Chapter 13: The Debate Between Buddhism and Daoism

The caravan traveled for several more days before finally crossing the Yangtze River. White Snow, true to her name as a fine steed, seemed almost to understand human speech; she required no urging from Zhang Chi, who thus rode at ease, a smile upon his face, relishing the journey.

Since the loss of their horses, the caravan’s daily progress had quickened severalfold. Now, with the river behind them, the city of Jiankang was nearly in sight. Miss Wang turned to Zhang Chi and asked, “Sir, what plans do you have once we reach Jiankang?”

“Uh…” Zhang Chi was momentarily at a loss for words. In truth, he had no plans at all; before his crossing, he had lived each day as it came, and now, pressed by Miss Wang’s question, he felt only a vague uncertainty. He turned to Daoyuan and asked, “Master, what about you? What will you do once we reach Jiankang?”

“I journeyed south for the sake of spreading the Dharma,” Daoyuan replied serenely. “Naturally, I intend to find a temple where I can dedicate myself to translating the sutras.”

It was the era of the Two Jin dynasties, and Buddhism had only recently been introduced to the East. Translating the scriptures was of paramount importance, for few Chinese at that time understood Sanskrit; the translation of Buddhist texts was thus the greatest undertaking in disseminating the faith.

“Daochang Temple is a renowned monastery in Jiankang, where Buddhist monks gather in great numbers. There are more than a hundred monks dedicated solely to the work of translation, yet the temple lacks a venerable master to preside over them. If you wish to translate, Master, you might go there,” Miss Wang suggested.

Daochang Temple had been established by the Xie clan not long after the northern gentry migrated south; it was indeed a famous temple in Jiankang, though now it was under the control of the Wang family. Miss Wang’s suggestion bore an implicit meaning.

Daoyuan, ever sparing with words, simply said, “That will do.”

“Did you truly come south solely to translate and preach the Dharma?” Miss Wang asked, her tone ambiguous.

Daoyuan smiled faintly. “If the world is at peace, those within the Buddhist fold devote themselves purely to the Dharma. But if the realm is in turmoil, then one must strive to deliver all beings from suffering.”

“Master, the day you must deliver sentient beings may not be far off,” Miss Wang sighed.

“Sir, your talents are rare; to follow Master Daoyuan and devote yourself to translation would indeed be a waste,” Miss Wang said, turning to Zhang Chi. “The Wang family maintains an academy in Jiankang—the Academy of the Three Nothings—where renowned scholars from all regions gather to study and debate. Why not take up residence there for now? With your learning, you will surely earn a name upon the Qinhuai, and may consider your future at leisure then.”

In fact, Zhang Chi had nowhere else to go. The prospect of food and lodging, as well as the chance to meet prominent scholars, was certainly appealing, so he nodded his assent.

“I am tied up with mundane affairs and cannot break away, but if I find the time, I shall seek you out at the academy. When that day comes, Sir, I hope you will instruct me in poetry and prose,” Miss Wang said, unfastening a jade pendant from her waist and offering it to Zhang Chi. “This may serve as my card of introduction. Present it to Master Han at the academy, and he will make all necessary arrangements.”

Soon after, they arrived outside Jiankang. Miss Wang, having other business to attend to, parted ways with the group, and the members of the caravan also dispersed. Zhang Chi decided to accompany Daoyuan to Daochang Temple for a look; thus, the four of them traveled together.

Daochang Temple lay in the southern suburbs of Jiankang. The four made inquiries as they went, and at last arrived before its gates. The temple doors stood wide open, but as they entered and searched for monks, not a single soul could be found—not even a novice sweeping the grounds.

“Didn’t Miss Wang say there were over a hundred monks here, just for translating scriptures?” Santong wondered aloud. “How is it that we’ve walked so far and not seen even a single gatekeeper?”

All were puzzled. Only when they reached the main hall did they finally see, in the great plaza before it, a neat assembly of monks sitting on the ground. It seemed the entire monastic community had gathered there.

On the broad dais within the main hall, a monk and a Daoist sat facing each other, separated by several paces. In a corner of the hall sat several more Daoist priests, and a number of others dressed in fine clothes—neither monks nor Daoists, but rather, it seemed, gentlemen of noble birth.

At that moment, the monk was leafing through a sutra, while everyone else sat in utter silence, so still one could hear a pin drop. It appeared all were waiting for the monk to finish reading.

Santong, puzzled, asked Daoyuan, “Master, do monks always sun themselves together like this?”

Daoxuan struck Santong on the head with his fist. “If you don’t understand, then don’t speak nonsense! Watch your tongue!”

Though Santong was a few years older than Daoxuan, Daoxuan was half his teacher, having taught him much of the martial arts along the way. Santong respected him deeply, so he dared not speak further and simply chuckled.

At last, when the elder monk on the dais finished the last page of the sutra and closed the book, the Daoist finally broke the silence. “This sutra is called the ‘Scripture of Laozi Transforming the Barbarians,’ in ten volumes. It tells the tale of Laozi traveling to India, transforming into the Buddha, and teaching the barbarians to venerate Buddhism. What is your view, Master?”

“How can one verify the authenticity of this scripture?” the monk asked, after some thought.

The Daoist laughed. “The Daoist scriptures record that Laozi departed westward from Hangu Pass, traversed the Western Regions, and arrived in a certain Indian kingdom. There, he transformed into the Buddha—his mother dreamed of a white elephant and conceived; at his birth, he emerged from her left side, already with knotted hair, and upon falling to the ground, took seven steps. Thus was the Buddha of India born. You see, your Buddha is none other than our Daoist patriarch, Laozi, who sought to enlighten your people and lead you from ignorance. Yet now you monks come east to spread your so-called Dharma—how laughable!”

