Beings are numberless, I vow to save them.
Delusions are inexhaustible, I vow to end them.
Dharmagates are boundless, I vow to enter them.
Buddha’s way is unsurpassable, I vow to become it.
—THE FOUR BODHISATTVA VOWS (SAN FRANCISCO ZEN CENTER)
THE BODHISATTVA VOWS ABOVE EMBODY THE ALTRUISTIC view that our motivation for practice is not just to enlighten ourselves, but for the awakening of all beings. Raising this bodhisattva ideal to a central place of aspiration marked one of the great dividing lines between the Theravada tradition and the later developments of Mahayana Buddhism.
What exactly were the issues involved? And are they still relevant today? The historical development that played itself out in the centuries following the Buddha’s life revolves around a basic question that is at the heart of all spiritual undertaking. Do we purify ourselves first, so that we can then take care of others? Or is it by taking care of others that we purify ourselves? Arhants or bodhisattvas? And is there an understanding in One Dharma that somehow unifies both perspectives?
Going back again to the time of the Buddha, in those early years after his enlightenment there was very little reference to a bodhisattva path. Of course, the Buddha himself was an exemplar of it, but it was understood that Buddhas appeared only once in a very long while—in fact, there were many aeons between them (an aeon being the time it would take to wear down a mountain if once every hundred years a bird brushed its peak with a silk scarf)—and that when Buddhas did appear they taught a more expedited path to freedom, that is, the attainment of arhantship. This attainment is the mind that is free of all defilement, free of all suffering, and, according to Theravada theory, the end of rebirth.
The Buddha was explicit about the compassionate activity following such realization. Early in his teaching, when the first sixty of his disciples had become arhants, he exhorted them in this way:
Go forth, O Bhikkhus, for the good of the many, for the happiness of the many, out of compassion for the world, for the good, benefit and happiness of people and devas [celestial beings]. Let not two go by one way. Teach the Dhamma, excellent in the beginning, excellent in the middle, excellent in the end. Proclaim the noble life, altogether perfect and pure. Work for the good of others, you have done your duties.
But after the Buddha’s death and the later split of the Second Council, the monks of the Great Assembly began emphasizing the way of the bodhisattva, first as a viable path for a few and later even as a preferred ideal for everyone. Gradually, teachings about the paramitas appeared. These are the perfections a bodhisattva needs to become a fully enlightened Buddha, the qualities of generosity, virtue, patience, energy, meditation, and wisdom. Of course, these qualities were mentioned individually in the Sutras, but they had not previously been explicitly formulated as part of a path to Buddhahood.
Teaching the perfections also served to include the laity in the path of spiritual development. Just as the bodhisattva brought these spiritual qualities to perfection, so too could any individual slowly develop them over many lifetimes. The schools developing from the Great Assembly began introducing the perfections through the Jataka tales, the appealing stories of the Buddha in his past lives, when he took both human and animal births, gradually refining the perfection of his character. The paramitas also began to be included in the more formalized lists of accepted teachings. At this stage, all the schools honored the path of the bodhisattva, but they still held it to be for those few exceptional individuals who had the strength of determination and character to persevere over the aeons of time necessary to become a Buddha.
It was only in the full flowering of Mahayana, in the period from 100 B.C.E. to 300 C.E., that Buddhahood was articulated as the universal final goal for everyone. A famous parable from the Mahayana Lotus Sutra explains this new vision of Buddhahood. The Sutra describes children playing in a burning house, heedless of the fire and the danger they are in. A fully awakened Buddha is likened to a loving father who, out of great compassion for his children, finds different ways to lure them out of the house. Some he promises a little goat cart, others something grander, depending on their interests and desires. But when they have all escaped to safety, he gives them all the best and highest of what he has. In this simile, the Buddha entices some people to practice by the thought of ending their own suffering, the arhant ideal; he entices others by the thought of saving all beings, the bodhisattva path. But from the new Mahayana perspective, no matter what the initial motivation is, all will eventually reach the highest goal of Buddhahood.
