老Φ春季大典結緣訓

This opening round, given by the Spirits and Sages of All Heavens, set the keynote: clear away craving and the pull of pleasure early, for only in coming to rest can stillness and real cultivation begin; live by Heavenly Principle, let the great Dao do its work, and help across all who share the karmic tie — even the turns of the Book of Changes and the painted opera-roles quietly disclose the hidden order. Study the teaching’s meaning until you see through it, and guard your words with care. Then, sent by the Eternal Mother, they bowed before the carriage and took their place unseen.

This round, given by the Ten Thousand Immortals and Bodhisattvas, turns on a single word — let go: release whatever ties pull at you, and do it now; set aside whatever you can renounce, without waiting. Immortals, awakened ones, sages, and the truly realized are all alike in this — they cultivate by the teaching, in ordinary daily life; see the path of awakening all the way through, follow it, and you can hold your own ground. And once that courageous, awakened wisdom-nature shines forth, its light reaches the four seas and the eight directions. Their part done, they bowed before the Sovereign Mother and took their place unseen.

This round, given by the Examiners of the Three Heavens, speaks to the very charge they hold — testing. To hear the teaching and cultivate in this age is no accident: it rests on merit and a foundation laid across three lifetimes. Heaven returns what is given and cause and effect are exact, so all the more reason to step diligently into the world and live by Heavenly Principle. Keep your inner master steady here in the dust, never betraying conscience, follow the proper path, and your life will bear a sage’s marks; and only when trial upon trial has been withstood is your own awakening truly verified — cultivation never tested does not yet count. Even the Examiner’s gentle “are you at peace?” is itself a quiet test: calm the heart, still the breath, and wait for the carriage.

This round, given by Elder Brother Mào Měng, works through the image of field and spring: a vow must be worked like tilled ground, with daily diligence — it counts not when spoken but when done; wake all at once, see the present clearly, and every season carries spring’s life. The teacher can only lead you through the gate; the practice afterward is yours, built up day by day. Fellow cultivators are brothers and sisters — so do not put your heart to the wrong use, turning it toward comparison and rivalry, which makes companions on the path into friction. His greeting given and the carriage near, he sets down his words and waits.

This round is given by the South Sea Ancient Buddha — a manifestation of Guanyin — who comes with Mañjuśrī (wisdom) and Samantabhadra (practice), so that compassion, wisdom, and practice stand gathered to guard the altar. Two strands of work run through it: first, fulfilling vows — like a general on campaign, range in every direction and see them through, and though life rolls like the open sea, hold your heart and spirit steady inside the motion; second, embodying the Way — take in the ancient teaching slowly and deeply, never gulped whole. Buddhas and bodhisattvas reveal themselves never for their own glory but always for living beings. Having bowed before the Eternal Mother and asked after all present, he sets down the stylus, steps back, and waits.

This round is given by the Sages of the Five Teachings — Confucianism, Buddhism, Daoism, Christianity, and Islam — and their coming together is itself the message: the teachings share one source, and no tradition is left outside. The poem opens by borrowing the Lǎozǐ — too many colors blind the eye, too many flavors deaden the palate — a reminder that overstimulation dulls true perception, and that the first step of cultivation is often not adding but subtracting. A teaching’s meaning draws you to listen, its method moves you to walk: the two are legs that must move together. Walk the sage’s path to prove your awakening, never letting the human heart run wild; cultivate the inner sovereign — the true master, the original heart — and the way you live will not lose itself in confusion. Their obeisance made and the assembly’s nerves asked after, they take their place in attendance.

This round is given by the White-Water Sage-Emperor, who comes with Bodhisattva Dé Huì and the True Immortals of the White Era to guard the altar. The poem builds line upon line: first calm the heart, quiet the breath, and guard in silence, cultivating until that willful, whim-following heart is no longer there; let the heart become like clear water with not a ripple rising, and what it then speaks is naturally true. With the predecessors, keep to your bounds — do not defy or quietly alter what they have charged, nor force your own way where they have given no instruction, for the path keeps an order and a lineage that personal cleverness must not leap over. The closing line names where all this is bound: take the instruction, lay the great Dao bare — all to save and turn around the foolish and the lost, a worthy handing-down. And the True Immortals of the White Era, appearing now, make a promise of fellowship: the road you walk today is the road we have already walked. Their obeisance made, they wait in stillness for the Eternal Mother’s coming.

