
                             RENUNCIATION
                                           
                                 by

                              T. Prince

           

                        Bodhi Leaves No. B. 36
                                           
                      BUDDHIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY
                      KANDY              SRI LANKA
                                           
              Copyright 1986 Buddhist Publication Society

                      Reprinted from 'Metta',
         Journal of The Buddhist Federation of Australia

                      First Published   1967
                      Reprinted         1986
                      DharmaNet Edition 1994
                                           
        This electronic edition is offered for free distribution
            via DharmaNet by arrangement with the publisher.
                                           
                        DharmaNet International
                 P.O. Box 4951, Berkeley CA 94704-4951
                                           
               Transcribed for DharmaNet by Pat LaPensee
                                           
                          * * * * * * * *



                            RENUNCIATION

   The idea of renunciation has never been a particularly attractive one
 for most people, even when its importance as an ideal has been
 admitted. For much of the Western world today, however, renunciation
 seems not so much umpalatable as unfamiliar, and indeed all but
 incomprehensible. This was not always so, of course. The people of the
 Middle Ages were well acquainted with the traditional Christian
 conception of this world as something which presents many snares for
 the soul, and is of little importance when compared with the eternal
 life to come. That this conception has ceased to be as influential as
 it once was, is the result of a number of complex historical processes,
 but as far as present-day attitudes are concerned, the factor of the
 greatest and most immediate importance would probably be the rapid
 development of science and technology in the nineteenth and twentieth
 century.

   Science has, I think, influenced people's attitudes towards the world
 in three ways. Firstly, it appears to have confirmed by its
 achievements the ancient Greek philosophers' faith in the ability of
 human reason to fathom all the mysteries of the universe. Secondly,
 these impressive achievements have led people to feel the physical
 world, which has up till now been the province of scientific
 investigation, is the only world worth investigating, and even the only
 "real" world. And thirdly, by providing, through the technology which
 it has made possible, an abundance of good things for our enjoyment,
 science has encouraged a preoccupation with the objects and pleasures
 of the senses, and a corresponding indifference to those things which
 are presumed to lie outside the range of the senses.

   If, then, this world we perceive is the only reality, and the senses
 and the reason  are the only valid means of knowledge, it follows that
 renunciation of the world is pointless, and that aspiration to a
 reality which transcends the reason and the senses is bound to be
 futile.

   There have always been many people who would agree with this, and
 materialist philosophers were not lacking even in the Buddha's day. But
 I think it would be true to say that ideas of this nature have never
 been so widely accepted as they are in Western and Western-influenced
 countries today. Even religious thought has been affected, and a number
 of progressive Christian theologians are trying to adapt their
 doctrines to the spirit of the age by glossing over the element of
 renunciation in Jesus' teaching and Christian tradition, and stressing,
 after the Jewish fashion, involvement in the world rather than
 detachment from it. A similar tendency can be observed elsewhere: in
 many of the " new religions" of modern Japan, for example, or in the
 writings of Indian thinkers like Radhakrishnan and Sri Aurobindo.

   In light of all this, Buddhism must be considered somewhat
 unfashionable. Some critics have accused (and still accuse) it of being
 pessimistic, nihilistic and life-denying. Of course, Buddhism is not
 pessimistic. In fact, it is the most optimistic of religions, for it
 teaches that man can perfect himself here and now, and free himself by
 his own efforts from all suffering and unhappiness. Nor is it
 nihilistic. As the Buddha has often pointed out, he taught only the
 annihilation of suffering and ignorance. And if Buddhism is
 life-denying, it is only because it is death-defying, for life and
 death are inseparable. Nevertheless, these critics have sensed an
 important truth about the Dharma; that it is essentially a teaching of
 renunciation. In one sense, Buddhism is more "this-worldly" than any
 other religion, since it takes as its starting point, not some remote
 and transcendental Being or Act, but the world as it is experienced by
 ordinary living beings. In another sense, however, it is more
 "other-worldly" than most, for according to the Buddha, the world as we
 know it has three fundamental characteristics: it contains nothing that
 is permanent; it is, for that reason, essentially unsatisfactory to
 those who see it as it really is, and are not led astray by superficial
 appearances; and finally, it contains nothing worth consideration as
 "me" or "mine," nothing that is in any way unchanging or substantial.
 These three characteristics are the basis of the Buddha's Teaching, and
 the second of them, known as "ill" or "suffering," is the theme of the
 Four Truths which the Buddha expounded in his first sermon.

