The Teacher of Seven Buddhas: Mañjuśrī and the Light of Prajñā Wisdom

The Teacher of Seven Buddhas

In the Buddhist world, there is a bodhisattva whose status is extraordinary. He is not only the left attendant of Shakyamuni Buddha but is also called "the Teacher of Seven Buddhas"—all seven Buddhas of the past received his guidance. He is Mañjuśrī Bodhisattva.

"The Teacher of Seven Buddhas" sounds almost paradoxical. Aren't Buddhas already enlightened? Why would they need a teacher? But once we understand what Mañjuśrī represents, the profound meaning of this title becomes clear.

Mañjuśrī embodies "Prajñā wisdom"—the wisdom that sees through to the essence of all things. In the Buddhist system, wisdom is the root of Buddhahood. Without wisdom, compassion becomes mere indulgence. Without wisdom, diligence becomes blind practice. Without wisdom, all cultivation can go astray. Because wisdom is the mother of all virtues, Mañjuśrī is called "the Awakening Mother of the Three Times"—the mother of all Buddhas past, present, and future, for all Buddhas are born from wisdom.

According to the scriptures, Mañjuśrī attained Buddhahood eons ago, having been the "Dragon-Seed Superior Buddha" and "Great Body Buddha." Yet he chose not to remain in the stillness of nirvana. Instead, he turned back the ferry of compassion, manifested as a bodhisattva, came to our world of suffering, assisted Shakyamuni Buddha, and guided beings to awaken their wisdom.

This itself is a demonstration of wisdom—true wisdom doesn't let one hide in some pristine corner enjoying solitude. Rather, it drives one into the dusty world to light the lamps of others.

That Sword, That Lion

Mañjuśrī's image is unmistakable. He rides a blue-green lion, raises a sword high in his right hand, and holds a blue lotus in his left, upon which usually rests a volume of the Prajñāpāramitā Sutra.

These elements are not random decorations. Each carries profound symbolic meaning.

The sword is called the "Wisdom Sword." It is not for killing people but for severing afflictions. Our minds are entangled by countless delusions, attachments, and troubles, like a ball of tangled yarn. The ordinary way to deal with it is to untangle it strand by strand, which takes a very long time. The Wisdom Sword is different—it cuts directly at the root, clean and decisive. This is the characteristic of Prajñā wisdom: it doesn't spin around at the level of phenomena but directly illuminates the essence of things, cutting through in one stroke.

The lion is the king of beasts, symbolizing fearlessness. When a lion roars, all animals tremble. Mañjuśrī riding a lion represents the fierce fearlessness of wisdom. A truly wise person is not timid or easily swayed by others' opinions. They dare to speak the truth, dare to break through prejudices, and dare to remain clear-minded amid all the noise.

The blue lotus grows in mud yet remains unstained. Wisdom is the same—it operates in the world yet is not defiled by the world. A wise person can engage with worldly affairs, handling all manner of complexity, but their heart remains forever pure, unmoved by external circumstances.

The Prajñāpāramitā Sutra on the lotus directly points to Mañjuśrī's essence—Prajñā wisdom. The Heart Sutra, the Diamond Sutra, the Great Perfection of Wisdom Sutra—these scriptures elucidating the wisdom of emptiness are all direct embodiments of Mañjuśrī's spirit.

A Magnificent Silence

In Buddhist scriptures, Mañjuśrī often appears as the questioner. His questions are typically sharp, striking at the core, capable of sparking profound discussion. But on one occasion, he chose silence.

This was in the Vimalakīrti Sutra. Vimalakīrti was a great bodhisattva practicing as a householder who feigned illness. The Buddha sent disciples to visit him, but all ten great disciples and various bodhisattvas declined to go—they had all been left speechless by Vimalakīrti's debating skills before. Finally, Mañjuśrī accepted the task.

In Vimalakīrti's room, the two sages engaged in a brilliant dialogue on the topic of "the Dharma gate of non-duality"—the ultimate state that transcends all binary oppositions. At the end, Mañjuśrī asked Vimalakīrti to explain: What is the true Dharma gate of non-duality?

Vimalakīrti said nothing. He simply remained silent.

This is the famous "Vimalakīrti's Thunderous Silence." And Mañjuśrī's response was: "Excellent! Excellent! To be without even words or speech—this is truly entering the Dharma gate of non-duality."

