Forwarded from Ajahn Chah - Theravada Thailand Buddhism
Make Your Practice a Continuous Stream
A lesson in disenchantment from one of the Thai Forest Tradition’s most influential teachers
By Ajahn Chah, translated by Thanissaro Bhikkhu
Part 2 of 3
Things that are inconstant: the Buddha taught that they’re the truth. If you see that there’s no truth to things, that’s the truth. That’s constant. When there’s birth, there has to be aging, illness, and death. That’s something constant and for sure.
How is it constant? It’s constant in that that’s the way things keep on being. Even if you try to get in the way, you don’t have an effect. Things just keep on being that way. They arise and then they disband, disband and then arise. That’s the way it is with inconstancy. That’s how it becomes the truth. The Buddha and his noble disciples awakened because of inconstant things.
If you see that there’s no truth to things, that’s the truth. That’s constant.
When you see inconstancy, the result is nibbida. Disenchantment isn’t disgust, you know. If you feel disgust, that’s wrong, the wrong kind of disenchantment. The Buddha’s disenchantment is something else: leaving things alone, putting them down. You don’t kill them, you don’t beat them, you don’t punish them, you’re not nice to them. You just put them down. Everything.
The problems that we get involved with and cling to will gradually unravel. As the Buddha said, see simply that things arise and then disband, disband and then arise, arise and then disband. Keep watching this dhamma constantly, doing it constantly, developing it constantly, cultivating it constantly, and you’ll arrive at a sense of disenchantment. Disenchanted with what? Disenchanted with everything of every sort.
The things that come by way of the ears, we already understand them; by way of the eyes, we already understand them; by way of the nose, we already understand them; by way of the tongue, we already understand them. The things that arise in the mind, we already understand them. They’re all the same sort of thing—all of them, the same sort of thing: eko dhammo, one dhamma. This dhamma is inconstant, stressful, and not-self. You shouldn’t cling to anything at all. That way, disenchantment will arise. If the mind is peaceful and you feel, “Ah, it’s nice and peaceful,” the peace doesn’t matter either. Peace is inconstant too. There’s nothing but things that are inconstant. You can sit and watch the dhamma right there.
For this reason, if we gather things together as eko dhammo—one single dhamma—and see that their characteristics are all the same, it gives rise to disenchantment. This disenchantment isn’t disgust. The mind simply loosens its grip, it’s had enough, it’s empty, it’s sobered up. There’s no love, no hatred, no fixating on anything. If you have things, OK. If you don’t, it’s still OK. You’re at ease. At peace.
Nibbanam paramam sukham
Nibbanam paramam suññam
Nibbana is the ultimate happiness. Nibbana is the ultimate peace, emptiness. Listen carefully. Worldly happiness isn’t the ultimate happiness. Worldly emptiness isn’t the ultimate emptiness. The ultimate emptiness is empty of clinging. The ultimate happiness is peace. There’s peace and then there’s emptiness, the ultimate emptiness. At the moment, though, the mind is at peace, but it’s not ultimate. It’s happy, but it’s not ultimate.
This is why the Buddha described nibbana as the ultimate emptiness, its happiness as the ultimate happiness. It changes the nature of happiness to be at peace. It’s happy but not fixated on any object. The objects we like and don’t like are equal to each other.
The reason we live in physical seclusion (kaya-viveka) is to get the mind in mental seclusion (citta-viveka) from the objects that stir up its moods. These things are synonyms that follow one after the other. Upadhi-viveka refers to seclusion from our defilements: when we know what’s what, we can pull out of them; we pull out from whatever state the mind is in.
A lesson in disenchantment from one of the Thai Forest Tradition’s most influential teachers
By Ajahn Chah, translated by Thanissaro Bhikkhu
Part 2 of 3
Things that are inconstant: the Buddha taught that they’re the truth. If you see that there’s no truth to things, that’s the truth. That’s constant. When there’s birth, there has to be aging, illness, and death. That’s something constant and for sure.
How is it constant? It’s constant in that that’s the way things keep on being. Even if you try to get in the way, you don’t have an effect. Things just keep on being that way. They arise and then they disband, disband and then arise. That’s the way it is with inconstancy. That’s how it becomes the truth. The Buddha and his noble disciples awakened because of inconstant things.
If you see that there’s no truth to things, that’s the truth. That’s constant.
When you see inconstancy, the result is nibbida. Disenchantment isn’t disgust, you know. If you feel disgust, that’s wrong, the wrong kind of disenchantment. The Buddha’s disenchantment is something else: leaving things alone, putting them down. You don’t kill them, you don’t beat them, you don’t punish them, you’re not nice to them. You just put them down. Everything.
The problems that we get involved with and cling to will gradually unravel. As the Buddha said, see simply that things arise and then disband, disband and then arise, arise and then disband. Keep watching this dhamma constantly, doing it constantly, developing it constantly, cultivating it constantly, and you’ll arrive at a sense of disenchantment. Disenchanted with what? Disenchanted with everything of every sort.
The things that come by way of the ears, we already understand them; by way of the eyes, we already understand them; by way of the nose, we already understand them; by way of the tongue, we already understand them. The things that arise in the mind, we already understand them. They’re all the same sort of thing—all of them, the same sort of thing: eko dhammo, one dhamma. This dhamma is inconstant, stressful, and not-self. You shouldn’t cling to anything at all. That way, disenchantment will arise. If the mind is peaceful and you feel, “Ah, it’s nice and peaceful,” the peace doesn’t matter either. Peace is inconstant too. There’s nothing but things that are inconstant. You can sit and watch the dhamma right there.
For this reason, if we gather things together as eko dhammo—one single dhamma—and see that their characteristics are all the same, it gives rise to disenchantment. This disenchantment isn’t disgust. The mind simply loosens its grip, it’s had enough, it’s empty, it’s sobered up. There’s no love, no hatred, no fixating on anything. If you have things, OK. If you don’t, it’s still OK. You’re at ease. At peace.
Nibbanam paramam sukham
Nibbanam paramam suññam
Nibbana is the ultimate happiness. Nibbana is the ultimate peace, emptiness. Listen carefully. Worldly happiness isn’t the ultimate happiness. Worldly emptiness isn’t the ultimate emptiness. The ultimate emptiness is empty of clinging. The ultimate happiness is peace. There’s peace and then there’s emptiness, the ultimate emptiness. At the moment, though, the mind is at peace, but it’s not ultimate. It’s happy, but it’s not ultimate.