This is the gravest round, given by Kṣitigarbha the Ancient Buddha, who comes with the Ten Kings of the Underworld. He who vowed not to attain buddhahood until the hells are empty opens by pulling the scene down into them: countless wronged souls cry out and suffer, yet the deceit they buried across lifetimes cannot stay hidden — it is all in the underworld’s ledger, and crying “unfair” does no good, for each wrong was committed by oneself and is borne by oneself. From antiquity to now, who has ever fooled Heaven? At the great reckoning the account cannot be escaped or concealed. And yet in this gravest speech lies the deepest mercy: the Buddha still wishes to wipe away beings’ wrongs, and so turns to ask — how will you keep from adding to your own? “Turn within and look once” is to be read slowly. Tellingly, this round closes without the usual Ha ha: the weight of the underworld is not to be lightened.

This round is given by the South Pole Immortal Elder, leading the Eight Immortals of the upper, middle, and lower ranks. After the gravity of Kṣitigarbha, his is a warm, grandfatherly voice with an easygoing breadth — he calls himself by a rustic “I” and the assembly “my good children.” The poem asks gently yet sharply: amid all life’s running about, who can move with composure? Composure here is not stillness but steadiness within motion; and after all your worrying and figuring, is the heart still calm, the response still quick and bright? The keynote line names his character — “the Dao is found in everyday life”: real cultivation shows not in the great hall or sealed retreat but precisely in ordinary living. Cultivation does not press everyone into one mold; it lets each person’s own strengths come forth. His obeisance before the Sovereign Mother made, he waits for the carriage to reach the altar.

Here the Holy Teacher names himself “your teacher” — and in this lineage “the Teacher” means Jì Gōng Huó Fó speaking through the three mediums, never a human teacher. The poem carries his lifelong character: rush to those in urgent need, untangle their troubles, and when he sees someone to save he does not pause to weigh a thousand calculations but simply acts — compassion without hesitation. Where the heart is fair, fairness itself stands with you; your own heart already holds Heaven’s principle, so act from it. Of all that lives, the human is most precious, and to speak for Heaven and spread its work is the worthy person’s task; once the awakened heart’s mercy comes forth, even rescue from flood and fire arrives before your eyes — the teacher’s promise to his disciples that if they cultivate truly, he will come even in the midst of danger. His register warm and brief, and the Eternal Mother’s arrival near, he sets down his words and leaves the floor to the Eternal Mother.

Bodhisattva Yuè Huì names herself “your Matriarch” — the lineage’s senior maternal figure — and to her disciples she calls herself “your mother,” in a notably tender register. The poem shows her character: the moonlight is dim, yet her nature is never lost — the “wisdom” in her name lives in that soft, unglaring light that nonetheless sees everything. She takes part in Heaven and Earth’s work of generation and nurture, expounds its meaning, and enters this world of endurance herself, traveling its four quarters to deliver beings one by one; in a bodhisattva’s eyes all beings are the same, and a heart resting in kindness needs no disguise. Once that awakened nature shows itself, its light streams out immense, and nothing in the dusty world can stand against it. Appearing just after the Holy Teacher, she and he are the pair of presences most familiar to those on this path. Her obeisance before the Eternal Mother made, she withdraws to one side and waits.

The Patriarch of the White Era, the Confucian-Youth Lord Jīn, names himself “your Patriarch” — the founding ancestor of this lineage. The poem’s two lines answer each other: the Confucian Way arises to meet the turning of the age so that “living Buddhas fill ten thousand homes” — every household can bring forth someone awakened, the spirit of an age in which the Dao descends even to common people; and whoever keeps the “child-heart” undimmed, however old, deceives neither others nor Heaven. The Patriarch’s counsel is precious as gold and jade, meant to admonish the world in earnest, all measured by a fair and impartial heart that leans to no side. The weight of this round lies in its deference: even the most venerable Patriarch yields the floor and dares say little as the Eternal Mother’s carriage nears — a measure of just how momentous the Eternal Mother’s coming in person is.