   There is nothing ambiguous about this. The Buddha was well aware that
 much pleasure and happiness is to be found in the world as it is
 ordinarily experienced, but he insisted that these pleasures were
 transient and therefore relative and limited, and that true happiness
 is only to be found by renouncing what is worldly, transient, relative
 and limited, and seeking instead what is transcendental, unchanging,
 absolute and unlimited. This absolute state (if one can describe it so)
 is what is called Nirvana. It can be defined, if at all, only in
 negative terms, for what is completely transcendental is necessarily
 indescribable. It is certainly not a God creating and sustaining the
 world, nor is it a Godhead which is the source or substance of the
 world. In fact, although it can be attained by those still living in
 the world, it really has no connection with the world whatever, and for
 that reason its nature cannot be conveyed by means of such an
 earthbound thing as language, although the poetic (i.e. nonliteral) use
 of language may certainly be able to suggest something of its quality,
 as in the following famous passage: "There is, monks, a realm where
 there is neither earth, nor water, nor fire, nor wind ... neither this
 world nor the next, neither sun nor moon. There, monks, I say there is
 neither coming, nor going, nor remaining; neither deceasing nor being
 born. Without foundation is it, without continuity, without support:
 this is the end of suffering" (//Udana//).


                          * * * * * * * *


				II

   Buddhism, then, is a teaching of renunciation. It remains to see what
 is renounced and why. The Buddha said: "What I teach is just ill (or
 suffering) and its cessation.". What is renounced, then, is ill,
 suffering, unsatisfactoriness. But what is unsatisfactoriness? Here is
 the Buddha's answer: "Birth is ill; old age and decay are ill; death is
 ill; sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief and despair are ill; not to get
 what one wants is ill. In short, the five groups that are the object of
 clinging are ill." These "five groups," taken together, constitute the
 totality of what we call a "being," and what that being feels to be its
 "self". They may be translated as follows: form or matter, feeling,
 perception or ideation, motivation or mental activities, and
 consciousness. It is oneself, then, that is the source of suffering,
 and it is self that must be renounced if one would be free from
 suffering. This is a truth which is recognized by most religions, but
 only in Buddhism is it fully understood. The feeling of "self," the
 deep-rooted sense of"I-ness," involves the desire for the continued
 existence of self. It generates, in other words, greed and attachment,
 both for the self and also for those things which enhance the existence
 of the self and make it feel secure, such things as sense-pleasures,
 possessions, kinship with others, and so on. It also generates hatred
 for or aversion from what is anti-self, that is, from those things
 which threaten the continued existence or the happiness of the self by
 attacking it (or whatever it identifies itself with) or by frustrating
 it in any way. Thus the self can never be really happy, for it is
 continually agitated by desires and fears which bind it tightly to the
 world, and cause the "ill" for which the Buddha has prescribed the
 cure.

   It will be seen from this brief analysis that the self and the world
 are interdependent, our emotional responses to the world strengthening
 our sense of self, and our sense of self causing the illusory
 appearance of a permanent and substantial world with objective
 qualities of desirability and undesirability. Therefore, renunciation
 of the world and the renunciation of the self are but two aspects of
 the same thing, and what we see as the world may, on deeper analysis,
 be found present within ourselves. So the Buddha said: "In this very
 body, six feet in length, with its sense-impressions, its thoughts and
 ideas ...are the world, the origin of the world, the cessation of the
 world, and the Way that leads to the cessation of the world" (A.N.).

                          * * * * * * * *


			       III

   In the practice of renunciation, three stages may be distinguished.
 First of all, there is outward renunciation, as when a man or woman
 leaves the household life to become a monk or a nun. Outward
 renunciation has no intrinsic value, and may theoretically be dispensed
 with, but there is no doubt that it makes true renunciation very much
 easier. True renunciation is a matter of the heart and mind rather than
 the body. It is renunciation of the world of desires and aversions
 within, rather than of the world of "objects" without. Finally, there
 is the ultimate renunciation, which is the renunciation of one's "self"
 in its entirety, and the consequent destruction of all ill.

