Chanting the Enmei Jukku Kannon Gyo: A Path to Boundless Life
When I came to Zen practice, it was after a long spell on the backside of the spiritual desert. As many of you know, I originally studied to be a Christian minister, only to have my hopes dashed because I couldn’t fall in line with some of the doctrinal expressions I was being fed at the time. Frankly, on reflection, it was likely that I was just immature—because I have a lot of Christian clergy friends with a deep spirit of awakening in them. But for one reason or another, I was destined for a different path.
Years later, Zen became a harbor for me, initially because I thought it was sanitized of any notion of "God" or "religion." And many of us came here because of that too. But I think a lot of that is just our own spiritual stigma at play. We wind up pointing in the same direction, using different gestures toward the unknowable, the ineffable.
American Zen, for better or worse, often avoids talk of the religious or the sacred. We tend to push away anything that resembles devotion or faith, and in doing so, we make practices like chanting difficult to appreciate.
Yet, when we chant well, something happens. We get a visceral sense of the vast interconnectedness of the universe. We chant with one voice, and in a very real way, the chant begins to chant us. It’s not something that can be adequately explained—even if I tried. And perhaps it shouldn’t be explained. There is a place within us for the ineffable, for mystery. Sometimes, religious expression is the only vessel that can contain it.
Voltaire once remarked, “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.” Some interpret this very cynically, but we might take it another way. There is a space present in each of us. It is not necessarily a void to be filled, but rather an openness—a place where the heart resonates with boundlessness. Blaise Pascal called it the “God-shaped void.”
I would offer that chanting the Enmei Jukku Kannon Gyo is one such expression of that void.
Chanting has a power beyond intellectual understanding. Of course, we resist this because we want to know—to define, analyze, and categorize. But chanting bypasses that part of us. It works at the level of rhythm, breath, and resonance. It aligns us with something vast, something that doesn’t require explanation. Even if we don’t understand the words—maybe even more so because we don’t understand the words—chanting still moves us. It carries us into synchronicity, settling us into the present.
When a group chants together, individual voices disappear into a single sound. The self, in a very real way, drops away. In that moment, we are not thinking about words, not thinking about meaning—we are the chant. And that is enough.
I don’t introduce this practice lightly. Chanting the Enmei Jukku Kannon Gyo is not something I ask new practitioners to take on right away. But we are ready now. This Sangha has grown in depth and commitment, and I feel that we are now in a place where we can engage this practice fully—not just as a ritual, not just as a set of words, but as a lived experience of awakening. This is not about performing a ritual. This is about stepping into something bigger than ourselves—into the field of Kanzeon, into the boundless life that is already present.
The title itself speaks to vastness:
Enmei (延命) – Eternal life, boundless life, unlimited dimensions without beginning or end.
Jukku (十句) – Ten phrases
Kannon (観音) – The Japanese name for Avalokiteśvara, the Bodhisattva of Compassion
Gyo (経) – Sutra, teaching
So the title means: “The Sutra of Avalokiteśvara in Ten Phrases on Eternal Life.” Now, each of the lines:
1) Kanzeon (観世音)
Calling forth Kanzeon is evoking the presence of compassion. Each of the ten phrases expresses compassionate practice from a different standpoint.
Kan (観) – To perceive, penetrate, see deeply.
Ze (世) – The world.
On (音) – Sound.
Kanzeon is the one who hears the cries of the world and does not turn away. In this, Kanzeon is not separate from us—it is our own compassionate nature, our own boundless response to suffering. On the altar in the abbot’s quarters, we have Manjushri, embodying wisdom. In the Buddha Hall, we have Avalokiteśvara, embodying compassion. The balance of both is Buddha. These figures on the altar are not idols, but personifications of aspects of our nature.
When we bow, we do a kind of worship; we acknowledge the vastness within us. When we chant, we invite the spirit of Kanzeon to awaken within us - to come to the front of the celestial choir of all the host within us.
2) Namu Butsu (南無仏)
Namu – Often translated as “homage,” but also meaning “at one with.”
Butsu – Buddha.
We might hear Namu Butsu as a vassal bowing to a lord, but another way to understand it is at-one-ment—not “Buddha is over there, and I am here,” but “one with Buddha.” This is not an act of subjugation, but of realization.
In a way, zazen itself is at-one-ment. Nothing to attain, nothing to seek—just being.
3) Yo Butsu U In (与仏有因)
Yo – With.
Butsu – Buddha.
In – Direct cause, fundamental cause.
This phrase affirms that our nature is already Buddha. There are two ways to talk about Buddha-nature:
In (因) – The direct cause, the seed itself.
En (縁) – The indirect cause, the supporting conditions.
The seed of awakening is already present in us. Yet, just as a seed needs sun and water, practice provides the conditions for it to manifest.
4) Yo Butsu U En (与仏有縁)
En – Indirect cause, conditions, the catalyst for awakening.
These two phrases go together. The first affirms that the seed of Buddha-nature is within us; the second affirms that practice nurtures it. This is the nature of karma—our actions shape what we become.
5) Bu Po So En (仏法僧縁)
Bu – Buddha.
Po – Dharma.
So – Sangha.
En – Supporting conditions.
The Three Treasures—Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha—are not external forces, but active causes of awakening. The Sangha, the Dharma, the very structure of practice, provides the fertile soil for realization.
6) Jo Raku Ga Jo (常楽我浄)
Jo (常) – Permanent, eternal.
Raku (楽) – Joy, happiness.
Ga (我) – Self.
Jo (浄) – Purity.
This phrase points to self-joyous samadhi—the experience of pure joy when we let go of separation and rest in the vastness of being. This joy is not personal; it is the joy of being fully present.
7) Cho Nen Kanzeon (朝念観世音)
Cho (朝) – Morning.
Nen (念) – Mindfulness, thought.
“In the morning, be mindful of Kanzeon.” Not just in a ritualistic way, but in a way that invites the presence of compassion into our waking moments.
8) Bo Nen Kanzeon (暮念観世音)
Bo (暮) – Evening.
“In the evening, be mindful of Kanzeon.” From morning to night, from waking to sleep—live in the field of compassion.
9) Nen Nen Ju Shin Ki (念念従心起)
Nen Nen (念念) – Thought after thought.
Ju (従) – Following.
Shin (心) – Mind, heart.
Ki (起) – Arising.
Thought arises from Big Mind. One moment flows into the next. This is how we live, how we practice.
10) Nen Nen Fu Ri Shin (念念不離心)
Fu (不) – Not.
Ri (離) – Separate.
Shin (心) – Mind.
Thought after thought arises, yet it is never separate from Mind. Kanzeon is not outside of us—compassion is already here. This is the realization of the chant: the One who hears the cries of the world is not elsewhere.
We don’t chant to summon something outside of us.
We chant to awaken to what has always been here.
We don’t invoke Kanzeon as something separate—we chant because we are Kanzeon.
The boundless life in this sutra is your life, my life, all life—flowing, listening, responding.
Right now, Kanzeon is listening.
Can you hear? Listen.
The cries of the world are heard. And through practice, we learn not only to listen—but to respond.
When we step beyond cynicism, beyond skepticism, beyond the limitations of the small self, we open to this vastness without hesitation.
Read the Enmei Jukku Kannon Gyo and the rest of our liturgy in our Sutra Book…
So have some trust.
Have some wonder.
Even have a little faith in the path you tread.
Let this practice evoke some magic. Let it awaken some devotion. Let the wonder take you!
