The Record of Linji presents practice as a radical return to what it calls the “true person of no rank,” urging practitioners to trust their own inherent Buddha-nature rather than lean on scriptures, doctrines, or external authorities. This text repeatedly calls for direct self-investigation: to question who is hearing, seeing, and acting in each moment, and to distinguish this living awareness from conditioned habits and borrowed ideas. The emphasis falls not on acquiring something new, but on recognizing that the enlightened mind is already present. In this light, practice becomes a matter of uncovering rather than attaining, of seeing through illusions rather than constructing a spiritual identity.

A central thread is the demand for cutting off reliance on words, concepts, and fixed teachings. Linji warns against clinging to sutras, to the sayings of ancient masters, or to notions of Buddha, Dharma, enlightenment, and delusion. Even ideas of purity and defilement, or of buddhas and sentient beings, are to be relinquished. This radical non-attachment extends to the very goal of practice: enlightenment is not to be treated as an object to be sought or a special state to be possessed. By abandoning dependence on external validation, rituals, or formal methods, practitioners are encouraged to cultivate critical discernment, seeing clearly the difference between genuine realization and mere intellectual understanding.

At the same time, the Record of Linji directs attention to immediate, present-moment awareness in the midst of ordinary activities. Seeing, hearing, walking, standing, eating, and speaking are all presented as the very field of practice, provided they are engaged without conceptual overlay or grasping. The “everyday mind” that functions freely and responsively in each situation is held up as the site where the true nature is expressed. Practice, then, is not withdrawal from the world but full participation in it, with a mind that does not abide anywhere and does not fixate on emptiness, existence, or any other standpoint.

Linji’s teaching style itself becomes a form of practice, especially in the sharp encounters between master and student. Shouts, blows, abrupt answers, and paradoxical exchanges function as a kind of dharma combat, designed to shatter reliance on discursive thought and to call forth a response from direct, uncontrived presence. These encounters operate much like later koan work, challenging dualistic thinking and pushing the practitioner beyond second-hand understanding. To meet such challenges requires fearlessness and boldness: the “true man of no rank” stands firm amid doctrines, experiences, and even the authority of teachers, acting spontaneously from authentic insight rather than from learned responses.

Ultimately, the Record of Linji portrays Zen practice as anti-methodical in spirit, even while it offers a clear orientation. It calls for radical self-reliance, present-moment awareness, and non-attachment to all views, including Buddhist ones. It encourages a mind that is free and unfettered, that does not seek special experiences, and that expresses itself naturally in each circumstance. Through such a way of living, the practitioner embodies the very realization that the text insists has never been absent.