Two questions emerge. The first is whether the aspiration for Buddhahood is indeed a realistic one for all beings. Do we all really have the immense fortitude necessary to become a Buddha, when becoming an arhant—no little accomplishment—is a relatively quicker route to freedom?
The second question, which may illuminate the first, is whether the various traditions are actually using the term “Buddha” in the same way. For example, when great masters in both the Tibetan and Zen traditions (and perhaps others as well) are spoken of as “living Buddhas,” what does this mean? Have they attained the same perfections of mind as the historical Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama? Was their experience of awakening identical? Or might it mean that their freedom of mind is the same, that the compassionate motivation to benefit all beings is the same, but that they don’t necessarily have the same range of power and skillful means?
We can look at this question of Buddha terminology in a historical context. The Mahayana Sutras extolling Buddhahood and the bodhisattva path were written in part as a counterpoint to the growing scholasticism of the earlier schools, represented in the Mahayana view by the arhant ideal and the Abhidharma philosophy. And the later Zen teachings of a direct transmission outside of the texts was, in turn, a move away from the philosophic debates and outwardly directed devotional practices of some Mahayana teachings.
In both of these cases, at different times in history, pointing to “the Buddha Mind within” was a potent reminder that the Buddha—awakening—is not to be found outside of ourselves. This is the use of language as skillful means. Words used in radically new ways have the power to free us from limiting preconceptions. Hui Neng, the Sixth Zen Ancestor and one of the most influential figures of Buddhism in China and later Japan, writes:
We should work for Buddhahood within the essence of mind. We should not look for it apart from ourselves. He who is kept in ignorance of his essence of mind is an ordinary being. He who is enlightened in his essence of mind is a Buddha.
So when we are encouraged to take the bodhisattva vow to become Buddha, in order to liberate all beings, what kind of Buddha do we have in mind? Gautama Buddha? Hui Neng Buddha? Are we striving for the full perfection and all the unique powers of Buddhahood, or are we aiming for the enlightenment of understanding the essence of our minds with the compassionate resolve to help others?
A radical notion is that perhaps many of the great Mahayana masters were indeed arhants, in its earliest meaning of being fully liberated, but because of the Mahayana literature that demeaned arhants, they no longer thought in, or used, that term. There might have been less difference in experience than there was in terminology.
As the different traditions are now meeting in the West, is it possible to hold these various perspectives—bodhisattva versus arhant—without creating an irresolvable sectarian conflict of views? Is there a way they can inform, rather than oppose, one another? Issues in my own practice highlighted this problem. From my earliest introduction to Buddhism, I had read of the bodhisattva vows and been inspired by them. But at the same time, given my own conditioning and limitations, I felt they were far beyond my capacity to undertake. As much as I would like to save all beings, how could I ever conceivably do so? Was it even possible? And so I continued my meditation practice, just trusting that as I became less selfish, more kind, and more generous, it would inevitably benefit those around me, even without my taking a formal vow to help them.
Our dharma practice cannot help but benefit the world. As our minds become purified of those forces that create suffering, the habits of greed and hatred and ignorance, the world is that much freer of the many consequences of those mind states. But what would it take to go from the understanding that our practice will inevitably help others to making the welfare of others the very motivation to practice? Knowing our own limitations, can we realistically put this altruistic motivation right at the beginning? And what would be the effect of doing so?
A great turning point for me in opening to this possibility occurred at the Dzogchen retreat mentioned earlier. Nyoshul Khen Rinpoche was giving teachings on relative and ultimate bodhicitta. Bodhicitta literally means “awakened heart.” On the relative level it is compassion, expressed in the bodhisattva vow to save all beings; it is the aspiration to awaken from ignorance in order to live one’s life for the benefit of all. On the ultimate level, bodhicitta goes beyond the concepts of self and other. It is the empty, aware nature of the mind itself. As Rinpoche was teaching about these two aspects—compassion and emptiness—there was an unexpected moment of insight as I realized that the relative level is the expression of the ultimate: compassion is the activity of emptiness. Suddenly the great and seemingly impossible burden of “someone” (me!) having to save all beings dissolved into the great expansive arena of selfless compassionate action. Compassionate action is the natural responsiveness of awareness free of self: no one there “doing” anything.
