Jizo Bodhisattva

by Jan Chozen Bays

  When Ninko awoke he went to master sculptor Kojo and asked him to make a gilded statue of Jizo. When the statue was done Ninko held a dedication ceremony and delivered teachings on Jizo. Priests and lay people together were moved to worship Jizo. Everyone in the temple and those who came to hear the Jizo sermons escaped infection. Those who were too proud to attend met with disaster. The epidemic soon ceased but people still continue to venerate Jizo.

  The next tale is from the thirteenth century:

  Once there was an old nun who was devoted to Jizo Bodhisattva and had always wished to see him, not just as a statue, but in person. Hearing that Jizo went out at daybreak to help people, she set out walking early one morning, wearing the best of her two robes, hoping to meet him. She soon met a man who, when she told him her errand, promised to lead her to Jizo if she would give him her robe. The nun was innocent in the ways of the world and did not recognize that the man was a thief. She readily gave him her robe. Laughing at her foolishness, he led her to a small house where a man and his small son lived. The boy’s name was Jizo.

  The pious woman did not realize that she had been tricked. She knelt reverently before the boy and worshiped him. The neighbors all laughed to see the old nun bowing down in her under-kimono. Just then the little boy scratched idly at his forehead with a stick he had been playing with. Suddenly his face split from top to bottom and inside was the shining face of a beautiful golden Jizo! Thus the nun was granted her wish and when she died was rewarded for her devotion by being taken straight to heaven.

  Another tale concerns the plight of a stepchild. If life was difficult for children in medieval times, it was even harder for stepchildren. Recognizing this, there is a specific retribution for cruel parents or stepparents in the Earth Store Bodhisattva Sutra: they are to be flogged in future lives.

  A thousand years ago in Anwa there was a woman who believed in Jizo and prayed that she might have an image of the Bodhisattva in her house to make offerings to. One day she found an old wooden Jizo in the river in front of her house. She rejoiced and prayed to this Jizo every morning and evening to be granted a child. She became pregnant and delivered a boy, but when he was four years old, she suddenly died. Her husband took a second wife who was very cruel to the little boy. The child had learned from his mother to pray to Jizo. One day when his father was away he took a little rice and, weeping for his dead mother, offered it to Jizo and to his mother’s memorial tablet at the family shrine. When the stepmother came into the house she found the child kneeling before the shrine and flew into a rage. She seized the boy and threw him into a kettle that was boiling over the fire.

  At that moment the father, who was traveling on a road, became very confused and was unable to go on. He felt compelled to return home. As he turned back he saw a Buddhist priest standing by the road with a child on his back who cried out with a voice that he recognized. It was the voice of his own son! The man asked who this child was. The priest answered, “I have substituted my own body for this child when his stepmother was about to kill him. You must entrust him to other people who will raise and educate him well.” He put the child in the arms of his frightened father. The man asked the priest where he lived. The monk replied, “Near the Temple of the Repository King,” and disappeared into thin air. After giving his son over to the care of kind friends the father returned home. There he found his wife stoking the fire under a kettle. When she saw her husband she quickly put out the fire and became quite distressed. He asked her, “Where is my son?” Pretending grief she told him that the boy had been playing by the river and had drowned. The man strode to the kettle and took off the lid. There he found the old wooden Jizo floating in the boiling water. He realized the terrible thing his wife had done and saw that indeed Jizo had changed places with his son to save the boy’s life. Weeping bitterly he left the life of a householder and became a monk. From that time forth he was utterly devoted to Jizo Bodhisattva.

  The Jizo Festival for Children in Japan

  Jizo’s ennichi, special or saint’s day in Japan, is the twenty-fourth day of the seventh month of the traditional lunar calendar. Temples especially dedicated to Jizo may hold services every month on that day. A festival to honor Jizo still is celebrated in August in the Kyoto and Osaka region, at the end of the Obon or festival for the dead.