This is why the Buddha described nibbana as the ultimate emptiness, its happiness as the ultimate happiness. It changes the nature of happiness to be at peace. It’s happy but not fixated on any object. The objects we like and don’t like are equal to each other.
The reason we live in physical seclusion (kaya-viveka) is to get the mind in mental seclusion (citta-viveka) from the objects that stir up its moods. These things are synonyms that follow one after the other. Upadhi-viveka refers to seclusion from our defilements: when we know what’s what, we can pull out of them; we pull out from whatever state the mind is in.
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Collection of teachings of Venerable Ajahn Chah, a foremost meditation and Buddhist teacher from Thailand
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Forwarded from Ajahn Chah - Theravada Thailand Buddhism
The Buddha taught us to live in the wilderness. The proper way, when a monk goes into the wilderness, is to stay in a quiet place; to wander in the quiet wilderness; not to be entangled with friends and companions and other sorts of things. That’s the right way to do it. But most of us don’t follow the right way. We live in a quiet place and get attached to the quiet. As soon as we see a form, it gives rise to defilement. In our ears there’s nothing but defilement. That’s going too far. It lacks discernment.
Make the mind know the dhamma. When it knows the dhamma, make it see the dhamma. Practice the dhamma so that the mind is dhamma. The strategies you’ll need will grow from within the mind. Whoever has discernment gains intuitive knowledge. Whoever has intuitive knowledge gains discernment. That’s the way it is.
I once read in a Jataka tale about our Buddha when he was still a bodhisattva. He was like you: he had ordained and encountered a lot of difficulties, but when he thought of disrobing, he was ashamed of what other people would think—that he had ordained all these years and yet still wanted to disrobe. Still, things didn’t go the way he wanted, so he thought he’d leave. As he was about to leave, he came across a squirrel whose baby had been blown into the ocean by the wind. He saw the squirrel running down to the water and then back up again. He didn’t know what it was doing. It ran down to the water and stuck its tail in the water, and then ran up to the beach and shook out its tail. Then it ran down and stuck its tail in the water again. So he asked the squirrel, “What are you doing?”
“Oh, my baby has fallen into the water. I miss it, and I want to fetch it out.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to use my tail to bail water out of the ocean until it’s dry so that I can fetch my baby out.”
“Oh, no. When will the ocean ever go dry?”
“That’s not the issue. This is the way it is with practice. You keep bailing out the water, bailing out the water, and don’t care whether it ever goes dry. When you’re going to be a Buddha, you can’t abandon your efforts.”
When the bodhisattva heard this, it flashed in his heart. He got up and pushed through with his efforts. He didn’t retreat. That’s how he became the Buddha.
It’s the same with us. Wherever things aren’t going well, that’s where they will go well. You make them happen where they aren’t yet happening. Wherever you’re deluded, that’s where knowledge will arise. If you don’t believe me, spit right here. That’ll make it dirty. But when you wipe it away, it’ll be clean right here—right where it’s dirty.
This is the practice. You contemplate right where you’re deluded so that you’ll know right there. Any other issue is just duck shit and chicken shit. You don’t have to go groping after it. That’s how you have to take things on in meditation.
But actually, it’s not a matter of taking. You take them on by abandoning them. This is how the suppositions of language have things all backwards. You let things go. You practice letting go.
Wherever you’re deluded, that’s where knowledge will arise.
===
Ajahn Chah, Buddhist teacher of Thai forest meditation of Theravada Buddhism channel:
https://news.1rj.ru/str/ajahnchah_buddhism
===
Make the mind know the dhamma. When it knows the dhamma, make it see the dhamma. Practice the dhamma so that the mind is dhamma. The strategies you’ll need will grow from within the mind. Whoever has discernment gains intuitive knowledge. Whoever has intuitive knowledge gains discernment. That’s the way it is.
I once read in a Jataka tale about our Buddha when he was still a bodhisattva. He was like you: he had ordained and encountered a lot of difficulties, but when he thought of disrobing, he was ashamed of what other people would think—that he had ordained all these years and yet still wanted to disrobe. Still, things didn’t go the way he wanted, so he thought he’d leave. As he was about to leave, he came across a squirrel whose baby had been blown into the ocean by the wind. He saw the squirrel running down to the water and then back up again. He didn’t know what it was doing. It ran down to the water and stuck its tail in the water, and then ran up to the beach and shook out its tail. Then it ran down and stuck its tail in the water again. So he asked the squirrel, “What are you doing?”
“Oh, my baby has fallen into the water. I miss it, and I want to fetch it out.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to use my tail to bail water out of the ocean until it’s dry so that I can fetch my baby out.”
“Oh, no. When will the ocean ever go dry?”
“That’s not the issue. This is the way it is with practice. You keep bailing out the water, bailing out the water, and don’t care whether it ever goes dry. When you’re going to be a Buddha, you can’t abandon your efforts.”
When the bodhisattva heard this, it flashed in his heart. He got up and pushed through with his efforts. He didn’t retreat. That’s how he became the Buddha.
It’s the same with us. Wherever things aren’t going well, that’s where they will go well. You make them happen where they aren’t yet happening. Wherever you’re deluded, that’s where knowledge will arise. If you don’t believe me, spit right here. That’ll make it dirty. But when you wipe it away, it’ll be clean right here—right where it’s dirty.
This is the practice. You contemplate right where you’re deluded so that you’ll know right there. Any other issue is just duck shit and chicken shit. You don’t have to go groping after it. That’s how you have to take things on in meditation.
But actually, it’s not a matter of taking. You take them on by abandoning them. This is how the suppositions of language have things all backwards. You let things go. You practice letting go.
Wherever you’re deluded, that’s where knowledge will arise.
===
Ajahn Chah, Buddhist teacher of Thai forest meditation of Theravada Buddhism channel:
https://news.1rj.ru/str/ajahnchah_buddhism
===
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Collection of teachings of Venerable Ajahn Chah, a foremost meditation and Buddhist teacher from Thailand
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Forwarded from Words of the Buddha
Make Your Practice a Continuous Stream
A lesson in disenchantment from one of the Thai Forest Tradition’s most influential teachers
By Ajahn Chah, translated by Thanissaro Bhikkhu
Part 3 of 3
Think about it in a simple way. If someone yells at you but you don’t rear up in response, that’s the end of the matter. It doesn’t reach you. But if you grab hold of it and won’t let go, you’re in bad shape. Why put their words into yourself? If they yell at you, just leave it at that. But if they yell at you over there in the ordination hall and you bring it into your ears while you’re sitting here, it’s as if you like to suffer. This is called not understanding suffering.