In his teaching about the man (or woman) of no reliance, the ninth-century Chinese Zen master Rinzai expressed the creativity and unlimited potential of a person not imprisoned by the notion of self:
If a man comes to me asking for the Buddha, as a man of no reliance, I present myself in a state of purity and cleanliness. If he asks for a bodhisattva, I present myself in a state of mercy and benevolence. If he asks for Bodhi—true wisdom—I present myself in a state of purity and exquisite superbness. If he asks for Nirvana—complete enlightenment—I present myself in a state of utter serenity. Though there are hundreds of thousands of states, as a man of nonreliance, I am always the same. Therefore, my presentation of various states according to the requirements is just like the Moon that freely presents its images on every surface of water.
Here, then, is where relative and ultimate bodhicitta—compassion and emptiness—merge, becoming expressions of each other. The more we practice the compassionate responsiveness of relative bodhicitta, the more easily we recognize the selfless quality of the mind’s essence. And the more we recognize the innate empty wakefulness of the mind’s essential nature, the more spontaneously compassionate we are in all situations.
When we let go of needing answers to the unknowable—just what is the Buddha’s mind like?—we can simply take refuge in the basic and boundless principles of wisdom and compassion. We all recognize the need to purify our own minds. And the seemingly different points of view sit in harmony if we undertake this purification with the compassionate motivation that our own awakening be for the benefit and welfare of all. Then, whatever kind of Buddhahood we aspire to, we are actually taking steps on the path.
Relative bodhicitta (a term used in the Tibetan tradition) is the practice of compassion and compassionate action. Compassion is the strong and deep feeling that wants to alleviate the suffering of beings, and it arises when we allow ourselves to come close to suffering, both our own and that of others. This is a profound and difficult practice. We may want to be compassionate, and even feel that we often are, but it is not always easy to do. Just as we don’t like to be with our own pain, we don’t necessarily want to be with the pain of others. Strong tendencies of the mind often keep us defensive or indifferent or apathetic in the face of suffering.
As an experiment, watch your mind the next time you come close to a situation of suffering, either in others or yourself. What happens? Do you feel uneasy, withdraw, deny it, or let it in? Some years ago a friend of mine was in the hospital for some surgery. In trying to insert the needle for the IV, the doctor had a hard time finding the vein and so the process took quite a while. My friend was in considerable distress. The doctor’s only response was, “What’s wrong? It doesn’t hurt.” When we’re not able to be present for the suffering that is right before us, this caps the wellspring of compassion within us.
In her poem “Beyond the Snow Belt,” Mary Oliver writes of a storm taking lives not far from where we live, yet
… except as we have loved,
All news arrives as from a distant land.
The question for us, then, is how can our hearts stay open given the magnitude of suffering that exists in the world? We are bombarded with so many reports from distant lands—or even from the neighboring state—cataloguing the range of human distress. Is it even possible to open to it all with compassion?
For some of us, compassion may be at the very heart of what we aspire to in our lives. As an expression of his enlightenment, the Buddha is often known as the Great Compassionate One. But care is needed as we explore the meanings, nuances, and also possible hidden pitfalls of this practice. The word “compassion” contains and expresses feelings of openness, caring, and inter-connectedness that we would be hard put to quarrel with. It is possible, though, to sentimentalize and idealize these feelings, and then become content simply with the idea of compassion. Or we may judge ourselves for not having enough of it, or maybe take a subtle pride in our more compassionate moments.
