Roshi used his talk this week to continue our exploration of the Samurai Koans. He began by reminding us that in 13th-century Japan, Zen practice was spreading beyond monks and clergy to new groups, including the samurai. A major challenge at the time was that most Zen teachers were Chinese and did not speak Japanese. While the two languages share written characters, the meanings and sounds often differ.

Roshi pointed out that this linguistic gap is one reason chanting became such an important part of Zen practice. Japanese students were taught to simply chant the Chinese sutras and allow the sound to sink into their consciousness—intellectual comprehension was not the goal. In addition, much of temple life requires little spoken communication: meditation, work, meals, and daily rituals can all be carried out without language.

The real difficulties emerged in areas where language truly mattered. Dokusan interviews, for instance, rely heavily on verbal exchange. In these settings, a Japanese student would present their demonstration, and the Chinese master would write down their response or guidance. The student was then expected to find someone who could translate it.

One would expect this process to have produced a large body of written material from the Chinese masters. Unfortunately, medieval Japan was frequently struck by fires and floods, and much of this material was lost. What survived, however, became the foundation of the Samurai Koan collection.

Even when the words were translated, meaning was not guaranteed. Chinese poems, koans, and teachings carried deep cultural assumptions that Japanese students did not always share. This is no different from modern Western students trying to understand stories and koans from China and Japan a thousand years ago. Because of this cultural distance, Chinese masters had to find creative ways to teach students who lacked the expected background. This is where much of the “Instant Zen” approach arose—using ordinary, immediate circumstances as teaching tools.

The simple instruction to “clean your bowl,” for example, becomes a doorway to awakening. This method worked for Japanese students then and continues to work for us today.

Roshi went on to describe how the growing number of samurai practitioners required new training temples. According to tradition, an old Shingon temple was selected for conversion into a Zen temple. During construction, workers unearthed a stone coffin containing a round mirror. Engraved on the back were the words En Kaku—“perfect realization.” This discovery was considered so auspicious that the new temple was named Enkaku-ji, the Temple of the Perfect Mirror.

Roshi explained that the origin story of Enkaku-ji was later transformed into a koan, forming the first case in the Samurai Koan collection:

“When the stone coffer is broken open, what is that perfect mirror like?”

One commentary states, “Beneath the feet of the person of the Way lies the Brahma-ground of the temple with every step. In this very instant, try building the pagoda of Perfect Realization.”

Roshi offered context to help us appreciate how this koan operates. The stone coffer represents the physical body and ego. Breaking it open symbolizes death, crisis, or enlightenment. This imagery resonated strongly with samurai students, whose lives revolved around life and death—but, Roshi noted, isn’t that true for all of us?

The perfect mirror refers to our intrinsic Buddha-nature. At its heart, the master’s question asks: When you die, who are you?

Roshi added that the essential inquiry is whether we do existence or whether we are that perfect existence. The koan does not ask us to describe the perfect mirror—it asks us to show it. Who are you when the ego falls away? Who are you when you are dead?