A student of Buddhism asked, “Which do you think is the best path: that of the arahant or that of the bodhisattva?”
“That kind of question is asked by people who understand absolutely nothing about Buddhism!” Ajahn Sumedho replied.
Don’t be an arahant, don’t be a bodhisattva, don’t be anything at all—if you are anything at all you will suffer.” —Ajahn Chah
One of the more significant elephants in the living room of Buddhism in the West is the disparity between the stated goals of the Northern and Southern schools. In the Northern tradition, the goal is often formulated as the cultivation of the bodhisattva path over many lifetimes for the benefit of all beings, culminating in buddhahood. Its scriptures and liturgies are thickly populated with the bodhisattva principle, and for those who practice in this tradition it is normal to take bodhisattva vows. In the Southern tradition, the spiritual ideal that is extolled instead is the realization of arahantship—the realization of nibbana and the ending of rebirth, in this very life. The bodhisattva principle is hardly ever spoken of, apart from its mention in the Jataka Tales, stories of the past lives of Gotama Buddha.
The main reason for delving into this disparity is that people do make comparisons of the arahant and bodhisattva ideal and ask which path to follow. The aim here is not to argue a particular position and defend it, but rather to shed a little more light on the goals of Buddhist practice and to recount some of what the scriptures and traditions have said about this landscape over the centuries.
Views from the North,
Views from the South
Nowadays these two traditions often have occasion to meet. A wide spectrum of Buddhist teachings is available, and many people have been inspired by masters of different lineages. We read a book that encourages us to be free from greed, hatred, and delusion, to escape from the endless cycles of rebirth, and we feel, “Yes, that’s it!” Then we read about those compassionate ones whose chief concern is to stay in the world to relieve the suffering of others, and again the heart leaps—“That’s wonderful!”
So do these two paths conflict, or are they compatible? Do they lead to different goals, or maybe the same goal? Are they actually the same track known by different names?
Over time, both traditions have developed critiques of each other and then passed these on as received knowledge. When all we have to go by is the established outlook, these critiques seem to be reasonable judgments. Some of the points of view from the South argue, “The Mahayana schools are not real Buddhism; they wrote their own scriptures and have wandered from the Buddha’s true path, namely realizing nibbana and ending rebirth.” Voices from the North, on the other hand, say, “The Theravadans are the small vehicle; they only follow the Buddha’s most preliminary instructions. The Buddha gave far superior teachings, those of the Great and Supreme Vehicles, and it is those we hold in highest esteem.”
This said, both kinds of practitioners also wrestle with such doubts as, “Am I holding an obstructive view if I look down on arahats?” Or, “Am I adhering to an inferior ideal if I dismiss the bodhisattva vows?”
In addition to such personal dilemmas, the plot thickens when we look at the scriptures themselves. On examination we find some curious and significant anomalies in both the teachings of the Northern and Southern schools. When studying with a spiritual teacher, it is the most natural thing in the world to want to emulate that person and the path that he or she has followed. However, in the Pali Canon, the subject of the Buddha’s bodhisattva training never comes up. At no time does anyone even ask about it. No one enquires, “What made you choose to become a Buddha?” or “Could an ordinary person like me undertake that path too?” or “Should I aim for buddhahood or for the more accessible goal of arahantship?”
Nothing. Not a syllable. It’s like a biography of Winston Churchill that fails to mention a couple of stints he had as prime minister.
How come the issue never gets mentioned?
In the Northern tradition, there is an equally mysterious anomaly. Immediately following his enlightenment, the Buddha’s inclination was not to teach. He saw that worldly attachment was so great and the subtlety of his realization was so refined that others simply would not understand.
If compassion for other beings was his prime motivation in developing the spiritual perfections for so many lifetimes—for “four incalculable periods and 100,000 eons,” according to the scriptures—why should he feel that there was no point in even trying? Very mysterious.
One would imagine that such incongruities would lead people to investigate their own beliefs more closely, and to ponder whether the standard views of their own and other traditions were reliable. Unfortunately, it’s more often the case that such anomalous elements are ignored or dismissed, and one’s preferred version of reality re-established.
The Trouble with Tribalism
If we look into the roots of the conflict and ponder possible resolutions, we first encounter a question: What exactly is the problem?
When reading texts extolling the virtues of the arahant and the bodhisattva, both appear to be noble aspirations. How wonderful that we can develop such purity and wisdom! Clearly it is not the ideals themselves that are the root of any conflict; rather, the root of the problem is people—more specifically, the issue of tribalism. It’s the great “mine” field: through a misguided faithfulness to our origins—this is my team, my lineage—we co-opt the intellect to defend our group, often bending the facts and the philosophy for the sake of winning the argument.
Whether it’s football teams, family feuds, or Buddhist lineages, the dynamics are identical: first, we seize on some features of the opposition to criticize; then we enter the labyrinth of position-taking; finally, we miss the reality of what it was we were contesting in the first place. Even though the intent of an exchange might be very noble, the emotional tone permeating it can be deeply instinctual and aggressive, as well as territorial. We might observe the appropriate etiquette and protocols, but nevertheless be taken over by the reptile brain.
The real issue, then, is often not philosophy; it’s hurt feelings. What probably began as an amicable spiritual discussion somehow evolved into a bitter rivalry a few centuries later. Critical comments were bandied back and forth and they degenerated into derogatory insults, until the various factions were stabbing each other with verbal daggers, and each opposing group became stereotyped: Anyone who aspires to arahantship is a selfish nihilist; all those who take the bodhisattva vows are obviously heretical eternalists.
Many spiritual traditions tell the tale of the blind men and the elephant. Isn’t it revealing that we rarely think of ourselves as one of the blind? We prefer to see ourselves as watching the sorry squabbling of the sightless. It’s humbling, though, to see how easily we’re pulled into this kind of deluded certainty and position-taking based on our attachment to views and opinions. We’re so sure: “This is not an opinion, it’s a fact!”