In cultivating compassion, we need to start with ourselves and those closest to us. We practice opening, in meditation and in our lives, to difficulties that are present, right now, right here. It may be our own physical or emotional pain; or it may be the suffering of an agitated person sitting next to us on his meditation cushion, or on the subway, or in her car stuck in traffic on the freeway. The practice of meditation is learning to let things in, being with them as they are, without drowning in the difficulties or becoming identified with them. The great lesson here is that it is not what is happening that is important, but rather how we are relating to it. As we learn to open and come close to the suffering in our own lives, we find we have greater strength and courage and insight to be with the suffering of others. This is the great gift of mindfulness to compassion.
At first, as we undertake the cultivation of compassion, we may feel genuine empathy with others in pain or difficulty. This happens when we take the time to stop and feel what is really going on—even for just a few moments before rushing on with our lives. When we ask someone, “How are you?” do we really give him or her the gift of our attention? In situations in which people are behaving badly do we stop to look and feel what may be going on underneath, with our focus on easing the suffering rather than reacting to the behavior?
But compassion is also something more than these moments of empathy. It is not simply a feeling for the pain of others—it also contains within it a strong motivation to act. Thich Nhat Hanh expressed this perfectly when he said, “Compassion is a verb.” As we develop the relative aspect of bodhicitta, compassionate action, we begin to practice an active engagement with suffering in the world, responding to the various needs of beings in whatever way is appropriate and possible.
There are many examples of people who are open to the suffering that is present and then act to alleviate it. It may be in small, perhaps unregarded ways—simply being kinder, more generous, or more forgiving of the people around us. It may be giving a gift to someone in our lives we find difficult.
Some time ago a friend was on a lovingkindness and compassion retreat at the Insight Meditation Society. As he was going for a walk one day, he passed a neighbor shoveling snow in front of his home. This particular neighbor had a rough demeanor and in the past had voiced many angry words to others, myself included. For the most part, I just tried to avoid him. But this friend, not having any of my preconceptions, stopped and chatted a bit, commenting on the several feet of snow that had fallen in the last storm and how much shoveling there was to do. The neighbor replied gruffly that it was indeed a lot, especially with his bad heart. My friend then continued on, but after a few steps stopped, realized what the man had just said, and went back to shovel out his path. It was an obvious and compassionate thing to do, but to see it and do it took being open to the situation, free of projections. The neighbor then invited him inside for some hot drinks, and they talked for an hour or more.
At other times, compassion finds expression in acts of tremendous courage and determination in the face of hardship, difficulty, and danger. As just one example of many, Martin Luther King, Jr., who led nonviolent marches in the midst of flaring hatred, embodies the understanding from many spiritual traditions and expressed in the Dhammapada that “Hatred never ceases by hatred; it only ceases by love. This is a timeless truth.” Compassion for the suffering of the oppressed, compassion for the suffering of the oppressor—it’s not an easy task to have the heart hold both. The Dalai Lama speaks of how our enemies teach us patience: a potent reminder that even in the most difficult of circumstances we can develop our capacity for love.
In the summer of 1989, a Harvard medical journal published an article about a Tibetan doctor named Tendzin Choedrak, who had been a personal physician to the Dalai Lama. Imprisoned in 1959, Dr. Choedrak was held by the Chinese for the next twenty-one years. As he described it, for seventeen of those twenty-one years he was beaten and tortured daily, both physically and psychologically. His life was under daily threat. In the medical journal article he described four points of understanding that made possible not only his survival—because people survive very horrendous conditions in many ways—but also the fact that he survived psychologically and spiritually intact, with a heart that remained open to love and did not close down in anger and fear.
Dr. Choedrak’s first insight was to see his situation in a larger context. He saw that even in the most deplorable human circumstances some human greatness could be accomplished, that in the face of great suffering and injustice he could practice love. What a reminder for us as we bring this perspective to our own lives, even in much less trying circumstances.
