In T’ang dynasty China, in the golden age of Ch’an Buddhism, a monk would typically describe himself as “a man of no rank.” When we read this description now, it may sound like a quaint holdover from feudal society, when everyone, from peasant to Emperor, had an official rank.
It might seem like an irrelevancy to modern Buddhist practitioners. Especially for people practicing in the Japanese Zen tradition, where American and European teachers now own million dollar Zen Centers and require constant displays of personal deference by their followers; a tradition in which some of the patriarchs in Japan were supported by the military dictatorships of Shoguns and samurai, in which many Zen monks were, indeed, men of very high social rank.
So we do not immediately understand that the description — a man of no rank — was not just a pose. Sometimes contemporary scholars explain this phrase as sociological: in China in the ninth century, there were legions of men from poor families with no real hope of economic success, no likelihood, therefore, of marrying or establishing themselves as men of any status, and in this Marxist interpretation, as a result of their economic alienation they turned to monastic life — for material support, for social position, for something to do.
There may have been such people. But it is a misunderstanding of the significance of the phrase “man of no rank.” And it prevents us from learning what our ancestors knew and what, through their words, they are trying to teach us.
Our relationships with others are permeated with an awareness of rank. No less than in a feudal society, and in a way, more so, because instead of having a fixed and titled social hierarchy, our status is undefined and requires frequent signaling. The pursuit of higher status, or the means to signal higher status, is a chief motivator of the behavior of modern people.
The size of houses, the choice of car, the school you went to or need to get into, what you do to get a job or a promotion, the restaurants people go to, where they are seated, who you know, where you travel, how you get there, the entertainment people choose, the events you attend, the tickets you buy, your clothes and your phone, your sports equipment, where you sit in the Zen center. All these concerns – and all the marketing that influences them – are bound to the impulse to signify one’s status.
Status signaling may not be the only motivator – the pursuit of money, food, leisure, sex and the impulse to human kindness also may play a role – but in the modern world it is the most manipulated motivator.
In this respect, we are not different from the medieval people who were so concerned with social rank.
In the practice of Buddhism we let go of it.
The Dalai Lama often says, “I am just a simple monk. All I own is my robe and bowl.” He is serious about this. As sophisticated and skeptical modern people, who are lied to by marketers, actors and public figures of all types, and so fear being gullible that we maintain a stance of ironic disbelief even in the face of the truth, we might think that because he is a head of state, with a big place to live, followers, comforts and a plane, he is just striking a pose or quoting.
He is quite serious. And he reminds himself and his followers of this fact frequently. We might think this is an easy thing for him to say, because he actually has high status. But if it was so easy, the other high status people might say it, too. And we do not hear them say it.
What is easy, is to become accustomed to and eventually addicted to the attachments and props that cling to you when you are a person of high rank. And which are not really yours, but which will preoccupy you and distract you and intoxicate you, and which inevitably will be withdrawn, leaving pain far out of proportion to the pleasure they once provided.
The Dalai Lama knows this. He has trained himself to see it clearly and to bear it in mind. It is how he manages to keep his composure when his country is stolen, his people are killed, his heritage which is the light of the world is obliterated – all the while vigorously countering the forces of ignorance and destruction.
To practice dharma, we let go of all the stuff that clings to us, that preoccupies us, that distracts us, that taxes our power, wastes our life and forces us – with the false promise of pleasure and status – to lose our lives and miss the chance to put an end to suffering for ourselves and others forever.
Japanese Zen teacher Uchiyama Roshi described “opening the hand of thought” as his meditation technique. As a thought arises, we simply do not hold onto it. This may be a provisional technique, not a complete path to the end of suffering, as many have said. But whether or not it is, it is a necessary and brilliant way to create the habit of releasing our attachment to the stuff that clings to us and the stuff we learn to cling to as we move through life.
There are many old roads that wind through the forest around here. Some of them are barely visible tracks through the mountains. It looks like no one has walked them in a hundred years. They are like old memories. They seem to have no end. I walk along them. I think maybe every person who walked this road before has vanished from the earth. I cannot meet them face to face any more. But I can walk where they walked. I can walk the way they did, years ago.
It makes me think of a poem by Basho. Basho was a medieval Japanese poet who wrote haikus. There are a lot of fussy boring haikus in the world. And many fifth grade teachers ask their kiddies to write haikus, because haikus are short and most ten year olds can’t write sonnets. But we would be wrong to dismiss the old Japanese haiku as a hyper-aesthetic tangent to true dharma.
Some will echo through time and space and mind so beautifully they may arise unbidden and unstoppable as we go. Basho wrote:
The autumn wind Along this country road Goes no one |