Buddhas of the Henro: Monju

A statue of Monju Bosatsu at Temple 12, Shosan-ji. Here the deity holds a Nyo-i, a symbol of preaching, rather than his usual sword.

The quickest way to experience Mañjusrī (“Gentle Glory”) firsthand is to visit a traditional

Zen meditation hall. A statue of the Bodhisattva, and offerings of flowers, candles, and incense, are the only decorations in these simple spaces. Practitioners in muted robes sit on dark cushions in shared silence, and the room’s atmosphere is so razor-sharp that any sniffle, cough, or cracking knee sounds like cannonfire. Depending on the tradition, a priest will circle the room holding a keisaku (“awakening stick”) for ritually striking the sleepy or unfocused. The keisaku is said to be an embodiment of Mañjusrī’s hand or sword, dispelling mental cloudiness and providing clarity and wisdom. 

The minimalism, relentlessness, and rigor of the Zendō seem to perfectly mirror the personality of Mañjusrī. Kūkai powerfully invokes the deity in the opening line of his Secret Key to the Heart Sutra: “The sharp sword of Mañjusrī cuts off all mental proliferation.” 

To put it even more simply, Mañjusrī’s wisdom cuts the bullshit. 

An image of Kūkai holding Mañjusrī's Wisdom Sword and sutra scroll, at Temple 60, Yokomine-ji. This depiction of Kukai is known as Hiken Daishi, "The Daishi of the Secret Key [to the Heart Sutra]."

Though he's the main deity of just one of the 88 Temples of the Henro (T31, Chikurin-ji), Mañjusrī, or Monju-sama in Japan, is one of the most important deities in Buddhism. The Bodhisattva takes the form of an eternal youth, holding a double-bladed wisdom-sword and scroll of the Prajñāpāramitā Sūtras, a class of scripture known for their cutting explication of the Buddhist teaching of emptiness (the most famous being the Heart Sutra.) He sits on a lion, whose echoing roar is a common symbol of the all-pervading, conquering power of enlightened wisdom.

A commentary on the Dainichi-kyō, one of Shingon Buddhism’s central texts, sums his role up this way: “Mañjusrī is Great Wisdom. Possessing the unsurpassed wisdom of emptiness, he purifies the mind of Awakening (bodhicitta), and with the Sword of Prajñā (wisdom) he cuts off selfish desires at the root.” 

It’s held that anyone who becomes a Buddha, a fully enlightened being, must first go through him, taking on his quality of perfect wisdom. It’s for this reason he’s also known as “Mother of all Buddhas.” Chikurin-ji’s Goeika, temple song, memorializes this maternal aspect of Manjusri: 

Namah, Manjusri!

“Buddha Mother through all time”

I have heard you called–

I come to you as your child

craving the milk of wisdom

Nāgārjuna (Japanese Ryumyo) in his traditional depiction among the Eight Patriarchs of Shingon. Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

Kūkai holds that Mañjusrī’s cutting wisdom is embodied in the process of philosophical negation developed by the Indian sage Nāgārjuna. In Buddhism, this true nature is “emptiness,” meaning the total lack of self-identity. No matter how hard we try to catch phenomena in concepts and everyday language, their true nature slips away like an eel. As Kūkai puts it in the Secret Key, this method “can sever the deluded and attached mind.” That’s one of Buddhism’s big goals, to overcome our delusions and attachments so we can suffer less.

But Nāgārjuna’s way is, frankly, absolutely infuriating. It’s basically “nuh-uh”-ing your way out of your limited everyday perception of things to their true nature. He proposes Eight Negations that describe everything: things neither are born nor die, are neither permanent nor have an end, are neither all the same nor different, and neither come nor go. Let’s just take one.

We’ve all heard the expression “nothing lasts forever,” and of course it’s true. It snowed the other day here in Tokushima, and the snowflakes melted pretty much as soon as they hit the ground. No more snow, things change all the time. Snow is definitely impermanent.  

“Not so fast!” chimes in Nāgārjuna. Sure, the snow melted, but it was just frozen water anyway, and the water’s still there, so can you really say it’s “impermanent?” Maybe you try agreeing, and then Nāgārjuna cuts you off and says, “but water’s not permanent either, after all it turns into snow or steam!” 

I’ll save you the trouble of a long argument with Nāgārjuna that potentially ends in fisticuffs. There’s no right answer. Normal language won’t get you anywhere. 

This “end of language” is beautifully demonstrated in a scene from the Vimalakīrti Sutra. Vimalakīrti, a wily old Buddha, pretends to be sick so he can trick the wisest beings in the universe to come and learn something from him. Vimalakīrti asks a bunch of bodhisattvas the best way to “enter nonduality,” or in other words, enlightenment that transcends pairs of opposites like the ones Nāgārjuna proposes. The bodhisattvas all give their various answers, but none seem to stick.

Detail from Vimalakirti and the Doctrine of Nonduality, a Yuan Dynasty scroll painting (MET Museum, Public Domain).

True to form, the bodhisattva Mañjusrī pipes up and says, in so many words, “You’ve all done a lot of talking, but really what can’t be said or expressed is entry into non-duality!”

In response, Vimalakīrti stays silent, and his silence causes 5,000 bodhisattvas to attain awakening.

The sharp sword of Mañjusrī strikes again, cutting through extraneous thoughts and revealing things just as they are. It’s this razor-sharp perception of reality, in Sanskrit Prajñā, that gives Mañjusrī his reputation as the embodiment of wisdom itself. 

Osugata, sacred image passed out to pilgrims in Shikoku, of Chikurin-ji's Monju Bosatsu.

Chikurin-ji, where Mañjusrī is the main deity, looks out over Kōchi City from the top of Mt. Gotai. This mountain is said to be a Japanese incarnation of China’s Mt. Wutai, the global heart of Mañjusrī faith. Appropriately, Chikurin-ji has been renowned as a center of Shingon scholarship and training for centuries. Because of his association with wisdom and intelligence, Chikurinji’s Monju-sama is also venerated by students approaching exams and those looking to ward off dementia. 

But I’d venture to say that Mañjusrī is deeply present with all pilgrims throughout their journey. The long days of walking, often in silence, mean that we have many hours to let the concepts and attitudes that shape our everyday life tumble around in our heads, to look at them from every angle. Over time, as we get more tired, more distant from home, and more engaged with the path beneath our feet, our minds begin to quiet. When we return home from pilgrimage, we hopefully find that our time in quiet on the Henro, confronting ourselves and our own minds, has given us a fresh perspective, one less insistent on our conceptions of the world and more capable of navigating life’s ambiguities for the benefit of others. That, I think, is meeting Mañjusrī.