.jpg)
මුල් සිංහල වීඩියෝව සඳහා Play කරන්න
Sacred Dhamma Sermon | Ven. Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero | Nihada Arana
Homage to the Blessed One, the Worthy One, the Fully Self-Awakened One (Namo
Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Sammā Sambuddhassa).
Today, we are looking at the 13th point on the fourth page: "Speech comes only
with wisdom. Gain wisdom, and then speech will be yours." When someone merely
minds other people's cattle, they only possess borrowed knowledge. Because of
this, there is another aspect to consider. This 13th point guides us to speak
words that spring directly from our inner source. The primary challenge,
however, is that we must first discover this source. Yet, that is not where the
true difficulty lies.
An ordinary mind does not wish to see its own source. Why is it reluctant?
Because if one attempts to look at this source—the source from which our words
arise and wisdom (ñāṇa) is born—one is forced to experience complete silence
(tuṇhībhāva). One must confront that profound quietude.
Just think about it. When drawing close to that silence, when beginning to
experience it, some people start to fidget, squirm, and twist. As they approach
that inner silence, that inner wisdom, it becomes overwhelming. Some people cry,
some get terrified, others feel restless, and some even contemplate giving up
meditation (bhāvanā) altogether. There is something deep within us that makes us
deeply afraid of this source—the source of our wisdom and speech. It is an
unfathomable, immense fear, and we constantly try to avoid it. This is why it is
said: do not try to speak words before they emerge from that source.
For if we speak before that, we are often merely trying to cover up an inner
emptiness or trying to avoid feeling our true self. We tend to speak a lot. But
observe closely: this is not an invitation to stop speaking altogether. Do
speak, but wait until it comes from the source. Wait until it arises from the
silence. To put it another way, wait for it to emerge from that deep quietude;
do not rush ahead of it. Speaking before that point risks masking the silence.
Even if we call such actions altruism or service to others, they are actually
done out of fear.
Because it is out of fear—fear of my own inner silence—that I talk so much, do
so many things, and engage in so much activity. Yet, no matter how active I am,
those around me may find their burdens growing heavier. Why? Because I have
nothing genuine within me to share with them. This is why it is beautifully said
here, before attempting to perform altruistic service: "Until you have
established a firm foundation within yourself, you cannot truly help others." If
there is nothing within me to give, if inner spiritual strength has not
accumulated, think about it: people might listen to you for a short while, but
eventually, they will see that you are not practical. They will realize you lack
real practice.
When people associate closely with you, they realize that although you speak
beautifully—even more eloquently than a teacher—your words do not reflect your
life. You lack practical application. There is no inner realization reflected in
your behavior. You might speak of the path to liberation (vimutti-magga) and
discuss its most subtle points, making listeners marvel. But look at musicians,
for example. We often say, "Do not get too close to them; just listen to their
songs." When they sing, they touch some sublime place, but if we enter their
personal lives, we might find them in total disarray—perhaps drinking or using
substances. I do not mean everyone, but for many, that sublimity does not exist
in their daily lives. It is not that they are lying; when they write or perform
a song, they do enter a certain state of silence. They touch a moment of
quietude. However, a musician is not a sage (muni). For a sage, that silence is
their very being; it is constant quietude. The others only touch that silence
for a brief duration to create. If we try to live with them, we become
disillusioned, realizing they lack practical application.
We say, "They do not practice what they preach." They only enter that vibe when
delivering a sermon, or that mood when singing a song. We mistake that for their
actual life, but it is not. Sometimes, when certain people speak, it is so
impartial and profound that it feels as though even a Buddha statue would nod in
agreement. Their explanations are so clear that just being near them and
listening seems to resolve all problems. Yet, when the very same problem affects
them personally, they react worse than anyone else. That is the issue. They
might have given me a beautiful solution, telling me to think neutrally when
insulted, but when they face insult themselves, they dance in anger and squirm
in distress. Only then does the person close to them realize how impractical it
all is. It would be better to remain neutral toward the problem. As long as a
problem is not mine, my answer remains highly philosophical. But when the
problem becomes mine, and others see how I struggle, no trust can be built in
anyone's heart thereafter. Even though they spoke so much, those words did not
spring from their own source. Perhaps a fraction came from the source at that
moment, but it has not yet become their life.
Therefore, what is being said here is this: it is good to guide another person,
and it is not wrong to alleviate someone else's suffering. But look within: do
you truly have something of substance to give them? Or are you merely a talker,
a mere preacher? Is there real essence in your life, or are you just someone who
can speak on a stage? When given a topic, do you merely gather facts and analyze
them? This is the invitation this sentence extends to us. Examine this, because
your excessive talking might simply stem from an inability to be with yourself.
It could be your inability to remain in silence with your own being. Because you
cannot stay in your own quietude, you might go about unnecessarily advising
others, stepping in to offer unsolicited help. Sometimes we intrude, offering
services without being asked. It is then we must look closely: am I doing this
because I have nothing genuine to give, or am I projecting my own inner
loneliness and pain? If I act out of pain, then even if I try to heal their
minds, they will eventually feel the weight of my own burden. What is inside me
will eventually seep into their lives.
No matter how profound the topics I discuss, the transmission depends on the
degree to which my own consciousness (viññāṇa) has settled into the peace of
liberation (Nibbāna). It is from that place of stillness that the transmission
occurs, not through mere words. My life itself is what is being transmitted to
you. Gradually, it is my actual state of being that is shared, not the words.
Understand this well. Sometimes, great teachers do not speak of deep things at
all. They might just crack a joke, or simply clear weeds and walk around with
their disciples without speaking a single word. Yet, through that very presence
and connection, a transmission takes place. The student does not understand how,
and no profound teachings were spoken, yet their heart undergoes a
transformation. They begin to transform without even realizing it is not
something caused by words. Although words are used as a medium, what is
transmitted is the spiritual level to which consciousness has evolved.
We see this clearly: when some people speak of grand theories, we feel a heavy
burden just being near them. We might hear deep things, but we sense a lack of
lightness and genuine compassion (karuṇā) in their speech. Conversely, some do
not speak of complex matters; they talk of simple things. Yet, somehow, a deep
respect arises in our hearts. Our inner being is filled with a warm,
affectionate, and reverent quietude, and we do not understand how it happens,
for they only spoke simple words. Even in the Sacred Texts (Tipiṭaka), the
Buddha's words are straightforward. The Four Noble Truths (Caturāriya Sacca) do
not consist of overly complex ideas; they are simple enough to be shown on one's
fingers. They can be conveyed with basic hand gestures. They are very simple
words. It was only later that they were expanded into complex theories, like the
Higher Doctrine (Abhidhamma). Initially, the Buddha spoke in a few simple words,
but His silence (tuṇhībhāva) and inner peace were transmitted through them.
