On one occasion, two Zen monks came from a rival community and, arriving at Isan’s monastery, commented: “There is not a man here who can understand Zen.”
Later, when all the monks were out gathering firewood, Kyozan saw them both resting. He picked up a piece of firewood and said to the two: “Can you talk about it?”
Both were speechless, at which Kyozan commented: “Do not say that there is no one here who can understand Zen.”
When Kyozan got back to the monastery, he said to Isan, “Today, I exposed two Zen monks.”
“How?” Isan asked, and Kyozan told him of the exchange.
Isan commented: “I have now exposed you as well.”

Maneesha, the Zen encounter is not that of words. The zencounter is a communion in silence. When two Zen masters meet, whoever speaks first has fallen from his status. Days may pass by; they may eat together, they may look around at the beauty in the sunset and in the morning and in the starry night, but nobody is going to say a single word. Not saying a single word and remaining just a mirror…

The mirror never says anything about the reflection, neither does the lake. The moon may be beautiful, the moon is reflected; the lake should dance with joy.

Similar is the case with consciousness. At its ultimate peak words are left far below, as if you have risen above the clouds. The moment you bring any word in, you have spoiled the whole communication.

Zen is the only teaching in the world which discards absolutely words, language, scripture. This small anecdote will show it to you. It does not seem to have much meaning on the surface, but in the depths it has all the meaning that truth can have, that beauty can have, that God can have.

The anecdote is simple. Zen does not believe in complexity, in unnecessary linguistic jargon. It points to the fact directly, without even taking the help of words, because words can never help you. In fact the word is the barrier. Remove the word, allow the no-word, no-mind state, and everything is as crystal clear, clean as it has been since eternity. Just your eyes were clouded with words…your minds have gathered so much rubbish, which you call religious. In fact, all rubbish is religious, and vice versa.

The function of Zen is just to cut all this rubbish like a sword, in a single blow, without hesitation, and the whole sky is yours, and the whole expanse of the universe is yours.

On one occasion, two Zen monks came from a rival community and, arriving at Isan’s monastery, commented: “There is not a man here who can understand Zen.”

There were rival monasteries of Zen. It started the day Buddha died: thirty-two schools immediately arose, and all those thirty-two schools were saying something essentially true – but it was incomplete truth. Perhaps it is not possible in language to say the whole truth. It has so many facets – you can cover only one facet – it is so engrossing, so enveloping that you forget that this is not the whole truth; you have just touched a corner.