Even if the “fact” is 100 percent provable, if we use it as a weapon it becomes, as Ajahn Chah said, “Right in fact, but wrong in dhamma.” Sometimes it is devout faithfulness, rather than negativity, that generates such dualisms. Once, when Ajahn Chah was visiting England, a woman long connected to the Thai Forest tradition came to see him. She was very concerned:
“I respect your wisdom immensely but I feel uncomfortable studying and taking refuges and precepts with you; I feel I’m being unfaithful to my teacher, Ajahn Maha-Boowa.”
Ajahn Chah replied, “I don’t see the problem. Ajahn Maha-Boowa and I are both disciples of the Buddha.”
It is possible to explore these various teachings and traditions in this spirit of nonpartisan openness and, hopefully, appreciate the landscape of the way of the Buddha with eyes that are “right in dhamma.” Through this kind of investigation, perhaps we can find ways to resolve these ancient conflicts.
The Middle Way
If the difficulties that have arisen over the centuries can be attributed to contentious position-taking, one way to resolve them should be through the practice of non-contention. The Buddha once said that his entire teaching could be summarized as, “Nothing whatsoever should be clung to.” Such a spirit of non-contention and non-clinging approaches the core principle of the middle way. The skillful refusal to pick one particular viewpoint and cling to it reflects right view; it also expresses the effort that is essential to arrive at resolution. The question then arises: how exactly do we find this mysterious middle—the place of non-abiding, the place of non-contention?
“The middle way” can mean a lot of different things. It can even be used by politicians to describe their war plans. In this investigation, the term denotes the fundamental principle that the Buddha realized at his enlightenment. It refers to the insight of awakening that transcends the later categories of Theravada, Mahayana, and Vajrayana.
“The middle way” is an everyday expression. This renders the principle highly accessible; however, it also belies its profundity. In the Buddha’s first discourse, he equated the middle way with the noble eightfold path, thus defining it as a quality that embodies the entire spiritual training.
In this original sense, it was an all-encompassing teaching. Predictably, in later years and in certain regions, it came to be emblematic of one particular school—that based on the Madhayamaka philosophy of Acharya Nagarjuna. That school was distinguished from other groups such as the Chittamatrans, Vaibashikas, and Sautrantikas. Thus, although it began as a universal principle, the meaning of “middle way” shrank somewhat, within this sphere, to become another tribal insignia.
Although the term is not being used here in this narrower sense, it is nevertheless interesting to explore what Nagarjuna’s insight was fuelled by. For it is in this central principle of the middle way—and particularly in the analysis of the feelings of existence and of “self”—that we find the means to harmonize conflicting views.
In a seminal exchange between the Buddha and Maha-Kaccana, the Buddha says:
“All exists,” Kaccayana, this is one extreme, “All does not exist,” this is the other extreme. Without veering towards either of these extremes the Tathagata teaches the dhamma by the middle way.
—Samyutta Nikaya 12.15
There is a very close connection between this discourse, found in the Pali Canon, and the words of Nagarjuna in his Treatise on the Root of the Middle Way. This latter text is considered a cornerstone of the Mahayana movement, and it has informed the approach of the Northern school for the past 1,800 years. Ironically, it makes no mention of such characteristic Northern elements as bodhisattvas and bodhichitta. Indeed, scholars such as Kalupahana and Warder have pointed out that there’s actually nothing particularly “Mahayana” in what it says.
Nagarjuna mentions the dialogue between Buddha and Maha-Kaccana; further, he writes:
“Existence” is the grasping at permanence; “non-existence” is the view of annihilation. Therefore, the wise do not dwell in existence or non-existence.
—Mulamadyamakakarika 14.10
Both teachings point out how to recognize the feeling of self, how to see through it, and, ultimately, how to break free from the tyrant. They both indicate that clinging to the sense of self is what primarily obstructs knowing the middle way.
These teachings point to the fact that, yes, there is the feeling of selfhood, but they also make it clear that the feeling of “I” arises due to causes. These causes are habits rooted in ignorance and fired by craving. There might be the feeling of “I,” yet, like all feelings, it is transparent and empty of substance—merely a pattern of consciousness that arises and ceases.
This teaching is usually taken to be a philosophical description; however, it is most significant as a meditation tool. It helps us to see that questions such as “Do I exist?” or “Do I not exist?” are irrelevant. Instead the perspective shifts to one of cultivating and maintaining a mindful awareness of the feeling of “I” arising and ceasing. This is the essence of vipassana, or insight meditation.
The dissolution of the conceit “I am” was described by the Buddha as “nibbana here and now,” and it cuts to the root of all contentions.
The Four Noble Truths: Universality and Transparency
It is said that the Buddha’s first discourse, the Setting in Motion of the Wheel of Truth, encompasses all teachings—just as the footprint of all creatures that walk are encompassed by an elephant’s footprint. This is said not only by followers of the Southern school but also by Mahayana and Vajrayana masters such as His Holiness the Dalai Lama. It is here that the Buddha first articulated the middle way and the four noble truths.
There are two insights crucial to understanding these truths: first, they are relative, not absolute; second, they are not just personal but also universal. This first insight indicates that the statement “There is dukkha” describes a relative experience. It is not intended as a proclamation meaning “Dukkha is absolutely real.” This is one reason why the Buddha called these truths “noble” rather than “ultimate.”
The second insight refers to the fact that it’s not just me who is experiencing dukkha; there is a shattering of the delusion that my experience of dukkha could be more significant than yours. All beings are in the same boat.
It seems that in some regions, the understanding of these two principles shrank. Dukkha became regarded as an absolute reality, and thus a narrower diameter for the footprint emerged. It also appears, according to some historians, that because of this shrinking footprint the impulse for renewal arose, initiating what became known as the Mahayana movement.
The Pali scriptures repeatedly state that the best thing we can do for ourselves and all beings is to be totally enlightened. If that intention is grasped in the wrong way, however, the breadth of its scope can be lost. Our own suffering can drift into seeming more significant than that of others, simply because it’s what we have the power to resolve.
