Takuhatsu is the practice of begging for alms, whereby young monks in single file are led through neighborhoods intoning “Hooo ... hooo….” (meaning Dharma). Donating food and money is rewarded with sutra chanting, which brings spiritual merit. Here a young monk in outfit holds out his satchel-bag for offerings, bearing the words Tenryu Sodo (Tenryu monks’ quarters).
THROUGH FOREIGN EYES:
AN INTERVIEW WITH THOMAS YUHO KIRCHNER
Thomas Kirchner is a Rinzai monk and caretaker of Rinsen-ji, a temple which is part of the Tenryu-ji complex in Arashiyama. Born in Baltimore in 1949, Kirchner came to Japan in 1969 for a one-year course at Waseda University, following which he stayed on to pursue an interest in Zen. In 1974 he was ordained as a monk and given the name Shaku Yuho, spending time at Kencho-ji in Kamakura and later at Kennin-ji in Kyoto. He holds a master’s degree from Otani University (where D. T. Suzuki taught) and is a researcher at Hanazono University, the Rinzai Zen university. Amongst his publications are Entangling Vines, a collection of 272 koan; Dialogues in a Dream, a translation and biography of Muso Soseki; and an annotated translation of The Record of Linji, completing work left behind by Ruth Fuller Sasaki.
How did you first become interested in Zen?
As a young boy growing up in the 1960s, I read the books around at that time—D. T. Suzuki, Alan Watts, Philip Kapleau. Also Eugen Herrigel, whose book on archery led me to take it up in Japan. But it wasn’t just books, because during my first year at college I was deeply moved by Zenkei Shibayama, abbot of Nanzen-ji, whose talk I attended. He must have been in his seventies, but his bright, peaceful eyes and cheerful personality moved me deeply. Unlike some other Eastern sages I’d met, he didn’t seem to be selling anything.
What was the first practical step you took in pursuing Zen?
After studying at Waseda, I stayed on and wanted to try meditation. My archery teacher recommended a temple in Tokyo, which led me to want to explore Zen more fully. Through a contact there, I was introduced to a small temple in Nagano where there were only four people: the roshi, his wife, another practitioner and myself. Later I spent a few years as a lay monk at the monastery Shofuku-ji in Kobe. In 1974, after I was ordained as a monk, I spent four years at Kencho-ji in Kamakura and three years at Kennin-ji in Kyoto.
Monastic life is known for its hardships, so i wonder how you coped with that?
It’s something you get used to. The early mornings, the painful sitting, the cold in winter. It’s not easy at first as you have to retrain all your bad habits. But after a few years correct posture becomes natural and the pain recedes.
For a while you looked outside monastic life. As well as a master’s degree, you did an MEd, trained in acupuncture and shiatsu, and took a job as copyeditor at Nanzan University.
Yes, my parents wanted me to graduate (I had dropped out of college in America), so I came to Kyoto to study while teaching English and living in a tea house in Daitoku-ji. I wanted to see if there was something more to life.
But you went back to monastic life?
The reason was in the late 1990s I developed a tumor in my pancreas. My weight dropped from 70 kilos to below 50, and I was expected to die. But when it came to the operation and they cut me open, there was nothing but healthy tissue. The tumor had mysteriously disappeared. It was a life-changing event; as the old saying goes, “The proximity of death wonderfully clarifies the mind.” While thinking over my life, I found the most meaningful part was the time I spent in monasteries. Everything else seemed superficial, pleasant to be sure, but inconsequential.
How did you get such a prestigious position as looking after the temple where the famed Zen master Muso Soseki lived and is buried?
It was through people who knew me from my earlier spells in monasteries. If you live with people in a monastery for any length of time, you get to know them very well, like army buddies. It’s very intimate, and there’s a level of trust that you build up. So people who knew me asked if I would be interested in looking after the property (it had been empty for two years).
What do you have to do?
I maintain the grounds and rake the garden, which I think is the largest dry landscape in Kyoto, maybe even in the whole country. It takes a couple of hours a week. I also show visitors around, and I help out if there are foreigners on short courses at the monastery. It’s a life that suits me, as I enjoy physical work like growing organic vegetables and wheat.
What’s your impression of Zen in Kyoto?
Kyoto is the heart of Zen culture, so not surprisingly it tends to be conservative. There are centuries of tradition to maintain. Some people talk of a decline, but part of that is simply the falling population. Numbers are down in all walks of life. But there’s another factor, I think. Five hundred years ago there was a vitality about Zen because the level of suffering and the awareness of death was much more intense. Modern medicine shields us from that, and there’s so much distraction in modern life, such as the media and electronics. Religion is so far removed from daily life that some young people don’t even know what Zen is. But having said that, there’s a great spiritual thirst which materialism can’t satisfy. And there are still some truly inspiring roshi around. That gives me great hope for the future.
Whereas straw sandals are worn for takuhatsu alms begging (see opposite), wooden sandals known as geta are worn around the temple or on outings. These have white straps instead of the usual black in order to distinguish monks from laypersons.
Finding One’s Way:
The Design of a Zen Monastery
Kyoto has seven great Zen temple-monasteries, which dominate the city’s landscape. In order of foundation, these are Kennin-ji (1202), Tofuku-ji (1236), Nanzen-ji (1291), Daitoku-ji (1326), Tenryu-ji (1339), Myoshin-ji (1342) and Shokoku-ji (1382). Their design differs from the temples of earlier Buddhism and their architecture was a borrowing from Song China (960–1279). The layout correlates with that of the human body, so that the Buddha Hall lies at its heart and a straight spine runs through the main buildings. As in the Chinese tradition, the compound was aligned towards the south and comprises a set of seven structures. Apart from the Buddha Hall, there is a Sanmon (ceremonial gate); a Doctrine or Lecture Hall; a Meditation Hall; and a kitchen, latrine and bath. The name of each is displayed prominently on a wooden plaque below the eaves.
The main structures are Chinese in character, with buildings set directly on the ground and floors made of stone or tile. The woodwork is unpainted and the large wooden doors swing open rather than slide, Japanese-style. Zen is characterized by rigid and structured practice, and thus the cavernous halls give off an air of austerity in keeping with the life of the monks. The walkways between buildings are wide, suited to large processions, and though they may be decorated with trees, there are no ornamental gardens and the atmosphere is spartan.
Around this central Chinese core are subtemples in Japanese style, with tatami, asymmetry and residential architecture. They have a more intimate feel. Shoes are taken off and tatami rooms are separated by narrow corridors open to delightful gardens. These subtemples developed organically, by contrast with the symmetry and straight lines of the monastic buildings. The prime example is the Myoshin-ji complex, with 46 subtemples arranged like a medieval village centered around a church. The subtemples are privately owned, and although the head priest participates in monastic affairs, the building constitutes his