Those who can sense that silence begin to undergo a profound transformation.
Therefore, merely reciting words is of no use. Are you truly connected to the
source required to transform another person? Are you aligned with the source,
the root, and the center of existence? Your words must emerge from there. When
you speak from that space, even if you were to utter a harsh word, that very
word would lead the listener into silence, because the place from which those
words arise is different. They originate from the source, from silence, and from
the ultimate origin. That is why such words possess a healing power and the
strength to quieten us. When an ordinary person utters the words of a Buddha,
they lack power, but when a Buddha speaks them, they carry a distinct power.
This is because those words do not spring from an ego (asmitā); they arise from
absolute truth and the source itself. Words born of truth possess that inherent
power and immense energy. If someone else repeats the exact same words, that
energy is absent. Although the words are identical, the transmission depends on
the state of the speaker. The listener perceives the words through the
realization and view (diṭṭhi) of the speaker. This is what this teaching tries
to convey.
Consider this: before you attempt to give something to others, ensure you have
accumulated the necessary spiritual strength within yourself. Otherwise, you
will have nothing genuine to offer; you will merely be talking. You might speak
for hours, or even for years, yet no transformation will occur because you are
only transmitting intellectual knowledge without having anything of substance to
give. This is why we must examine whether our excessive talking is driven by our
own inner fear—a fear of going inward. I will share a brief story from Osho to
illustrate this.
Osho relates a story of two women who came to him expressing a desire to
meditate (bhāvanā). He informed them of an upcoming meditation retreat and
invited them to join the next day. One of the women explained that she had to
complete a commitment first and would return for a later retreat. When asked
about her situation, she said she had been teaching a tribal community for
thirty years. She had resigned from her position as a university professor to
teach this tribe, and this was her final year. She felt very busy but still
wanted to learn meditation.
Osho, who had also been a university teacher, asked her to reflect on
universities. He pointed out that after years of teaching in universities, we
see students engaging in protests, conflicts, and destructive behavior. He asked
if she realized what kind of selfish and aggressive individuals are produced by
modern education. In contrast, the tribal people she was teaching were not
naturally selfish. By imparting university knowledge to them, was she not simply
turning those peaceful people into selfish agitators? Modern education has not
truly benefited existence; it has created destructive minds, nuclear weapons,
and bomb-makers. What did it preserve in nature?
Modern education merely stuffs the mind with theories and concepts, destroying a
human being's natural instincts and their sensitivity to nature. Osho suggested
that for thirty years, her busy efforts might have actually corrupted those
tribal people, who otherwise lived freely in harmony with nature without
destroying it. We see this even today when we try to integrate indigenous
communities into modern education systems; they lived perfectly well in nature,
yet we stuff their minds with modern distractions. Modern society is fraught
with complications. The woman agreed that there was truth in Osho's words, yet
she insisted on returning to finish her work. We often do not know whether our
actions are truly beneficial or harmful; we are simply driven by a desire to
keep ourselves busy, without knowing if our busyness serves any real purpose.
The second woman then spoke up, saying she also had to leave because she was
building a hospital for the tribal community, as they did not have one. She
needed to oversee the final stages of construction. Osho asked her to consider:
are there more sick people in areas with hospitals or in areas without them? In
truth, where there are no modern hospitals, illnesses are often fewer. It is not
that people never fall ill—the physical body is inherently subject to
disease—but notice how illnesses seem to multiply as hospitals are built
closer and closer to communities. Eventually, private hospitals emerge, and the
cycle of endless tests and treatments begins, never allowing the body to heal
naturally. Previously, people had fewer illnesses and relied on simple remedies
from nature, using leaves and trees. Yet, once a hospital is built, people start
lining up. We become enslaved to modern facilities. In the past, when modern
machines did not exist, people managed all their household work using simple
tools like the mortar and pestle or grinding stones, and they lived without
issue.
My purpose in sharing this story is to highlight what Osho was pointing out:
despite these realizations, those women were still reluctant to enter the
meditation retreat. They preferred their busy lives. Coming to a retreat means
staying in silence with oneself for seven days, putting away one's phone. Even
when people have the time, how many are truly willing to remain in absolute
silence? We are deeply afraid of being quiet. Instead, we trick ourselves into
believing that being constantly busy is a sign of doing something grand.
Look at how some of us boast, saying, "I am so busy!" But in truth, this only
shows that one is a slave. To pride oneself on this busyness means boasting
about one's own bondage. A person does not have even a single minute to just sit
and be with themselves. They have become such slaves. It is remarkable how we
highly value and assign so much worth to this complete lack of time to spend
with ourselves.
We place a strange value on it. This is how our mind operates. We actually like
it because society highly values busyness and active engagement. Those who do a
great deal of work for the world are highly praised. Yet, look closely: in
reality, such a person has nothing of substance to offer those tribal people.
They simply go there, hand over unnecessary things, create more problems, turn
those people into slaves of modern needs, and return. That is all they do.
Therefore, observe this carefully. This is why it is taught that first, you must
go within. But to go within, you need quiet leisure. You must step away slightly
from your busy life. Allow yourself to just exist with yourself. Think about it:
how many minutes a day do you actually spend simply sitting in the garden you
built? Aside from going there to water the plants or apply fertilizer, do you
ever just sit in your garden and allow yourself to live? Have you ever spent
even a few minutes just being there? It rarely happens.
So what kind of life is this? None of us are truly living. We do not need all
this endless busyness. Go within and connect with your source. Nisargadatta
Maharaj tells us that we can perform work, but we must understand that not a
single one of these actions constitutes our true nature (sabhāva). When driving,
we play that role. When preaching, we play the role of the preacher.
Yet, realize that none of these roles are permanent. Just as we wear one set of
clothes to a temple and another to a wedding, these roles are merely garments we
put on relative to the task at hand. None of them represent our true form.
Nisargadatta Maharaj asks us to at least remember this: this is not our true
nature (sabhāva); it is merely a temporary garment worn for the moment. He
guides us to perform all our actions from a place of changeless awareness
(sati), from the still state of the present moment (paccuppanna). When
established in that stillness, we no longer attempt to define our identity
through our actions.
Then, we must ask: what does it mean to realize oneself? What does it mean to
find our source? This book teaches us to speak the words that arise from that
very source, our origin, our true nature (sabhāva). To do this, we must journey
back to our root. As we discussed this morning during the review of meditation
subjects (kammaṭṭhāna), we cannot reach our source if we carry heavy mental
burdens.
