Investigate!

During the first half of the 20th century, a generation of monastics and laypeople in China were at the vanguard of a vigorous and transformative Buddhist movement. Often described as a great revival, it was a pivotal era for Buddhist thought and practice on the continent. In the face of extraordinary hardships—political revolutions, persecutions, famines, war—men and women, monastic and lay, worked diligently to both preserve the traditions they had inherited from their ancestors and to ensure that those teachings would remain intact and accessible long into the future.

Several of the clerics who took up the task of revitalization were closely connected to one another. They studied together, trained in many of the same monasteries, belonged to the same organizations, frequently collaborated, and occasionally sparred with one another. While they shared similar struggles and triumphs, their responses to the challenges they faced were by no means uniform. Their visions of what constituted authentic Buddhist practice, likewise, were diverse and occasionally at odds. Some Chinese monastics sought a return to what they saw as the fundamentals of Buddhist training. According to these clerics, too many monks and laypeople lacked the requisite rigor and self-control to attain results. A greater fidelity to the tradition was needed. Indeed, many Buddhists thought the problems facing China stemmed from a pervasive moral decline and the collective negative karma it generated.

In their efforts to purify themselves, it was common for eminent monks and nuns to focus on a single, relatively simple practice—investigating a “critical phrase” (huatou), reciting the Buddha’s name (nianfo), studying a single sutra—and to encourage their disciples to similarly immerse themselves completely in one cultivation technique. This stripped-down, back-to-basics approach called for a return and recommitment to the essential principles—morality (sila), meditation (samadhi), and wisdom (prajna)—that had formed the core of Buddhist practice for millennia. One needed to first discipline one’s body by adhering to the precepts. Only then could one’s mind be tamed and brought to bear on objects of contemplation that generated the wisdom that led to liberation.

While some monks and nuns devoted themselves to shoring up the foundations of traditional Buddhist institutions and practices, others worried that the old ways had not all aged well. Those ancient foundations, they felt, were not built to withstand the pressures of modern life. What was needed was not a renewed commitment to past precedents but a new vision better suited to the current reality. Reformers and fundamentalists thus had diverging visions of the most direct path forward.

There were also different opinions about how best to focus the mind and achieve awakening. Some recommended sutra study, others discouraged it. Some promoted social engagement, others went to great lengths to disengage from society. For Pure Land masters, recitation of the Buddha’s name was the most viable approach to salvation in an age as degenerate as the early 20th century. Many Chan monks, by contrast, were completely convinced of the efficacy of huatou practice. They worried that merely reciting the Buddha’s name and hoping for a better rebirth was a squandered opportunity for achieving full awakening in one’s present life. To that end, these men and women followed rigorous training regimes that typically focused on investigating the question “Who recites the Buddha’s name?”

Laiguo Miaoshu (1881–1953), one of the most revered Chan monks of the modern era, was a leading proponent of this approach. He served as abbot of a preeminent site of Chan training, Gaomin Monastery, where he earned a reputation as a strict and uncompromising teacher. Laiguo expected complete dedication and discipline from monks in training. Resident clerics at Gaomin could not read the canon, engage in recitation retreats, or participate in rituals outside the monastery. Ceremonies sponsored by wealthy donors were a major source of income for most monasteries, but the economic consequences of eradicating these rituals did not trouble Laiguo. “It would be better to beg for food from door to door,” he once told his students, “than be responsible for destroying the Chan tradition.”

On average, the monks who lived in Gaomin’s meditation hall engaged in seven periods of seated meditation each day. During periods of intensive retreat (known as “meditation weeks,” or chanqi), however, the amount of meditation was dramatically increased. The days began at 3:00 a.m. and concluded twenty-two hours later, at 1:00 a.m. During this time, participants were expected to maintain both physical and mental composure. Laiguo instructed his disciples to follow the same deceptively simple method of meditation that he himself had employed: contemplation of the huatou, “Who recites the Buddha’s name?” Emphasis was to be placed on the one word, “who.” The practitioner should constantly investigate this word and its implications. Who was doing this practice? Who was asking this question? In so doing, they would quickly be confronted with their inability to resolve this fundamental matter. Their lack of understanding would arouse a feeling of great doubt, and this nagging uncertainty would become the fuel that fired their efforts. Ideally, a person would be completely consumed by this doubt, and all their energy would be brought to bear on its resolution. As the great 12th-century Chan master Dahui Zonggao once said, “Great awakening inevitably comes from great doubt.”

