The establishment of the doctrine of the void is fraught with hazards. Chief among these is the danger of reifying or hypostatizing the void itself. Tamura Yoshirō[ (1921-1989) a well-regarded scholar of Japanese Buddhism] notes: “It will not do to think of having gone from the provisional to the emptiness of things as if one had somehow now reached some entity called ‘the void.’ ” For this reason, it was sometimes maintained in the Mahayana that “emptiness itself is emptied” (“kū kū”). Thus, to regard phenomena as empty is itself an activity that needs to be relativized and seen as dependent. In [Chih-i’s] Mo-ho chih-kuan this is accomplished by a reaffirmation of the reality of provisional phenomena (ke). This was the second stage of the santai. Chih-i called it “jukū-nyūke, leaving the empty and entering into the provisional.” The term is diametrically opposite to juke-nyūkū but the intention is not to establish two mutually negating propositions; rather, it is to hold that both propositions describe reality and both are necessary in order to describe reality accurately.

The recognition of the perfectly balanced codependence of the void (kū) and the provisional (ke) was Tendai’s third stage, that of the middle (chū). The middle is not a position midway between the other two but the holding of both in a state of dynamic and equalized tension. Each way of looking at things is valid but only because the other is also true; each side gives existence and function to the other. The classic Mahayana account of the bodhisattva figure makes the same point in more narrative, less philosophical, language. According to it, the bodhisattva recognizes the phenomenal world as empty, without abiding entities, and therefore worthy of being forsaken for nirvana; nevertheless, in order to rescue others, he returns to the world of samsara. Moreover, since “enlightenment is nowhere other than in the worldly passions” (“bonnō soku bodai”), even for the bodhisattva himself there is no other world in which to be, or to be saved.

Much like the dharmas described in a crucial section of the hōben chapter, they are characterized by “the absolute identity [or equality] of their beginning and end.”

Recognizing this makes it possible to see the sutra as much more sophisticated and philosophical than we had been led to think; we can also see why it had such profound implications for subsequent literary and aesthetic expression. By being self-reflexive, the sutra twists the reader’s attention into unexpected areas, areas that seem calculated to help him jettison his ordinary expectations about reading and interpretation. The parables (chapters three to seven) of the Lotus are presented as if they are going to illustrate what is meant by upāya (hōben) (chapter two); but it is equally true that the chapter on hōben explains, and is a means for understanding, the parabolic narratives. Thus, the illustration is in no way subordinate to what it illustrates. Unlike the Platonic allegory in the medieval Christian West—”a shadow of something else more real or more significant” —the narratives of the Lotus are not a means to an end beyond themselves. Their concrete mode of expression is not “chaff” to be dispensed with in order to attain a more abstract, rational, or spiritual truth. The Lotus is unequivocal on this point: “One may seek in every one of the ten directions but will find no mode [hōben] other than the Buddha’s.” This accounts for what may seem to be an inordinate amount of praise directed by the sutra toward itself. It also implies that within the sutra there is an unmistakable philosophical move opposite to that in Plato’s Republic, a move to affirm the complete reality of the world of concrete phenomena in spite of the fact that they are impermanent.

The following discussion by Kajiyama Yūichi [Professor of Buddhist Studies at Kyoto University, 1925-2004] concerns the element of play (asobi) in the Prajn͂āpāramitā (Hannya) literature and the Avataṃsaka-sūtra (Kegon-kyō). He makes an important point about the conception of the bodhisattva as working within the realm of suffering so that he might help all sentient beings (shujō) to find release.

A bodhisattva is not one who pursues the perfection of wisdom while all the time thinking of his activity as painful austerities. He will never be able to do anything good for sentient beings while having the idea that he is an ascetic; on the contrary, it is only when he begins to enjoy what he is doing that he will be successful. The reason for this is that, because there is to be no self whatsoever, even that of the bodhisattva is emptiness.

Kajiyama then refers to what is often called the “Jūji-kyō,” a chapter of the Kegon Sutra in which ten of the most important bhūmi, or “stages in the development of a bodhisattva,” are described. He summarizes what the sutra says concerning the highest stages:

Then all the bodhisattva’s activities are performed freely, not with the notion that some kind of effort must be expended (muku yūgyō). This means that his actions are not things he intends in order to realize his own definite goals; they are, therefore, not conditioned by such intention. This implies that salvation is by easy practice, something equivalent to “play” (asobi, or yuge jintsū). Even compassion is not thought of as compassion but becomes, so to speak, unconcerned compassion, because in it there is no attachment to goals. This is why the actions of the bodhisattva are empty and pure.