Master Gangxiao: Chan Seven Talk – Why Do a Seven

Why Do a Seven

Venerable masters, to be honest, I've always been a layman when it comes to doing a Seven—whether a Chan Seven or a Buddha-recitation Seven. As for practice, I've never been able to get a grip on it, and I feel deeply ashamed. Thanks to the elder abbot's kindness, I'm seated here in this position, looking the part—but in truth I'm hollow, just making up the numbers.

Normally, whether it's a Chan Seven or a Buddha-recitation Seven, it should be the abbot and the temple officers who take turns giving the dharma talks, each lasting only a few minutes to maybe ten or fifteen. I've heard my share of them, good and bad. I left home at eighteen, and this year I'm already twenty-nine, which means I've spent eleven years in the order. But I haven't done many Sevens—only twice outside, I think. At the Buddhist college we have one every year, but sometimes I join, sometimes I don't, and sometimes I can't stay to the end. Still, I entered the Dharma a few years before most of you, and even though I can't seem to apply the practice, I've listened to plenty of talks by elder monks. Early on, I also read a great many of their recorded talks. I imagine you're the same right now: you might not read the proper sutras and treatises, but you'll read the elder monks' talks. That's natural, and I know it's unavoidable. Young people have to walk the detours themselves, try them out firsthand. The most famous Chan Seven talks are those of Elder Xu Yun, Elder Lai Guo, and Master Xuanhua—these flow naturally, pouring straight from mind-nature, and they're very good. Among those still with us, Elder Ben Huan also speaks very naturally, and Master Jinghui of Bailin Temple in Hebei gives the most systematic and substantive talks. Other elder monks talk about effort, while Master Jinghui talks about content; his talks are rich, and after each Seven you come away with a lot—though to those who consider themselves absolutely orthodox Chinese Buddhists, some of what he offers may not sit quite right. In the Pure Land tradition, Master Yinguang's talks are about effort, Elder Miaolian's are also about effort, and Master Jing's are very natural—his disciples sound just like him.

This morning, Elder Ren De came to give a talk. The elder monks speak about effort, and since he's very busy, his talk came across as broad—he touched on the Buddha-recitation Seven, then the Chan Seven, and even mentioned that the hall services here at Ganlu Temple are usually not in order. The truth is, he knows perfectly well that other temples' services are even worse than ours; I've attended services at several large monasteries myself. Don't take the elder monk's criticism to heart—it's just the habit of Chinese elders to always scold the younger generation. At Ganlu Temple they say Ganlu is no good; at Zhiyuan Temple they say Zhiyuan is no good. It's become a tradition among Chinese old folks, and there's no changing it. His talk was so broad that it felt scattered and empty—you'd listen and have no idea what he was really getting at or what he'd actually said. Everything got touched on, nothing came through clearly, and you couldn't grasp the main thread. The elder monk spoke briefly and left; now I'll pick up where he left off and try to fill in some substance.

First, the elder monk addressed why we do a Seven. He said that a Seven is about attaining realization within a set period—like an exam. In ordinary exams, the result mainly depends on how well you've studied day to day; if you've worked hard, you'll do fine. The same goes for a Seven: we need to practice diligently in our ordinary lives. Right now we're doing a Buddha-recitation Seven, which means that day to day we should keep lifting up the Buddha's name without letting it drop—"Amituofo, Amituofo, Amituofo…"—constant and unbroken. If the Buddha's name never leaves your mind in daily life, then the Seven becomes a test of how well you've been practicing. If your daily practice is already solid and you've reached a certain level, then in this Seven you will surely attain results. But this is an ideal. It wasn't Elder Ren De who first said it—it's a teaching handed down from the patriarchs. In other words, it's not the language of ordinary people. If not ordinary people's words, then whose? The words of the wise, the words of sages. This situation doesn't actually exist in reality, any more than the physics concepts of uniform linear motion or point masses—though they form the foundation of Newtonian mechanics, neither exists in the real world. It's the same with the Seven: to say that in daily life you never let go of the Buddha's name, reciting while eating, reciting while working—that's just not realistic. Take eating, for example: we're always told to maintain the five contemplations while eating. Of course, that requirement doesn't come from us—it comes from the ancient patriarchs and great masters. You can't keep your mind on two things at once. So now the Seven comes along to test our practice, and we'll certainly fail. As for the old texts that say the patriarchs remained in samadhi through all twelve hours of the day and night—that's pious embellishment. There are certainly those who genuinely possessed such ability, but they are vanishingly few, practically negligible, and it wasn't true for most. Mencius said, "To believe everything in books is worse than having no books at all." Mencius was a Confucian, of course, but the minds of sages are of one piece.

That's one thing the elder monk spoke about this morning—the ideal. But that's all he said about why we do a Seven. There's another reason he didn't mention, and I'll add it here.