This scene is deeply thought-provoking. Mañjuśrī, the great bodhisattva first in wisdom, with unobstructed eloquence, sincerely praised the other's silence. What does this tell us? It tells us that true wisdom knows the limitations of language. Some realms, once spoken, are already wrong. "The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao"—ultimate truth transcends language.

Mañjuśrī's wisdom is not the cleverness that loves to argue and everywhere tries to show off one's intelligence. It knows when to speak and when to be silent; it knows where the boundary of what language can reach lies; it knows that before truth, humble silence is itself the highest expression.

The One Who Set Sudhana on His Path

In the Avatamsaka Sutra, there is a famous story: Sudhana's Fifty-Three Visits.

Sudhana was a young man who had aroused bodhicitta and wanted to learn the bodhisattva path. Mañjuśrī was the first spiritual friend he encountered. Mañjuśrī did not teach him all the Dharma but told him: "Go south. There is a monk named Meghaśrī who will teach you."

Thus Sudhana embarked on his journey seeking the Dharma. He traveled south, visiting fifty-three spiritual teachers—monks, nuns, kings, elders, brahmins, ship captains, even a courtesan and a child. Each teacher taught him a different approach, and finally he arrived at Samantabhadra Bodhisattva's place of practice, completing the bodhisattva path.

The starting point of this story is Mañjuśrī. He did not keep Sudhana by his side but pushed him out, letting him learn through walking, grow through visiting. This is like a good teacher—one who doesn't tie students to themselves but gives them a direction and lets them explore on their own.

True wisdom knows when to let go. Mañjuśrī knew that truth is not something heard but something walked. What he gave Sudhana was not a ready-made answer but a beginning.

On the Cool Mountain

In China's Shanxi Province, there is a mountain called Mount Wutai, considered the sacred site of Mañjuśrī Bodhisattva.

Why Mount Wutai? Legend says Mañjuśrī manifested there, but more importantly, the mountain's character harmonizes perfectly with Mañjuśrī. Mount Wutai is also called "Cool Mountain" because its climate is refreshing—even in midsummer, it doesn't feel hot. "Coolness" is precisely the quality of wisdom—afflictions are hot, making one anxious and restless; wisdom is cool, bringing peace and calm.

Mount Wutai has five main peaks, interpreted as symbolizing Mañjuśrī's five wisdoms: the mirror-like wisdom, the wisdom of equality, the wisdom of discernment, the wisdom of accomplishment, and the wisdom of the nature of the dharma-realm. These five wisdoms interpenetrate without obstruction, constituting the ultimate wisdom of a Buddha.

Throughout history, countless great monks and masters have practiced, done retreats, and attained enlightenment at Mount Wutai. They believed that simply coming here would bring Mañjuśrī's blessing. Some say that an unremarkable old monk or a poor beggar encountered on Mount Wutai might be Mañjuśrī in disguise. This notion adds an air of mystery to the mountain and gives pilgrims an extra measure of respect for everyone they meet.

I think this legend itself is very wise. It reminds us: wisdom may not reside in lofty halls but in the most ordinary places; a teacher may not be a famous master but an unassuming person right beside us. If we look at the world with such eyes, every person and every event could be our spiritual friend.

Mañjuśrī's Wisdom and Us

The wisdom Mañjuśrī represents is not the cleverness of scoring high on exams, nor the quick wit of being good at arguments. It is the ability to see through to the essence of things, the vision that finds simple truth amid complexity, the stability that can engage with the world while remaining unstained by it.

This wisdom can be cultivated.

Buddhism offers many methods. Reciting "Namo Great Wisdom Mañjuśrī Bodhisattva" is one. Chanting Mañjuśrī's heart mantra "Oṃ A Ra Pa Ca Na Dhīḥ" is another. Deeply studying the Diamond Sutra, the Heart Sutra, and other Prajñā scriptures is yet another. Sitting meditation and observing one's own mind is also a path.

But I think, more fundamentally, it is about cultivating an attitude: a thirst for truth, vigilance against self-deception, reflection on one's biases, and openness to the unknown. The sword in Mañjuśrī's hand ultimately seeks to sever our attachment to "self"—that "I" we think we know so well but have never truly recognized.

When we begin to seriously ask "Who am I?", "What is the nature of this world?", "What is truly important?"—at that moment, we have already set foot on Mañjuśrī's path.

May the light of Mañjuśrī's wisdom illuminate the heart of each and every one of us.