   To illustrate the traditional Buddhist method of renunciation, I
 should like to examine a stereotype passage which occurs, with slight
 variations, at a number of places in the Pali Canon. It describes the
 ideal life of the monk, beginning with his first hearing of the Dharma
 and concluding with his attainment of Nirvana. It starts as follows:

     "Suppose that a Perfect One (//Tathagata//) arises in the world, an
    Accomplished One (//Arahat//), fully Awakened, complete in knowledge
    and conduct, knower of the worlds, sublime (literally "well-gone"),
    incomparable, trainer of those to-be-tamed, teacher of gods and men,
    Awakened (Buddha), blest (Bhagavant). Having thoroughly understood,
    by his own supernormal insight, this world with its gods, its Mara (
    the personification of death), its Brahma ( the most exalted of the
    gods), its ascetics and brahmins, its gods and men, he declares his
    knowledge. He preaches the Truth (Dharma), good in its beginning,
    good in its development, good in its consummation. He makes known
    the holy life in all its fullness and purity.

     "A householder, or a householder's son, or one born into some good
    family, hears that Dharma. Having heard it, he comes to feel faith
    in the Perfect One. Possessed of this faith, he reflects thus: `The
    household life is cramped. It is a path choked with dust. To leave
    it is to come out into the open air. It is not easy for one who
    lives at home to lead the holy life in all its perfect fullness and
    purity, bright as mother-of-pearl. Surely I should now shave off my
    hair and beard, go forth into the homeless life.` In course of time,
    he gives up his possessions, be they many or few, and his circle of
    kinsmen, be it small or large, shaves off his hair and beard, puts
    on the yellow robe, and, leaving his home, goes forth into the
    homeless life."

   So far, this is outward renunciation. Now the new monk must turn his
 attention to the world within. The first step is to free his mind from
 the domination by unwholesome emotions and sense-desires, and to this
 end he begins to discipline himself by strict observance of morality.
 The text continues: "So he lives the homeless life, observing
 self-restraint according to the rules of the Order, possessed of good
 conduct, seeing danger in the slightest offense, accepting and training
 himself in the precepts." There follows a detailed account of over
 forty things which the monk must shun. The first seven are of basic
 importance, for they are the most general in character. They are also
 worth looking at because they stress the positive qualities of mind
 which the monk should be developing at this time, thereby helping to
 dispel the impression, which a series of prohibitions tends to give,
 that observance of the moralities is something dry and negative. In
 fact, just as one only renounces Samsara in order to obtain Nirvana, so
 the sole purpose of renouncing bad or unwholesome qualities is to allow
 good or wholesome ones to take their place. The wording of these first
 seven precepts makes this quite clear:

     "Here, the monk, having abandoned the taking of life, continues to
    abstain therefrom. Having once used stick and sword, now feeling
    shame, he is kind and compassionate to all living things.... Having
    abandoned the taking of what is not given, he continues to abstain
    therefrom. Taking only what is given, he waits for the gift.
    Committing no theft, he lives as one who become pure.... Having
    abandoned unchasity, he is chaste and keeps aloof, abstaining from
    coition, from the practice of the village-folk.... Having abandoned
    false speech he continues to abstain therefrom, and is a speaker of
    truth. Pledged to truth, he is reliable and trustworthy, never lying
    to the world.... Having abandoned slander, he continues to abstain
    therefrom. What he hears here, he does not repeat elsewhere in order
    to raise a quarrel against the people here. What he hears elsewhere,
    he does not repeat here in order to raise a quarrel against the
    people there. Thus he reconciles those who are divided, and
    encourages those who are friends. Harmony is his pleasure, his
    delight and joy, and he speaks words that creates harmony.... Having
    abandoned harsh speech, he continues to abstain therefrom. Whatever
    words are gentle, pleasing to the ear, affectionate, touching the
    heart, polite, pleasant and agreeable to the people -- such are the
    words he speaks.... Having abandoned trivial chatter, he continues
    to abstain therefrom. His words are timely, in accordance with the
    truth, meaningful, concerning the Dharma and the Discipline and the
    Order. He speaks words that are worth treasuring. They are uttered
    at the right time, are accompanied by reasons, are well-defined, and
    profitable."

   These are the first seven moral observances. The rest concern other
 things to be avoided, such as harming vegetation, and various
 activities connected with mealtimes, personal adornments,
 entertainments, games, trading, and so on. The section on morality
 concludes as follows:

     "Then the monk, being thus complete in morality, sees no reason for
    fear on any side, as far as self-restraint in his conduct is
    concerned. Just as a ruler, duly anointed, whose enemies have been
    crushed, sees no reason for fear on any side, as far as enemies are
    concerned; so the monk, thus being complete in morality, sees no
    reason for fear on any side, as far as self-restraint in his conduct
    is concerned. And, possessed of this noble group of moralities, he
    experiences unalloyed happiness within himself."

   So far, the monk has progressed through two stages of renunciation.
 First, he has publicly renounced the world and left the household life.
 Then, by strict self-discipline, he has ensured that no moral lapse on
 his part will cause  him to become entangled once again in the life
 that he has left behind, and his success in this self- discipline has
 given him a confidence and a happiness that he never had before. Thus,
 he has made his initial, outward renunciation secure. Now he is free to
 turn his attention to renunciation of the other, inner world, of the
 psychophysical life which is his "self". He begins by endeavoring to
 become detached from the activities of his senses, and of his mind and
 body, by the practice of mindfulness. He will now observe the things
 which impinge on his senses, watching to see that he does not react to
 them in an unwholesome or "unskillful" manner. Thus morality becomes
 mind-control. Then, when sense-impressions are no longer capable of
 agitating his mind unduly, he learns to become aware of his bodily
 actions as he performs them, contemplating his body disinterestedly, as
 though it were somebody else's:

     "How is the monk guarded as to the doors of his senses? (1. The
    senses are considered metaphorically as so many doors through which
    impressions enter the mind.) Having perceived a form with his eye,
    he does not fasten on its general appearance, or on its secondary
    characteristics. (2. In other words, he does not allow himself to
    become fascinated by it, or by any aspect of it, or to feel that it
    is "mine". He simply watches with equanimity as phenomena come and
    go.) As long as he lived with his faculty of sight unrestrained, he
    fell prey to craving and unhappiness, to evil and unskilled states
    of mind. So he undertakes restraint, watching over his faculty of
    sight and restraining it. (And similarly with the other faculties:
    hearing, smelling, tasting, touching, and cognizing things with the
    mind.) The monk, possessed of this noble restraint of the faculties,
    experiences unalloyed happiness within himself. And how is the monk
    mindful and aware? The monk, in going forth or returning, is clearly
    aware of his action. So also when looking ahead or looking around,
    when bending his arm in or stretching it out, when wearing his robe
    or carrying his alms bowl, when eating, drinking, chewing or
    tasting, when defecating or urinating, when walking, standing,
    sitting, sleeping, waking, speaking or keeping silent; in all this
    he is clearly aware of what he is doing. Thus is the monk mindful
    and aware."

   The monk has now shaken off most of his worldly desires, and has
 gained a considerable degree of detachment from himself. As a
 consequence, he is perfectly content with his lot and with his few
 necessary possessions: "He is contented with the robes that protect his
 body and the alms food that protects his belly ... Just as a bird
 carries its wings with it wherever it flies, so the monk is contented
 with the robes that protect his body and the alms food that protect his
 belly, and he has only them with him wherever he goes. Thus he is
 content."

   Now, having surrendered attachment both to the world and to his own
 body, the monk can concentrate all his efforts on the true source of
 ill, which is his mind. Sitting in a quiet spot, he strives to cleanse
 his mind of what are known as the "five hindrances." The text describes
 the process as follows:

     "Having given up covetousness for the world, he remains with his
    heart (or mind) free from and cleansed of covetousness. Having given
    up ill will and hatred, he remains with his heart free from ill will
    and hatred. Friendly and compassionate to all living things, he
    remains free of them. Conscious of light, mindful and fully aware,
    he cleanses his heart of sloth and torpor. Having given up
    restlessness and worry, he remains free of them. Inwardly calm, he
    cleanses his heart of restlessness and worry. Having given up doubt,
    he remains having passed beyond doubt. No longer uncertain of what
    is skillful (or wholesome), he cleanses his mind of doubt."

   Having brought about a subsidence of the five hindrances, he is
 filled with an exhilarating sense of freedom. The Buddha compares his
 feelings of relief and happiness to those of a man who has just
 discharged a debt, or recovered from a painful illness, or been freed
 from prison, or released from slavery, or who has safely crossed a
 dangerous wilderness. This subsidence of the five hindrances, and the
 ensuing calmness and happiness of the body and mind, make it possible
 for the monk to attain what is called the first "absorption." This is
 the first of a series of levels of consciousness which can be achieved
 by the successful practice of intense concentration of the mind -- a
 process which is often called, rather vaguely, "meditation." The
 attainment of these absorptions not only produces a blissfulness that
 is far beyond the range of worldly pleasures, it is also ( and this is
 more important to the Buddhist ) makes the mind an instrument of
 knowledge that can transcend the limitations of the senses.

   After attaining the first absorption, the monk passes on to the
 second, third and fourth, shedding successively thought conception, the
 exhilarating and blissful sensations that arise in him, and finally all
 feelings of happiness and unhappiness, pleasure and displeasure. He is
 now in a state of pure mindfulness and equanimity, and his mind --
 which has become "composed, purified, spotless, undefiled, pliant,
 workable, firm and imperturbable" -- is capable of that direct and
 penetrating insight into the true nature of existence which brings
 deliverance. Now he has left the world a long way behind, but he must
 turn his mind back to it, if he would complete the process of
 renunciation; for the final deliverance comes, not from looking away
 from the world or the self, but from seeing through them. So he
 scrutinizes his self, his body and his mind, noting that "this is my
 body, possessed of form, composed of the four elements, springing from
 father and mother, built up by solid and liquid food; a thing
 impermanent by nature, fragile, perishable, and subject to total
 destruction. And this is my consciousness, bound up with and dependent
 on it."

   At this point he is said to be able to acquire certain supernormal
 powers if he wishes, including the ability to recall his own
 innumerable past lives, and the direct awareness of the death and
 rebirth of other beings in accordance with their past actions.

   His final deliverance, his ultimate renunciation, comes now with the
 destruction of what are known as the //asavas// (Pali) or //asravas//
 (Sanskrit), a word which defies translation. (Literally, it means a
 flowing in or a flowing out.) These "cankers" (as they may be called
 for convenience) epitomize the forces which bring about continued
 existence or "becoming," and their destruction involves complete and
 perfect understanding of the conditioned and unsatisfactory nature of
 becoming, as it is summed up in the Four Truths. "It is as if," the
 Buddha says, "there were a pool of water in the mountains, limpid,
 clear and still, and a man were to stand on the bank and see with his
 eyes the various shells, the gravel and pebbles, and the shoals of fish
 moving about or at rest". So the monk, "with his mind composed,
 purified, cleansed, spotless, undefilied, pliant, workable, firm, and
 imperturbable, directs his mind to the destruction of the cankers. He
 knows as it really is: `This is ill, this is the origin of ill, this is
 the cessation of ill, and this is the Way that leads to cessation ...
 These are the cankers, this is their origin, this is their cessation,
 and this is the Way that leads to their cessation`. Knowing and seeing
 thus his heart is freed from the cankers of sense-desires, the canker
 of becoming (that is, the desire for continued existence), and the
 canker of ignorance. Free, he knows that he is free, and he
 understands: `Exhausted is birth, the holy life is fulfilled, what was
 to be done has been done, there will be no more of the present state`."

   With this final and certain insight, renunciation of both self and
 world becomes complete, and the monk, now an //arahat//, has attained
 the deathless state, Nirvana.



                                IV

   Having considered the theory and practice of renunciation as it is
 set forth in the Pali texts, I should like to conclude by examining
 some possible misconceptions concerning the nature of renunciation in
 general and Buddhist renunciation in particular.

   First of all, one may note that the text quoted in the previous
 section deals with the life of a monk. This is true of the great
 majority of the discourses in the Pali Canon, and some people have
 concluded that Buddhism teaches a path of total renunciation which can
 only be followed by monks and nuns. To show that this is a
 misunderstanding, one need only point to the many instructions on
 political, social, moral and religious matters which the Buddha
 addressed to lay people. One might also mention the many lay men and
 women throughout Buddhist history who have successfully followed the
 Buddha's Teaching even to the threshold of Nirvana. And finally, there
 is the fact that, although a discourse may be addressed to monks, it is
 not necessarily intended for them exclusively. So the Commentary to the
 Greater discourse on Mindfulness (D.N.No. 22), for example, says:" The
 monk is given here as an example of those dedicated to the practice of
 the Teaching ... Whoever undertakes that practice ... is here included
 under the term `monk`."

   Nevertheless, while the Buddha never neglected his lay followers, it
 cannot be denied that he gave more attention to his monks and nuns. It
 is as if, he says, there were a farmer with three fields; one good, one
 middling, and one poor. He would sow the good one first, then the
 middling one, and he may or may not sow the poor one. These three
 fields the Buddha likens respectively to his monks and nuns, his lay
 followers, and "recluses, brahmins, and wanderers of other sects". Just
 as the farmer sows his crop in the fields, so the Buddha teaches Dhamma
 to all impartially, even to the last of the three groups, for "if they
 were to understand even a single sentence, that would be a blessing and
 a happiness for them for a long time" (S.N.). It is clear, however,
 that, as the farmer will expect a greater yield from the first field so
 the Buddha expected his teachings to bear more fruit amongst his monks
 and nuns then among the laity. The reason is that the Dhamma, as has
 been said, aims at an inner renunciation, and the outward renunciation
 of the monastic life consequently provides the best conditions for its
 practice. To perfect oneself in morality, mindfulness and concentration
 is no easy task, and monks and nuns are not hampered in their pursuit
 of it by having to worry about earning a living, about money, property,
 family, and all the daily noise and bustle that distracted the
 householder's life even in ancient India, and no doubt do so still more
 in our modern urban civilization. In short, although the Path of
 renunciation is theoretically open to all, whoever and wherever they
 are, yet success in following it can be greatly affected by one's
 outward circumstance, and a layman will have to overcome many more
 obstacles than a monk.

   What, then, of the weaker vessels among the laity who may not have
 the opportunity, the ability, or even the desire to renounce the world?
 It would be a mistake here to imagine that the Buddhist is called upon
 to make an immediate, once-and-for-all choice between Samsara and
 Nirvana, renouncing the world in the same spirit as the candidate for
 Christian baptism renounces Satan and all his works. For a start, there
 is no need for the Buddhist to hurry unless he truly desires to do so.
 An infinity of deaths and births stretches before him, and he has
 plenty of time in which to prepare himself for renunciation if he is
 not yet ready for it -- provided, of course, that he continues to lead a
 morally blameless life, thus ensuring that he will continue to be born
 in more or less favorable circumstances in future.

   Again, there is no sharp distinction in Buddhism between the saved
 and the damned. There are many degrees of spiritual development, and,
 as a skilled teacher should, the Buddha always adapted his message to
 the needs and capacities of his audience. To those who were aware of
 the hollowness of worldly things he taught the path of final
 deliverance, while to those who were still in love with the world he
 simply pointed out the way to lead a good life, one which would bring
 as much benefit as possible, and as little harm or suffering, for
 themselves and others. He never demanded more from anybody than they
 were capable of at any given time, saying that, just as the great ocean
 deepens gradually as one goes further out from shore, and does not
 plunge down abruptly, so "in this Dharma and Discipline the training is
 gradual, the practice is gradual, the progress is gradual. There is no
 abrupt attainment of the ultimate knowledge (i.e. the liberating
 insight of him who has won Nirvana)" (//Udana//).

   So there is no need for anybody to try and plunge into deep water
 before he has first learned to swim in the shallows. Such a procedure
 would in fact be very dangerous, as the //Dhammapada// warns (verse
 311): "As a blade of grass will cut the hand when wrongly grasped, so
 the ascetic life will drag one down to hell if wrongly taken up". And
 the disciple need not lack for means of self-improvement even at the
 beginning of the path. Devotional practices, living as blameless a life
 as possible by observing the precepts, trying to be kind to others and
 speak and think kindly of them, study of and reflection on the Dharma,
 degree of self-knowledge through mindfulness, and some practice of
 meditation perhaps; all of these things, among others, are within the
 reach of the most worldly-minded, and will have a good result. One does
 not have to be a saint, or even a monk or nun, to attempt them.
 Patience and persistence are all that is necessary to ensure progress.
 Here one might recall the words of the //Dhammapada//: "Do not
 underrate goodness, thinking `it will not come to me.' By falling drops
 of water a water jug is filled, and a wise man will be full of
 goodness, even though he accumulates it bit by bit"(122). And again:
 "Let the wise man gradually remove the impurities form himself, as the
 smith from silver, bit by bit and from moment to moment"(239).

   A second misconception is that renunciation is a gloomy and
 depressing business. A biographer of the Christian mystic St. John of
 the Cross says that on a first reading of his work: "Few persons,
 however spiritually minded, will fail to find it repellent. It strikes
 a deadly chill, not only into the unhealthy heat of sense-affection,
 but into the glowing warmth of what one had hoped and believed to be
 pure love of God. It calls on one to go out from God-given light into a
 black and unknown darkness." I think that, God aside, many people are
 repelled in a similar way when they first encounter the Buddha's
 Teaching of renunciation, which may be one reason for the recurrent
 charges of nihilism and pessimism. The reason for this reaction is not
 far to seek, and the clue lies in the words "unknown darkness."

   For most people, the pleasures of the senses (and in Buddhism, one
 must remember, this can include the pleasures of the mind) are the only
 pleasures, the only source of happiness that they know. Naturally, they
 do not take kindly to the suggestion that they give these up for some
 far-off and indescribable goal. But it is only ignorance that makes the
 goal appear dark. The darkness is, as it were, only the objective
 counterpart of a subjective blindness, and, in fact, as those who have
 had experience of this forbidding "darkness" repeatedly assert, the
 successful abandoning of sense-pleasures brings a happiness far greater
 than anything that they had known hitherto.

   It is not difficult to see why this should be so, when one considers
 the way in which sense-pleasures come about. A sense-pleasure arises
 from the gratification of a desire, in the following way. First of all,
 a desire arises and creates a kind of tension in the mind of the being
 which feels the desire. Since this tension is felt as unpleasant, the
 being is then impelled to get rid of it by gratifying the desire. When
 the desired object is obtained, the desire is gratified, and the
 tension in the mind is relaxed. From the relaxation of the tension
 flows a sense of satisfaction and fulfilment, a greater or lesser
 degree of happiness or pleasure. Now, as long as existence continues
 (for the continuity of existence itself is, in the Buddhist view,
 contingent upon the desire for it), desires of one kind and another
 will be continually arising, at every moment, and agitating the mind.
 This means that the relaxation of tension, and hence the pleasure of
 happiness, which comes from their gratification can never be anything
 but temporary and incomplete.

   If, then, happiness comes, not from desire itself (which in fact
 causes pain), but from its subsiding, it follows that the renunciation
 of sense-desires, so far from making one miserable, really opens up the
 only path to true and lasting happiness. And when the goal has been
 attained, becoming has ceased, and the mind is no longer troubled by
 the arising of any kind of desire. The result must be a state of calm
 and imperturbable happiness that ordinary beings, still enmeshed in
 worldly desires, can scarcely comprehend. Even the temporary quiescence
 of the mind in deep "meditation" is said to create a sense of bliss
 that far surpasses anything in ordinary experience, and in this way to
 give a foretaste of the unutterable peace of Nirvana. It is important
 to bear all this in mind, otherwise it might be easy to imagine that
 Buddhism is "pessimistic" and that Buddhists seek to renounce the world
 out of hatred for it. But there is no more un-Buddhist emotion than
 hatred, whether for the world or anything else, and to attempt
 renunciation for that reason would not be only futile but deadly. The
 correct motive for renunciation is rather that given in the
 //Dhammapada// (290): "If by surrendering a slight happiness one may
 realize a great happiness, the wise man should give up the slight
 happiness, considering the greater one."

   Another error would be to suppose that Buddhists, like followers of
 some other religions, think that one should renounce the world because
 it is corrupt, or evil, or ugly; but no Buddhist has ever held such a
 view. It is not that worldly happiness and beauty are non- existent, or
 sinful, or even worthless. It is just that they are flawed by their
 transience and their liability to change into suffering and ugliness.
 The Buddhist ideal is to feel neither attachment in the case of
 happiness and beauty, nor revulsion in the case of suffering and
 ugliness, but simply to observe things as they really are, with
 equanimity and perfect freedom of mind.

