The Great Surrender
"How does one proceed onwards from the top of a 100-foot pole?" —Zen koan
According to ancient legend, a young man with the family name of Gotama and the personal name of Siddhattha, a royal prince of the kingdom of Kapilavatthu in the 6th century B.C.E., renounced worldly life and become a homeless religious mendicant, and after six years of arduous spiritual practice become fully enlightened – after which he become known as the Buddha. In modern times some cautious, skeptical, and not particularly religious Academic types have put forth plausible and, for some, persuasive evidence suggesting that the ancient tradition is not entirely reliable, and that certain parts of it are unlikely to be strictly true. For example, they assert that the young Gotama could hardly have been a royal prince, as the city-state of Kapilavatthu was not a kingdom at all, but a kind of oligarchic republic governed by a council of elders or aristocrats. Some modern Western (or at least westernized) religious types then try to defend the ancient tradition by claiming that the young Gotama was probably the son of the leader of the council, thereby making him like a royal prince. At present my purpose is not so much to attack or defend the ancient tradition, or to attack or defend the modern scholars, as to point out what appears to be an incongruity in the tradition which I suspect was caused by, and in turn helped to reinforce, a radical misinterpretation of the teaching of the Buddha, and which has been standard Buddhist doctrine for approximately 25 centuries. Generally speaking, it is unfortunately very common for fundamental attitudes of a religion to have little or nothing to do with the actual teachings of the founder of that religion. The specific fundamental attitude in question is closely related to the history of the Buddha's own enlightenment, so the traditional, scriptural account of his renunciation and spiritual practices before his enlightenment will be considered in some slight detail.
The young gentleman Gotama, so we are told, “seeing that the household life is constricted and a sphere of pollution (or “a dirty business”) and that the life of a wandering renunciant is wide open” (cf. Sn 406, M 36), cut off his hair and beard, put on the discolored robes of a mendicant ascetic, and became a homeless wanderer. Shortly after this he successively became the disciple of two meditation instructors, under whom he mastered all of the advanced contemplative states, or jhānas. However, he realized that even the most exalted of contemplative states does not lead to full enlightenment, and so he abandoned that approach in favor of the venerated Indian tradition of extreme austerity. For approximately six years he practiced such extreme asceticism that he nearly killed himself, and then he realized that self-mortification also does not necessarily lead to full enlightenment, as after all this time he was still not fully enlightened. Then it occurred to him:
The young gentleman Gotama, so we are told, “seeing that the household life is constricted and a sphere of pollution (or “a dirty business”) and that the life of a wandering renunciant is wide open” (cf. Sn 406, M 36), cut off his hair and beard, put on the discolored robes of a mendicant ascetic, and became a homeless wanderer. Shortly after this he successively became the disciple of two meditation instructors, under whom he mastered all of the advanced contemplative states, or jhānas. However, he realized that even the most exalted of contemplative states does not lead to full enlightenment, and so he abandoned that approach in favor of the venerated Indian tradition of extreme austerity. For approximately six years he practiced such extreme asceticism that he nearly killed himself, and then he realized that self-mortification also does not necessarily lead to full enlightenment, as after all this time he was still not fully enlightened. Then it occurred to him:
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“I recollect that while my father the Sakyan was working and I was seated in the cool shade of a rose apple tree, quite aloof from objects of desire, quite aloof from unskillful mental states, I attained and abided in the first jhāna, still with thought and reflection, with elation and ease born of aloofness. Could that be the path to enlightenment?” Then … going with that memory, the awareness occurred to me: “Just that is the path to enlightenment.” (M 36)
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Consequently, he relaxed the severity of his discipline, much to the disgust of his five ascetic companions, ate enough nourishing food to regain his strength, and then seated himself beneath the now famous Bodhi tree at Bodh Gaya, making a firm resolve not to leave the place until he had attained enlightenment. On the very first night, after meditating all night long, at around dawn, he attained full enlightenment, and thereby become the Buddha, or Awakened One.