  During the weeks of Obon the “gates” between the human world and other realms are believed to open. The spirits of the dead are welcomed and honored as they return to visit family and friends. Priests are very busy making rounds to parishioners’ homes to chant sutras in memory of relatives who have died. Traditionally bountiful offerings of food, especially cookies, candy, canned fruit, and also sake, are placed on the altar for the hungry ghosts. The best offerings, however, are the sutras, for only the Dharma will slake the unending thirst of all beings and relieve their gnawing hunger.

  The Obon festival often ends with bonfires and a ceremony in which hundreds of little boats made of leaves, each bearing a lighted candle, are floated on rivers or lakes. The fires light the path for the dead to return to their homes in the other realms. At Nembutsu-ji Temple in the hills above Kyoto myriads of candles flicker in the darkness, illuminating hundreds of ancient gravestones that have been gathered there from out of the forests to honor the nameless dead. The Jizo-bon (festival) occurs at the end of Obon because the gates that allowed spirits to return and visit will soon close and lock behind them for another year. It is an appropriate time to ask Jizo to assist these loved ones as they journey back, possibly to difficult realms.

  The Jizo-bon has become a festival for children, a time to express gratitude to Jizo and to invoke his special protection for little ones making their way through the perils of childhood in the coming year. Here is a lovely description of the Jizo-bon in Kyoto from an article in a Japanese newspaper for foreigners:

  The surface of this religious observance looks like a gay neighborhood party to end the summer. Children under thirteen and the adults of the neighborhood take part in the festival. On the morning of the 24th a canopy is set up in front of Jizo’s shrine or statue. If the image is in a crowded area, a neighbor living close to the statue will open up his front rooms for the festivities. The point is that Jizo should be able to enjoy the fun too.

  [Jizo and his shrine have been thoroughly cleaned.] From early morning, offerings of food and drink, and of incense, candles and flowers are made. The statue and/or its shrine will have been draped with red and white bunting and red lanterns with Jizo-bon and each family’s name written on them will have been hung before each door. These will be lighted in the evening to give a soft rosy glow to the streets and alleys of the neighborhood.

  Excited children gather early in the day for games (organized and spontaneous), the drawing of prizes, snacks and general fun. Some neighborhoods serve a communal supper of curry, noodles or sushi prepared by children under adult supervision.

  Nightfall brings the magic of sparklers and fireworks, cold drinks and watermelon, and perhaps bon-odori [dances]. The children and their parents, bathed and dressed in colorful cotton summer kimono, enjoy the cool of the evening and its festivities with their neighbors. At bedtime a final thank you to Jizo for past health and safety, and supplications for future protection are made.

  Jizo-bon is over and so is summer. Children must return to school, farmers must start preparations for the autumn crops and harvests and businessmen their autumn “sales offensive.”

  Protection of Children as Our Practice

  Fresh morning snow in front of the shrine,

  The trees! Are they white with peach blossoms

  Or white with snow?

  The children and I Joyfully throw snowballs.

  Ryōkan

  The aspect of Jizo Bodhisattva that moves us to protect children is an aspect we all share. We see children at play and smile, thinking, “Oh, they’re so cute and happy! If only they didn’t have to grow up!” We know this is unrealistic, but it points to qualities of
child-nature we would like to preserve. What are they?

  When we asked this question in a practice group, we came up with these qualities:

  innocence, openness, acceptance, curiosity, energy, unselfconsciousness, a natural loving quality, spontaneity, freedom and flexibility, lack of anxiety and worry.

  We also asked what qualities of childhood we would like not to retain. These were:

  vulnerability, ignorance, helplessness, and self-centeredness.

  The childlike figure of Jizo appeals to us because it portrays what we all wish to regain, our original nature, innocent, happy, open and curious. Infants have the quality of not judging right or wrong. They accept milk from a breast or a bottle, and love a sober or drunk parent. They are relaxed taking breaths of fresh or polluted air and are happy clothed in rags or satin. They embody the line from the sutra which says, “the Great Way is not difficult for those who do not pick or choose.” Through their wondering eyes and fresh minds we glimpse what we have lost. We have all emerged, newly born, again born, from that Great Unborn. We appear in this world of bright light and sharp sound, blinking and startling at the sensational extremes we were buffered against in the womb.