The Mahayana teachings arose to say, “My suffering is felt here, yet it can’t be more important than anyone else’s. All beings have similar experiences.” Of course, this understanding has always been present within the Southern teachings as well; however, it seems that it was obscured by various factors.
We have been looking at this question from a large-scale social view, but all movements are composed of individual human beings. These patterns of development are readily to be found on the personal plane too. During his early years in Thailand, Ajahn Sumedho once declared to Ajahn Chah, “I’m totally committed to the practice. I’m determined to fully realize nibbana in this lifetime; I’m deeply weary of the human condition and determined not to be born again.” Given the classic Theravadan vernacular, that’s a worthy attitude; you’d expect the teacher to respond, “Sadhu! Good for you, Sumedho!”
Ajahn Chah, however, replied, “What about us, Sumedho? Don’t you care about those who’ll be left behind?” In one stroke he had teased his disciple by suggesting that Ajahn Sumedho was the more spiritually advanced and then alluded to the value of a “caring for all beings” approach. He had lovingly chided his disciple for his narrowness.
Ajahn Chah detected there was a nihilistic view rather than dhammic detachment behind Ajahn Sumedho’s comment. And as long as that kind of negativity was active, it guaranteed painful results. Ajahn Chah reflected that attitude back to him by tilting the view in the other direction, highlighting the self-centered negativity.
In considering this encouragement toward a more expansive attitude, it is highly significant that the four bodhisattva vows are actually an explicit extension of the four noble truths. In the Chinese version of the Brahmajala, or Brahma Net Sutra, it addresses this quite directly. Venerable Master Hui Seng, a contemporary elder of the Northern tradition, explains the connection in his commentary to the sutra:
[R]elying on the Four Noble Truths, he brings forth the Four Great Vows of a Bodhisattva. The Four Noble Truths are:
Suffering,
Accumulation,
Extinction, and
The Way.
The first Noble Truth is Suffering, and since all living beings are suffering, he brings forth the first Vast Vow, which is,
Living beings are numberless;
I vow to save them all.
The second Vast Vow is based upon the second Noble Truth, Accumulation. Accumulation means accumulation of afflictions. The second Vast Vow is,
Afflictions are endless;
I vow to cut them off.
The third Noble Truth is that of Extinction, and based upon this, the Bodhisattva brings forth the third Vast Vow,
The Buddha Way is unsurpassed;
I vow to accomplish it.
And the fourth Noble Truth is The Way, and based on that truth he brings forth the fourth Vast Vow, which is,
Dharma-doors are numberless;
I vow to study them all.
So, above he seeks the Buddha Way, and below he transforms living beings. This is a reciprocal function of compassion and wisdom.
—The Buddha Speaks the Brahma Net Sutra, by Master Hui Seng
This expression of the four noble truths spells out their non-personal, expansive quality. In the same epoch, a parallel teaching arose that also spelled out the strictly relative nature of the four noble truths: the Heart Sutra.
Probably the most well-known teaching in the Northern Canon, the Heart Sutra has been recited for centuries from India to Manchuria, from Kyoto to Latvia, and nowadays throughout the world. It is the natural counterpart to the bodhisattva vows, and indeed, they are often recited together. The Heart Sutra states: “There is no suffering, no origin, no cessation, and no way.” The sutra thus takes the four noble truths and points out their empty aspect: ultimately, there is no dukkha. We think we’re suffering, but in ultimate reality there isn’t any dukkha.
The Heart Sutra reminds us that the four noble truths are essentially transparent; they are relative, not absolute truths. Sometimes people faithfully proclaim, “Everything is suffering,” as if dukkha were an ultimate truth, but that’s not what the Buddha taught, as is evidenced in the scriptures of both the Southern and Northern schools. “Suffering” is a conditional, relative truth; it is “noble” because it leads to liberation.
Self-View, the Reliable Troublemaker
It is the sense of self that ultimately drives the tribalistic politics that exist today. Ironically, even though the reformers aimed at dispelling the self-centeredness they saw, the problem nevertheless persisted. These divisive politics are like dubious family heirlooms—hard to discard, being so much a part of our collective histories.
The conflict essentially arises as a result of conceiving the arahant and the bodhisattva in terms of self-view. When there is no clinging to any view, the picture radically changes. The Buddha said, “Held by two kinds of views, some hold back and some overreach; only those with vision see.” The former means some people are life-affirmers, delighting in the things of the world. When teachings refer to letting go and cessation, their minds recoil and hold back. By “some overreach,” he means nihilists who rejoice in the idea of non-being, asserting that when the body dies, this self is annihilated. They feel this will be true peace. “Those with vision” see what has come to be as having come to be. They cultivate dispassion toward that and are at ease with its cessation.
As long as self-view has not been penetrated, the mind will miss the middle way. The “ending of rebirth” ideal will tend to get co-opted by the nihilist view, whereas the “endlessly returning for the sake of all beings” ideal will tend to become permeated with the eternalist view.
When the sense of self is seen through, the middle way is realized. Whether we talk in terms of emptiness of the arahant of the Pali Canon, or in terms of the absolute zero of the Heart Sutra or the infinite view of the four vows, these are merely modes of speech. They all derive from the same source, the truth of the way things are. They are simply expedient formulations that guide the heart to attunement with the reality of its own nature. That attunement is the middle way.
The View from the Center
There are many teachings that illuminate this perspective; for example:
As long as space remains,
As long as sentient beings remain,
Until then, may I too remain
And dispel the miseries of the world.
—Shantideva, Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of Life
To the average Theravadan, this verse by Shantideva might seem antithetical to the path. It appears to run completely counter to that principle to get out of the burning house as soon as one can. However, the practice of the middle way involves taking up compassion teachings along with their partner, the emptiness teachings. These two elements are like the wings of a bird—they can’t function properly without each other.
If we reflect closely on this verse, another layer of meaning opens up: as long as space and identity are held to have substantial reality, the mind has not realized enlightenment. True insight involves recognizing that space, time, and being are imputed qualities that have no absolute existence.
