Instructions for the Tenzo
Kyle Tulod (Stony Brook University)
The Tenzo is a senior monk in a Zen Buddhist monastery charged with cultivating the physical and
spiritual well being of fellow practitioners by preparing the meals with meticulous and meditative care
(‘Instructions,’ 53). This is a paraphrase of a question I posed early in the course of study of Buddhism in
Japan: I understand that the Tenzo is not to waste a single grain of rice. Having read some Buddhist texts, I
can guess the scripture explaining why what I am about to say is not the Buddha-Way. But I must ask: if the
Tenzo had the means to save and multiply all the grains of rice to feed all hungry mouths, how and why
should that temptation be resisted?
There is a long pause before the reply comes, in which Sensei seems to wish a Kyosaku were handy.

This is the ‘stick of encouragement,’ a wooden implement used in a gesture of non-punishing striking to
wake monks from attachments such as sentimentality, logical thinking, and egoism (‘Kyosaku’). In
retrospect, all three were deeply embedded in my question. So, if I am to understand Sensei’s answer, I
need to understand the assumptions of Western thought that lead to my attachments.

My wish, “to feed all hungry mouths,” arises from my sentimentality. However, Shinran, founder of
Pureland Buddhism, points to, “the [Vimalakirti] Sutra [which] states: ‘The lotus does not grow in the solid
ground of lofty plateaus, but in the muddy ponds of lowland marshes.’” In Pureland orthodoxy, Shinran is
emphasizing the all-encompassing power of Amida Buddha’s Primal Vow to grasp all persons entrusting to
her compassion without regard to their past faults, and only based on their presence of mind here and now
(Shinran, 76). Yet there is a hard lesson here too for the secular western humanitarianist examining
Shinran’s philosophy: benevolence is easily distorted into sentimentality, if an attachment to the transitory
state of the world leads to instant gratification rather than the highest good.

My hypothesis of a, “means to save and multiply all the grains of rice,” arises from my logical
thinking. The Western scientific method is prone to imply that for all problems there exist physical causes
for which solutions can be engineered. Yet, “An ancient Buddha said, ‘A painting of a rice-cake does not
satisfy hunger (‘Painted,’ 134).’” Zen master Dogen interprets this on one level by recognizing the spiritual
needs of humanity beyond mere physical hunger. However, his inner meaning points to painted
manifestations of rice-cakes which, while illusory phenomenal forms, encode the truth of reality: such that
the true rice-cake is the great taste that drives spiritual hunger (‘Painted,’ 136-7). This has tremendous
consequences for the problem of rice shortage, because it suggests the “problem” may merely be a
symptom underlined by a deeper problem, and subverts the assumption that rationality and science are the
solution. My presumption, “if the Tenzo had [this] means…,” arises from my egoism. To assume all problems
have solutions in a progression in utopianism places no limitation on human agency to control society and
the universe. The role of the ego self as an illusion is at the very heart of Buddhist enlightenment and
cannot be neatly summarized. However, a self-explanatory passage from the “Regulations for Zen
Monasteries” intended for the Tenzo and also pertinent to rice shortage helpfully instructs: “Just think about
how best to serve the assembly, and do not worry about limitations. If you have unlimited mind, you will
have limitless happiness (‘Instructions,’ 61).”
But back to the beginning: Sensei sees in my earnest yet tactless question my obvious ignorance of
any of these subtleties. Finally, Sensei decides to gently encourage me, asking, “Where does this idea come
from?” I hesitate. Sensing that Sensei seems not to want my baggage from the West, I set it aside, admitting,
“It comes from me, apparently.”
Sensei’s reply, striking for its novelty, would soon become as familiar as a chant, and just as melodic.

The first syllable is a staccato, brief and sudden as if sharing in my epiphany; the second syllable is slightly
prolonged, as if savoring the moment: “That’s right.” Then, as if I were not already sufficiently startled,
Sensei suddenly cocks her head forward and, widening her stare, challenges me, “And are you Buddha?”
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