The Daoist spoke with eloquence and cited many sources. Santong, unable to follow, asked, “Master, who is this Buddha the Daoist refers to?”

Daoyuan replied, “The term he uses, ‘Futu,’ is simply an old transliteration for ‘Buddha.’ In the Han dynasty, when Buddhism first reached the East, transliterations varied, and so the faith was sometimes called the Way of Futu. But later, the translations were standardized, and now all refer to him as Buddha.”

“That scripture is clearly a forgery,” Daoxuan said angrily, unable to bear the Daoist’s slander of the Buddhist faith.

“It must indeed be a fabrication,” the old monk on the dais agreed. “The deeds of the Buddha are well recorded in our own scriptures. How could he be a transformation of Laozi?”

“Do you have any proof that my ‘Scripture of Laozi Transforming the Barbarians’ is a forgery?” the Daoist pressed.

“Well…”

The Daoist sneered. “Unable to refute me, you slander my Daoist scripture as a forgery. Yet I could say the same—that your Buddhist texts are nothing but inventions of your old monks.”

The Daoist’s words were sharp as blades. The monks of Daochang Temple were all dedicated translators, and the elder monk’s honest face and awkward speech revealed him as one long bent over sutras, ill-matched for debate.

The Daoist then turned to a dignified gentleman seated nearby. “Lord Wang, it seems the monks are unable to refute the claims of our Daoist texts, which only proves the Buddha was indeed Laozi transformed on his journey west.”

The gentleman stroked his beard. “It does seem the Daoist’s argument is reasonable.”

“My lord, the grand construction of Buddhist temples drains the state’s coffers and leads our Jin people to trust the teachings of foreigners—a most dangerous trend. In my humble view, your lordship should petition the court to burn the statues and scriptures of Buddhism, exterminate the monks, and abolish the temples of the southlands. Such acts would benefit the nation and bring you great merit, securing a place in history.”

At this, the monks below the dais erupted in protest, and the scene descended into chaos. Then a general standing beside Lord Wang rose and shouted, “Everyone, calm yourselves! Lord Wang will see justice done.”

The Daoist, seeing the monks’ unrest, continued, “The ‘Scripture of Laozi Transforming the Barbarians’ says that at Laozi’s rebirth as Buddha, nine dragons spouted water to bathe him, forming nine wells. At that time, the Lord Lao’s hair and beard were already white, and yet he walked immediately, lotus flowers blooming beneath each step, up to nine in all. With his left hand he pointed to the heavens, with his right to the earth, declaring: ‘Heaven above, earth below, I alone am worthy.’ Is this not exactly as your Buddhist scriptures describe the Buddha’s birth? How can you claim our Daoist texts are forgeries?”

The monks were dumbfounded.

Zhang Chi, of course, knew these were Daoist fabrications. Laozi had been an old man when he left Hangu Pass, riding nothing but a green ox; a lone old man and a single beast—how could they possibly cross the Himalayas? Even if he had, upon reaching India, he would not have understood the language—how could he teach the Dharma?

Having come from the twenty-first century, Zhang Chi naturally did not believe in such fanciful tales.

Unfortunately, Lord Wang seemed utterly convinced. “So that’s why all Buddha images face east—because Laozi, transformed as Buddha, was reminding us of his eastern origins!”

The Daoist quickly agreed. “Exactly! That is why these foreign teachings are not to be trusted—they bring harm, not benefit, to the state.”

“What does Young Lord Ding think of this tale of Laozi transforming the barbarians?” Lord Wang turned to a handsome young man at his side.

In the Wei and Jin dynasties, appearance was highly prized among the gentry, but few could match this young man’s elegance. His face was like white jade, his eyes bright as stars, and his bearing was ethereal, as though he were a celestial being. Even Zhang Chi felt somewhat abashed in his presence.

The young gentleman, with effortless grace, saluted Lord Wang. “My family has long revered the Buddha. Since childhood I have studied the Buddhist scriptures and know little of Daoist texts, so I cannot rightly judge the authenticity of this ‘Scripture of Laozi Transforming the Barbarians.’”

“Oh?” Lord Wang asked curiously. “I thought your family had always been devoted to Daoism. When I served in court with your late father, I heard he was a great devotee of the Daoist way.”

“That must be a misunderstanding,” Young Lord Ding replied. “My father was most devoted to Buddhism, though in order to debate, he did read some Daoist texts. Sadly, he died young, and I was but a child then, so apart from the Dao De Jing, I have read no Daoist works.”

Lord Wang laughed. “No matter. Even if you do not know Daoist classics, what do you make of the Daoist’s argument about Laozi transforming into Buddha?”

Young Lord Ding considered for a moment, then said quietly, “In my humble opinion, the story of Laozi’s western journey and transformation is difficult to believe.”

The Daoist’s brows shot up. “You yourself just said you know nothing of Daoist texts; if so, you should not speak rashly. Since you are here with Lord Wang, how can you side with this foreign teaching?”

“Peace, Daoist,” Lord Wang interjected amiably. “Since I am presiding over this debate between you and Master Ye today, I shall be impartial.”

Turning to the monks below, Lord Wang asked, “Since Master Ye is not skilled in debate, are there any among you venerable monks who have something to add?”