Chinese Buddhist Books and Library

Books, Bok-Choy, and Buddhism

In my ever humble and oft less than courageous explorations for eternal books and their circles of life, I decided to venture into the world of Buddhism, specifically Chinese Buddhism, and perhaps most precisely Chicago Chinese Buddhism. Yet, this would not completely be the truest rendition of my experience, because I felt far from being in Chicago among the intricate denizens of Buddhistic statuary, emblazoned with gold skins, and casting penetrating glares from eyes made of black pearl. But one late afternoon, I'd decided to drive through the neighborhood of Bridgeport in Chicago and pass by the Buddhist temple there. To my great surprise and delight, the doors were open. The front entrance was strung up with prayer flags attached at one end to a vessel for burning incense. You may see this interesting photo at left of the Temple--interesting, because of its juxtaposition with a Catholic Church in the background. The Temple itself had been a church in its previous "incarnation." I wonder if there's something philosophical about the fact that from someone's point of view this building was "re-born into something better...from Church to Buddhist Temple." But that's a subtext I'm not willing to entertain at the moment. I'll let you curiosity seekers think about that one.

The place that I visited is called "Ling Shen Ching Tze Temple Chicago," and belongs to the True School of Buddhism. This Temple is strictly a Chinese language "congregation," though some of the prayer banners were in Tibetan and practices often prove syncretistic. On the afternoon when I first visited, there were two old Chinese ladies attending the shrine. They greeted me and I introduced myself, asking them about the Temple. They told me about the sanctuary and traditions and about those who attended the meditation and prayer services. I took my sandals off and walked across the great wooly carpet and gazed up at the altar of Buddhas. There must have been nearly two dozen of them, arranged like stuffed animals at a state fair, but rather omniscient and regal in their stations. Their colors were vibrant, each one in a different pose--seated, standing, dancing; and of equal diversity in their ethnic appearance: some looked more Korean, others clearly Mongol, while a few appeared Indonesian or Thai. The one woman, who was describing the Temple and showing me around mentioned a library. At which point I asked "may I see it?" "Of course...come with me," she summoned. We shuffled our way to the back room, of which you will see part of above in this photo. Tables, chairs, office equipment, a tall desk for selling religious accoutrements like bells and incense, all crowded around the north side of the room. The south side comprised an alcove where the library was situated--that is what is in this photo. The library consisted of a few thousand volumes of Chinese Buddhist texts, but also some English translations of books by the Master and Living Buddha of the True School. The old woman showed me two other distinct and separate rooms where there were altars for the Buddha and for the Dead. I entered each in subdued blue and red light. Long sticks of incense burned and intruded into the cavities of my sinus, causing my eyes to swell and itch. The old woman continued to tell me more about the Temple. We went into the basement, where they hold luncheons after Prayer, teach Chinese language classes to children, and provide instruction in karate and traditional Asian martial arts.

When we returned upstairs, I headed back to the entrance and the old woman said: "You must come back on Sunday--when we have our Prayer." So I agreed. Near the door, I noticed piles of books and booklets, many of them descriptive of the practices of the Buddha and the particular Chinese branding through the Living Buddha.

After leaving the Temple, I took a drive over to Ricobene's--a local eatery that specializes in pizzas, mozzarella sticks, and fried steaks (a South Side favorite). It's a place that'd always looked pretty interesting, but I'd never been to. So I tried it out. It was more fast-foodish than I had imagined it would be. You order at a counter and then go sit down at some regular drab grey family style tables. Perhaps 8 in 10 people in this restaurant sported some baseball player's shirt: you know, with the number on the back with the player's name embroidered in a slight arch above the shoulders. I sat down with my thick-crust sausage pizza and lemonade, and pulled out three little volumes I had received from the Temple. This one at left was among them: Vajrasattva Yoga of the True Buddha School. I could not help but consider my circumstances, reading the secrets of karmic learning surrounded by rowdy White Sox fans, a sleeping Latino man, a family of 8 stuffing their mouths with fried steaks that were making puddles of grease on their tables and praising the merits of the ordinary, and last but not least: four Chicago cops, in full brawn (i.e. "strength" and not "flesh of a boar"--an English colloquialism), who sat around their own sloppy-fried heaps, consuming in gulps and sips their tender victuals and sweet pops, while chatting about car engines, hot-dog shacks on Kedzie Avenue, and other existentially teasing questions of the day. Of course!--this was the best of all places to begin my Buddhistic training. As I would find out a few days later, when I returned to the Temple, I would need to "clear my spaces of impurities." I can't say for sure that Ricobene's or its comestible companionship were impure, but perhaps acknowledging the modern art of bland conversationalism, I soon accepted the words of the Buddha and all of his incarnational successors, and wiped my face of pizza sauce.

The Mystery of the Pellets (Sheli)