The last of the altar-establishing rounds is given by the two pages, Yún and Bǎo — two children, all openness. The poem closes line upon line: the mist has long since lifted and the road is clear, so coming into the holy gathering today, is there still any hesitation in your heart? The children come along attending the Eternal Mother’s carriage and ask whether there is real sincerity and reverence in the assembly — and whether one is sincere, a child’s heart sees most clearly, the truest of mirrors. Their eyes turn their light inward, shining back on themselves and lighting up the hall; the two keep a quiet watch and do not falter even as the carriage arrives. At the last, the child-heart has come forth, showing pure innocence — no clever talk, no fawning smile, no excess of words, which is exactly what the ceremony asks of everyone present. Their obeisance before the Sovereign Mother made, they stand in stillness — for the Eternal Mother is about to arrive in person.

Everything the thirteen rounds built toward is this: the Eternal Mother’s own teaching, landing at last in the hearts of the sons and daughters. The first altar-poem lays the groundwork of being human and cultivating — a clear-minded person does not act muddled, but cultivates by principle, unites high and low as one heart, and keeps the Sovereign’s grace always in mind; spread no idle gossip, clear away anger and hatred, for whether you are genuine rests entirely on your own heart’s intent; and keep a heart broad enough to pole the boat of this path through. Then the Eternal Mother arrives, and the first words are not a command but a question — are you tired? troubled? — the faint sigh no sign of impatience but the Eternal Mother present in aged, weary form, gathering breath, truly here; and again the children are asked whether the heart has grown still, whether it can be gathered back, whether this gathering is taken to heart.

The teaching proper is one sustained, tender charge: the radiant time slips away in an instant, so take command and do not let yourself be ferried along passively; do the work and put down deep roots. Hold to the primal source, recognize the “true master” within, let the original heart rest free of false thought and truly govern, and be a genuine person — open, honest, plain — whom no storm can wash of resolve. The deities meet the moment through ordinary people and things and help at your side, but only if your own heart is truly set on the work; do it without bluffing or going through the motions, never waving your Heavenly calling to make noise, staying tremblingly careful even where no one sees. In an age where the fake passes for the real and the worthy and worthless are jumbled together, thoughts grow tangled, so keep right mindfulness, right thought, and steady right effort, and do not be taken in by flattering talk, lest you draw trials on yourself; understand the season of Heaven — the final age has come, hidden meaning everywhere — take Heaven’s heart as your own, and cultivate until you realize awakening. Let Heavenly Principle, not sentiment, decide your affairs, for when human-feeling blocks the way, wrongs are made; do not fall short before your ancestors or deceive your own heart, but be open and upright in the open and in secret alike; and in this final age keep your heart steady and your feet on solid ground, for it is in chaotic times that worthy disciples come forth.

At the last the Eternal Mother folds the whole of that hope into a few of the plainest words: keep a heart of kindness and compassion, master your temper, bear the toil, lead the lost across; use good deeds to make up for faults and carry the Way of Heaven into every corner; make good use of this one brief breath of life, so that when it is cut off there is no regret. Build up such work, and when the time comes to return to Heaven you may be reunited there, home in the Realm of Principle, to enjoy the long ages and boundless blessings. The three tender “Is this understood?”s ask not for obedience but for willingness. Before departing, the Eternal Mother looks once more at the sons and daughters and asks whether the heart has settled and come to rest — the very “rest” of the Great Learning’s “know where to rest” that opened the whole rite. And the ceremony closes on a soft “(a sigh, a sigh) — I withdraw”: come in old age, departing in old age, leaving behind not commandment but the warmth of an aged presence that sat with the sons and daughters through one long afternoon.