Laiguo viewed huatou practice as the most expedient path to awakening. It was superior, in his view, to more common practices like studying sutras, reciting dharani, and chanting Amitabha Buddha’s name. For Laiguo, constant repetition of the Buddha’s name risked becoming a rote and meaningless exercise. He therefore urged monks, nuns, and laypeople to take up what he considered the more essential matter of their own identity: Who was it that called on Amitabha and sought rebirth in his Pure Land? This was all that really mattered. According to the eminent Ming dynasty Chan master Yunqi Zhuhong (1535–1615), “When you penetrate reciting the Buddha’s name, you penetrate everything in the world.” Unlike the use of extensive koan curricula in Japanese Rinzai training halls, most Chinese Chan masters held that to resolve a single huatou was to resolve them all.

The celebrated Yuan dynasty Chan master Zhongfeng Mingben (1263–1323) once likened huatou practice to using an iron broom. “The more you sweep, the more [thoughts] remain; the more [thoughts] remain, the more you sweep. If you are unable to sweep, forfeit your life in the name of sweeping.” The progress of such sweeping is imperceptible, but with each pass of the broom, the ground is slowly worn away. And then, one day, with a single sweep the ground breaks open and one drops into the great void. Intensive retreats, Laiguo told his disciples, were effective only if the ground had already been properly prepared. There was no time to relax or grow complacent. The task at hand was urgent, and the tension was accordingly kept high. Participants were constantly reminded of the debts they owed to those who made it possible for them to take part in the retreat. They must not fail them. They must not fail themselves. They owed it to everyone to exert themselves to the utmost.

During intensive meditation retreats at Gaomin Monastery, which could last up to ten weeks, Laiguo would deliver a talk nearly every day. These oral instructions were unscripted and thus have an informal, unpolished, and intimate tone. They offer a rare glimpse of a modern Chan master instructing and encouraging his disciples in the context of intense, extended training. The following talk conveys some of the flavor of Laiguo’s teachings. It was delivered in Gaomin’s meditation hall on October 23, 1942.

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For understanding life, escaping death, illuminating the mind, and seeing your nature, the one method of Chan practice is most effective. You could also say that it works for everyone. I truly believe in this method. Among the 84,000 dharma gates, there are none that compare with this method. However, there are some among you who do not accept this, who wonder how “Who recites the Buddha’s name?” could surpass 84,000 other dharma gates. If you don’t believe what I’m saying, that’s OK. Let’s set aside “Who recites the Buddha’s name?” Can you tell me which method resolves life and death the most directly and quickly? Is it possible that there is a method that doesn’t involve practice, doesn’t entail serious effort but once encountered can illuminate the mind and [allow one to] see their nature? Think about it. If there were truly a quicker method than Chan practice, I would study it with you. Because your self-regard runs so deep, and your good roots are so shallow, I want to eliminate your biases and bring you back to this one great road. For that reason, I will give you some direction. Think about this carefully. Can reading the scriptures resolve life and death? Can reciting the Buddha’s name or chanting dharani resolve life and death?

You have all come here because of life and death, so of course you want to investigate these things. It is no small matter. Consider this: Reading sutras only allows you to plant a few good roots and understand some ideas. It cannot resolve life and death. Reciting the Buddha’s name, reciting “Amitabha Buddha,” can resolve life and death, but it cannot lead one to the peak of nirvana. Chanting dharani, purifying the body and mind—these can convey some minor powers, but they cannot resolve life and death. Reading sutras, reciting the Buddha’s name, and chanting all seek [something] outside. Each person’s life and death are not obtained from the outside. They don’t depend on others; they come from within one’s own home. If you turn outward, the more you run, the farther away you are. You should know: To practice “Who recites the Buddha’s name?” is to turn toward home.