First, we must become completely light. If we are weighed down, we cannot make
this journey. Why do we speak of returning to our source? Understand clearly: we
are not going there to achieve or realize anything new. In the spiritual life,
there is nothing new to acquire. Remember this well: throughout this entire
journey, it is only craving (taṇhā) that seeks to acquire something. We do not
practice meditation (bhāvanā) to obtain anything, because there is nothing to be
obtained. What truly belongs to you is already there, exactly as it is. It is
not something you need to acquire anew.
Therefore, we must understand that we can never "attain" the truth (sacca). We
can never "realize" the truth as an external object, because the truth is
already here, within us. If truth were something we could acquire through
effort, it could also be stolen from us one day. Since it would be something
gained, we could forget it, lose it, or have it taken away. But understand that
our true nature (sabhāva) is not something we acquire. We cannot even say we
"became" that state; saying we became it makes it sound as if we moved from one
place and fell into another.
Whether we think about it or not, that truth (sacca) is already present. The
spiritual journey is simply the cessation of our running. We have been running
to acquire the truth, to achieve something; when that running stops, you are
right here, in your natural state. Therefore, we must first understand that we
do not practice meditation (bhāvanā) to escape from anything or to acquire
something. There is nothing to acquire.
If there were something to acquire, there would have to be a separate individual
here to receive it. If the very notion of a "person" or a "self" is an illusion
(māyā), who is there to receive anything? If the concept of a separate self is a
delusion, born of ignorance (avijjā), how can such an entity ever realize,
attain, or receive anything? It is impossible, because that separate "self" does
not exist in reality. It is non-self (anattā); there is no permanent soul.
This is why we say that we are never seeking to acquire anything in this
practice. Establishing mindfulness (sati) does not grant you something new.
Through meditation (bhāvanā), mindfulness simply reminds you of who you already
are. It reminds you that you are already there, and that you do not require any
external knowledge. It shows you that you yourself are the source.
Once we understand this, we feel incredibly light when we meditate (bhāvanā). We
are not sitting to gain anything; we are completely relaxed. There is no
competition, no anxiety about whether we will achieve our goal. There is nothing
to be sad about. We simply sit in relaxation and experience the lightness of
each moment. As we discussed this morning, we do not search for liberation
(Nibbāna) through meditation; the very act of meditation is Nibbāna. Sitting
itself is Nibbāna. Walking (caṅkamana) itself is Nibbāna. We do not strive to
move forward or search for anything; we simply remain with this lightness, never
attempting to control anything.
Now, let us look at what we discussed during the review of meditation subjects
(kammaṭṭhāna) this morning, and approach our topic through that. A nun mentioned
during the review that when she turned her attention inward, she felt a cool
sensation as the breath entered, and a warm sensation at the edge of her
nostrils as the breath went out.
Observe this closely. When we remain mindful (sati-mat) in this manner, we begin
to recognize the specific characteristics of the object. These specific
characteristics are what we mentioned: the cool sensation during inhalation and
the warmth during exhalation. As we watch this closely and settle deeply into
that awareness, after some time, the distinction between the coldness and the
warmth begins to dissolve.
In our earlier meditation (bhāvanā), we experienced many specific
characteristics: the features of inhalation and exhalation, the rising and
falling, bodily sensations, and pain in the legs. But if you observe closely and
draw near to them, these specific characteristics begin to fade away. Trying to
look for them again with effort becomes a strain. Once they have naturally run
their course, searching for them with deliberate effort is simply exhausting. It
is like touching your nose; if you can touch it directly, there is no need to
wrap your arm all the way around your head to do so. In the same way, as time
passes, there is no need to search for anything with difficulty. You simply sit
and remain in that natural, effortless state of present-moment awareness. The
feeling of "I am, I exist" is there, but you can no longer distinguish separate,
isolated sensations.
As you continue to meditate (bhāvanā), you find that you can no longer perceive
things as separate. Everything is felt as a whole. You are aware of the sound of
the fan, the pain in your leg, and the thoughts passing through; nothing has
disappeared. However, because they are felt together as a single whole, the
suffering (dukkha) that arose when they were felt separately is no longer there.
The leg pain is still present—as the nun mentioned during her interview—but when
it is experienced simply as a state of awareness itself, it is no longer
perceived as "Oh, this is too difficult for me." It is not felt as something
happening to a "self." When pain is felt merely as the nature of awareness, as
the nature of mindfulness (sati), the solid sense of identity—which previously
cried, "I am in pain, I cannot bear this, I must stand up, I must leave"—begins
to dissolve.
As that solid sense of self dissolves, the practitioner (yogāvacara) does not
consciously think, "I have no self." No one realizes "I do not exist" in that
literal way. Instead, they find that their capacity to bear experiences has
greatly increased. They can endure anything because the inner awareness can hold
it. Consider this: an object that is heavy on the ground floats effortlessly in
the sky. A massive airplane flies through the air, and the vast sky holds it up
without any physical support. If you brought that plane to the ground and placed
it on a table, the table would collapse. Yet the empty sky holds it
effortlessly. Similarly, as meditation progresses and awareness becomes
powerful, the practitioner begins to realize that the heavy thoughts within are
like that plane in the sky. Their heavy nature is dissolved by that vast
awareness. Everything is still felt, but no weight is experienced. Problems and
difficulties remain, but one does not collapse mentally. The "self" no longer
experiences it as a heavy oppression because as awareness expands like space,
the solid sense of a separate "self" fades away.
Observe this carefully. Once that solidity dissolves, you begin to experience
the spacious quality between objects more than the objects themselves. That
spacious nature begins to expand. When we look at the night sky, we initially
notice the stars and the moon. Yet, if we look closely, the space is vastly
greater than the stars. We simply did not notice it because our attention was
fixed only on the physical objects. Consider this hall: the space in this hall
is far greater than the objects within it. If we compare the physical objects to
the empty space, the objects might only occupy about ten percent of the hall.
The rest is space. You and I can sit here only because this space exists. If
there were no space, we would not even be able to sit down.
In the same way, as your inner awareness grows stronger, you begin to perceive
that spaciousness more than the objects. The objects are still perceived, but it
is the space element (ākāsa-dhātu) that is felt dominantly. In the space
element, there is none of the pressure, heat, or vibration characteristic of the
earth (paṭhavī-dhātu), water (āpo-dhātu), fire (tejo-dhātu), or wind
(vāyo-dhātu) elements. The space element has no sign, shape, or form by which
we can define it. Those other elements were felt intensely as vibrations and
pressure. However, as mindfulness (sati) is established on the elements and
transitions through them into the space element, all signs and shapes disappear.
You lose the sense of how much time has passed. Even if you observe the pain in
the body, it gradually fades away. All of that weight begins to lift. You might
sit for an hour or an hour and a half, but you do not know how the time went.
The sense of time vanishes because the space element has become dominant.
