under a tree. Such places are sacred forever. A single person’s continuous practice creates a dōjō for many buddhas.

He keeps saying that practice makes a place a dojo of ancient buddhas.  Why?  Because they’re all right here as soon as we practice.  We’re all in the same space of zazen as soon as we sit down and open the hand of thought.  This is why we don’t get better at zazen.  There’s nowhere to go and we’ve already arrived.  As soon as we sit down, we’re in the one and only temple, and all the other beings who’ve ever practiced are in there with us.

Finally, from the Zuimonki:
Most people today mistakenly think that constructing buddha-images and building stupas helps the buddha-dharma flourish. Even though we might erect huge temples adorned with polished jewels and gold, we cannot attain the Way by these works. This is nothing more than merit for people enabling their wealth to enter into the world of the buddha and allowing people to do good. Although they might receive a great result from a small cause, for monks to be involved in such things has nothing to do with the flourishing of the buddha-dharma. To learn even a single phrase of the dharma-gate (teaching) or to practice zazen even for a single period while living in a thatched hut or under a tree shows the true flourishing of the buddha-dharma.

Uchiyama Roshi also said that we can practice zazen with only three square feet for each person, a zafu and zabuton to sit on, and our aspiration to practice.  That’s all we need.

The nyoho temple is itself dharma, not separate from or other than dharma, just like all other nyoho things.  It’s unpretentious, unassuming, not trying to be other than what it is.  On that basis, we recognize it, wherever it is:  this is a temple.  This is a place of practice.  This is THE temple, the only one.  This is a house of Buddha.