You need to have patience and endurance. You need to make an effort. Whatever happens, you don’t have to pick it up and carry it around. When things are a certain way, that’s all they are. When we see the dhamma in this way, we don’t hold on to anything. Pleasure we know. Pain we know.
The Buddha and his arahant disciples, when they gain awakening: It’s not the case that coconut-milk sweets aren’t sweet for them. They’re sweet in the same way they’re sweet for us. When the noble ones eat a sour tamarind, they squeeze their eyes shut just like us. Things are just the same way they were before, but the difference is simply that the noble ones don’t hold on to them or get fixated on them. If you argue with them that the tamarind is sour, they’ll say, “Sour is fine. Sweet is fine. Neither sour nor sweet is fine.”
It’s a matter of practice. You learn to be content with little. You learn a sense of moderation in eating, a sense of moderation in sleep. You don’t have to look elsewhere. You don’t have to read a lot of books. Watch your own mind. The basic principles lie right here. This way you can meditate without getting deluded.
If people speak to you in a way that grates on your ears, that makes you mad, tell yourself, “It’s not for sure. It’s inconstant.” If you eat something delicious and think, “Mmm. It’s really good,” remind yourself that it’s not for sure. Whatever comes your way, tell yourself, “It’s not for sure.” Why? Because that’s where the dhamma lies.
If you really see inconstancy, you see the dhamma. Why wouldn’t you see it?—for the truth lies right there. If you see the dhamma, you see the Buddha. These things go in both directions. When the dhamma is in charge, the mind is always aware of things. It knows that “This is wrong. This is right. This is good. This is evil. This is suffering. This is the cause of suffering. This is the disbanding of suffering. This is the practice that reaches the disbanding of suffering.”
That’s the path. Everything gathers into the path. As you strengthen the path, your defilements decrease. You stay only with what’s right. Whatever’s wrong, you give it up, give it all up, and the wrong path peters out.
That’s when the right path gets established, and you can live wherever you want. Gaining is the same as losing; losing, the same as gaining.
Pleasure isn’t the highest level of dhamma. It’s peace because it’s no longer disturbed by pleasure or pain. It’s empty. It stays unfixated, unattached. Wherever you go, it keeps staying that way.
For instance, if somebody’s mood comes to hit you—You know, venerable father, you’re just like a dog”—you stay at your ease. Once you’re sure of yourself, that’s the way it is. But if they call you a dog and you really become a dog, biting them, that shows you’re not sure of yourself. You’re not for sure. Once you’re for sure, you’re not anything.
For the most part, the good things are what lead people to be very deluded. They’re deluded by what’s good. When good isn’t just right, it’s not good, you know. Have you noticed the rainfall this year? It was so good that it went past just right, flooding people’s houses. This is what happens when good goes past just right.
The Buddha taught us to be intelligent.
A lesson in disenchantment from one of the Thai Forest Tradition’s most influential teachers
By Ajahn Chah, translated by Thanissaro Bhikkhu
Part 3 of 3
Think about it in a simple way. If someone yells at you but you don’t rear up in response, that’s the end of the matter. It doesn’t reach you. But if you grab hold of it and won’t let go, you’re in bad shape. Why put their words into yourself? If they yell at you, just leave it at that. But if they yell at you over there in the ordination hall and you bring it into your ears while you’re sitting here, it’s as if you like to suffer. This is called not understanding suffering.
You need to have patience and endurance. You need to make an effort. Whatever happens, you don’t have to pick it up and carry it around. When things are a certain way, that’s all they are. When we see the dhamma in this way, we don’t hold on to anything. Pleasure we know. Pain we know.
The Buddha and his arahant disciples, when they gain awakening: It’s not the case that coconut-milk sweets aren’t sweet for them. They’re sweet in the same way they’re sweet for us. When the noble ones eat a sour tamarind, they squeeze their eyes shut just like us. Things are just the same way they were before, but the difference is simply that the noble ones don’t hold on to them or get fixated on them. If you argue with them that the tamarind is sour, they’ll say, “Sour is fine. Sweet is fine. Neither sour nor sweet is fine.”
It’s a matter of practice. You learn to be content with little. You learn a sense of moderation in eating, a sense of moderation in sleep. You don’t have to look elsewhere. You don’t have to read a lot of books. Watch your own mind. The basic principles lie right here. This way you can meditate without getting deluded.
If people speak to you in a way that grates on your ears, that makes you mad, tell yourself, “It’s not for sure. It’s inconstant.” If you eat something delicious and think, “Mmm. It’s really good,” remind yourself that it’s not for sure. Whatever comes your way, tell yourself, “It’s not for sure.” Why? Because that’s where the dhamma lies.
If you really see inconstancy, you see the dhamma. Why wouldn’t you see it?—for the truth lies right there. If you see the dhamma, you see the Buddha. These things go in both directions. When the dhamma is in charge, the mind is always aware of things. It knows that “This is wrong. This is right. This is good. This is evil. This is suffering. This is the cause of suffering. This is the disbanding of suffering. This is the practice that reaches the disbanding of suffering.”
That’s the path. Everything gathers into the path. As you strengthen the path, your defilements decrease. You stay only with what’s right. Whatever’s wrong, you give it up, give it all up, and the wrong path peters out.
That’s when the right path gets established, and you can live wherever you want. Gaining is the same as losing; losing, the same as gaining.
Pleasure isn’t the highest level of dhamma. It’s peace because it’s no longer disturbed by pleasure or pain. It’s empty. It stays unfixated, unattached. Wherever you go, it keeps staying that way.
For instance, if somebody’s mood comes to hit you—You know, venerable father, you’re just like a dog”—you stay at your ease. Once you’re sure of yourself, that’s the way it is. But if they call you a dog and you really become a dog, biting them, that shows you’re not sure of yourself. You’re not for sure. Once you’re for sure, you’re not anything.
For the most part, the good things are what lead people to be very deluded. They’re deluded by what’s good. When good isn’t just right, it’s not good, you know. Have you noticed the rainfall this year? It was so good that it went past just right, flooding people’s houses. This is what happens when good goes past just right.