Once you reach this level in meditation (bhāvanā), you gain a genuine glimpse of
mindfulness (sati). A person who has reached this stage actually has something
real to share with others. Yet, the paradox is: once you reach that
spaciousness, what is there left to talk about? We might have come here from
home intending to learn steps one, two, three, four, and five from the teacher
to teach others. But upon connecting with the space element, perhaps by the
second or third day, we find ourselves entering that spaciousness the moment we
sit. From that point onward, we are left with nothing to say.
It is then that people ask, "Even if I do not practice it, can you not at least
teach me the next steps so I can share them with others back home? We came here
to learn the path beautifully from step one to step ten." In the end, both the
first step and the tenth step disappear. One remains in that same spaciousness
for years, moving neither forward nor backward. This can be highly unsettling
for us, as we find ourselves unable to explain it to others.
But understand that we feel afraid. We think, "What will I say if I have to give
a sermon? I do not know anything." If someone asks for a practical, step-by-step
method, there is nothing to say. There are no steps, no path to describe. That
is the next difficulty we face. We came hoping to learn steps one, two, three,
and four from the teacher, practice them, and proceed to the next. But upon
reaching this point, there are no further steps, and the teacher does not
prescribe any. We do not perceive any steps either.
Then we begin to wonder, "Have I made a mistake? Am I stuck somewhere?"
Meditation (bhāvanā) progressed rapidly up to a certain point, but beyond that,
there seems to be nothing. This is very difficult for the mind to accept,
because the mind constantly demands to know the next step. Yet, there is no next
step. Simply allow that spacious nature to expand. Throughout the day, whether
walking, working, or performing daily activities, let your entire life be filled
with that spacious quality. Let it truly fill you.
What must we do? We must do nothing. We do not need to do anything at all. The
very attempt to do something is the obstacle beyond this point. If you try to
analyze or think, that itself becomes an unnecessary barrier. Once you reach
this state, you can no longer perform "preaching miracles" because if asked, you
have no structured path to describe. Gradually, even the knowledge you once
possessed slips away.
In the past, there was so much to say—step-by-step methods and defined paths.
Now, if someone asks for the path, I do not know where to begin. Some say,
"Please explain it step-by-step, Venerable Sir," but what is there to teach?
What do I know? I know nothing. That is the reality. We do not have any
pre-planned programs within us. The interior has become like empty space,
completely vacant.
Ultimately, we lose the ability to measure anything. In the past, we could
evaluate and measure. Now, there is no point of reference. There is no place to
mark whether one is a woman or a man, or where one stands. There is no basis for
measurement. Conceit (māna) no longer has an address. We love to think, "I have
reached a high spiritual state." But what is there to show in this empty space?
There is nothing black or white to display. There is no room even for conceit.
On one hand, I have no plan for a sermon until the words actually arise. I do
not know what will come. The mind, which prefers to be prepared, becomes fearful
because it lacks certainty. We do not know the source. We are told that words
exist within the source, but if we are asked, "What do you know?", we genuinely
do not know. After spending years here, the teacher has stripped away all that I
knew. Before coming here, I knew many things. But after two or three years, he
rendered all that knowledge hollow, pointing out that it was relative, a mere
illusion. He cleared away all that I knew.
If you had asked me about three years ago, I would have had a great deal to tell
you. Now, there is nothing to say. If someone asks, "Venerable Sir, please tell
us the next step in meditation," what can I say? I might say, "Let me ask the
teacher." I go and seek guidance, but even today, he points to the same place.
He does not give a next step. It feels as though we are being kept in the exact
same spot. There is no process where one step is given today and the next step
the following day. There is no such path.
Yet, our mind insists, "No, even if he does not say it, there must be a next
step." The mind constantly believes there is a next step hidden somewhere. There
is no such thing. There is nothing other than the deepening of that
spaciousness, the growth of that silence (tuṇhībhāva). It is not a matter of
moving from step to step, but of deepening into silence, which dissolves our
accumulated knowledge. As silence becomes complete, all our doubts are cast
away, and a deep faith (saddhā) and devotion toward that silence arise.
Ultimately, if you are asked what it is you believe in, the answer is simply:
silence.
My belief, my Dhamma (dhamma), my discipline (vinaya), my faith, and my devotion
lie solely in that silence. Previously, I doubted this silence. We used to
wonder, "Where is dependent origination (paṭiccasamuppāda) in this silence?
Where are the three marks of existence (tilakkhaṇa) in this silence? Can one
really attain liberation (Nibbāna) just by remaining in this silence?" We had so
much doubt. Although our heart intuitively trusted this inner emptiness, our
mind did not. The mind said, "No, go search further. There must be some other
deep teaching. Keep looking, you are not in the right place yet." And so, we ran
here and there, searching endlessly, rejecting the Dhamma of our own heart. Yet,
in its simplicity, the heart had always revered and held devotion toward this
silence.
But the mind is nothing but doubt. It is constantly doubting, just as we
discussed this morning—comparing this and that, much like how when someone has
hair we think of love in one way, and if they are bald we think of it in
another. Gradually, however, devotion toward this silence begins to grow. Trust
begins to establish itself. Trust, in this sense, means falling in love with it.
You become affectionate toward it, and you finally stop. There is no more doubt.
You no longer feel the need to accumulate further facts. If we listen to a
sermon now, we do so simply because someone is speaking about this silence
beyond the physical body. But we do not listen to grasp intellectual facts
anymore. We listen to it much like we enjoy a favorite song when someone sings
it.
We simply enjoy it; we do not try to extract structured theories from the
sermon. In fact, that sermon is who you are. You feel that the teacher is
speaking about you, reading your own inner state. You are simply listening to a
discourse about yourself, and it brings great joy. You think, "Ah, this is what
was within me all along, yet I kept it covered." By searching for the Dhamma
(dhamma) externally, we ended up hiding the true Dhamma from ourselves all this
time. Ultimately, that is what happens—when we let go of the external Dhamma, we
finally discover the real Dhamma. Once you reach that point, profound faith
(saddhā), love, and devotion arise.
There is no conflict now. The restless urge to seek the next step, to collect
more facts and accumulate more knowledge to fill ourselves up, completely
disappears. This search is driven by a deep craving (taṇhā). Even if sensual
craving (kāma-taṇhā) is subdued, one of the ten armies of Mara (dasa-māra-senā)
is the craving for seeking and researching (pariyeṣana-taṇhā). In the
traditional list, the first is sensual desire, the second is discontent, the
third is hunger and thirst, and the fourth is craving.
If we do not fill our lives with sensual pleasures, we try to fill them with the
craving for seeking and researching (pariyeṣana-taṇhā). This is a formidable
force, the fourth in the ten armies of Mara (dasa-māra-senā). When the Buddha
conquered the armies of Mara, this fourth army was not sensual pleasure itself,
but craving (taṇhā) in this form. We have a powerful habit of constantly
comparing and researching out of this craving. Now, however, this seeking
craving begins to fade. It was because of this inner craving (taṇhā) that we
were so afraid of our inner silence.