Now, there is apparently a glaring inconsistency in this story which nobody seems to notice, and that is that at the beginning of his career as a renunciant he masters all the jhānas, and sees that they do not lead to enlightenment; and then six years later he remembers that as a youth he had attained first jhāna, which is the crudest and least exalted of the series, and realizes that the cultivation of this jhāna is the way to enlightenment. One explanation for this seeming incongruity is that the details of the early life of the Buddha are not contained in a single biographical account in the oldest texts, but are scattered about in various parts of the Pali Tipitaka, these partial accounts being derived from various sources, and that not all of them were entirely reliable historically. So when these partial accounts were cobbled together into a single long narrative, there were bound to be some discrepancies. This is also apparently the case with the variously derived accounts of the life of Jesus of Nazareth contained in the Christian Bible. It is also possible that the biography of Gotama Buddha was deliberately doctored by well-meaning early Buddhists wishing to glorify their religion, and the founder of it. It may be that they found the truth too unedifying for their tastes, or even in conflict with their own preferred interpretation of Dhamma. Such things do happen. Setting aside the miraculous and mythological embellishments to the biographies of the founders of Buddhism and Christianity, a very simple example may be given of this sort of thing: One of the early Christian monastic saints (I think it was St. Benedict) wrote in an autobiographical account that he enjoyed talking with young women more than he enjoyed talking with old ones. For hundreds of years the followers of his tradition edited this confession out of the book, no doubt because they felt that it somehow brought dishonor upon the great saint. It often happens that the followers of a teacher are more ambitious for his fame and reputation, and less objective about his true character, even to the extend of concealing or denying facts, than the teacher himself. Also, it frequently happens in this world that the teachings of the founder of a religious or philosophical system are downplayed or even tacitly rejected by later, presumably less wise, followers of that system. The rejection of the ideal of arahantship by Mahayana Buddhists, and the tacit rejection of the importance of poverty for salvation by most modern Christians, are obvious examples of this.
At any rate, I consider the traditional biography of the Buddha as it now stands, including the accounts of his early efforts toward enlightenment, to be unlikely to be entirely factual, and so I offer an alternative version – which of course must be purely conjectural. Let it be granted that before his enlightenment he had mastered very advanced meditative states and practiced extreme austerities, and subsequently came to the conclusion that they were inadequate. So, after adopting both of the most reputable methods for enlightenment available, and trying as hard as he could, and then failing, he simply gave up. This does not mean that he decided to return to a worldly life; it means that he relaxed and let go. As the Buddhist texts say, disgust leads to dispassion. He began eating nutritious food again not out of any spiritual ulterior motive, and he sat down to meditate beneath the Bodhi tree not with any firm, heroic resolve, but simply because he felt like it. And because at last he had really let go, he was able to become enlightened. Again as the Buddhist texts say, dispassion leads to liberation. Judging from the spiritual literature of the world, some people do realize the Highest Goal in this way. They renounce the world and strive and struggle whole-heartedly for enlightenment, then eventually fail and give up in despair; and, ironically, by giving up they renounce their last major attachment, their final spiritual obstacle – namely, their attachment to the very idea of enlightenment. Thus their final obstacle is gone, and they are no longer barred from the Goal. No matter how one thinks of enlightenment, the truth is always different from that.
It may be, however, that the idea of the Bodhisatta frankly throwing up his hands and giving up did not sit well with early Buddhist disciples who were very keen on glorifying him. It may have seemed unheroic, or even somewhat disreputable. Also, it seems that many ancient Buddhists, like many modern ones, could not appreciate the idea that firm resolve and ardent striving, although perhaps necessary at first, eventually become a hindrance. Hence we find in the rather mythological Padhāna Sutta of the Sutta Nipāta, “The Discourse on Striving,” the Bodhisatta, very shortly before his enlightenment, saying to Namuci (alias Māra the Evil One),
I have faith, and likewise vigor, and understanding is to be found in me;
Why do you ask me, who am thus applying myself (to striving), about life?
This wind would dry up even the flowing waters of the rivers,
So why should not my blood dry up as I have applied myself?