The Buddha taught us to be intelligent.
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Forwarded from Words of the Buddha
In practicing, don’t think that you have to sit in order for it to be meditation, that you have to walk back and forth in order for it to be meditation. Don’t think like that. Meditation is simply a matter of practice. Whether you’re giving a sermon, sitting here listening, or going away from here, keep up the practice in your heart. Be alert to what’s proper and what’s not.
Ajahn Mun once said that we have to make our practice the shape of a circle. A circle never comes to an end. Keep it going continually. Keep the practice going continually without stop. I listened to him and I thought, “When I’ve finished listening to this talk, what should I do?”
The answer is to make your alertness akaliko: timeless. Make sure that the mind knows and sees what’s proper and what’s not, at all times.
It’s like the water in this kettle. If you tilt it so that there’s a long time between the drops—glug … glug—those are called water drops. If you tilt it a little farther, the drops become more frequent: glug-glug-glug. If you tilt it a little bit farther, the water flows in a stream. What does the stream of water come from? It comes from the drops of water. If they’re not continuous, they’re called drops of water.
The water here is like our awareness. If you accelerate your efforts, if your awareness is continuous, your mindfulness will become full. Both by day and by night, it’ll keep staying full like that. It becomes a stream of water. As we’re taught, the noble ones have continuous mindfulness. The water is a stream of water. Make your awareness continuous. Whenever there’s anything wrong or lacking in any way, you’ll know immediately. Your awareness will be a circle, all around. That’s the shape of the practice.
There’s nothing in the dhamma taught by the Buddha that lies beyond human capabilities. Don’t go focusing on things you can’t see: heaven or nibbana up there in the sky. All the dhammas we need to know and see, the Buddha explained in full. As for things you can’t see, don’t pay them any mind. Don’t pay them any attention. Look instead at the present. How are you leading your life? If suffering arises, why is there suffering? What’s going on? How can you settle the problem right there? What are you stuck on?
Excerpted and adapted from Still, Flowing Water by Venerable Ajahn Chah. Translated from Thai by Thanissaro Bhikkhu, The Sangha, Wat Pah Nanachat, Warin Chamrap, Ubon Ratchathani 34310, Thailand.
===
Ajahn Chah (1918–1992), a teacher in the Thai forest tradition, founded several monasteries, including Wat Pah Nanachat in Thailand and Cittaviveka in England.
Thanissaro Bhikkhu is an American Theravada Buddhist monk trained in the Thai Forest Tradition. He currently serves as abbot of the Metta Forest Monastery in San Diego County, California. His latest book is Good Heart, Good Mind: The Practice of the Ten Perfections. Thanissaro Bhikkhu’s talks, writings, and translations are all freely available at his website
dhammatalks.org
===
Words of the Buddha channel:
https://news.1rj.ru/str/wordsofbuddha
===
Ajahn Mun once said that we have to make our practice the shape of a circle. A circle never comes to an end. Keep it going continually. Keep the practice going continually without stop. I listened to him and I thought, “When I’ve finished listening to this talk, what should I do?”
The answer is to make your alertness akaliko: timeless. Make sure that the mind knows and sees what’s proper and what’s not, at all times.
It’s like the water in this kettle. If you tilt it so that there’s a long time between the drops—glug … glug—those are called water drops. If you tilt it a little farther, the drops become more frequent: glug-glug-glug. If you tilt it a little bit farther, the water flows in a stream. What does the stream of water come from? It comes from the drops of water. If they’re not continuous, they’re called drops of water.
The water here is like our awareness. If you accelerate your efforts, if your awareness is continuous, your mindfulness will become full. Both by day and by night, it’ll keep staying full like that. It becomes a stream of water. As we’re taught, the noble ones have continuous mindfulness. The water is a stream of water. Make your awareness continuous. Whenever there’s anything wrong or lacking in any way, you’ll know immediately. Your awareness will be a circle, all around. That’s the shape of the practice.
There’s nothing in the dhamma taught by the Buddha that lies beyond human capabilities. Don’t go focusing on things you can’t see: heaven or nibbana up there in the sky. All the dhammas we need to know and see, the Buddha explained in full. As for things you can’t see, don’t pay them any mind. Don’t pay them any attention. Look instead at the present. How are you leading your life? If suffering arises, why is there suffering? What’s going on? How can you settle the problem right there? What are you stuck on?
Excerpted and adapted from Still, Flowing Water by Venerable Ajahn Chah. Translated from Thai by Thanissaro Bhikkhu, The Sangha, Wat Pah Nanachat, Warin Chamrap, Ubon Ratchathani 34310, Thailand.
===
Ajahn Chah (1918–1992), a teacher in the Thai forest tradition, founded several monasteries, including Wat Pah Nanachat in Thailand and Cittaviveka in England.
Thanissaro Bhikkhu is an American Theravada Buddhist monk trained in the Thai Forest Tradition. He currently serves as abbot of the Metta Forest Monastery in San Diego County, California. His latest book is Good Heart, Good Mind: The Practice of the Ten Perfections. Thanissaro Bhikkhu’s talks, writings, and translations are all freely available at his website
dhammatalks.org
===
Words of the Buddha channel:
https://news.1rj.ru/str/wordsofbuddha
===
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Daily teachings of Buddha Dharma
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Dhammapada Verse 224
Mahamoggallanapanha Vatthu
Saccam bhane na kujjheyya
dajja appampi yacito
etehi tihi thanehi
gacche devana santike.
Verse 224: One should speak the truth, one should not yield to anger, one should give when asked even if it is only a little. By means of these three, one may go to the world of the devas.
The Story of the Question Raised by Thera Maha Moggallana
While residing at the Jetavana monastery, the Buddha uttered Verse (224) of this book, with reference to the question raised by Thera Maha Moggallana.
Once, Thera Maha Moggallana visited the deva world and found many devas living in luxurious mansions. He asked them for what good deed they were reborn in the deva world and they gave him different answers. One of them was reborn in the deva world not because he gave away much wealth in charity or because he had listened to the dhamma, but just because he always spoke the truth. The second one was a female deva who was reborn in the deva world because she did not get angry with her master and had no ill will towards him even though he often beat her and abused her. For keeping her temper and abandoning hatred she was reborn in the deva world. Then, there were others who were reborn in the deva world because they had offered little things like a stick of sugar cane, a fruit, or some vegetables to a bhikkhu or to someone else.