As I mentioned earlier, when some people approach this silence, they start to
squirm, twist, and feel physical pain. They have a profound, unconscious fear of
going deep within. But gradually, we lose that fear and allow ourselves to enter
that complete quietude. Consider the disciples who sat with the Buddha; on some
nights, the Buddha would transmit the Dhamma (dhamma) until dawn without
uttering a single word. The monks simply sat and dwelled in that silence.
They appreciated and dwelled in the silence emanating from the Buddha's inner
being. On one such occasion, the Venerable Ānanda said, "Venerable Sir, please
speak." Yet, the Buddha remained in silent meditation until dawn. When morning
came, the Buddha said, "Ānanda, your mind has not yet settled into such deep
silence; you have not yet attained the imperturbable concentration
(āneñja-samādhi). That is why you do not understand. I have been ministering
to the Sangha (saṅgha) through silence the entire night." Those monks had
entered that same level of deep inner silence. They had dissolved into that
absolute quietude and understood it. The Buddha said, "Ānanda, though you did
not perceive it, I was ministering to these bhikkhus all night, and they felt
it."
Therefore, they understood it. Ānanda, although you could not perceive it, I
have been ministering to these bhikkhus until dawn, and they were fully aware of
this communion. Look at the life of Jesus as well. Sometimes he would not speak;
he would simply look at people with silent eyes. In the story of Simon the
fisherman, Simon says, "Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man." Why did he
say that? It was because the silence in that look, the deep quietude of Jesus'
gaze, fell upon Simon.
Simon said, "Lord, depart from me, for I am a sinner. I am not worthy of this
Kingdom of Heaven that you wish to show me." He was bound by his self-concept of
being a sinner. But that gaze melted those conceptual boundaries. He dissolved
into that silence. This silence is the source. The source of Jesus is identical
to the source of Simon. However, Simon was trapped within the conceptual
frameworks and structures he had built around himself. The moment he was touched
by that silent gaze, everything dissolved, and he was united with that profound
silence.
This is the point I am trying to emphasize: we must experience at least a
fraction of this silence. If we have not touched even a drop of this inner
quietude, what do we really have to share with others? We would only be sharing
borrowed information, along with the pride, conceit (māna), rigidity, and doubt
that accompany such academic knowledge. We would only have our intellectual
pride to distribute. What else is there to offer? Nothing at all.
What else is there to share? There is nothing. That is why this teaching urges
us to enter this silence and quietude as much as possible. It is like when Jesus
told Simon, "From now on, you will not catch fish; you will catch men." Catching
men does not mean capturing them by force. It means that from this day forward,
people will begin to feel your presence. They will be touched by you because you
have touched that silence and connected with your own inner quieture. Through
the gaze of the noble friend (kalyāṇa-mitta), you realized this truth. Do not
imagine the Kingdom of Heaven as seeing bright yellow or red lights. It cannot
be put into words.
That is the reality. Only someone who has realized this silence can comprehend
it. Even then, they find no words or language to describe it, because this state
cannot be defined by color, shape, sign, manner, or form. Yet, if someone who
has realized this quietude simply walks up to another person, even without
preaching a single sermon, their silent presence will bring peace to that
person. It will naturally draw the other person closer to their own inner
source.
Their very existence becomes a living book of Dhamma (dhamma). This does not
mean they merely speak about the teachings; rather, their actual presence is a
manifestation of the truth. It is like a miracle. Their entire life has become
the truth. For them, life itself is liberation (Nibbāna), not just something
they touch briefly when speaking. There is absolutely no contradiction between
their words and their life. Observing how they live is identical to listening to
their words. Their words are their life.
When you go near a sage (muni), you realize there is no contradiction whatsoever
between their words and their actions. There is no room for doubt. They do not
preach selflessness with their words while harboring selfishness in their
personal life. They do not speak of liberation (mokṣa) on stage while
maintaining a contradictory private life. Their life is completely open; it is
exactly as it appears. If there is a particular struggle or weakness, they admit
it openly, saying, "This is what I am dealing with at the moment." They do not
hide anything.
Indeed, this is the defining characteristic of a Stream-enterer (sotāpanna). The
Buddha stated: Abhabbo diṭṭhipadassa paṭicchādāya—one who has attained the path
is incapable of concealing their moral faults. I am reminding you of what we
discussed this morning. Such a person does not lead a double life. Everything is
open, transparent, and completely visible; they never try to conceal their true
self. They do not do this out of pride or arrogance, but rather, they do not
hide even their weaknesses. They acknowledge their shortcomings from a pure,
innocent desire to correct them.
They humbly admit, "Yes, this is a weakness in me, and I will do my best to
correct it." In contrast, many people cannot bear to expose their weaknesses.
They defensively argue, "I spend my own money, this is my freedom!" Even
teachers avoid getting close to such defensive individuals because they carry
immense pride, saying, "This is just my way. Why are you pointing fingers at
me?" They remain very rigid. A true noble friend (kalyāṇa-mitta) will never
fight or argue with such a person. They will simply step back, thinking, "If
that is your path, so be it. This is my path."
If someone insists on maintaining that pride and protecting their ego, a teacher
will not even bother to tell them, "Do not lead a double life." They are not yet
ready to receive such advice. They have not developed the maturity required to
hear a word of correction from a noble friend (kalyāṇa-mitta). The noble friend
will simply remain silent. Although they see the double life, they choose to say
nothing. This is because the proud person's ego is not yet ready to become
humble and open.
Observe this carefully. If we wish to draw close to our inner source, to our
truth, we must possess an authentic and sincere heart. One must have the
qualities of a Stream-enterer (sotāpanna), being completely open about one's
faults. Otherwise, no matter where we go, others will intuitively sense that
something is amiss. Even when we speak, our words will lack the power of truth.
We may repeat the Dhamma (dhamma) beautifully, but our words will not resonate
with strength. This is because our words and our actual life are divided and
hidden in a double standard.
Think of how we feel when someone is completely open and genuine with us. But
once they begin to live a double life, their inner light fades away. The
radiant, peaceful, and blessed quality of their presence is lost. Instead,
cunningness, rigidity, and a hardened attitude of indifference towards others
begin to manifest. These negative qualities show even in their facial
expressions and bodily gestures.
This is why we must make every effort to return to the source. I believe that
only an authentic, sincere, and truthful heart can reach this source. One must
possess that genuine openness characteristic of a Stream-enterer (sotāpanna).
Mistakes may still happen, but there is complete transparency. Once you truly
reach the source, words are no longer even necessary; your very life becomes a
mirror for others.