Thus the Southern idea of “me going” and “others left behind” must be missing the mark. Similarly, the Northern view of “this individual being will persist through infinite time for the sake of other beings” has also fallen into wrong view. The practice of the middle way dissolves the illusion that “I” can “go” and “others” can “stay,” or vice versa. It radically reconfigures the concepts of time, space, and being.
So the aspiration can validly be as it is in the verse; but if space no longer remains, if no beings remain, if their nature is recognized as conditioned and therefore empty, what does that say about the “I” who would be “staying”?
The irony is that upon knowing that time, space, and beings have no substantial reality, the “I” is “gone” too—gone to suchness, come to suchness: Tathagata.
Sri Ramana Maharshi once remarked, “A good man says, ‘Let me be the last man to get liberation, so that I may help all others to be liberated before I am.’ Wonderful! Imagine a dreamer saying, ‘May all these dream people wake up before I do.’ The dreamer is no more absurd than this amiable philosopher.” His analysis astutely sums up the issue: only when the heart is free of all self-view can it attune itself to reality; a precise balance is needed.
In The Vajra Prajna Paramita Sutra, we find passages that voice a similar understanding:
Subhuti, what do you think? You should not maintain that the Tathagata has this thought: “I shall take living beings across.” Subhuti, do not have that thought. And why? There are actually no living beings taken across by the Tathagata. If there were living beings taken across by the Tathagata, then the Tathagata would have the existence of a self, of others, of living beings, and of a life. Subhuti, the existence of a self spoken of by the Tathagata is no existence of a self, but common people take it as the existence of a self.
We save all beings by realizing there are no beings. The perfection of wisdom is to see this fact: ultimately, the truth is not self and not other; there is no arahant, no bodhisattva, no birth, no death. Though the heart might incline to compassion, it’s only when we cultivate this wisdom element as well that there is going to be true spiritual fulfillment.
Experience shows that in order to realize a fulfillment that maximally benefits all, we need to know our traits and learn how to balance them out. If we’re a wisdom type—intent on realizing nibbana to get out as quickly as possible—then it’s necessary to develop compassion. We need to lean toward people and things. Or, if we’re an altruistic type, feeling, “I’ve got to stay around until everyone else has been saved,” then we need to incline toward the emptiness of things.
In the equipoise of the middle way, the infinite and the void are sustained. They complement each other; they balance each other out.
“Does She Really Exist?”
The scene: a Buddhist conference in Berlin. Among the many panels and presentations, some teachers have come to give workshops as well. One such elder is an eminent Tibetan lama; he has been giving instruction on The Praise to the Twenty-One Taras. It is now time for questions and answers.
A young man with furrowed brow requests to speak. He asks in broken English, “Rinpoche, for many years now I have been your student. I am committed to the practice but I have the doubt. I am very willing to do the pujas, the visualizations, the prostrations, but it is very hard to have the whole heart in it, because I have this doubt: Tara, is she really there? Sometime you talk like she is a real person, but sometimes you say she is the wisdom of Buddha Amoghasiddhi, or just a skillful means.
If I could know for sure, I would redouble my efforts. So, Rinpoche, Tara, does she really exist or does she not?!”
For a few moments the lama ponders, then raises his eyes to meet those of his inquirer. A smile spreads across his face.
He responds, “She knows that she is not real.”
Not a Thought but Balance
From this place of realization, we can see that there is a reader here and a page out there, but we can also recognize that this is all just patterns of consciousness. It has no substantial reality.
The more we learn to hold this play of forms gently—not clinging to any view—the more there is an attunement. We begin to get the feel. We are not dismissing the faith we have in our favored path, but we are not condemning those who have made other choices. We reflect on the benefits that have come from the practices and principles we know, but we question them and are ready to see them differently, if wisdom indicates a shift of attitude.
We commit ourselves to our chosen spiritual practices with 100 percent sincerity, but at the same time know that all of these conventional forms—Northern and Southern—are utterly without substance. As Ajahn Chah would sometimes say to the whole assembly at his monastery, “There are no monks or nuns here, there are no lay women, no men; these are mere suppositions, conventional forms—that’s all. Wahng! It’s empty!”
The middle way is appreciated as a finely felt sense. It has nothing to do with being mild or halfway along the arc of a pendulum. Rather, it’s the still point that is the center of movement, the axis that the pendulum pivots from. In our heart of hearts we know what it is to be perfectly balanced. There is a deep, intuitive familiarity with this, and this is what we need to sustain and trust. This is the way that the root of concord can be found and embodied.
All this said, the rational mind can still struggle for more precision, “Yes, but what exactly is it?!”
When a piece of music moves us we say, “It’s perfect!” But even in the saying, we’ve almost lost the feeling. Louis Armstrong, when asked, “What’s jazz?” responded, “Man, if you have to ask, you’ll never know.”
The middle way is that wordless quality of balance, of pure and vibrant harmony.
In 1979 AJAHN AMARO was ordained a monk in the Thai Forest tradition in the lineage of Ajahn Chah. He went on to study with Ajahn Sumedho at Amaravati Monastery in England for many years. He is co-abbot of Abhayagiri Monastery in Redwood Valley, California.
Article source: www.thebuddhadharma.com
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Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Between Arhat and Bodhisattva Finding the Perfect Balance
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Attending to the Deathless
Attending to the Deathless
by Ajahn Amaro
“When the heart is released from clinging,” said the Buddha, “then consciousness does not land anywhere. That state, I tell you, is without sorrow, afflication or despair.” Ajahn Amaro on abiding in the consciousness that is completely beyond conditioned phenomena—neither supporting them nor supported by them.
A great passage in the suttas (Anguttara Nikaya 3.128) presents an exchange between two of the Buddha's elder monks. Venerable Sariputta is the Buddha's chief disciple, the one most eminent in wisdom and also in meditative accomplishments. Although he had no psychic powers whatsoever, he was the grand master of meditators. The other elder disciple of the Buddha, Venerable Anuruddha, had spectacular psychic powers. He was the one most blessed with "the divine eye"; he could see into all the different realms.