With the drying up of blood, bile and phlegm dry up;
With the wasting away of flesh, the mind becomes more clear,
And my mindfulness, understanding, and concentration become more established. (Sn 432-4)
In this sutta the soon to be enlightened Gotama not only declares to the evil spirit his certainty of becoming a great, awakened spiritual leader (vv. 443-5), but appears to be dangerously veering back towards the extreme of self-mortifcation. To the ancient Indian mind, heroic determination and ardent striving, even to the extend of monomania and self-torture, were much more laudable and venerable than relaxing and sitting down beneath a tree just because one feels like it. The Padhāna Sutta also contains, ironically and with truth, the following verse:
Immersed in this (struggle), some philosophers and holy men are lost to view,
And do not know the path by which those with good observances go. (Sn. 441)
But even these “good observances” are not really the point.
Continuing with this hypothesis – that is, that whole-heartedly giving up is conducive to enlightenment – there is some evidence that the Buddha incorporated a kind of developed surrender into his practical instruction of Dhamma. A good example of this is found in Cūḷa Suññata Sutta (“Small Discourse on Voidness”) of the Majjhima Nikāya (M 121). It may very well be that the sutta is not a verbatim transcript of an actual discourse delivered by Gotama Buddha, and that some of it is doctrinally anachronistic, but even so the central point of it may contain a very ancient principle which was not fully appreciated by later Buddhist systematologers. The sutta describes the cultivation of emptiness, which begins when a spiritual practitioner moves out of human society and into a forest: his perceptual field becomes empty, relatively, of all the commotion to be experienced in a village or town, although the relatively more peaceful commotion of a forest remains. He then directs his attention to the element earth, which presumably implies the cultivation of the (first) four jhānas, thereby abandoning the perceptual commotion of forest in favor of the simpler, quieter, and relatively more empty perception of earth. Then he progresses through the series of so-called “formless” (arūpa) jhānas, sequentially attaining more and more rarefied and empty perceptual states, until he eventually arrives at a state called animitta cetosamādhi, or “the signless concentration of mind.” The commentators implausibly interpret this state to be insight (vipassanā), being essentially no more than the absence of the “signs” of permanence, ease, and self. Considering, however, that the term is found at the same point in the series of meditative states as is more often found the term saññāvedayitanirodha, “the cessation of perception and feeling” (cf. M 30, 31, 59, 77, etc.), it appears rather likely that the two terms are (or at least were at one time) synonymous, with “sign” meaning practically the same as “perception.” And regardless of what it is called, it does not represent a state of intellectual or dogmatic philosophical reflection or a commentary-endorsed state of blank unconsciousness, but is rather a state of formless, clarified, perceptually empty, pure consciousness. The sutta then makes this interesting statement:
Now, there is apparently a glaring inconsistency in this story which nobody seems to notice, and that is that at the beginning of his career as a renunciant he masters all the jhānas, and sees that they do not lead to enlightenment; and then six years later he remembers that as a youth he had attained first jhāna, which is the crudest and least exalted of the series, and realizes that the cultivation of this jhāna is the way to enlightenment. One explanation for this seeming incongruity is that the details of the early life of the Buddha are not contained in a single biographical account in the oldest texts, but are scattered about in various parts of the Pali Tipitaka, these partial accounts being derived from various sources, and that not all of them were entirely reliable historically. So when these partial accounts were cobbled together into a single long narrative, there were bound to be some discrepancies. This is also apparently the case with the variously derived accounts of the life of Jesus of Nazareth contained in the Christian Bible. It is also possible that the biography of Gotama Buddha was deliberately doctored by well-meaning early Buddhists wishing to glorify their religion, and the founder of it. It may be that they found the truth too unedifying for their tastes, or even in conflict with their own preferred interpretation of Dhamma. Such things do happen. Setting aside the miraculous and mythological embellishments to the biographies of the founders of Buddhism and Christianity, a very simple example may be given of this sort of thing: One of the early Christian monastic saints (I think it was St. Benedict) wrote in an autobiographical account that he enjoyed talking with young women more than he enjoyed talking with old ones. For hundreds of years the followers of his tradition edited this confession out of the book, no doubt because they felt that it somehow brought dishonor upon the great saint. It often happens that the followers of a teacher are more ambitious for his fame and reputation, and less objective about his true character, even to the extend of concealing or denying facts, than the teacher himself. Also, it frequently happens in this world that the teachings of the founder of a religious or philosophical system are downplayed or even tacitly rejected by later, presumably less wise, followers of that system. The rejection of the ideal of arahantship by Mahayana Buddhists, and the tacit rejection of the importance of poverty for salvation by most modern Christians, are obvious examples of this.