This is the great wonder of existence. When a person becomes truly authentic,
miracles begin to unfold in their life. However, do not practice authenticity
with the expectation of receiving worldly gains. Yet, when the heart is
genuinely sincere, blessings naturally flow into one's life. Sometimes, they
only need to sit quietly, and everything they require comes to them. This is
what we refer to as spiritual grace or the power of merit (puñña). A pure and
innocent heart carries immense energy.
Returning to the point I was discussing: when we are genuinely authentic, those
who appreciate the truth will naturally be drawn to us, much like bees are drawn
to the scent of a flower. We cannot predict how that fragrance spreads. When a
flower blooms, its scent cannot be contained. If a product is of high quality,
it does not require aggressive marketing. Consider how cheap goods are heavily
advertised, whereas high-quality goods require very little marketing, yet people
seek them out. Cheap products often have highly decorated packaging but stop
working within a day or two. On the other hand, genuine, high-quality products
may not look overly decorated, but they are durable and reliable.
When a product is of poor quality, one must spend a great deal of effort
polishing the exterior. Similarly, if a person is poor, when guests are about to
arrive, they might borrow chairs and items from neighbors to put on a show of
wealth. But a truly wealthy person lives simply, exactly as they are. They do
not need to show off because they are secure in their wealth. In the same way,
when we touch the truth (sacca), all our restlessness and struggles stop,
because there is no longer any need to show off. The best establishments do not
need to advertise; the visitors themselves share their experiences and recommend
them to others.
That is exactly what happens. If I have nothing of substance within me, I will
struggle intensely to show off. When we have not tasted the quietude of
awareness, we feel compelled to pretend that we have. We try to put on a grand
show of spiritual realization. But when we truly taste that silence, we
naturally enter a state of deep quietude. If words are spoken, they arise from
that source, not from the ego. Day by day, we dissolve further into that silence
until the sense of "I" is no longer found. It is a miracle of awareness, not our
personal achievement.
That miracle is the voice of silence itself; it is a sound arising from within
absolute quietude. This voice has the power to lead everyone who listens to it
back into silence. It carries immense energy because it originates from the
source. The stream of words flowing from that source naturally quietens the
minds of all who listen, leaving them deeply stilled and peaceful.
Although we use ordinary words, the impact is profound. We do not need to use
complex terminology such as consciousness (viññāṇa), mind-and-matter
(nāma-rūpa), dependent origination (paṭiccasamuppāda), mind-moments
(cittakkhaṇa), or mental factors (cetasika). Even though the words are simple,
they carry an indefinable, comforting power. That is the power of silence. The
energy and peacefulness of that inner quietude are embedded in the words
themselves. That is why they resonate so deeply within us, bringing our restless
minds to a complete halt.
Let me guide this discourse in a slightly different direction. Sometimes, when
we lack genuine spiritual attainment, we might still believe we possess it
because of how other people view us and praise us. When people constantly
compliment our spiritual progress, we can easily deceive ourselves into
believing we possess real spiritual strength. This is not always a case of
deliberate cunning. This is precisely what happened to Bāhiya Dārucīriya.
Originally, he had no deep spiritual realization or any profound experience of
mindfulness (sati).
He had not realized or attained anything of the sort. He was simply a merchant.
When his ship wrecked at sea, he was washed ashore, completely stripped of his
clothing. He made a temporary garment out of leaves from the surrounding trees
and went among the people. Seeing him without shoes and clothed only in leaves,
the people assumed he was a great ascetic or a highly advanced yogi. They began
to praise him, marveled at his silent gaze, and spoke highly of the serene way
he walked.
Eventually, Bāhiya himself began to think, "Perhaps I really am an enlightened
being who has realized the truth." This is because people kept saying, "Ah,
hearing his words did this to me," or "Seeing him brings such peace." When we
are praised in this manner, we easily accept the role and put on the garb of a
sage. Fortunately, a deity who had been his relative in a past life intervened.
The deity said, "Bāhiya, although you believe you are a Worthy One (arahant),
you do not even know what liberation (Nibbāna) is, even theoretically. You do
not understand the path to Nibbāna, let alone the way to practice it."
Upon hearing this, Bāhiya Dārucīriya asked, "If you say that I do not understand
liberation (Nibbāna) or the path to Nibbāna, then please tell me: who does? For
I truly do not know."
"However, there is a Teacher (satthā) who knows this—a fully awakened Buddha
(sammā-sambuddha) has appeared in the world." Yet, consider Bāhiya Dārucīriya.
He possessed genuine humility. Although he had assumed he was highly advanced
spiritually because of what others said, he was not tightly attached to that
view (diṭṭhi). If he had been dogmatic, he would never have gone in search of
the Buddha. Instead, he went to find Him.
He went in search of the Buddha. When he arrived, he was told that the Buddha
had gone to the city of Sāvatthī for His alms round (piṇḍapāta). Bāhiya went
straight to the path where the Buddha was walking, approached Him, and pleaded,
"Venerable Sir, I need to know the Dhamma (dhamma)." But Bāhiya was told, "Now
is not the time to preach." The Buddha does not deliver discourses while on His
alms round (piṇḍapāta); He does not speak a single word during that time.
If one speaks during the alms round, it is as if the Dhamma (dhamma) is being
used as a tool to obtain food. It appears unseemly, as though one is utilizing
the Dhamma simply to secure the four requisites (catu-paccaya). It is improper
to use the place of spiritual practice merely to secure physical sustenance.
This is precisely why the Dhamma is never preached during the alms round. If it
were, the Dhamma could be exploited to obtain better food and material gifts.
This would make our hearts calculating, cunning, and superficial. We would be
using the Dhamma merely for our material survival, using it as a cover to
acquire the four requisites. It would be akin to a form of spiritual begging.
Therefore, no Dhamma is preached during the alms round.
The Buddha explained, "I cannot teach the Dhamma (dhamma) now, as I am on my
alms round (piṇḍapāta)." But Bāhiya, feeling a sense of extreme urgency, pleaded
a second time, "Venerable Sir, if I were to pass away before you finish your
alms round, how would I ever know the truth? Please, teach me briefly. I do not
need a long, detailed discourse. Just explain the path to liberation
(vimutti-magga) to me in short."
In response, the Buddha said, "Bāhiya, train yourself so that in the seen, there
is only the seen (diṭṭhe diṭṭhamattaṃ bhavissati)." What a beautiful teaching.
"In the heard, let there be only the heard (sute sutamattaṃ bhavissati)." He
told him to train himself to remain purely in the state of seeing, purely in the
state of hearing, purely in the state of sensing, and purely in the state of
thinking. This is an extraordinarily beautiful instruction. Here, the Buddha
presented the essence of liberation (Nibbāna) in the briefest possible way—no
elaborate details or long sermons, just direct, short, and sweet.