The two disciples were an interesting mix. Sariputta's weakness was Anuruddha's great gift. Anyway, shortly before his enlightenment, Anuruddha came to Sariputta and said, "With the divine eye purified and perfected I can see the entire 10,000-fold universal system. My meditation is firmly established; my mindfulness is steady as a rock. I have unremitting energy, and the body is totally relaxed and calm. And yet still my heart is not free from the outflows and confusions. What am I getting wrong?"
Sariputta replied, "Friend, your ability to see into the 10,000-fold universal system is connected to your conceit. Your persistent energy, your sharp mindfulness, your physical calm and your one-pointedness of mind have to do with your restlessness. And the fact that you still have not released the heart from the outflows and defilements is tied up with your anxiety. It would be good, friend, if rather than occupying yourself with these concerns, you turned your attention to the deathless element." (By the way, the Pali Canon has a lot of humor in it like this, although it's rather similar to British humor and is sometimes easy to miss.) So of course Anuruddha said, “Thank you very much,” and off he went. Shortly thereafter, he realized complete enlightenment. This was very understated humor.
The point of their discussion, however, is really quite serious. As long as we are saying, "Look at how complicated my problems are," or "Look at my powers of concentration," we will stay stuck in samsara. In essence, Sariputta told his colleague, "You're so busy with all of the doingness and the effects that come from that, so busy with all of these proliferations, you'll never be free. You're looking in the wrong direction. You're looking out, looking at the meditation object out there, the 10,000-fold universal system out there. Just shift your view to the context of experience and attend to the deathless element instead."
All it took was a slight shift of focus for Anuruddha to realize: "It's not just a matter of all the fascinating objects or all the noble stuff I have been doing—that's all conditioned, born, compounded and deathbound. The timeless dharma is being missed. Look within, look more broadly. Attend to the deathless."
There are also a few places in the suttas (e.g., Majjhima Nikaya 64.9 and Anguttara Nikaya 9.36) where the Buddha talked about the same process with respect to development of concentration and meditative absorption. He even made the point that when the mind is in first jhana, second jhana, third jhana and all the way out to the higher formless jhanas, we can look at those states and recognize all of them as being conditioned and dependent. This, he said, is the true development of wisdom: the mindfulness to recognize the conditioned nature of a state, to turn away from it and to attend to the deathless, even while the state is still around. When the mind is concentrated and very pure and bright, we can recognize that state as conditioned, dependent, alien, and something that is void or empty. There is the presence of mind to reflect on the truth that all of this is conditioned and thus gross, but there is the deathless element. And in inclining toward the deathless element, the heart is released.
In a way it is like looking at a picture. Normally the attention goes to the figure in a picture and not the background. Or imagine being in a room with someone who is sitting in a chair. When you look across the room you would probably not attend to the space in front of or beside that person. Your attention would go to the figure in the chair, right? Similarly, if you've ever painted a picture or a wall, there's usually one spot where there's a glitch or a smudge. So where does the eye go when you look at the wall? It beams straight in on the flaw. In exactly the same way, our perceptual systems are geared to aim for the figure, not the ground. Even if an object looks like the ground—such as limitless light, for example—we still need to know how to turn back from that object.
Incidentally, this is why in Buddhist meditation circles there's often a warning about deep states of absorption. When one is in one, it can be very difficult to develop insight—much more so than when the mind is less intensely concentrated. The absorption state is such a good facsimile of liberation that it feels like the real gold. So we think, "It's here, why bother going any further? This is really good." We get tricked and, as a result, we miss the opportunity to turn away and attend to the deathless.
In cosmological terms, the best place for liberation is in the human realm. There's a good mixture of suffering and bliss, happiness and unhappiness here. If we are off in the deva realms, it's difficult to become liberated because it's like being at an ongoing party. And we don't even have to clean up afterwards. We just hang out in the Nandana Grove. Devas drop grapes in our mouths as we waft around with flocks of adoring beings of our favorite gender floating in close proximity. And, of course, there's not much competition; you're always the star of the show in those places. Up in the brahma realms it's even worse. Who is going to come back down to grubby old earth and deal with tax returns and building permits?
This cosmology is a reflection of our internal world. Thus the brahma realms are the equivalent of formless states of absorption. One of the great meditation masters of Thailand, Venerable Ajahn Tate, was such an adept at concentration that as soon as he sat down to meditate he would go straight into arupa-jhana, formless states of absorption. It took him twelve years after he met his teacher, Venerable Ajahn Mun, to train himself not to do that and to keep his concentration at a level where he could develop insight. In those formless states, it is just so nice that it's easy to ask, "What's the point of cultivating wise reflection or investigating the nature of experience? The experience itself is so seamlessly delicious, why bother?" The reason we bother is that those are not dependable states. They are unreliable and they are not ours. Probably not many people have the problem of getting stuck in arupa-jhana. Nonetheless, it is helpful to understand why these principles are discussed and emphasized.
This gesture of attending to the deathless is thus a core spiritual practice but not a complicated one. We simply withdraw our attention from the objects of the mind and incline the attention towards the deathless, the unborn. This is not a massive reconstruction program. It's not like we have to do a whole lot. It's very simple and natural. We relax and notice that which has been here all along, like noticing the space in a room. We don't notice space, because it doesn't grab our attention; it isn't exciting. Similarly, nibbana has no feature, no color, no taste and no form, so we don't realize it's right here. The perceptual systems and the naming activity of the mind work on forms; that's what they go to first. Therefore we tend to miss what's always here. Actually, because it has no living quality to it, space is the worst as well as the best example, but sometimes it is reasonable to use it.
Unsupported Consciousness
In the Theravada teachings, the Buddha also talked about this quality in terms of "unsupported consciousness." This means that there is cognition, there is knowing, but it's not landing anyplace; it's not abiding anywhere. "Attending to the deathless" and "unsupported consciousness" are somewhat synonymous. They are like descriptions of the same tree, from different angles.