  No one emerges as a tabula rasa. The karma of genetics and environment are already active. Some infants emerge placid and unconcerned, some are puzzled and curious. Some are shy and overreactive, and some worried and protesting. The environment interacts with these innate patterns to shape action and reaction as we learn about dangers and pleasures, at first overt and then more subtle. We shape an armor of strategies to avoid these threats, real or imagined, and eventually do not know how to escape. We are locked away from others and out of God. We grow unhappy in our self-made prison and long to return to a time of freedom and innocence. But we do not know how to do this.

  The word infant literally means “not speaking.” Before words arise, what is our experience? This is the state of the second jyana (meditative absorption). It is characterized by joy and vitality, the happiness of being aware of all that is speaking, moving, and vividly alive, before we cover it up with words.

  When the mind becomes quiet during a retreat you can look down and see ten marvelous fingers taking care of you, all by themselves. Picking up spoons, wrapping around mugs, bringing food to the mouth, what wisdom they have! Just like our tongue, our liver, our pores. Working to take care of us all the time. This itself is the unselfconscious operation of the innate goodness of existence. A poet named Ozaki Hosai wrote, “Cutting my fingernails I have ten fingers!” That’s the mind of every infant who has just discovered his own toes and can play with them for hours! “Oh look! These marvelous pink playthings that keep appearing in front of my face and moving!”

  These childlike qualities can reemerge through sincere religious practice. They are qualities that draw others to practice. They are qualities that enable bodhisattvas and saints to forget themselves in joy and thus to serve others fully. Are these qualities prerequisites for a bodhisattva life? Or do they emerge from a bodhisattva’s life, a life deliberately given over relieving the suffering of others? Cause, result-or both?

  The Bible relates the story of a group of mothers who brought children to Jesus, asking him to touch and bless them. Like all mothers, they worried about the safety and future of their children, and they were asking for his protection and guidance. The disciples of Jesus were annoyed and told the mothers to go away, feeling that Jesus was too important and busy to bother with a group of noisy, dirty children. But Jesus called the children over to him and rebuked the disciples, saying “Let the little children come to me. Never send them away! For to such, people with hearts as trusting as children, belongs the kingdom of Heaven. I say to you, whoever does not receive the heavenly kingdom like a child shall never enter.”

  What is being said here in Buddhist language? That we cannot enter nirvana, the gateless gate to our true and enduring life, unless we have the hearts and faith of children.

  Childlike, Not Childish

  This does not mean to become childish, to run around, giggle, and act silly, or to take on any of the self-centered, stubborn qualities children acquire as protection from the perceived threats of the world. Childish is different from childlike, and childlike is different from being a child. Infants newly born and unconditioned live in a state of open-ended interest and awareness, experiencing everything as it is. They live in Buddha-nature but are unaware of it, having nothing to compare it to. They are unaware of suffering. They feel simple pain and hunger, and react to it. They don’t worry, does this pain in my stomach mean I have cancer? They just feel it and cry out! The Tao Te Ching says:

  He who is in harmony with the Way

  is like a newborn child.

  Its bones are soft, its muscles are weak,

  but its grip is powerful.

  It doesn’t know about the union

  of male and female,

  yet its penis can stand erect,

  so intense is its vital power.

  It can scream its head off all day,

  yet it never becomes hoarse,

  so complete is its harmony.

  The Master’s power is like this.

  He lets all things come and go

  effortlessly, without desire.

  He never expects results;

  thus he is never disappointed.

  He is never disappointed;

  thus his spirit never grows old.

  Babies are not aware of their vulnerability or their separation. But inevitably the sense of a separate self emerges, and every child feels lonely, ashamed, and afraid, evicted from the Garden of Eden.