On his return from the deva world, Thera Maha Moggallana asked the Buddha whether it was possible to gain such great benefits by just speaking the truth, or by restraining one's actions, or by giving small amounts of such trifling things like fruits and vegetables. To him the Buddha answered, "My son, why do you ask? Have you not seen for yourself and heard what the devas said? You should not have any doubt. Little deeds of merit surely lead one to the world of the devas."
Then the Buddha spoke in verse as follows:
Verse 224: One should speak the truth, one should not yield to anger, one should give when asked even if it is only a little. By means of these three, one may go to the world of the devas.
====================
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Mahamoggallanapanha Vatthu
Saccam bhane na kujjheyya
dajja appampi yacito
etehi tihi thanehi
gacche devana santike.
Verse 224: One should speak the truth, one should not yield to anger, one should give when asked even if it is only a little. By means of these three, one may go to the world of the devas.
The Story of the Question Raised by Thera Maha Moggallana
While residing at the Jetavana monastery, the Buddha uttered Verse (224) of this book, with reference to the question raised by Thera Maha Moggallana.
Once, Thera Maha Moggallana visited the deva world and found many devas living in luxurious mansions. He asked them for what good deed they were reborn in the deva world and they gave him different answers. One of them was reborn in the deva world not because he gave away much wealth in charity or because he had listened to the dhamma, but just because he always spoke the truth. The second one was a female deva who was reborn in the deva world because she did not get angry with her master and had no ill will towards him even though he often beat her and abused her. For keeping her temper and abandoning hatred she was reborn in the deva world. Then, there were others who were reborn in the deva world because they had offered little things like a stick of sugar cane, a fruit, or some vegetables to a bhikkhu or to someone else.
On his return from the deva world, Thera Maha Moggallana asked the Buddha whether it was possible to gain such great benefits by just speaking the truth, or by restraining one's actions, or by giving small amounts of such trifling things like fruits and vegetables. To him the Buddha answered, "My son, why do you ask? Have you not seen for yourself and heard what the devas said? You should not have any doubt. Little deeds of merit surely lead one to the world of the devas."
Then the Buddha spoke in verse as follows:
Verse 224: One should speak the truth, one should not yield to anger, one should give when asked even if it is only a little. By means of these three, one may go to the world of the devas.
====================
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Gifts He Left Behind: The Dhamma Legacy of Phra Ajaan Dune Atulo, translated by Ṭhānissaro Bhikkhu. (revised Dec. 15, 2018)
This book is a compilation of Ajaan Dune’s short teachings—pure truths at the highest level, lessons and admonishments he gave his students, answers to questions, and passages from the Buddha’s words in the Canon that he always liked to quote. Also included are the events, locations, and people who were involved, to help make the passages easier to understand and more inviting to read. Translated from the Thai by Ṭhānissaro Bhikkhu.
Free download here:
https://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/Writings/Ebooks/GiftsHeLeftBehind_181215.pdf
===
Gifts He Left Behind: The Dhamma Legacy of Phra Ajaan Dune Atulo, translated by Ṭhānissaro Bhikkhu. (revised Dec. 15, 2018)
This book is a compilation of Ajaan Dune’s short teachings—pure truths at the highest level, lessons and admonishments he gave his students, answers to questions, and passages from the Buddha’s words in the Canon that he always liked to quote. Also included are the events, locations, and people who were involved, to help make the passages easier to understand and more inviting to read. Translated from the Thai by Ṭhānissaro Bhikkhu.
Free download here:
https://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/Writings/Ebooks/GiftsHeLeftBehind_181215.pdf
===
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Forwarded from Words of the Buddha
Pindacara. Buddhists offered food as "amisa dana" to the monk during collecting alms food or "pindapata".
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Dhammapada Verse 225
Buddhapitubrahmana Vatthu
Ahimsaka ye munayo
niccam kayena sarmvuta
te yanti accutam1 thanam
yattha gantva na socare.
Verse 225: The arahats, who do not harm others and are always restrained in their actions, go to the deathless Nibbana, where there is no sorrow.
1. accutam: changeless; deathless. It does not mean immortality.
The Story of the Brahmin who had been the 'Father of the Buddha'
While residing at the Anjana wood, near Saketa, the Buddha uttered Verse (225) of this book, with reference to a brahmin, who claimed that the Buddha was his son.
Once, the Buddha accompanied by some bhikkhus entered the town of Saketa for alms-food. The old brahmin, seeing the Buddha, went to him and said, "O son, why have you not allowed us to see you all this long time? Come with me and let your mother also see you." So saying, he invited the Buddha to his house. On reaching the house, the wife of the brahmin said the same things to the Buddha and introduced the Buddha as "Your big brother" to her children, and made them pay obeisance to him. From that day, the couple offered alms-food to the Buddha every day, and having heard the religious discourses, both the brahmin and his wife attained Anagami Fruition in due course.
The bhikkhus were puzzled why the brahmin couple said the Buddha was their son; so they asked the Buddha. The Buddha then replied, "Bhikkhus, they called me son because I was a son or a nephew to each of them for one thousand five hundred existences in the past." The Buddha continued to stay there, near the brahmin couple for three more months and during that time, both the brahmin and his wife attained arahatship, and then realized parinibbana.
The bhikkhus, not knowing that the brahmin couple had already become arahats, asked the Buddha where they were reborn. To them the Buddha answered:
"Those who have become arahats are not reborn anywhere; they have realized Nibbana."
Then the Buddha spoke in verse as follows:
Verse 225: The arahats, who do not harm others and are always restrained in their actions, go to the deathless Nibbana, where there is no sorrow.
====================
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===
Buddhapitubrahmana Vatthu
Ahimsaka ye munayo
niccam kayena sarmvuta
te yanti accutam1 thanam
yattha gantva na socare.
Verse 225: The arahats, who do not harm others and are always restrained in their actions, go to the deathless Nibbana, where there is no sorrow.
1. accutam: changeless; deathless. It does not mean immortality.
The Story of the Brahmin who had been the 'Father of the Buddha'
While residing at the Anjana wood, near Saketa, the Buddha uttered Verse (225) of this book, with reference to a brahmin, who claimed that the Buddha was his son.
