Not clinging to our own opinions

The lesson of the monk Meghiya

In the Khuddaka Nikaya there is a sutta titled Meghiya, about an attendant of the Buddha who lost merit because he clung to his own opinion.

In the early period after his enlightenment, the Buddha often wandered quietly alone, teaching, rather than travelling with the Sangha, because he did not want to display his supernatural powers. There were times when the Buddha used those powers to vanish from one place and appear in another, which would have been very inconvenient if a crowd had been with him, especially followers who had not yet attained the path. When the Buddha was older and many members of the Sangha had attained the path, he travelled with the Sangha more often. When they needed to cross a river, since no boats could carry a thousand monks, the Master and his disciples all used supernatural powers: they vanished from one bank and appeared on the other, then continued on their way.

In the Zen tradition there is the story of Patriarch Fenyang Shanzhao, a Zen master who had attained the path. One day he gathered his assembly of a thousand disciples and asked:

- I want to go far away. Can anyone come with me?

One person after another stood up, but he refused them all. Finally his attendant stood up and asked to go with him, and the Master asked:

- How many miles can you walk in a day?

- Venerable Master, wherever you go, I will follow.

- You can follow me. Very well, I will go first.

And right there he passed away, and at once the attendant, standing beside him with palms joined, passed away after him. When Master Fenyang said “I want to go far away,” he meant that he wanted to pass away, and no one understood, except his attendant, who had also attained the path and so understood his teacher. That is a story of teacher and disciple in perfect accord.

It was the same in the Buddha's time. When the Sangha did not yet have many who had attained the path, the Buddha did not take many monks along on his teaching journeys. One rainy season the Buddha wished to go up the high mountain of Vediya, to the stone cave of Indasala, for the rains retreat, and only his attendant Meghiya went with him to serve him. At this time Meghiya had not yet attained the path.

The Buddha and his attendant left the city of Rajagaha and passed the lush, beautiful mango grove of the courtesan Ambapali. There was a crystal-clear pond there, a stream running across it... a scene so poetic and peaceful that Meghiya's heart was stirred with the wish to stay in that lovely mango grove and practise in seclusion.

The two of them reached Mount Mankula and went deep into the old forest, where the path grew steeper and harder to walk. Meghiya stopped and set the Buddha's bowl down on a rock beside the mountain slope.

- Venerable Blessed One, I wish to go back and spend the rains retreat in Ambapali's mango grove. Please take good care of yourself.

- Meghiya, what do you think of leaving the Tathagata to stay here alone?

- Venerable Blessed One, I wish to spend the rains retreat in Ambapali's lovely mango grove. Please take good care of yourself.

Then the attendant Meghiya paid homage to the Buddha three times and, carrying his own bowl, went down the mountain slope. (While we would be happy just to be a speck of dust beneath the Buddha's feet, he could bear to leave the Buddha alone, with no one to look after him.)

He went to stay in the mango grove, under the trees, as he had wished. But he could not sit in meditation: the moment he crossed his legs his mind became agitated and chaotic, and vicious, lustful and hateful thoughts rushed in. Strangely, since he had left home he had never had such delusions, so why, when he resolved to practise diligently in a forest with such a lovely setting, did thoughts of desire, ill will, harming and wickedness arise one upon another? After several months of the rains retreat without being able to tame his mind, suffering from how agitated it was, he had no choice but to trudge back with his bowl to see the Buddha:

- Venerable Blessed One, I do not know why, when I went back to stay in the mango grove for the rains retreat, I struggled to meditate, struggled to keep my mind, yet I always lost mindfulness. I seem to be exhausted by my disturbed mind. Now I understand that without enough merit and wholesome karma, no one can gather the mind in right mindfulness. Now I sincerely repent.

Then the Buddha taught: To progress in practice, one must have five supports for the practice.

What are the five?

• First, one must be close to an enlightened teacher and good friends.

• Second, one must keep the precepts and see the danger in every small fault.

• Third, one must often hear talk of noble and beautiful teachings.

• Fourth, one must purify the inner mind so as to have a thoroughly wholesome moral character (because a wholesome inner mind is a very great foundation for gathering the mind into concentration: only a person of moral character can judge rightly, and a person who enters concentration is certainly a person of moral character).

• Fifth, one must have wisdom, to apply oneself skilfully in practice.

The Buddha taught four further contemplations to counter four kinds of illness of the mind:

• First, the contemplation of impurity, to end sensual craving.

• Second, the contemplation of loving-kindness and compassion, to end anger and hatred.

• Third, the contemplation of the breath, to end the mind's agitation.

• Fourth, the contemplation of impermanence and non-self, to eliminate conceit and clinging to self.

Then the Buddha spoke this verse:

Many hidden delusions

Govern the whole mind,

Sinking beings endlessly,

Because they are not clearly known.

Know them clearly,

Use diligent mindfulness

To eliminate and subdue

The deep-lying delusions,

Like the Fully Enlightened One,

Who has not a trace of delusion.

Later, after practising with the Buddha for a long time, the Venerable Meghiya also attained the path. But this event took place when he was still the Buddha's attendant, and there was a time when he left the Buddha in this way. We will analyse the verse above to see Venerable Meghiya's fault at that time, and from it draw a lesson for ourselves.

The first fault of the attendant Meghiya was that his love and reverence for the Buddha were not deep. Time and space are not the obstacle; the human mind itself is the greatest barrier. If a person is superficial, then even standing before the Buddha, he is in truth very far from the Buddha. So even though we are more than 2,500 years removed from the Buddha, if we have enough sincere reverence, the Buddha is always at our side, responding to us and loving us overflowingly.

Why are so few people attaining the path in this age of the decline of the Dharma? Also because we are too far from the Buddha. After several thousand years, people's hearts have faded; beings do not even have enough sincere reverence, and so they lack response and protection. But if someone is overflowing with admiration and diligently practises the Buddha's teachings, then the Buddha is truly at that person's side, protecting and guiding them at every step of the practice.

Do not think that merely reciting the Buddha's name, merely calling on his name over and over, will bring about that response. It is practising the Buddha's teachings that makes our response to the Buddha boundless. We sit in the full lotus posture, clearly aware of the whole body, contemplating the body as impermanent, following the breath, every in-breath and every out-breath full of reverence for the Buddha... and then, though more than 2,500 years have passed, it is as if the Buddha were before us, the Buddha beside us in every wondrous breath. So for a person with enough sincere reverence we no longer say “the Dharma-decline age is far from the Buddha,” while for a superficial person even ten days away from the Buddha is already distant beyond measure. The mind is what matters; time and space do not.

The monk Meghiya was an attendant of the Buddha, yet though he was at the Buddha's side, his love and reverence for his teacher were lukewarm. That was his main fault, and so when he came across a beautiful forest he left at once, leaving the Buddha alone. Reading this passage of the sutta we cannot help feeling pained: while we only ask “to be forever a speck of dust where the Buddha's footsteps pass...”, he was at the Buddha's side without enough reverence and so left the Buddha, thinking that by being diligent he would attain the path, never suspecting that he would gain nothing at all. That superficiality made him lose merit and feel exhausted by his disturbed mind.

We all know that the early stage of learning to sit in meditation is torture: the legs ache and go numb, the body must not move even when it itches, the mind is restless and agitated... But once the mind begins to grow clear, meditation is a happiness beyond comparison, and our entire outlook on life changes. For example, before, we had little love for others, but once the mind is awake, clear and pure, we naturally look at people with overflowing love. Or before, we looked down on those who were less capable or poorer than ourselves, but once the mind is awake and clear, we immediately see ourselves and everyone as equal, and can love and respect people. Or before, we were still fond of material things, but once the mind is awake and clear, we see the vast mountains and forests and the rolling land like dust blown away by the wind, with nothing to cling to. Compassion, equality, letting go... and countless other virtues naturally fill our mind.

A person whose mind has been transformed, who lives with love for all beings, who no longer craves anything in the world, whose moral character grows brighter day by day, is convinced that meditative concentration is the path to the undying spiritual state. That conviction is utterly firm, and it is the strength that lets people keep practising diligently and courageously through so many difficulties. From ancient times until now, that is how so many people have achieved meditative concentration and gradually become saints who have gone beyond the world.

Since he left home to follow the Buddha, although Meghiya had not yet attained the path, he still had a way to walk: his spiritual life had opened up, with awareness and the peace of meditative concentration. Although he had this bit of clarity, it was not yet deep enough, and so he clung to his own opinion and left, leaving the Buddha alone. Clinging to his opinion made him lose merit, and once merit is depleted the mind becomes disturbed at once, besieged by waves of bad thoughts.