If we could only train ourselves in the act of seeing. But our problem is that
whenever there is seeing, we immediately associate it with a perceived object.
That is our fundamental error. The Buddha instructed Bāhiya to train himself to
remain purely within the seeing itself. We, however, immediately link the act of
seeing with a defined object, filtering it through our stored memories and past
data. Thus, we fail to remain stilled within pure seeing.
Consequently, for us, it is no longer just seeing; there is the "thing seen,"
the "seer," and the "act of seeing" itself. There is "you" who is being seen,
and there is "I" who is seeing you. Our lives are entirely devoid of spiritual
restraint. This very lack of restraint is what we call the "self" (asmitā).
Where the Tathāgata (Tathāgata) instructed us to be restrained and composed, we
fail to do so. We instantly jump beyond the raw experience. This is our error.
We continuously leap beyond the present experience. If we could only remain
stilled within the raw seeing, hearing, or thinking. When we speak of being
stilled within thoughts, consider what actually happens when we think. When we
think about someone, we are merely repeating a concept, spinning a thought that
we have already constructed, over and over again. Yet, we delude ourselves into
believing that we are thinking about a real, existing object. We are simply
spinning a mental projection. Do you see what is happening here?
We believe we are reflecting upon a real, external object, but we are merely
spinning a conceptualized thought over and over again. This is where we are
deeply confused. We repeatedly ponder over a concept of a girlfriend, a
boyfriend, or some material object, failing to see that we are simply chewing
the cud of our own past thoughts. We fail to remain stilled because we
constantly attach a personal concept to the raw act of thinking. Similarly, we
constantly attach a physical object to the raw act of seeing. We experience
everything only after overlaying these mental labels.
We discussed this yesterday evening and again this morning. The main challenge
in our lives is that we are constantly immersed in this seeing. But we must
understand that this seeing is where we reside. What we call "I" is nothing but
that seeing, that thinking, and that sensing. Yet, we continuously reanimate
this view throughout the day by connecting it to seen objects, making the
illusion of a separate "seer" and "object" feel absolutely real.
By continuously associating seeing with an external object, we reinforce the
reality of the seen object. We ask, "If this cup does not exist, then what is
being seen? If you are not there, what is being seen?" In this way, we
repeatedly solidify the object, which in turn reinforces the identity view
(sakkāya-diṭṭhi) that clings to the act of seeing. What we call "living our
lives" is nothing but the constant development and reinforcement of this
dogmatic view.
That is why the Buddha told Bāhiya, "If you want to know the path to liberation
(magga), remain stilled within the seeing itself. Do not engage in mental
proliferation (papañca) by connecting seen objects to it. Do not reinforce the
view of seeing." Why? Because if you do not attach a conceptualized object to
it, the dogmatic view of seeing loses its foundation and ceases to exist. It
ceases (nirodha). That view only derives its power and existence from our
constant habit of associating it with seen objects. Otherwise, there is no
independent entity called "mind" or "seeing." The moment we connect a thought, a
sensation, or a concept to it, that view becomes solidified, and the sense of
"I" becomes seemingly real.
I did not bring up this story of Bāhiya merely to highlight this specific point,
as we discuss these matters quite often. The primary reason I wanted to mention
Bāhiya's story in this sermon was to illustrate how he came to believe he was
highly spiritual simply because others praised, valued, and elevated him
excessively. In the same way, we can easily mistake ourselves as being
spiritually advanced without possessing any genuine inner strength.
The clearest sign that one lacks genuine spiritual depth is the growth of a
sense of personal self-importance within. If you feel a strong sense of
self-worth in the way you live your life, it means you have not yet touched true
spirituality. It is actually more difficult for a self-proclaimed "good person"
to attain liberation (Nibbāna) than it is for a self-acknowledged "sinner." This
is because a "good person" carries a subtle, deep-seated pride: "I am a good
person; I know what is right." They hold a strong sense of personal value.
They harbor a strong sense of self-importance. In the context of ultimate
liberation, the value we assign to our own ego (asmitā) is the real obstacle. If
someone performs wholesome deeds but clings to the self-worth derived from them,
they are actually further from liberation (Nibbāna) than a sinner. This is
because the sinner does not feel exalted. A sinner is often ready to go to a
spiritual teacher, surrender completely, and listen. They are aware of their
faults. There is a certain humility and innocence in a sinner.
I do not mean every wrongdoer, of course, but many feel, "I have made a mistake,
and I must free myself from this burden." They possess a natural sense of shame
and fear of wrongdoing. In that regard, they are humble. On the other hand, the
proud individual who claims, "I am a good person, I know everything," is very
difficult to guide. It is not easy to break their pride because their ego is so
heavily fortified.
Therefore, observe this carefully: if your sense of self-worth increases because
of your meditation (bhāvanā), your walking practice, or your listening to the
Dhamma (dhamma), understand that you are moving away from the truth. Even if you
listen to the Dhamma day and night, or practice walking meditation until dawn,
it is like a drop of cow dung falling into a pot of pure milk. A single drop
ruins the entire pot of milk, rendering it useless.
If deep within your unconscious mind there remains a hidden feeling of "I am
special" or "I am highly intelligent," then your entire practice is merely
feeding the ego. This was the case with Devadatta. As taught in the discourses,
Devadatta kept the precepts and attained deep absorption (jhāna), yet he could
not attain liberation (Nibbāna). This was because he harbored a desire to
surpass the Buddha, along with a subtle, deep-seated conceit (māna).
Think about how difficult this is to overcome. This conceit (māna)—the deeply
ingrained sense of "I am"—is only fully eradicated upon attaining the state of a
Worthy One (arahant). The habit of comparing and measuring oneself persists all
the way up to the stage of a Non-Returner (anāgāmī). However, if we possess
clear mindfulness (sati), we can recognize when this conceit is at work. That is
what is truly valuable for us as we progress—to clearly see and understand the
way conceit operates in our minds.
Observe this matter closely. Sometimes, liberation can be further away for a
seemingly righteous person than for a sinner. Some who have committed wrongs
might attain the state of a Worthy One (arahant) much faster because they humbly
acknowledge their faults and let them go. If, through our practice, our ego
grows day by day, we are failing to become as humble as a single grain of sand
in the Ganges. We are failing to cultivate a simple, childlike innocence. If a
person poses as a wise sage, remaining silent but internally judging others, or
if they wear the pride of having practiced extensively, understand that this is
the real obstacle in the spiritual life.
Even if we perform a wholesome deed, if we use it to compare, judge, or measure
ourselves against others, it becomes a barrier. The Buddha explained this
clearly in the discourses on the qualities of an unworthy person (asappurisa). A
person may keep the precepts and practice meditation, but they look down on
those who do not possess such virtue or concentration (samādhi). This very
attitude is the mark of an unworthy person. They are merely a virtue-keeping
unworthy person, a meditating unworthy person, or an eloquent unworthy person.