Once, the Buddha accompanied by some bhikkhus entered the town of Saketa for alms-food. The old brahmin, seeing the Buddha, went to him and said, "O son, why have you not allowed us to see you all this long time? Come with me and let your mother also see you." So saying, he invited the Buddha to his house. On reaching the house, the wife of the brahmin said the same things to the Buddha and introduced the Buddha as "Your big brother" to her children, and made them pay obeisance to him. From that day, the couple offered alms-food to the Buddha every day, and having heard the religious discourses, both the brahmin and his wife attained Anagami Fruition in due course.
The bhikkhus were puzzled why the brahmin couple said the Buddha was their son; so they asked the Buddha. The Buddha then replied, "Bhikkhus, they called me son because I was a son or a nephew to each of them for one thousand five hundred existences in the past." The Buddha continued to stay there, near the brahmin couple for three more months and during that time, both the brahmin and his wife attained arahatship, and then realized parinibbana.
The bhikkhus, not knowing that the brahmin couple had already become arahats, asked the Buddha where they were reborn. To them the Buddha answered:
"Those who have become arahats are not reborn anywhere; they have realized Nibbana."
Then the Buddha spoke in verse as follows:
Verse 225: The arahats, who do not harm others and are always restrained in their actions, go to the deathless Nibbana, where there is no sorrow.
====================
Words of the Buddha channel:
https://news.1rj.ru/str/wordsofbuddha
===
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Forwarded from Words of the Buddha
Pindacara. Buddhists offered food as "amisa dana" to the monk during collecting alms food or "pindapata".
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Forwarded from Words of the Buddha
Freedom Over Justice
Karma may not be just, but it offers a path to freedom.
By Thanissaro Bhikkhu
You may know the story of Angulimala, the bandit who had killed many people and wore a garland (mala) made of their fingers (anguli). After a dramatic encounter with the Buddha, he had such an extreme change of heart that he abandoned his violent ways, awakened a sense of compassion, and eventually gained total release.
The story is a popular one because most of us like to identify with Angulimala: if he could gain awakening, then there’s hope for us all. But in identifying with him, we forget that his was a case where justice was blatantly not served. Think of the feelings of those he had terrorized and of the relatives of those he had killed. In their eyes, he had gotten away with murder.
It’s easy to understand, then, as the story tells us, that when Angulimala went for alms after his awakening, people would throw stones at him, and he’d return from his alms round, “his head broken open and dripping with blood, his bowl broken, and his outer robe ripped to shreds.” As the Buddha reassured him, these wounds were nothing compared with the sufferings he would have undergone if he hadn’t reached awakening.
And if the outraged people had fully satisfied their thirst for justice, meting out the suffering they thought he deserved, he wouldn’t have lived to reach awakening at all.
So his was a case in which the end of suffering took precedence over justice in any ordinary sense of the word. And his story is not an aberration. When we look at the Pali canon, the earliest extant record of the Buddha’s teachings, we find that the Buddha never presented his teachings as a way to attain a just world. In fact, he never mentioned the word “justice” in his teachings at all. This was a deliberate move on his part. In the course of his awakening, he had learned two lessons in how the pursuit of justice as an ultimate end would have thwarted his primary aim in spreading the dhamma: to teach people how to stop creating suffering for themselves and others, and to attain total freedom.
The first lesson had to do with karma. As he explained in Anguttara Nikaya 3:101, if the workings of karma required strict, tit-for-tat justice—with your having to experience the consequences of each act just as you inflicted it on others—there’d be no way that anyone could reach the end of suffering. If, for example, having killed ten people, you’d have to be reborn as a human being and murdered ten times, your potential awakening would be delayed for at least ten rebirths, during which time you’d incur even more karmic debts, delaying your awakening indefinitely. The reason we can reach awakening is that even though actions of a certain type give a corresponding type of result, the intensity of how that result is felt is determined not only by the original action but also—and more importantly—by our state of mind when the results ripen. In other words, your past karma doesn’t shape everything you experience. Your present karma plays a crucial role as well.
An untrained mind is like a small cup of water; a well-trained mind, like the water in a large, clear river.
This is why we practice meditation: to master the skills we need so as not to suffer from whatever comes up in the present moment. If you’ve developed unlimited goodwill and equanimity, and have trained well in virtue, discernment, and the ability to be overcome by neither pleasure nor pain, then when the results of past bad actions ripen, you’ll hardly feel them at all. If you haven’t trained yourself in these ways, then even the results of a trifling bad act can consign you to hell.
The Buddha illustrates this principle with three similes. The first compares results of past bad actions to a large salt crystal. An untrained mind is like a small cup of water; a well-trained mind, like the water in a large, clear river. If you put the salt into the water of the cup, you can’t drink it because it’s too salty.
Karma may not be just, but it offers a path to freedom.
By Thanissaro Bhikkhu
You may know the story of Angulimala, the bandit who had killed many people and wore a garland (mala) made of their fingers (anguli). After a dramatic encounter with the Buddha, he had such an extreme change of heart that he abandoned his violent ways, awakened a sense of compassion, and eventually gained total release.
The story is a popular one because most of us like to identify with Angulimala: if he could gain awakening, then there’s hope for us all. But in identifying with him, we forget that his was a case where justice was blatantly not served. Think of the feelings of those he had terrorized and of the relatives of those he had killed. In their eyes, he had gotten away with murder.
It’s easy to understand, then, as the story tells us, that when Angulimala went for alms after his awakening, people would throw stones at him, and he’d return from his alms round, “his head broken open and dripping with blood, his bowl broken, and his outer robe ripped to shreds.” As the Buddha reassured him, these wounds were nothing compared with the sufferings he would have undergone if he hadn’t reached awakening.
And if the outraged people had fully satisfied their thirst for justice, meting out the suffering they thought he deserved, he wouldn’t have lived to reach awakening at all.
So his was a case in which the end of suffering took precedence over justice in any ordinary sense of the word. And his story is not an aberration. When we look at the Pali canon, the earliest extant record of the Buddha’s teachings, we find that the Buddha never presented his teachings as a way to attain a just world. In fact, he never mentioned the word “justice” in his teachings at all. This was a deliberate move on his part. In the course of his awakening, he had learned two lessons in how the pursuit of justice as an ultimate end would have thwarted his primary aim in spreading the dhamma: to teach people how to stop creating suffering for themselves and others, and to attain total freedom.