  Children are not enlightened. The Buddha spoke about this quite clearly. He was asked about the teaching of another religious wanderer who said that if a person did no evil actions, uttered no evil speech, had no evil intentions and did not make his living by any evil livelihood, then he had done all the spiritual work that needed to be done, was perfected, invincible and enlightened. The Buddha refuted this, saying:

  A young tender infant lying prone does not even have the notion “body,” so how should he do an evil action beyond mere wriggling? A young tender infant lying prone does not even have the notion “speech,” so how should he utter evil speech beyond mere whining? . . . [He] does not even have the notion “intention,” so how should he have evil intentions beyond mere skulking? . . . [He] does not even have the notion “livelihood,” so how should he make his living by evil livelihood beyond being suckled at his mother’s breast? If [what the wanderer said] were so, then a young tender infant lying prone is perfected, invincible, and [enlightened].

  The Buddha said that it is not enough to cease doing and saying things that cause harm. Under the external words and actions are the internal thoughts and feelings that drive them, primarily the thoughts and feelings that construct and reinforce the notions “I am” and “I must survive.” Under the thoughts are what the Buddha called “latent tendencies.” Unless these are completely cut off down to the finest root hair they will, like weeds given the right nutrition, always grow again. We know this ourselves. We emerge from a long retreat feeling clear, clean, and loving. But as soon as we pull out onto the highway and someone cuts in front of “our” car, or as soon as we arrive home and see the pile of “our” bills or dirty laundry waiting, or find that “that” dog has destroyed the window screens or our grubby, demanding children pile on us-the latent tendencies explode full blown into speech and action.

  A young tender infant may feel with open heart and and observe with open mind, but it is not enlightened. The events of life always will cause those latent tendencies to emerge. All it takes is “No, that’s bad!” or “You idiot!” or “You adorable thing! I love you.” and the cycle of conditioning begins again. The only way to stop the merry-go-round is to get off. The only way to get off is to let go of the self we are riding on and the support posts we are gripping. This is only possible through the power of practice.

  Another
aspect of childishness can be heard in the mind when we encounter obstacles on the path of practice. Impatience arises. “Let’s get on with this!” says the mind. “Nothing’s happening. If we weren’t so entangled in this voice it would remind us of someone we know, or knew—a three-year-old on a long car trip. “When are we going to get there? I’m bored! Aren’t we there yet?” When we hear this voice or, more often, when we feel the restless three-year-old energy arise, first we have to turn around and face it. Then we can handle it in two ways. We can take it lightly, ask ourselves, “Will you be the first person in the history to die from boredom? I could write you up in a medical journal and we’d be famous.” Or we can take it seriously. “What is it you want, Mr. Impatience?” How would it answer? “I’m impatient for clarity. For enlightenment. For an end to suffering—even in its mild form, boredom.” Then we can respond, “You’re absolutely right. Me too.”

  Then the impatience, instead of being an obstacle on the pilgrim’s road, instead of putting the brakes on, can become a push from behind. It can be transformed into an energy of determination, an appropriate sense of urgency. Life is very short, we’ve suffered enough, we’ve caused enough suffering. Let’s get on with it! That very impatience becomes the medicine to cure the disease of indifference, laziness, and boredom.

  If we honor the voice of our own impatience, hear it with compassion and a touch of humor, find its real purpose, yield to it gently instead of fighting it, it’s like a tai chi movement. The yielding turns the opponent’s energy over to us, to use to our advantage.

  Other energies that arise during a retreat are the “I’ll do it myself!” voice. How old does that sound? You discover after a while that many internal voices are those of a two- to five-year-old, thinly disguised. They resist the sesshin schedule or what the teacher or those in charge say to do. They get irritated at other meditators (“If he clears his throat one more time!”), at the ceremonies (“I hate that chant!”) or at guided meditations (“I won’t do it. It’s distracting me from my lovely tranquil mind state.”).