In describing unsupported consciousness, the Buddha taught:
Wherever there is something that is intended, something that is acted upon or something that lies dormant, then that becomes the basis for consciousness to land. And where consciousness lands, that then is the cause for confusion, attachment, becoming and rebirth, and so on.
But if there is nothing intended, acted upon or lying latent, then consciousness has no basis to land upon. And having no basis to land, consciousness is released. One recognizes, 'Consciousness, thus unestablished, is released.' Owing to its staying firm, the heart is contented. Owing to its contentment, it is not agitated. Not agitated, such a one realizes complete, perfect nibbana within themselves. (Samyutta Nikaya 12.38 and 22.53)
The Buddha used a whole galaxy of images, similes and forms like this because they spoke to different people in different ways. In another passage the Buddha asked his disciples, "If there was a house with a wall that faced out towards the east and in that wall there was a window, when the sun came up in the morning, where would the shaft of sunlight fall?"
One of his monks replied, "On the western wall." The Buddha then asked, "And if there's no western wall, where would the sunlight land?"
The monk answered, "On the ground." Then the Buddha responded, "And if there's no ground, where will it land?" The monk replied, "On the water."
The Buddha pushed it a bit further and asked, "And if there's no water, where will it land?" The monk answered correctly when he said, "If there is no water, then it will not land." The Buddha ended the exchange by saying, "Exactly so. When the heart is released from clinging to what are called the four nutriments—physical food, sense contact (sight, sound, smell, taste, touch), intention and consciousness—then consciousness does not land anywhere. That state, I tell you, is without sorrow, affliction or despair" (Samyutta Nikaya 12.64).
Consciousness: Invisible, Radiant, Limitless
In several instances, the language of the Dzogchen tradition seems strikingly similar to that of the Theravada. In Dzogchen, the common description of the qualities of rigpa, nondual awareness, is "empty in essence, cognizant in nature and unconfined in capacity." A different translation of these three qualities is "emptiness, knowing and lucidity, or clarity." In the Pali scriptures (Digha Nikaya 11.85 and Majjima Nikaya 49.25), the Buddha talks about the mind of the arahant as "consciousness which is unmanifest, signless, infinite and radiant in all directions." The Pali words are viññanam (consciousness), aniddassanam (empty, invisible or signless, non-manifestative), anantam (limitless, unconfined, infinite), and sabbato pabham (radiant in all directions, accessible from all sides).
One of the places the Buddha uses this description is at the end of a long illustrative tale. A monk has asked, "Where is it that earth, water, fire and wind fade out and cease without remainder?" To which the Buddha replies that the monk has asked the wrong question. What he should have asked is, "Where is it that earth, water, fire and wind can find no footing?" The Buddha then answers this question himself, saying it is in "the consciousness which is invisible, limitless and radiant in all directions" that the four great elements "and long and short, and coarse and fine, and pure and impure can find no footing. There it is that nama-rupa (body-and-mind, name-and-form, subject-and-object) both come to an end. With this stopping, this cessation of consciousness, all things here are brought to an end."
Such unsupported and unsupportive consciousness is not an abstract principle. In fact, it was the basis of the Buddha's enlightenment. As the Buddha was sitting under the bodhi tree, the hordes of Mara attacked him. Armies were hurling themselves at the Buddha and yet nothing could get into the space under the tree. All the weapons and spears they threw turned into rays of light; the arrows that they fired turned into flowers that came sprinkling down around the Buddha. Nothing harmful to the Buddha could get into that space. There was nowhere for it to land. Sight, sound, smell, taste and touch, long and short, coarse and fine, pure and impure are all aspects of body and mind. They represent attributes of all phenomena. Yet none of them could find a footing. The Buddha was in a non-stick realm. Everything that came toward him kept falling away. Nothing stuck; nothing could get in and harm the Buddha in any way. To get a better sense of this quality of unsupported consciousness, it's helpful to reflect on this image. Also very useful are the phrases at the end of the passage just quoted, particularly where the Buddha says, "When consciousness ceases, all things here are brought to an end."
The Anatomy of Cessation
The concept of cessation is very familiar in the Theravada tradition. Even though it's supposed to be synonymous with nibbana, it's sometimes put forth as some event that we're all seeking, where all experience will vanish and then we'll be fine: "A great god will come from the sky, take away everything and make everybody feel high." I don't want to get obsessed about words, but we suffer a lot or get confused because of misunderstandings like this. When we talk about stopping consciousness, do you think that means "Let's all get unconscious?” It can't be that, can it? The Buddha was not extolling the virtues of unconsciousness. Otherwise thorazine or barbiturates would be the way: "Give me the anesthetic and we're on our way to nibbana." But obviously that's not it. Understanding what is meant by stopping or cessation is thus pretty crucial here.
I've known people, particularly those who have practiced in the Theravada tradition, who have been taught that the idea of meditation is to get to a place of cessation. We might get to a place where we don't feel or see anything; there is awareness but everything is gone. An absence of sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, the body—it all vanishes. And then these students are told, "This is the greatest thing. That's what there is to look forward to." The teacher encourages them to put tremendous hours and diligence into their meditation. When one of these students told her teacher that she had arrived at that kind of state, he got really excited. He then asked her, "So what did it feel like?" and she said, "It was like drinking a glass of cold water but without the water and without the glass." On another occasion she said, "It was like being shut inside a refrigerator."
This is not the only way of understanding cessation. The root of the word nirodha is rudh, which means "to not arise, to end, check or hold"—like holding a horse in check with the reins. So nirodha also has a meaning of holding everything, embracing its scope. "Stopping of consciousness" can thus imply that somehow everything is held in check rather than that it simply vanishes. It's a redrawing of the internal map.