The first lesson had to do with karma. As he explained in Anguttara Nikaya 3:101, if the workings of karma required strict, tit-for-tat justice—with your having to experience the consequences of each act just as you inflicted it on others—there’d be no way that anyone could reach the end of suffering. If, for example, having killed ten people, you’d have to be reborn as a human being and murdered ten times, your potential awakening would be delayed for at least ten rebirths, during which time you’d incur even more karmic debts, delaying your awakening indefinitely. The reason we can reach awakening is that even though actions of a certain type give a corresponding type of result, the intensity of how that result is felt is determined not only by the original action but also—and more importantly—by our state of mind when the results ripen. In other words, your past karma doesn’t shape everything you experience. Your present karma plays a crucial role as well.
An untrained mind is like a small cup of water; a well-trained mind, like the water in a large, clear river.
This is why we practice meditation: to master the skills we need so as not to suffer from whatever comes up in the present moment. If you’ve developed unlimited goodwill and equanimity, and have trained well in virtue, discernment, and the ability to be overcome by neither pleasure nor pain, then when the results of past bad actions ripen, you’ll hardly feel them at all. If you haven’t trained yourself in these ways, then even the results of a trifling bad act can consign you to hell.
The Buddha illustrates this principle with three similes. The first compares results of past bad actions to a large salt crystal. An untrained mind is like a small cup of water; a well-trained mind, like the water in a large, clear river. If you put the salt into the water of the cup, you can’t drink it because it’s too salty.
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Forwarded from Words of the Buddha
But if you put the salt into the river, you can still drink the water because there’s so much more of it and it’s so clean. All in all, an attractive image, one that appeals to the Angulimala in all of us, in our desire not to be weighed down by any bad actions in our karmic past.
The other two similes, though, look at this principle from another angle, and show that it goes against some very basic ideas of fairness. In one simile, a bad action is like the theft of money; in the other, it is likened to the theft of a goat. In both similes, the untrained mind is like a poor person who, because he’s poor, gets heavily punished for either of these two crimes, whereas the well-trained mind is like a rich person who, because he’s rich, doesn’t get punished for either theft at all. Here it’s hard not to feel sympathy for the poor person, but these images drive home the hard but necessary point that for karma to work in a way that allows us to pursue a path to the end to suffering, it can’t work in such a way as to guarantee absolute justice. If we insisted on a system of karma that did guarantee justice, the path to freedom from suffering would be closed.
This set of values, which gives preference to a free happiness over justice when there’s a conflict between the two, doesn’t sit very well with many Western Buddhists. “Isn’t justice a larger and nobler goal than happiness?” we ask.
The short answer to this question relates to the Buddha’s compassion: seeing that we’ve all done wrong in the past, his compassion extended to wrongdoers as well as to those who’ve been wronged. For this reason, he taught the way to freedom from suffering regardless of whether that suffering was “deserved” or not.
For the long answer, though, we have to turn and look at ourselves.
Many of us educated in the West, even if we’ve rejected the monotheism that shaped our culture, tend to hold to the idea that there are objective standards of justice to which everyone should conform. When distressed over the unfair state of society, we often express our views for righting wrongs not as suggestions of wise courses of action but as objective standards as to how everyone is duty bound to act.
We tend to forget, though, that the very idea that those standards could be objective and universally binding makes sense only in the context of a monotheistic worldview: one in which the universe was created at a specific point in time—say, by Abraham’s God or by Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover—with a specific purpose. In other words, we maintain the idea of objective justice even though we’ve abandoned the worldview that underpins the idea and makes it valid.
For example, retributive justice—the justice that seeks to right old wrongs by punishing the first wrongdoer and/or those who responded excessively to the first wrong—demands a background story beginning at a specific point in time so that we can determine who threw the first stone and tally up the score of who did what after that first provocation. Because it’s so easy to disagree on when stories like this begin, even in a monotheistic universe, efforts to impose this sort of justice often incite more conflict than they resolve.
Restorative justice—the justice that seeks to return situations to their proper state before the first stone was thrown—requires not only a specific beginning point but also that the beginning point be a good place to return to. Here we run into the problem that even monotheists get into conflicts over what that good place would be.
Distributive justice—the justice that seeks to determine who should have what, and how resources and opportunities should be redistributed from those who have them to those who should have them—requires a common source, above and beyond individuals, from which all things flow and that establishes the purposes those things should serve. And here, again, it’s impossible to get everyone to agree on what that source would be, and what purposes it has in mind.
We’ve all been oppressors and oppressed, over and over again.
The other two similes, though, look at this principle from another angle, and show that it goes against some very basic ideas of fairness. In one simile, a bad action is like the theft of money; in the other, it is likened to the theft of a goat. In both similes, the untrained mind is like a poor person who, because he’s poor, gets heavily punished for either of these two crimes, whereas the well-trained mind is like a rich person who, because he’s rich, doesn’t get punished for either theft at all. Here it’s hard not to feel sympathy for the poor person, but these images drive home the hard but necessary point that for karma to work in a way that allows us to pursue a path to the end to suffering, it can’t work in such a way as to guarantee absolute justice. If we insisted on a system of karma that did guarantee justice, the path to freedom from suffering would be closed.
This set of values, which gives preference to a free happiness over justice when there’s a conflict between the two, doesn’t sit very well with many Western Buddhists. “Isn’t justice a larger and nobler goal than happiness?” we ask.
The short answer to this question relates to the Buddha’s compassion: seeing that we’ve all done wrong in the past, his compassion extended to wrongdoers as well as to those who’ve been wronged. For this reason, he taught the way to freedom from suffering regardless of whether that suffering was “deserved” or not.
For the long answer, though, we have to turn and look at ourselves.
Many of us educated in the West, even if we’ve rejected the monotheism that shaped our culture, tend to hold to the idea that there are objective standards of justice to which everyone should conform. When distressed over the unfair state of society, we often express our views for righting wrongs not as suggestions of wise courses of action but as objective standards as to how everyone is duty bound to act.
We tend to forget, though, that the very idea that those standards could be objective and universally binding makes sense only in the context of a monotheistic worldview: one in which the universe was created at a specific point in time—say, by Abraham’s God or by Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover—with a specific purpose. In other words, we maintain the idea of objective justice even though we’ve abandoned the worldview that underpins the idea and makes it valid.