When I did return on Sunday, it was a warm and moderately humid morning, which would turn into a 95F degree afternoon with a searing sun. It was just before 10AM, when the service began, and I entered into the chamber along with several dozen other individuals. At one point I counted nearly 60 people in the room. What I did notice was that out of those 60 people, there were only about 6 men. I sat upon a blood red mat, cross-legged. Within a few minutes a young man named "K." came up to assist me. He was dressed in the Sunkist orange wrapping of student initiates, which he explained afterward were "meant to keep the bad karmic rays out." "K." in fact, attended to me for the entire 3 hours of meditation and prayer! I did not realize that it would be so long, but in the end it was fine. He handed me a book with English translations of the meditation and prayer service, and explained at each moment what was happening. I stood with them. I bowed with them. I prostrated myself to the ancient earth with them. I placed my hands together in tantric masterpieces of fingered dexterity with them. My bent hand configurations were drawn into shapes of the lotus flower. And then we recited mantras three times, seven times, and one-hundred-and-eight times. "K." was very helpful, a masterful and amicable character, who was genuinely interested in helping me. There was silent meditation for about 20 minutes, which exposed my own limitations of body and soul. Over the course of the 3 hours, my muscles cramped and twinged, my left calf seized like a broken transmission, sending oscillations of pain up my leg, and my lower back crumpled under the constant weight of motionlessness. An ancient woman sitting behind me had the voice of a heating system: somewhere between Betty Davis and James Earl Jones after a Virginia Slims rally. And she repeated the mantra 108 times like a ship braying at an oncoming lighthouse in a fog bank. The priest sat on the floor before the altar--her head was shorn, and she chanted in a nasality that sounded apicultural. Upon her sheened head, was a earphone set and voice amplifier, that made her look like a cultural rock-star out of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, or a version of Jean-Luc Picard as a Starbucks barista. Hollow drums, hand-held bells (called Vajras), and vocal somersaults all filled the room. Twin single-blade ceiling fans spun cautiously from the 30-foot rafters. And twice, yes, twice the prayers were interupted by cell phones ringing. The more severe embarrassment was when one of the few men, an man in his late 50s realized his modern-toned cell was going off, he fell forward from his cross-legged position attempting to seize the offensive ringing from his pocket. Instead he fumbled, tossed, and rolled forward on himself, before eliminating the sound and recoiling to his mat.

My experience was complete with Vajras (thunderbolt bells), Malas (prayer beads numbering 108, used for counting mantras), and Lotus Flower ornamentation. In fact, as I sat and prayed along with the others, I couldn't figure out at first how they knew where they were in the middle of a mantra repeated 108 times, until I noticed everyone counting their beads! But the most extraordinary tale came at the end of the "first" service--which was then followed by the "second" service, called the Offering of the Meal, which took about 40 minutes. Before this second service, there were announcements about the community. There were three announcements and the second announcement is what stories are truly made of:

As it was all in Chinese, my new friend "K." translated for me. And the story went like this: "The Grand Master of the Temple was announcing to everyone that he had reached another level of enlightenment. And he knew this because of something that happened one afternoon. He'd taken a nap, and when he woke up, he heard a noise of something dropping. When he lifted away his covers on his bed, he discovered that he was covered in..." Now I break away from this story, because at this point, I had thought that "K." was going to say "blood" or "locusts" or something with a Biblical imagination to it. But no. That's not what he said. Instead he continued: "...I don't know what they call it...? Ts'arrhea? Sa'rrhea?" I don't wish to venture into the depths of anything ending in "-rrhea", but the fact is, I had no idea what the Grand Master was covered with or what his body seemed to be throwing off. It was not till a day later that I did some research and discovered that, from the context of what "K." said, it was a relic that is common among Chinese Buddhist adherents, called "sheli," which are actually pearly bone fragments. I found two citations--one a popular internet article, the other a review in an academic journal--about this practice:

1: (http://www.buddhistchannel.tv/index.php?id=65,2504,0,0,1,0)

2: JOURNAL OF BUDDHIST ETHICS; p. 104, Review of The Impact of Buddhism on Chinese Material Culture by John Kieschnick (2003), reviewed by Michael J. Walsh, Dept. of Religion at Vassar College.

Dr. Walsh writes in his review: "A good example of how this played out in Buddhist history is to look at the cultural contexts of relic and relic pellets (sheli), the teeth of the Buddha, and the mummies of famous monks (47-52). Kieschnick argues that the practice of worshipping images and of venerating remains came into China with Buddhism."

In the photo above, there is a little container at the bottom right of the image, which contains one of these little "pellets" or "sheli." I don't know where the "Sh'errhea" word came from. It's not "Sh'errhea" or any other -rrhea. It is "sheli." And when I first saw it I thought it was a kidney stone. It is, as the articles above speak to, a remnant of a Buddhist Master after he or she has been cremated. And within the ashes are these relics--usually bone fragments, but bones that are polished and round, like pellets. And now, through such generosity, the Master has given one of his hundreds of pellet minyons to the Temple.

After the pellet confusion, we gathered in the basement for some fine home made Chinese food, complete with rice, noodles, tofu, field mushrooms, and bok choy. I met the Master, only through bows, no shaking hands. And was invited to return. More mantras. More prayers. More pellets. More bok choy.

The Paradox of Books and Fire

A thought occurred to me when I read the inscription on the back of one of the Buddhist booklets. As you can see below, it reads: "Please place this text in a clean place...burn the text with respect, or recycle the paper. Do not throw it in the trash." The curious thought that came to mind was the use of the expression "burn the text with respect." Understandably, the use of fire and burning have connotations of purity and cleansing in this context. Whereas in the West, predominantly, fire is seen as destructive, damaging, and repugnant in some ways, especially if it is associated with coming in contact with cultural artifacts or texts. Burning books has no place in the hearts of bibliophiles or librarians. And it equally evokes a sense of war and provocative destruction. Cremation of books-as-bodies finds in us an uncomfortable reaction, and all too many books have been written on this subject. But what also seems to be a fine distinction is the idea of purity/impurity in the East/West dichotomous contexts. The idea of "burning a flag"
in this country is most often seen as an act of anti-patriotism, self-serving anarchy, and pure outright repugnant behavior. But how might a Buddhist approach such a circumstance?

In the end, we have the building...

"In the Year of Our Lord...1892"--something like that. This building, once a church, was built the year before the great Chicago World's Fair Columbia Exposition. Far from the Tantric Huts that dotted the 1893 Expo five and a half miles south east on the lake front, who would have guessed that a hundred and some years later, the solid grit and grout holding these bricks together would be housing the meditative center of Chinese Buddhist teachings? Or, that a curious librarian would be writing an even more wildly curious article about the people, books, and bok choy inside?