What does this mean? I’ll give you an analogy. If a child is reading the Book of Hundreds of Surnames, they read straight through from the name Zhao to the names Qian, Sun, Li, Zhou, Wu, Zheng, and Wang. [Translator’s note: The Book of Hundreds of Surnames was used in China to teach children common Chinese characters. The text was intended to be memorized but had no semantic value. The English equivalent would be a text reading, “Smith, Johnson, Williams, Brown, Jones…”] After just a few days the child will learn them all by heart. But if you ask them what the words Zhao, Qian, Sun, and Li mean, what can they say? If you ask them any question, they’ll be brought up short. One need only look into Zhao, Qian, Sun, and Li to know that Zhou, Wu, Zheng, and Wang also cannot be understood. When you investigate deeply, you’ll realize that you cannot comprehend Zhao, Qian, Sun, and Li. Think about it. Reciting the Buddha’s name, aren’t you reciting “Amitabha Buddha, Amitabha Buddha” over and over again? Now I’m asking you: Which one is reciting the Buddha’s name? Standing there, is it starting to dawn on you? It’s the same as reciting Zhao, Qian, Sun, and Li. Consider  this carefully. Isn’t it true? Isn’t “Who recites the Buddha’s name?” a way to return home?

Consider this: Reading sutras only allows you to plant a few good roots and understand some ideas. It cannot resolve life and death.

What is it to return home? Without life there is no death. We speak of illuminating the mind and seeing our nature, but this is just a lot of talk. Arriving home, the mind needs no illuminating. It has always been luminous. Nature doesn’t need to be seen. It is already perfectly apparent. This “Who recites the Buddha’s name?” sends you home with a single step. With only a single phrase, you can return home and sit steadfast. You know that this phrase “Who recites the Buddha’s name?” is so effective! But you are thinking, “From morning until night, we raise ‘Who recites the Buddha’s name?’ but random thoughts keep coming and we can’t keep [our minds] still for long. Given this, how can you say practicing ‘Who recites the Buddha’s name?’ will lead us home? What you teach is really hard to comprehend!”

Right! You need to understand, knowing that you are having random thoughts is a sign that your practice is progressing. If you raise [the phrase] but cannot maintain it for long, that is also progress. You should know, every dharma gate exists in the midst of random thoughts. Where else could you become aware of such thoughts? Being aware of random thoughts and knowing that you cannot maintain [concentration] for long—these are both good signs.

[And yet] your cultivation of the Way is truly pitiful. All of you standing here are adults. You say that you cannot bear life and death and so you want to cultivate the Way. You start to investigate the phrase “Who recites the Buddha’s name?” but are unable to penetrate it. After three or five years, it is still impenetrable. In this condition, what is this talk about cultivating the Way or finding life and death unbearable? It’s a complete muddle! If you are unable to penetrate “Who recites the Buddha’s name?” can you still be considered a person? Everywhere, people are concerned about their reputations. If you cannot penetrate “Who recites the Buddha’s name?” you have no reputation. If you have a little bit of understanding, can you see how to do right by yourself? Are some of you weeping? Pitiful! Pathetic! You are all in the haze of a black cave. Day after day, I instruct you to close your eyes, and so you all close your eyes. I ask you, when you open your eyes, do you see me? When your eyes are closed, can you see yourself? Even when your eyes are not closed, inside the black cave nothing can be seen. I ask you again, when your eyes are closed and you take a step forward, where are you going? Do you have a clear understanding? Do you know where this step is taking you?

Investigate!

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Adapted from Buddhist Masters of Modern China: The Lives and Legacies of Eight Eminent Teachers edited by Benjamin Brose. © 2025 by Benjamin Brose. Reprinted in arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc.