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Venerable Ajahn Candasiri -
Why Come to a Monastery
One
question
we all need to ask ourselves is, "Why do we come to a monastery?"
Whether we are monks, nuns, novices, lay guests or visitors, we should ask,
"Why have I come?" We need to be clear about this in order to derive
the greatest benefit from what a monastery has to offer. If we are not clear, we
can waste a lot of time doing things that may detract from the possible benefits
to be found there.
The Buddha often spoke of three
fires — three ailments — that we, as human beings, are afflicted by. These
three things keep us continually moving, never able to rest or to be completely
at ease; they are listed as greed, hatred and delusion (in Pali: lobha, dosa,
moha). He also, out of compassion, pointed out the antidote.
Actually, these fires are based
on natural instincts. For example, greed or sensual desire — the sexual drive
and the desire for food — is what allows humanity to survive. Without sexual
desire, none of us would be here now! And of course without hunger, or desire
for food, we would not be inclined to take in the nourishment we need to
maintain the body in a reasonable state of health. However, a difficulty arises
when we lose touch with what is needed or necessary, and seek sensual
gratification for its own sake.
Another kind of survival
instinct is our response to danger. Either we turn around and attack something
that is perceived as a threat to our physical survival, or we try to get away
from it. This is the basis for dosa — hatred or aversion.
Clearly, too, this has an
important place in nature, but again we have become confused and what we
frequently find ourselves defending is not so much the physical body, but the
sense of self — what we perceive ourselves to be, in relation to one another.
The third fire, which follows
on quite naturally from this, is delusion — moha; not really seeing clearly or
understanding how things are, not really understanding what it is to be a human
being. We tend to fix ourselves and each other as personalities, or ‘selves.’
But these are just ideas or concepts that we measure against other concepts of
who or what we should be.
Then, if anyone comes along and
challenges that self, it can invoke a strong reaction — we instinctively
attack, defend or try to get away from the perceived threat. Really, it’s a
kind of madness, when you think about it.
Now, as I said before, the
Buddha, having pointed out the nature of the disease, also presented the cure.
This came in the form of simple teachings, which can help us to live in a way
that enables us to understand, and thereby free ourselves from these diseases;
and also to avoid doing things that exacerbate them.
This brings me to the real
reason that we come to a monastery. We want to free our hearts from disease,
from the bonds of desire and confusion; and we recognise that what is presented
here is the possibility of bringing this about.
Of course there may be other
reasons: some people don’t really know why they have come — they just feel
attracted to the place. So what is it about the monastery that is different from
what happens outside it?... It is a place that reminds us of our aspiration and
our potential. There are lovely images, of the Buddha and his disciples which
seem to radiate a feeling of calm, ease and alertness. Also, here we find a
community of monks and nuns who have decided to live following the lifestyle
that the Buddha recommended for healing those diseases.
Having recognised that we are
sick and that we need help, we begin to see that the cure is in direct
opposition to the ways of the world. We see that if we are to cure ourselves we
need first to understand the cause of the sickness, which is desire. So we need
to understand our desires — to get, to get rid of and to exist and be a
separate self — in order to free ourselves from them. So instead of following
desires, we examine them closely.
The discipline we follow is
based on precepts, which, used wisely, can engender a sense of dignity and
self-respect. They restrain us from actions or speech which are harmful to
ourselves or others, and delineate a standard of simplicity or renunciation. We
ask, ‘What do I really need?’ rather than responding to the pressures of a
materialistic society.
But how do precepts help us to
understand these three fires? In a sense, what our monastic discipline offers is
a container within which one can observe desire as it arises.
We deliberately put ourselves
into a form which prevents us from following all our desires, in order to see
them and to notice how they change. Normally, when we are caught up in the
process of desire, there is no sense of objectivity. We tend to be totally
identified with it, so it is very difficult to see it clearly or to do anything
about it, other than be swept along with it.
So with lust or aversion, we
can recognise that these are natural energies or drives, which everyone has. We
are not saying that it’s wrong, say, to have sexual desire — or even to
follow it in appropriate circumstances — but we recognise that it is for a
particular purpose, and it will bring about a certain result.
As monks and nuns we have
decided that we do not want to have children. We also recognise that the
pleasure of gratification is very fleeting, in relation to possible longer-term
implications and responsibility. So we choose not to follow sexual desire.
However, this does not mean that we don’t experience it; that as soon as we
shave our heads and put on a robe, we immediately stop experiencing any kind of
desire.
In fact, what can happen is
that our experience of these desires is actually enhanced when we come to a
monastery. This is because in lay life we can do all kinds of things to make
ourselves feel OK — usually without really being aware of what we are doing.
Sometimes there is just a subliminal sense of dis-ease, followed by the reaching
out to get something to relieve it — always moving from one thing to the next.