A story from the time of the Buddha might help to expand our understanding of what this means. One night while the Buddha was meditating, a brilliant and beautiful devata named Rohitassa appeared in front of him. He told the Buddha, "When I was a human being, I was a spiritual seeker of great psychic power, a sky walker. Even though I journeyed with great determination and resolution for one hundred years to reach the end of the world, I could not come to the end of the world. I died on the journey before I had found it. So can you tell me, is it possible to journey to the end of the world?"
And the Buddha replied, "It is not possible to reach the end of the world by walking, but I also tell you that unless you reach the end of the world, you will not reach the end of suffering." Rohitassa was a bit puzzled and said, "Please explain this to me, Venerable Sir." The Buddha replied, "In this very fathom-long body is the world, the origin of the world, the cessation of the world, and the way leading to the cessation of the world" (Anguttara Nikaya 4.45, Samyutta Nikaya 2.26).
In that instance the Buddha used the same exact formulation as in the Four Noble Truths. The world, or loka, means the world of our experience. That's how the Buddha almost always uses the term "the world." He's referring to the world as we experience it. This includes only sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, thought, emotion and feeling. That's it. That's what "the world" is—my world, your world. It's not the abstracted, geographical planet, universe-type world. It's the direct experience of the planet, the people and the cosmos. Here is the origin of the world, the cessation of the world and the way leading to the cessation of the world.
He said that as long as we create "me and my experience"—"me in here" and "the world out there"—we're stuck in the world of subject and object. Then there is dukkha. And the way leading to the cessation of that duality is the way leading to the cessation of suffering. Geographically, it is impossible to journey to the end of the world. Only when we come to the cessation of the world, which literally means the cessation of its otherness or thingness, will we reach the end of dukkha, unsatisfactoriness. When we stop creating sense objects as absolute realities and stop seeing thoughts and feelings as solid things, there is cessation.
To see that the world is within our minds is one way of working with these principles. The whole universe is embraced when we realize that it's happening within our minds. And in that moment when we recognize that it all happens here, it ceases. Its thingness ceases. Its otherness ceases. Its substantiality ceases.
This is just one way of talking and thinking about it. But I find this brings us much closer to the truth, because in that respect, it's held in check. It's known. But there's also the quality of its emptiness. Its insubstantiality is known. We're not imputing solidity to it, a reality that it doesn't possess. We're just looking directly at the world, knowing it fully and completely.
So, what happens when the world ceases? I remember one time Ajahn Sumedho was giving a talk about this same subject. He said, "Now I'm going to make the world completely disappear. I'm going to make the world come to an end." He just sat there and said, "Okay, are you ready? The world just ended. Do you want me to bring it back into being again? Okay, welcome back."
Nothing was apparent from the outside. It all happens internally. When we stop creating the world, we stop creating each other. We stop imputing the sense of solidity that creates a sense of separation. Yet we do not shut off the senses in any way. Actually, we shed the veneer, the films of confusion, of opinion, of judgment, of our conditioning, so that we can see the way things really are. At that moment, dukkha ceases. There is knowing. There is liberation and freedom. There is no dukkha.
Is the Sound Annoying You?
If people were trying to meditate and wanted to shut the world out, Ajahn Chah used to give them a very hard time. If he came across a nun or a monk who had barricaded the windows of their heart and was trying to block everything out, he would really put them through it. He drew in one monk of this type as his attendant for a while and he would never let him sit still. As soon as he saw the monk close his eyes to "go into meditation" he would immediately send him off on some errand. Ajahn Chah knew that cutting yourself off was not the place of true inner peace. This was because of his own years of trying to make the world shut up and leave him alone. He had failed miserably. Eventually he was able to see this is not how to find completion and resolution.
Years ago, when he was a wandering monk, living on his own on a mountainside above a village, he kept a strict meditation schedule. In Thailand they love outdoor, nightlong film shows because the nights are cool compared to the very hot days. Whenever there was a party, it tended to go on all night. About fifty years ago, public address systems were just starting to be used in Thailand and every decent event had to have a PA going. It was blasted as loud as possible all through the night. One time, Ajahn Chah was quietly meditating up on the mountain while there was a festival going on down in the village. All the local folk songs and pop music were amplified throughout the area. Ajahn Chah was sitting there, seething and thinking, "Don't they realize all the bad karma involved in disturbing my meditation? They know I 'm up here. After all, I'm their teacher. Haven't they learned anything? And what about the five precepts? I bet they're boozing and out of control," and so on and so forth.
But Ajahn Chah was a pretty smart fellow. As he listened to himself complaining, he quickly realized, "Well, they're just having a good time down there. I'm making myself miserable up here. No matter how upset I get, my anger is just making more noise internally." And then he had this insight: "Oh, the sound is just the sound. It's me who is going out to annoy it. If I leave the sound alone, it won't annoy me. It's just doing what it has to do. That's what sound does. It makes sound. This is its job. So if I don't go out and bother the sound, it's not going to bother me. Aha!"
As it turned out, this insight had such a profound effect that it became a principle that he espoused from that time on. If any of the monks displayed an urge to try and get away from people or stimulation—the world of things and responsibilities—he would tend to shove them straight into it. He would put that monk in charge of the cement-mixing crew or take him to do every house blessing that came up on the calendar. He would make sure that the monk had to get involved in things because he was trying to teach him to let go of seeing meditation as needing sterile conditions—to see, in fact, that most wisdom arises from the skillful handling of the world's abrasions.
Ajahn Chah was passing along an important insight. It's pointless to try to find peace through nullifying or erasing the sense world. Peace only comes through not giving that world more substantiality or more reality than it actually possesses.
Touching the Earth
Sometimes when I use the example of the Buddha sitting under the bodhi tree, people still feel that this is a negation of the sense world. There is an intimation of condescension, a looking down on that. We become afraid when we hear people talking about dispassion towards the sense world as it can offend our habits of life affirmation.
The balance—and this is something we can experience for ourselves—is not in negation. It comes when we stop creating each other and allow ourselves to relax into a pure quality of knowing. In not fabricating the world, ourselves or our stories, there is a gentle relaxation and, ironically, we find ourselves far more attuned to life than ever. This cannot happen while we are busy carrying around "me and you" and "it's my life" and "my past" and "my future" and the rest of the world with all its problems. Actually, the result of this relinquishment is not a kind of numbness or a distancing but an astonishing attunement.
