The Extinguished Lantern
Kōdō Sawaki — Zen Talks
Long ago, a blind man was going out at night to visit somewhere and said, “Would you light a lantern for me?”
Someone replied, “You cannot even see—what use have you for a lantern?”
The blind man said, “Well, I myself am fine. But there are troublesome sighted people who sometimes bump into me. I carry it so that those who can see will not run into me.”
“That makes sense,” the other said.
So the lantern was lit for him, and off he went, swinging his cane as he walked.
Sure enough, along came a boisterous fellow thundering down the road, and bang!—he crashed straight into him.
“You fool! Can’t you see this lantern?” the blind man shouted, thrusting it forward.
But unfortunately, the lantern had gone out.
“Well then—it’s extinguished, isn’t it?” the man replied.
That is the story. There is no use waving around a lantern whose light has gone out.
It is only to be expected that a son will not listen to the opinions of a father who is waving around an extinguished lantern. And if, at a temple, one goes on preaching while brandishing a lantern whose light has gone out, naturally no one will come to hear. A man I know once said, “Strange, isn’t it? I give lectures for free, yet no one seems willing to listen.” If all one is doing is waving around an extinguished lantern, it merely wastes time and becomes a nuisance, so of course no one comes to listen. Before calling others fools, one must first see whether one’s own lantern is lit or not. This is precisely what is meant by “you must learn the backward step of turning the light around and shining it back.”
To speak of lanterns once more: there is the lantern used to search for things, and there is the lantern that illumines the darkness of ignorance. Then again, there are people who spend their whole lives merely swinging a lantern about, shouting in boastful voices until the end. People speak of “scholars” and “listeners,” yet there are scholars who exist only inside their bookcases, and listeners who only sit there, preserved like canned goods. There is really nothing remarkable in that.
There are also “men of virtue” like offerings set up on a shelf—of no use whatsoever in the world. Then there are those who pride themselves on self-cultivation. Thinking that once the lantern is lit one must immediately put it into practice, they cry, “Off we go!” and race ahead with their backsides exposed. But because they neglected what was under their very feet, the candle flew out, the lantern was torn, and after striking their shins hard, they ended up unable to move in the pitch dark until dawn.
If you carry a lantern, then go step by step: do not miss your footing, do not step into the water, do not let the candle go out, do not tear the lantern. Advance steadily, planting each step firmly in turn.
“Shine it behind.”—“All right, I’ll shine it there.” This is guiding those who come after.
“Shine it toward the front.”—“Yes, here now—can you see?” This is going along the road together with those ahead of you.
And then, “you must learn the backward step of turning the light around and shining it back,” so that you do not lose sight of yourself. This has nothing to do with high rank, nor with having much money. However little money one has, however low one’s position, however slight one’s learning—it does not matter.
There is a certain curious school I sometimes visit. Of everyone there, the principal understands what I say the least, while the janitor understands it the best. That is interesting—a fine example. So the Way is not a matter of one’s resumé or background, nor of social standing. It is not a matter of money, nor of natural ability. However lacking one may be in talent, one may still be admirable in the Way; however poor one may be, one may still be admirable in the Way. In any case, one must do it. One must do it with complete sincerity.