In the monastery it’s not so
easy to do this any more. We deliberately tie ourselves down in order to look at
the drives, energies or desires that would normally keep us moving.
Now you might ask: But what
kind of freedom is this? — tying oneself down in a situation where one is
constantly restrained, always having to conform? Always having to behave in a
particular way; to bow in a particular way, and at particular times; to chant at
a particular speed and pitch; to sit in a particular place, beside particular
people — I’ve been sitting next to or behind Sundara for the past
umpteen years! What kind of freedom is this?
It brings freedom from the
bondage of desire. Rather than helplessly, blindly being pulled along by our
desire, we are free to choose to act in ways that are appropriate, in harmony
with those around us.
It’s important to realise
that ‘freedom from desire’ doesn’t mean ‘not having desire.’ We could
feel very guilty and really struggle if we thought like that. As I said before,
desire is part of nature, only it has been distorted as a result of our
conditioning, our upbringing, the values of society and education. We are not
going to get rid of it just like that — just because we want to, or feel that
we shouldn’t have desire; it’s actually a more subtle approach that’s
required.
The monastic form and precepts
help us to make a peaceful space around the energies of desire, so that, having
arisen, they can then burn themselves out. It is a process that takes great
humility, because first we have to acknowledge that desire is there, and that
can be very humbling. Often, particularly in monastic life, our desires can be
extremely petty; the sense of self can be bound up in something very trivial.
For example, we might have a
very strong idea about how carrots should be chopped; so if someone suggests we
do it differently we can become very agitated and defensive! So we need to be
very patient, very humble. Fortunately there are some simple reference points,
or Refuges, which can provide us with security and a sense of perspective, amid
the chaotic world of our desires.
These of course are Buddha,
Dhamma, Sangha: the Buddha, our teacher — also that within us which knows
things as they are, seeing clearly, not confused or agitated by sense
impression; the Dhamma, the Teaching or the Truth, how things actually are right
now — often quite different from our ideas about things; and Sangha — the
lineage or community of those who practise, and also our aspiration to live in
accordance with what we know to be true, rather than to follow all kinds of
confused and selfish impulses that can arise.
The Buddha gave some simple
ways of turning to these. These are called Foundations of Mindfulness.
Mindfulness of the body is one I use a great deal in my own practice. The body
can be a very good friend to us because it doesn’t think! The mind, with its
thoughts and concepts can always confuse us, but the body is very simple — we
can notice how it is at any moment. If someone acts or speaks in an intimidating
way, I can notice my instinctual reaction, which is to tense up in a defensive
attitude, and perhaps respond aggressively.
However, when I am mindful of
the process, I can choose not to react in this way. Instead of breathing in,
puffing myself up, I can concentrate on breathing out — relaxing, so that I
become a less threatening presence to the other person. If, through mindfulness,
I can let go of my defensive attitude, they too can relax rather than
perpetuating the process of reactivity. In this way, we can bring a little peace
into the world.
People visiting monasteries
often comment on the peaceful atmosphere they find there. But this is not
because everyone is feeling peaceful or experiencing bliss and happiness
continuously — they can be experiencing all kinds of things.
One said that she had
never experienced such murderous rage or such powerful feelings of lust until
she entered the Sangha! What is different in a monastery is the practice. So
whatever the monks and nuns might be going through, they are at least making the
effort to be present with it, bearing it patiently, rather than feeling that it
shouldn’t be like that, or trying to make it change.
The monastic form provides a
situation in which renunciation and constraint are the very conditions for the
arising of passionate feelings; but also there is the reassuring presence of
other samanas. When we’re really going through it, we can speak to an older,
more experienced brother or in the life, whose response is likely to be
something like, "Oh yes, don’t worry about that; it will pass. That
happened to me. It’s normal, it’s part of the process of purification. Be
patient." So we find the confidence to continue even when everything seems
to be collapsing or going crazy inside.
Coming to a monastery we find
people who are willing to look at and understand the root cause of human
ignorance, selfishness and all the abominable things that happen in the world;
people who are willing to look into their own hearts and to witness the greed
and violence that others are so ready to criticise ‘out there.’
Through experiencing and
knowing these things we learn how to make peace with them, right here in our own
hearts, in order that they may come to cessation. Then, maybe, rather than
simply reacting to the ignorance of humanity and adding to the confusion and
violence that we see around us, we are able to act and speak with wisdom and
compassion in ways that can help to bring a sense of ease and harmony among
people.
So it’s not an escape, but an
opportunity to turn around and face up to all the things we have tended to avoid
in our lives. Through calmly and courageously acknowledging things as they are,
we begin to free ourselves from the doubts, anxiety, fear, greed, hatred and all
the rest which constantly bind us into conditioned reactions.
Here, we have the support of
good friends, and a discipline and teachings to help keep us on course in what
sometimes seems like an impossible endeavour!
May we all realise true
freedom. Evam.
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