Buddhist cosmology and the stories of the suttas always have a historical, a mythical and a psychological element to them. When we talk about the Buddha under the bodhi tree, we sometimes wonder, "Was it actually that tree? Are we sure that he really sat beside the river Nerañjara near Bodhgaya? How can anyone know it was actually there?" The story goes that perhaps the Buddha did sit under a tree, or a Nepalese prince sat under a tree, and something happened (or stopped happening) somewhere in India a couple of thousand years or so ago. In other words, there are both historical and mythological aspects to the story. But the most crucial element is how this maps onto our own psychology. How does this symbolize our experience?
The pattern of the story is that even though the Buddha has totally penetrated the cycles of dependent origination and his heart is utterly free, Mara's army doesn't retreat. Mara has sent in the horrors, he has sent in his beautiful daughters, he's even sent in the parental pressure factor: "Well, son, you could have done a great job. You're such a natural leader, you would have made a great king. Now there's only your half-brother, Nanda, and he's a bit of a wimp, no good on the battlefield. Well, I guess if you're going to do this monk thing, the kingdom is going to go to rack and ruin. But that's all right, it's fine. You just do whatever you want to do. Just be aware that you're ruining my life; but don't worry, it's fine, it's okay."
The forces of allure, fear and responsibility are all there. Yet the Buddha doesn't just close his eyes and escape into blissful absorption. As the armies of Mara come at him, he looks straight at them and says, "I know you, Mara. I know what this is." The Buddha doesn't argue with Mara or give rise to aversion towards Mara. He remains undeluded; he doesn't react against what's happening in that moment. No matter what Mara's armies do, none can get into that space under the bodhi tree. All their weapons turn to flowers and incense and beams of light illuminating the vajra seat.
But even when the Buddha's heart is totally liberated, Mara still won't retreat. He says to the Buddha, "What right do you have to claim the royal seat at the immovable spot. I'm the king of this world. I'm the one who should be sitting there. I'm in charge here. I'm the one who deserves to be there, aren't I?" And he turns around to his horde, his army 700,000 strong, and they all say, "Yes, indeed, Sire!" "See," says Mara, "everyone agrees. I belong there, not you. I'm supposed to be the great one."
What happens then is that, just as Mara has called his witnesses to back him up, the Buddha calls on the mother goddess, Maer Toranee, as his witness. The Buddha reaches down to the ground, touches the earth and calls forth the earth mother. She appears and says, "This is my true son. He has every right to claim the vajra seat at the immovable spot. He has developed all the virtues necessary to claim the sovereignty of perfect and complete enlightenment. You do not belong there, Mara." The mother goddess then produces a flood from her hair and the armies of Mara are all washed away. Later they come back full of apologies, offering gifts and flowers and asking for forgiveness: "Terribly sorry about that, Mother. I didn't really mean it."
It's very interesting that Buddha thus did not become a fully enlightened, teaching Buddha without the help of the mother goddess and then, later, of the father god. It was Brahma Sahampati, the creator god, the CEO of the universe, who came and asked the Buddha to teach. Without those two figures, he would not have left the immovable spot and he wouldn't have started teaching. So, mythologically, there are some interesting little quirks to the tale.
The Buddha's gentle gesture of touching the earth is a magnificent metaphor. It is saying that even though we might have this enlightened, free space internally, it needs to be interfaced with the phenomenal world. Otherwise, there is no completion. This is why meditating with the eyes open is, in a way, such a useful bridge. We cultivate a vast internal space, but it is necessarily connected to the phenomenal world. If there is only an internal, subjective experience of enlightenment, we 're still caught. Mara's army won't retreat. The hassles are everywhere—the tax returns, the permits, the jealousies. We can see that they are empty, but they are still coming at us from all directions.
But in reaching out to touch the earth, the Buddha recognized, yes, there is that which is transcendent and unconditioned. But humility demands not simply holding to the unconditioned and the transcendent. The Buddha recognized and acknowledged that "There is the conditioned. There is the sense world. There is the earth that makes up my body and my breath and the food that I eat."
That gesture of reaching out from the transcendent is saying, How could fully engaging with the sense world possibly corrupt the innate freedom of the heart? This freedom cannot be interrupted, corrupted or confused by any sense experience. Therefore why not allow it all in? By openly, freely acknowledging the limited—needing to call the great mother to bear witness, for example—the unlimited manifests its full potential. If there is hesitency and the caution to keep the conditioned at bay, that betrays a basic lack of faith in the natural inviolability of the unconditioned.
Another phrase that expresses this same principle is cittam pabhassaram, akandukehi kilesehi, meaning "The heart's nature is intrinsically radiant; defilements are only visitors" (Anguttara Nikaya 1.61). It's pointing out the fact that the heart's nature is intrinsically pure and perfect. The things that appear to defile this purity are only visitors passing through, just wandering or drifting by. The heart's nature cannot truly be corrupted by any of that.
From Small Boat, Great Mountain: Theravadan Reflections on the Natural Great Perfection, by Ajahn Amaro. Published by Abhayagiri Monastery, 2003. Free copies of the book can be obtained from Abhayagiri Monastery or downloaded from their Web site: www.abhayagiri.org.
Books by Ajahn Chah (Click to browse Amazon Reader Reviews)
~ Food for the Heart: The Collected Teachings of Ajahn Chah
~ Everything Arises, Everything Falls Away: Teachings on Impermanence and the End of Suffering
~ Being Dharma: The Essence of the Buddha's Teachings
Books by Ajahn Sumedho (Click to browse Amazon Reader Reviews)
~ The Sound of Silence: The Selected Teachings of Ajahn Sumedho
~ The Mind and the Way: Buddhist Reflections on Life
~ Cittaviveka Teachings From the Silent Mind
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