His second understanding was that his enemies, his torturers, were human beings like himself. He did not forget the commonality of the human condition and the laws that govern it. The law of karma means that all actions have consequences for the people who perform them, and Dr. Choedrak knew deeply that those people who were being so cruel to him were actually in adverse circumstances, just as he was. They were creating the karma that would bring their own future suffering. And rather than reflecting on the law of karma as a vehicle for revenge, Dr. Choedrak understood karma as a vehicle for compassion. This is the wisdom that unites us.
The third insight that helped him was his understanding of the need to let go of pride and self-importance. He actually attributed his very survival to this ability to let go of self-righteousness, even when it might have felt so justified. Letting go of these feelings is an indispensable practice on our spiritual journey.
The fourth of his insights that allowed him to triumph in his situation was the understanding that hatred, anger, and ill will never cease if we react with the same kind of feelings. They cease only in response to love. Love and compassion grow when we see that there are really no viable alternatives. The Buddha demonstrated this understanding in his unwavering motivation over countless lifetimes not only to alleviate the suffering of particular situations, but also to uncover the very root causes of suffering in our lives.
Although it is a powerful force on its own, compassion is greatly enhanced when it is balanced by wisdom, by the power of clear seeing, so that the actions we take are meaningful and effective. When compassion and wisdom are both present, they bring a certain magic and power to the world. They help us to see beyond the ordinary conventions and come out of the confinement of habituated response. Compassion directed by wisdom can take many forms. Sometimes it is soft and gentle, and sometimes forceful, decisive actions are needed. The Buddha himself did not shy away from such courses of action.
There is a story of a monk named Channa, who had been Prince Siddhartha’s charioteer and friend before Siddhartha became the Buddha. Presuming on his former friendship with the young prince, Channa was quite lax in the monastic discipline. He was frequently admonished, but to no avail. Then, in one of the last actions before he died, the Buddha directed that none of the other monks or nuns speak or associate with Channa in any way. A short time afterward, the Buddha passed away. At this point, Channa became so dismayed and ashamed that this had been one of the Buddha’s last acts, he became motivated to practice the Dharma with courageous energy and perseverance. And, as the story goes, before long, Channa too became one of the arhants, the enlightened ones.
There is no hierarchy of compassionate action. There is no particular prescription for what we should do. The field of compassion is limitless. In all of the traditions, people undertake a great range of activity in order to help others. In fact, some schools are characterized by “crazy wisdom,” those actions that look askance at custom, but serve the higher motivation of helping suffering beings. We each find our own way. It can take the form of active engagement with the world; it can take the form of living in a cave in the Himalayas. Pascal, the famous seventeenth-century philosopher and mathematician, once wrote, “Most of the problems of the world would be solved if people could learn to sit quietly in a room.”
If we cultivate the seeds of bodhicitta—”May my life and practice be for the benefit of all”—or even have the aspiration to have this motivation, slowly the seeds germinate and take root in our lives. Henry David Thoreau expressed this well: “Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.”
How can we actually practice the aspiration of bodhicitta, the motivation to awaken for the benefit of all beings? We can approach it from two sides. One side is highlighted in the Pali texts of Theravada Buddhism, where the Buddha emphasized that by truly taking care of ourselves, that is, by purifying our own minds and hearts, we naturally and inevitably take care of others. It is like two people being stuck in a muddy river bottom. If they try to help each other out of the muck, they may well both continue to founder. But if one of them first reaches solid ground, then he or she can easily help the other to safety.
We hear this basic principle in the safety guidelines of every airline. “If there is a sudden loss of cabin pressure the oxygen masks will appear. Please put on your own mask first and then assist those around you.” If we try to help others before we are able to, it can lead to difficulties for all. But as we purify our own hearts and minds we find the “solid ground of emptiness”; we automatically become less self-centered. As there is less greed, less fear, less ignorance in our minds, we naturally live with more kindness and compassion.