At any rate, I consider the traditional biography of the Buddha as it now stands, including the accounts of his early efforts toward enlightenment, to be unlikely to be entirely factual, and so I offer an alternative version – which of course must be purely conjectural. Let it be granted that before his enlightenment he had mastered very advanced meditative states and practiced extreme austerities, and subsequently came to the conclusion that they were inadequate. So, after adopting both of the most reputable methods for enlightenment available, and trying as hard as he could, and then failing, he simply gave up. This does not mean that he decided to return to a worldly life; it means that he relaxed and let go. As the Buddhist texts say, disgust leads to dispassion. He began eating nutritious food again not out of any spiritual ulterior motive, and he sat down to meditate beneath the Bodhi tree not with any firm, heroic resolve, but simply because he felt like it. And because at last he had really let go, he was able to become enlightened. Again as the Buddhist texts say, dispassion leads to liberation. Judging from the spiritual literature of the world, some people do realize the Highest Goal in this way. They renounce the world and strive and struggle whole-heartedly for enlightenment, then eventually fail and give up in despair; and, ironically, by giving up they renounce their last major attachment, their final spiritual obstacle – namely, their attachment to the very idea of enlightenment. Thus their final obstacle is gone, and they are no longer barred from the Goal. No matter how one thinks of enlightenment, the truth is always different from that.
It may be, however, that the idea of the Bodhisatta frankly throwing up his hands and giving up did not sit well with early Buddhist disciples who were very keen on glorifying him. It may have seemed unheroic, or even somewhat disreputable. Also, it seems that many ancient Buddhists, like many modern ones, could not appreciate the idea that firm resolve and ardent striving, although perhaps necessary at first, eventually become a hindrance. Hence we find in the rather mythological Padhāna Sutta of the Sutta Nipāta, “The Discourse on Striving,” the Bodhisatta, very shortly before his enlightenment, saying to Namuci (alias Māra the Evil One),
I have faith, and likewise vigor, and understanding is to be found in me;
Why do you ask me, who am thus applying myself (to striving), about life?
This wind would dry up even the flowing waters of the rivers,
So why should not my blood dry up as I have applied myself?
With the drying up of blood, bile and phlegm dry up;
With the wasting away of flesh, the mind becomes more clear,
And my mindfulness, understanding, and concentration become more established. (Sn 432-4)
In this sutta the soon to be enlightened Gotama not only declares to the evil spirit his certainty of becoming a great, awakened spiritual leader (vv. 443-5), but appears to be dangerously veering back towards the extreme of self-mortifcation. To the ancient Indian mind, heroic determination and ardent striving, even to the extend of monomania and self-torture, were much more laudable and venerable than relaxing and sitting down beneath a tree just because one feels like it. The Padhāna Sutta also contains, ironically and with truth, the following verse:
Immersed in this (struggle), some philosophers and holy men are lost to view,
And do not know the path by which those with good observances go. (Sn. 441)
But even these “good observances” are not really the point.