Such a person cannot attain liberation (Nibbāna) because that single drop of ego
ruins the entire pot of milk.
This is why, despite practicing for a long time, the pure water of truth does
not spring from our inner source. Words of genuine truth do not flow from us.
Somewhere within, there is a block. I will conclude this sermon with a Zen story
about a stubborn disciple. In truth, there is no such thing as a "stubborn
disciple." If someone is truly a disciple, they cannot be stubborn. A disciple
is like a womb, completely open, surrendered, and ready to receive everything
from the teacher. A heart that has surrendered in this manner is naturally
devoid of stubbornness.
Understand this clearly: on the path to liberation (vimutti-magga), there are no
"teachers." There are only disciples and practitioners. The concepts of
"teachers" and "masters" are only required by the ego; it is the ego that
desires to be a teacher. On the path to liberation, one remains a disciple to
the very end. Even when a disciple matures and others begin to address them as a
teacher, in their own heart, they remain simply a disciple.
If someone begins to think of themselves as a teacher, they have fallen away
from true discipleship. They may abandon the stance of a disciple, but they
cannot become a real teacher, because such independent "teachers" do not exist
in the spiritual realm. The ego of a "teacher" has no place in the truth.
Consider the story of a bhikkhu who realized the truth under the Buddha and
continued to walk behind Him. The Buddha asked, "Why do you still follow behind
me? Why do you not go and teach others?" The bhikkhu replied, "Venerable Sir,
you have not yet instructed me to do so."
Look at the state of this bhikkhu's mind. Although he had fully realized the
truth and become a Worthy One (arahant), he waited patiently for his teacher's
word. Until then, he did not utter a single word on his own. This is the essence
of being a true disciple (sāvaka). He did not create a personal world of his
own. If a practitioner begins to build their own independent world, they cease
to be a disciple. This does not mean they have become a teacher; it simply means
they have strayed from the path (magga). The spiritual life is purely about
cultivating ultimate innocence.
When you reach the height of this innocence, worldly convention may label you a
teacher, but you harbor no such concept within yourself. It is only the ego that
wishes to control, manage, and shape others according to its own desires. A true
practitioner remains completely humble and innocent. They do not feel the need
to be a teacher. When they do share their experience, they do not speak from the
authoritative position of a "teacher"; they simply share their peace.
Consider the Venerable Assaji. When the future Venerable Sāriputta asked him to
teach, he humbly replied, "I am newly ordained and know only a little; my
Teacher (satthā) is the Buddha." Similarly, when great Worthy Ones (arahant)
like the Venerable Puṇṇa Mantāniputta or Venerable Kaccāyana were asked to
preach, they always pointed directly to the core of the teachings. They would
ask, "Why gather leaves when the solid heartwood is right here?" They always
directed the listeners straight to the Teacher's vision, never trying to draw a
following to themselves. They simply built that direct connection.
As a practitioner reaches this profound level, words of Dhamma flow through them
naturally. Yet, they remain unaware of being a "teacher." Even if others address
them as such, they internally hold the attitude: "I am merely a disciple
(sāvaka) practicing the path (magga) alongside my teacher." They never direct
others toward themselves; they connect them directly to the ultimate source.
This is why I mentioned that the concept of a "stubborn disciple" in that Zen
story is inaccurate. Nevertheless, I will share the story briefly. A student
approached his Zen master and proclaimed, "Master, there is actually no teacher,
no disciple, no good, and no bad. Everything is merely an illusion, a dream.
There is no one who speaks, and no one who listens." Upon hearing this, the
master suddenly struck the student with his staff. The student became furious
and began to yell in anger. The master then calmly looked at him and said, "If
there is indeed no teacher, no disciple, no birth, and no death, then where did
this anger come from? Look at that."
At that moment, his true state was exposed. Previously, he was merely repeating
borrowed words: "There is no teacher, no disciple, no self, and no other." When
an ordinary person utters these statements, they are just empty concepts. When a
true master speaks them, those very words lead the listener directly into
silence, rather than creating new concepts. The student had simply memorized the
words like a parrot. By striking him, the master forced him to face his actual
condition: "You fly into a rage over a small physical blow. There is no need for
you to speak of grand philosophies; you must practice from where you actually
stand."
The philosophy he spoke of was not realized in his own life. If someone strikes
him, anger arises. This proves that he has not yet reached the center; he is
still trapped on the periphery of the ego, bound by the identity of "I am." When
he hears provoking words, anger flares up because he has not yet realized the
inner void, the vast space, or the silent center. His words do not flow from the
source; they merely arise from the periphery of his ego.
The master urged him, "Look closely at where this anger arises. It comes because
you have not yet reached the center." He directed the student to investigate the
very root of his anger. When one searches for the origin of anger, one realizes
it arises because of the concept of "me." But when you search deeper to find
where this "me" originates, you find no such place. The separate "me" does not
exist; it is merely a mental projection, a dogmatic view.
This is why the master struck his ego. He guided him to search for the origin of
that ego. Through this direct inquiry, the student was brought back to the
truth. He investigated the root of the "self" and realized that no such entity
existed; there was only silence and clear awareness (sati). Once established in
that state, those words of truth genuinely belonged to him. We must proceed by
investigating the very root of our defilements (kilesa), rather than pretending
we are free of them. When we trace a defilement back to its origin, it becomes a
true realization, and we naturally fall into profound silence.
From that point onward, when the disciple speaks those words, they carry the
weight of true realization and silence. When they say "there is no self," it
does not come from a conceptual holding. It arises from a space where even the
concepts of "no self" or "no world" are not clung to. Let us conclude our sermon
here. May you all be blessed by the Triple Gem (Tisarana).
Original Source (Video):
Title: සද්ධර්ම දේශනාව ~ 🪷 Ven Aluthgamgoda Gnanaweera Thero නිහඬ අරණ
https://www.youtube.com/live/3DUmymqYQ-o?si=jULSnS3oi8vZO66x
Disclaimer
The translations shared on this blog are based on Dhamma sermons originally delivered in Sinhalese. They have been translated into English with the help of AI (ChatGPT & Gemini AI), with the intention of making these teachings more accessible to a broader audience.
Please note that while care has been taken to preserve the meaning and spirit of the original sermons, there may be errors or inaccuracies in translation. These translations are offered in good faith, but they may not fully capture the depth or nuance of the original teachings.
This blog does not seek to promote or endorse any specific personal views that may be expressed by the original speaker. The content is shared solely for the purpose of encouraging reflection and deeper understanding of the Dhamma.
Comments
Post a Comment