The Indian sage Shantideva, in his famous work The Way of the Bodhisattva expressed the second way we can develop bodhicitta. This approach develops compassionate action—the aspiration to benefit all beings—by the practice of putting others before oneself, by thinking of others as being more important than oneself. When we give more importance to others, the strength of self-concern diminishes. The Dalai Lama is a great devotee of Shantideva and is a shining example of the fruits of this practice.
Contained within Shantideva’s great masterpiece are verses that encapsulate this aspect of bodhicitta:
For all those ailing in the world,
Until their every sickness has been healed,
May I myself become for them
The doctor, nurse, the medicine itself.
Raining down a flood of food and drink,
May I dispel the ills of thirst and famine.
And in the ages marked by scarcity and want,
May I myself appear as drink and sustenance.
For sentient beings, poor and destitute,
May I become a treasure ever-plentiful,
And lie before them closely in their reach,
A varied source of all that they might need.
My body, thus, and all my goods besides,
And all my merits gained and to be gained,
I give them all away withholding nothing
To bring about the benefit of beings.
Like the earth and the pervading elements,
Enduring like the sky itself endures,
For boundless multitudes of living beings,
May I be their ground and sustenance.
Thus for everything that lives,
As far as are the limits of the sky,
May I provide their livelihood and nourishment
Until they pass beyond the bonds of suffering.
It’s possible to read this and become inspired by its great generosity of spirit, but we may also feel a little overwhelmed. Would we ever be able to fulfill such an aspiration, given that our motives are often mixed, or hidden, or a series of conflicting ones?
Some time ago I was on a retreat and I came across a story in the Buddhist texts that I thought a colleague of mine would like to have in a book she was writing. Of course, among dharma teachers, a new story is worth quite a lot, and we often vie to lay claim to one. Well, I came across this text and my first thought was, “This will be a good story for my friend.” But then, immediately following, came the thought, “No, I think I’ll keep it for myself.” Then, “No, I’ll give it to her, and that way more stories will come back to me.” Then I reflected, “That’s just being selfish. It’s better just to tell her what the story is. But maybe when I tell her, I’ll also mention everything I’m going through,” feeling a little pride in my sacrifice and half unconsciously wanting to put her in my debt. As my mind went through this run of thoughts and feelings, it made me wonder where in the midst of all this thinking was the purity of motivation simply to give? Then I realized that it was there, right in the first moment’s thought to offer the story. And even though my mind entertained all these other thoughts and feelings and motives, I could always come back to that first moment of pure motivation. The postscript to all of this is that when I finally showed my friend this story from the texts, she didn’t even want to use it.
So when the jumble of our thoughts and feelings confuses us, when we feel we are unable to act from a totally clear heart, perhaps we can follow the Dalai Lama’s lead when he said, “I cannot pretend to practice bodhicitta, but deep inside me I realize how valuable and beneficial it is. That is all.”
Rather than solidifying and then polarizing these two approaches to bodhicitta, as happens in sectarian attachments, we can see them as two sides of the same principle, helping to balance out the dangers that may arise from each one by itself. If we overemphasize our own purification at the expense of helping others, our spiritual journey may become narrow and self-absorbed. Likewise, if we always put others before ourselves, we may fall into patterns of confused codependence in which we ignore our own welfare simply to please others. So, from one side, we do the work of purifying ourselves, hut with the motivation that it be for the welfare and benefit of all. And from the other side, even as we practice putting others before ourselves, we understand this as being part of our own path of purification. This unification is the path of One Dharma.
We plant this wonderful seed of relative bodhicitta, the kind heart, and slowly it will grow and mature into the guiding principle of our lives. Even at those times when we’re not acting from this place of wisdom and compassion, bodhicitta can still be the reference point that reminds us of other choices. One Tibetan teaching sums up the power of this practice: “Let those who desire Buddhahood not train in many dharmas—but only one. Which one? Great compassion. Those with great compassion possess all the Buddha’s teaching as if it were in the palm of their hand.”