Continuing with this hypothesis – that is, that whole-heartedly giving up is conducive to enlightenment – there is some evidence that the Buddha incorporated a kind of developed surrender into his practical instruction of Dhamma. A good example of this is found in Cūḷa Suññata Sutta (“Small Discourse on Voidness”) of the Majjhima Nikāya (M 121). It may very well be that the sutta is not a verbatim transcript of an actual discourse delivered by Gotama Buddha, and that some of it is doctrinally anachronistic, but even so the central point of it may contain a very ancient principle which was not fully appreciated by later Buddhist systematologers. The sutta describes the cultivation of emptiness, which begins when a spiritual practitioner moves out of human society and into a forest: his perceptual field becomes empty, relatively, of all the commotion to be experienced in a village or town, although the relatively more peaceful commotion of a forest remains. He then directs his attention to the element earth, which presumably implies the cultivation of the (first) four jhānas, thereby abandoning the perceptual commotion of forest in favor of the simpler, quieter, and relatively more empty perception of earth. Then he progresses through the series of so-called “formless” (arūpa) jhānas, sequentially attaining more and more rarefied and empty perceptual states, until he eventually arrives at a state called animitta cetosamādhi, or “the signless concentration of mind.” The commentators implausibly interpret this state to be insight (vipassanā), being essentially no more than the absence of the “signs” of permanence, ease, and self. Considering, however, that the term is found at the same point in the series of meditative states as is more often found the term saññāvedayitanirodha, “the cessation of perception and feeling” (cf. M 30, 31, 59, 77, etc.), it appears rather likely that the two terms are (or at least were at one time) synonymous, with “sign” meaning practically the same as “perception.” And regardless of what it is called, it does not represent a state of intellectual or dogmatic philosophical reflection or a commentary-endorsed state of blank unconsciousness, but is rather a state of formless, clarified, perceptually empty, pure consciousness. The sutta then makes this interesting statement:
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His mind enters into that signless concentration of mind and becomes clear, becomes steady, becomes settled. He understands thus: “This signless concentration of mind is conditioned and volitionally produced, but anything that is conditioned and volitionally produced is inconstant and subject to cessation.” For him, thus knowing, thus seeing, the mind is liberated from the encumbering influence of sensuality; the mind is liberated from the encumbering influence of the force of existence; the mind is liberated from the encumbering influence of ignorance...
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… and thus he becomes enlightened. A possible explanation is this: Vipassanā, liberating insight, in the context of this sutta at least, occurs when one fully realizes that ALL cultivatable, attainable mental states, including the highest possible results of meditative effort, are necessarily unstable, impermanent, and unreliable; and thus ALL efforts to become enlightened are ultimately, utterly, and absolutely futile. There is no path to Nirvana. Futility of futilities, sayeth the teacher, all is futile. Upon fully realizing this the mind simply gives up, which is to say it completely lets go of Samsara in a deep, intuitive way that cannot be appreciated intellectually, as the intellect is itself a samsaric phenomenon. But letting go is not the same as annihilation. Enlightenment is not so much the cessation of attraction, aversion, and delusion as the transcendence of them. At the level of Samsara there may not necessarily be any externally obvious change of state at all. True enlightenment is not the result of a cause, and has no beginning, and, of course, no end. Mystery of mysteries, sayeth the teacher. This would imply an interesting twist to the “spotless, immaculate vision of Dhamma,” the arising of which is reportedly the very essence of the attainment of Buddhist sainthood: “All that is subject to arising is subject to cessation.” Even a state of purity, emptiness, wisdom, or liberation, if it has a beginning, must also have an end. Samsara is futility itself. Enlightenment simply does not occur within the context of Samsara.
So, ultimately, Nirvana cannot be cultivated. It is more a matter of letting go and not doing than of doing. After all, doing is action, and action is karma, and karma is a samsaric phenomenon which naturally leads to more karma. Consequently it would seem that, since it is not a cultivated state, enlightenment could “occur,” theoretically at least, at any stage of the path of spiritual practice. It may be that some people let go more readily and quickly than others. There is some support for this notion in Buddhist tradition. Although the Cūḷa Suññata Sutta describes development of the highest attainable mental state as a preliminary to Nirvana, other suttas (for example A IX.36) assert that any jhāna may be sufficient; and the main trend of orthodox tradition endorses the idea that one can become enlightened without any attainment of jhāna at all. In fact, some reputable schools of Theravada Buddhist meditation actually discourage the cultivation of jhāna, mainly on the ground that it is unnecessary. However, jhāna may be necessary for some people. Otherwise, it is difficult to imagine why the Buddha would have endorsed it so much, or even have bothered to teach it. It appears that meditators may have to advance as far as they can in meditation, possibly with a great deal of struggling and floundering, before they reach wit's end and give up.