For example, retributive justice—the justice that seeks to right old wrongs by punishing the first wrongdoer and/or those who responded excessively to the first wrong—demands a background story beginning at a specific point in time so that we can determine who threw the first stone and tally up the score of who did what after that first provocation. Because it’s so easy to disagree on when stories like this begin, even in a monotheistic universe, efforts to impose this sort of justice often incite more conflict than they resolve.
Restorative justice—the justice that seeks to return situations to their proper state before the first stone was thrown—requires not only a specific beginning point but also that the beginning point be a good place to return to. Here we run into the problem that even monotheists get into conflicts over what that good place would be.
Distributive justice—the justice that seeks to determine who should have what, and how resources and opportunities should be redistributed from those who have them to those who should have them—requires a common source, above and beyond individuals, from which all things flow and that establishes the purposes those things should serve. And here, again, it’s impossible to get everyone to agree on what that source would be, and what purposes it has in mind.
We’ve all been oppressors and oppressed, over and over again.
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Forwarded from Words of the Buddha
Only when their respective conditions are met can these forms of justice be objective and binding on all. Even in a non-Buddhist worldview, these forms of justice lead to inevitable conflicts. In the Buddha’s worldview, though, it’s impossible that their conditions could ever be met.
This relates to the second set of lessons about justice that the Buddha gained from his awakening, lessons about time and rebirth. In the first knowledge he gained on the night of his awakening, he saw his own past lives, back through countless eons, repeatedly rising and falling through many levels of being and through the evolution and collapse of many universes. As he later said, the beginning point of the process—called samsara, this bad habit we have of “wandering on”—was inconceivable. Not just unknowable. Inconceivable. This means that there can be no clear point from which we can begin the tally of wrongs and rights that retributive justice demands.
In the second knowledge, he saw that the process of death and rebirth applied to all beings in the universe, and that—because it had gone on so long—it would be hard to find a person who had never been your mother, father, brother, sister, son, or daughter in the course of that long, long time. We’ve all been oppressors and oppressed, over and over again.
He also saw that the universe was shaped by the conflicting intentions of all its many beings, and that it serves the designs of no one in particular. As one dhamma summary has it, “There is no one in charge” (Majjhima Nikaya 82). This means that the universe has no purpose, there’s no ideal state to return to, and there’s no source to determine how the goods of the universe should be distributed. So there’s no way that ideas of restorative or distributive justice could be universally binding.
What’s more, the universe has the potential to continue without end. Unlike a monotheistic universe, with its creator passing final judgment, samsara offers no prospect of a fair or just closure—or even, apart from nibbana, any closure at all.
This point has two consequences. The first is that there can be no valid theory of ends justifying the means, because samsara involves nothing but means. This is why the Buddha answered the question of how to attain long-term happiness within the universe not with a demand for a fair society but with a recommendation for meritorious actions—i.e., actions that, in creating happiness and freedom, harm no one.
These actions come down to three: generosity, virtue, and the development of universal goodwill. To provide for your own long-term happiness, you adopt these actions yourself. To provide for the long-term happiness of others, you persuade them to adopt them. Unlike theories of justice, which require stories to justify the punishments they often call for, meritorious actions require no justifications at all. They obviously come from a good heart, and because they spread their goodness all around, they’re genuine means for fostering harmony and peace.
For a just society to be possible, it’s essential that people first train their hearts and minds.
The second consequence of the fact that, aside from nibbana, there is no closure to samsara is that even if you could create a just society, it wouldn’t last. That’s because, unless the human heart is trained, justice wouldn’t satisfy it. As the Buddha commented to Mara—the only being who ever invited him to rule justly over others (Samyutta Nikaya 4:20)—even two mountains the size of the Himalayas made of solid gold wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the wants of any one person. No matter how fairly wealth and opportunities were distributed under your rule, there would always be those dissatisfied with their portions. As a result, there would always be people you’d have to fight in order to maintain your power.
This relates to the second set of lessons about justice that the Buddha gained from his awakening, lessons about time and rebirth. In the first knowledge he gained on the night of his awakening, he saw his own past lives, back through countless eons, repeatedly rising and falling through many levels of being and through the evolution and collapse of many universes. As he later said, the beginning point of the process—called samsara, this bad habit we have of “wandering on”—was inconceivable. Not just unknowable. Inconceivable. This means that there can be no clear point from which we can begin the tally of wrongs and rights that retributive justice demands.
In the second knowledge, he saw that the process of death and rebirth applied to all beings in the universe, and that—because it had gone on so long—it would be hard to find a person who had never been your mother, father, brother, sister, son, or daughter in the course of that long, long time. We’ve all been oppressors and oppressed, over and over again.
He also saw that the universe was shaped by the conflicting intentions of all its many beings, and that it serves the designs of no one in particular. As one dhamma summary has it, “There is no one in charge” (Majjhima Nikaya 82). This means that the universe has no purpose, there’s no ideal state to return to, and there’s no source to determine how the goods of the universe should be distributed. So there’s no way that ideas of restorative or distributive justice could be universally binding.
What’s more, the universe has the potential to continue without end. Unlike a monotheistic universe, with its creator passing final judgment, samsara offers no prospect of a fair or just closure—or even, apart from nibbana, any closure at all.
This point has two consequences. The first is that there can be no valid theory of ends justifying the means, because samsara involves nothing but means. This is why the Buddha answered the question of how to attain long-term happiness within the universe not with a demand for a fair society but with a recommendation for meritorious actions—i.e., actions that, in creating happiness and freedom, harm no one.
These actions come down to three: generosity, virtue, and the development of universal goodwill. To provide for your own long-term happiness, you adopt these actions yourself. To provide for the long-term happiness of others, you persuade them to adopt them. Unlike theories of justice, which require stories to justify the punishments they often call for, meritorious actions require no justifications at all. They obviously come from a good heart, and because they spread their goodness all around, they’re genuine means for fostering harmony and peace.
For a just society to be possible, it’s essential that people first train their hearts and minds.
The second consequence of the fact that, aside from nibbana, there is no closure to samsara is that even if you could create a just society, it wouldn’t last. That’s because, unless the human heart is trained, justice wouldn’t satisfy it. As the Buddha commented to Mara—the only being who ever invited him to rule justly over others (Samyutta Nikaya 4:20)—even two mountains the size of the Himalayas made of solid gold wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the wants of any one person. No matter how fairly wealth and opportunities were distributed under your rule, there would always be those dissatisfied with their portions. As a result, there would always be people you’d have to fight in order to maintain your power.
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