   A different kind of mistake is to think that renunciation is
 impossibly difficult, only to be achieved, if at all, by a superhuman
 effort of will and forcible suppression of natural desires. Of course,
 to sever the ties that bind one to the world are rarely an easy or a
 pleasant task, and strict self-discipline and persistent effort are
 necessary until the goal has been attained. Nevertheless, renunciation
 should never be forced. The man who has to force himself to renounce
 the world only shows that he is not yet ready to do so, and he must
 learn to be more patient, for otherwise he will only strengthen his
 bonds instead of loosening them. We do not have to compel ourselves to
 abandon the games and toys of our childhood; we simply outgrew them. So
 should it be with one who renounces worldly pleasures and
 preoccupations. Even though he may not yet be entirely free from
 nostalgia for these things of his spiritual childhood, he is beginning
 to outgrow them, and he no longer truly desires them. For him,
 renunciation, while it may be difficult, is not a forbidding and
 distasteful task. It is, on the contrary, the only way to genuine and
 lasting happiness. True renunciation does not involve "driving Nature
 out with a pitchfork": it is simply a question of learning to let go.

   Finally, I would like to consider the objection that renunciation is
 a flight from the world's problems, a selfish escapism. I think that
 enough has already been said to show that renunciation is by no means
 an easy way out of anything. On the contrary, it requires a
 considerable effort of self-discipline. Again, the aim of renunciation
 is to overcome the ills of the world, to understand and destroy the
 suffering that is at the root of the world's problems, and not run away
 from it. As for the charge of selfishness and lack of concern for the
 welfare of others, it could be answered in a number of ways. First, one
 might point out that, in the Buddha's words, "it is not possible for
 one who is himself sunk in a mire to pull out another who is in the
 same situation. But it is possible for one who is not sunk in a mire to
 pull out another who is"(M.N. No.8). In other words, no one can give
 effective help to others unless he has first helped himself. Nobody can
 solve for others problems that he has not yet solved for himself, and
 that is why self-development must proceed altruistic activity.

   Secondly, one might reply that not only is deliberate selfishness
 impossible for a true follower of the Buddha, for he will be aiming at
 the destruction of "self," but also, as was seen above, kindness and
 compassion towards all living things are enjoined on the monk as an
 indispensable part of the path. After he has succeeded in his aim, and
 attained final deliverance, he will continue to live only for the sakes
 of others, in order to pull them "out of the mire". The Buddha himself
 set the example in this, and when his first sixty monks had realized
 Nirvana, he sent them out singly to preach with those words: "Go your
 way, monks, for the benefit of the many: for the happiness of the many,
 out of compassion for the world, for the welfare, the benefit, the
 happiness of gods and men" (//Vinaya, Mahavagga//).

   Finally, it should be remembered that compassion for the world and
 detachment from the world are not incompatible. On the contrary, they
 are inseparable, for compassion is purest only where it is totally
 disinterested. It is easy to see that if I help another from some
 ulterior motive, such as expectation of a reward, my compassion, if
 compassion is present in me at all, will be tainted by self-interest.
 What is perhaps not so obvious is that if I am in any way concerned
 about my action or its results, if I //care// about the person I am
 helping, my motives are still touched with selfishness, for I am
 identifying myself (my self) with my action or with the other person.
 Furthermore, since a sense of self is an indication that ignorance has
 not been completely eliminated, it shows that I am not yet "out of the
 mire," and my help will, for that reason, be less effective than the
 help of someone who is completely disinterested. Thus one arrives at
 the paradoxical conclusion that perfect compassion can arise, and
 perfect help can be given, only where there is perfect detachment, and
 that those who have totally renounced the world are precisely the
 people who can be of most benefit to it. The clearest illumination of
 this is the life of the Buddha himself. He began by renouncing the
 world, and finally transcended it. And yet, despite the fact that he
 had nothing whatever to gain from it, he spent the remainder of his
 long life, after his Awakening, tramping on the roads of north-eastern
 India in order to help "beings" which he knew full well had no
 substantial existence. There is no doubt that he did this out of the
 purest compassion, for being totally disinterested in the matter, he
 could have had no other motive; and to the extent of the help that he
 was able to give, twnety-five centruies of Buddhist history bear
 eloquent witness.

                          * * * * * * * *

                            CORRECTIONS
  
  In preparing this electronic edition for DharmaNet, some minor changes
  and corrections were made to the original text. These include changing
  the spellings of certain words from British to American English and
  adapting punctuation and style to conform more closely to the Chicago
  Manual of Style (13th edition) guidelines.


                          * * * * * * * *

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