Some clever people may then devise a scheme like this: “All right then, I'll try as hard as I can for six months and then give up.” It does not work that way. So long as one gives up with an ulterior motive, so long as giving up is part of a plan, it is not really giving up. It is a great irony or paradox that although Nirvana is not a result of spiritual effort – Nirvana not being a result of anything – ardent spiritual practice, though ultimately futile, is, for some people at least, absolutely necessary to concentrate one's samsaric effort and determination to the breaking point, culminating in an effortless Great Surrender. But again, this surrender does not imply returning to worldly life and wallowing in it. As the texts say, the sage neither acquires nor discards; he neither favors nor rejects. Consequently, although he no longer wallows in the mire of the world, he no longer struggles against it either. The sage passively accepts the world with a wide open heart. The world, one may say, is like a snare or a thorn bush or a tar baby – flinging oneself at the thing is sure to get one stuck, yet vehemently struggling against it only gets one more stuck. Which leads to another great irony of Religion: If one is to realize Nirvana one must be whole-heartedly reconciled with Samsara. Unfortunately, this also did not sit well with the ancient Indian mind. If the old legend were more symbolically accurate, rather than sternly defying Namuci the Evil One, Gotama the Bodhisatta might have offered him a brotherly hand of friendship. “Ack!” the dogmatists say. “Blasphemy! Sacrilege!” But that is how it may be.
---written by Paññobhāsa Bhikkhu
Wun Bo Wildlife Refuge Monastery, Butalin Township, Upper Burma
28 January 2009
So, ultimately, Nirvana cannot be cultivated. It is more a matter of letting go and not doing than of doing. After all, doing is action, and action is karma, and karma is a samsaric phenomenon which naturally leads to more karma. Consequently it would seem that, since it is not a cultivated state, enlightenment could “occur,” theoretically at least, at any stage of the path of spiritual practice. It may be that some people let go more readily and quickly than others. There is some support for this notion in Buddhist tradition. Although the Cūḷa Suññata Sutta describes development of the highest attainable mental state as a preliminary to Nirvana, other suttas (for example A IX.36) assert that any jhāna may be sufficient; and the main trend of orthodox tradition endorses the idea that one can become enlightened without any attainment of jhāna at all. In fact, some reputable schools of Theravada Buddhist meditation actually discourage the cultivation of jhāna, mainly on the ground that it is unnecessary. However, jhāna may be necessary for some people. Otherwise, it is difficult to imagine why the Buddha would have endorsed it so much, or even have bothered to teach it. It appears that meditators may have to advance as far as they can in meditation, possibly with a great deal of struggling and floundering, before they reach wit's end and give up.
Some clever people may then devise a scheme like this: “All right then, I'll try as hard as I can for six months and then give up.” It does not work that way. So long as one gives up with an ulterior motive, so long as giving up is part of a plan, it is not really giving up. It is a great irony or paradox that although Nirvana is not a result of spiritual effort – Nirvana not being a result of anything – ardent spiritual practice, though ultimately futile, is, for some people at least, absolutely necessary to concentrate one's samsaric effort and determination to the breaking point, culminating in an effortless Great Surrender. But again, this surrender does not imply returning to worldly life and wallowing in it. As the texts say, the sage neither acquires nor discards; he neither favors nor rejects. Consequently, although he no longer wallows in the mire of the world, he no longer struggles against it either. The sage passively accepts the world with a wide open heart. The world, one may say, is like a snare or a thorn bush or a tar baby – flinging oneself at the thing is sure to get one stuck, yet vehemently struggling against it only gets one more stuck. Which leads to another great irony of Religion: If one is to realize Nirvana one must be whole-heartedly reconciled with Samsara. Unfortunately, this also did not sit well with the ancient Indian mind. If the old legend were more symbolically accurate, rather than sternly defying Namuci the Evil One, Gotama the Bodhisatta might have offered him a brotherly hand of friendship. “Ack!” the dogmatists say. “Blasphemy! Sacrilege!” But that is how it may be.
---written by Paññobhāsa Bhikkhu
Wun Bo Wildlife Refuge Monastery, Butalin Township, Upper Burma
28 January 2009