Since the ideal of doing a Seven to attain realization within a set period or to achieve some result doesn't exist in reality, why talk about it at all? Well, just as uniform linear motion doesn't exist but can still be used to guide, explain, and solve real physical phenomena, we have to speak of it. So where does that leave us? In reality, we're not pursuing that ideal of attaining realization within a set period. What's our actual situation? We're ordinary beings, and ordinary beings are rooted in ignorance. What does it mean to be rooted in ignorance? It means we don't recognize our present state—we don't know where we actually stand. This morning Elder Ren De mentioned that someone once came to him and said, "I recite the Buddha's name even after I've fallen asleep—does that mean I've reached single-mindedness, that my practice has become seamless?" I think it was Master Dajing who told the story: Master Jing was lecturing in America, and someone asked him, "Do you think I'm enlightened?" The master replied, "You are definitely not enlightened! If you yourself don't know, then you certainly haven't. Besides, if you were enlightened, you would never come to me—someone who isn't enlightened." Since we ourselves don't even know whether we've reached single-mindedness, we clearly haven't. You might wonder: if someone can know their own state, why did the Sixth Patriarch go to the Fifth Patriarch for verification? There are two possibilities. One is that the Sixth Patriarch was indeed enlightened, but others didn't know it or believe it—and without their trust, he couldn't teach and liberate beings. Think about it: he was just a woodcutter, a lay worker at the monastery. Who would believe him? So he went to the Fifth Patriarch for verification, because everyone knew the Fifth Patriarch was enlightened and trusted his word. Once the Fifth Patriarch confirmed him, people would trust the Sixth Patriarch's teachings, and he could go on to spread the Dharma. The other possibility is that the Sixth Patriarch hadn't actually attained enlightenment at that point. If you read the Platform Sutra, he genuinely hadn't yet—something stirred in him, but it was only later, when the Fifth Patriarch expounded the Diamond Sutra to him, that he truly broke through.

In reality we're not in an ideal state. We're rooted in ignorance, and because of that our minds are scattered, and Amituofo comes and goes—sometimes we can hold it, sometimes we can't. Of course, the wise are like this too. When nothing is happening, the wise and the sages look just like anyone else; there's nothing to set them apart. But when a situation arises, the wise prove themselves—their ability and wisdom come through. There's a story about Venerable Ananda. He had taken his disciples to the royal palace to receive offerings and teach the Dharma. Many nobles and ministers—people of real standing—had come to listen, because by then the Buddha had entered parinirvana and Venerable Mahakashyapa was also gone, making Ananda the leader. Right in the middle of the teaching, the king suddenly discovered that one of his precious pearls was missing, and he was furious. Think about it—anyone who could be in that palace listening to the Dharma had to be someone of considerable standing. But the king, in his anger, ordered a body search, person by person. A sudden crisis—and that's when a saint shows what a saint is. Venerable Ananda resolved the matter perfectly. The story is long; if you're interested, you can look it up later.

As for us, we're all rooted in ignorance, and in daily life we can't sustain the practice. The Buddha's name rises and falls—now we can hold it, now we can't. The Buddha-recitation Seven is specifically about gathering the mind, carving out the time to make a concentrated, powerful push.

If we could actually hold the Buddha's name without interruption in daily life, we wouldn't need a Seven at all. Take Journalists' Day, for instance. Why was it established? Because in recent years, when journalists try to exercise their legitimate right to public oversight, they get detained, beaten, or have their cameras and equipment destroyed during interviews. These incidents piled up, and so a Journalists' Day was created to remind people that journalists deserve respect—not that you respect them only on that day, but that you respect them always, and this one day simply underscores the point. Teachers' Day is the same. Teachers had been stripped of their dignity, so a Teachers' Day was established to remind everyone to respect teachers. It doesn't mean you disregard them the rest of the year and only respect them on that day—it means you respect them always, and that one day is there to emphasize it. The principle behind the Seven is exactly the same. We should be holding the Buddha's name at every moment, but we can't—so we do a Seven to give it emphasis.

To sum up: why do we do a Seven? Two reasons. One is to hold a Seven in order to achieve a result—to attain realization within a set period. The other is to emphasize the need to keep the Buddha's name going—not that you only hold it during the Seven, but that you hold it in daily life, and the Seven is there to deliberately underscore that. So why did the old teachers only mention the first reason? As the saying goes, "Aim for the highest and you may reach the middle; aim for the middle and you'll fall to the bottom." The first reason is the highest—the ideal—and so they spoke only of that, to give people something to reach for. If they'd given the second reason, people might aim for that and still fall short. Since there are no outsiders here for this Buddha-recitation Seven, we don't need to posture or make grand claims. I'll just tell you straight.

What the "seven" in "doing a Seven" actually means—I'll get to that later. I've said too much today, so I'll stop here.