Evil that arises in our mind is sometimes not our own doing but the result of our merit having been damaged. For example, walking along the road, our eyes happen to fall on someone sprawled by the grass verge, and we at once think: he must be drunk and rolling about in the street, or he is healthy and pretending to beg... while the person has really fallen because of a sudden pain. We should have gone to help them up, asked how they were, found a way to assist, yet we immediately thought ill of them, sometimes mixed with contempt, and with fear of being drawn into trouble. That reduces our merit and damages our virtue, and then unwholesome thoughts follow one after another, damaging our merit even more.

In the same way, if wholesome thoughts arise in our mind, it is not because we are good but because we have just created merit somewhere, for instance by paying homage to the Buddha, releasing living beings, giving alms or arousing compassion for someone. That merit rebuilds the mind, so that wholesome thoughts sprout in the soil of our heart. So the merit and wrongdoing we create all act back on our inner mind. That is the mutual support between the karma of the body and the karma of the mind.

When Meghiya left the Buddha, abandoning the meritorious work he was doing, his mind at once became disturbed. Since leaving home to follow the Buddha he had practised very steadily, his heart not entangled with the world and unmoved by attachment. Yet when he resolved to go to the forest to practise diligently in solitude, he was troubled by delusions with no peace, and evil thoughts, thoughts of desire and thoughts of ill will rushed in. He was alarmed by his own wrongful thoughts but could not trace where they came from. After a few months of the rains retreat, unable to bear it any longer, he had to return to the Buddha and repent. After being taught by the Buddha he recovered his merit, and only a long time afterwards did he attain the path.

The Buddha is the teacher of gods and humans, whose life, pure as emptiness, has no equal in the world. When the monk Meghiya was ill with the sickness of clinging to his opinion, he stubbornly would not listen to anyone; once such obstinacy reaches its peak, one does not heed even the Buddha. Because the Buddha foresaw Meghiya's loss of merit in abandoning his meritorious service to the Buddha, he did not agree to let him go. The Buddha said: “Meghiya, at this moment there are only the two of us; wait until another monk comes, and then go.” Was it because the Buddha did not want to be lonely, afraid that if his disciple left no one would care for him?

The Buddha's mind is not a thinking mind,

Without a trace of selfishness of his own;

His altruism embraces all beings,

The whole Dharma realm is his great love.

In fact the Buddha was often alone, and he liked being alone. But the Buddha wanted Meghiya to have a sense of responsibility toward his teacher, because this creates merit, and one must have merit in order to progress in practice. Just as venerable elders and abbots can look after themselves, hang their own mosquito nets and cook their own rice... yet they still let their disciples do these things, because they want their disciples to accumulate deep and abundant merit.

Here we recall the story of the Venerable Mahakassapa. Once he was ill but did not take medicine; he quietly entered meditative concentration for seven days. On the seventh day he emerged from it, the illness ended, and he was about to go on his alms round again. “A great arahant has emerged from concentration after seven days and is about to go on his alms round”: this news stirred all the heavenly realms. Many devas brought heavenly food down to the human world and stood waiting for him to pass so they could make offerings. But the Venerable Mahakassapa quietly avoided all the roads where devas were, and took another road leading into the poor hamlets. It was a peculiarity of his that he liked to receive alms from the poor, so that they might gain merit.

This time Sakka, king of the devas, was very clever. He shrank himself to human size, put on a ragged, tattered garment, and waited with his food in that poor hamlet, palms joined, for the Venerable One. Although he had disguised himself skilfully, as soon as he came near he was recognised by the Venerable Mahakassapa:

- Ah, this being is full of power.

Then he rebuked him:

- Sakka, lord of the devas, why do you compete for the merit of the beings of this human world?

Sakka, king of the devas, pleaded earnestly:

- Please, Venerable One, be kind to me, be kind to me. It is precisely by being able to make offerings to you in this way that I have enough merit to be king of the heavens, and to be able to govern three thousand worlds as I do...

Because he was so earnest, the Venerable One had to accept his offering of food.

So that is how the saints are: they accept offerings not for themselves but for the merit of beings. The Buddha was the same. When Meghiya insisted on being allowed to practise alone, the Buddha said: “Meghiya, wait until another monk comes, and then you may go”; that is, he wanted Meghiya to have a sense of responsibility toward his teacher so that he would keep his merit, but because Meghiya clung so much to his opinion, the Buddha had to let him go.

Clinging to our opinions: the great illness of beings

The illness of the attendant Meghiya long ago is the illness of all of us today. All of us are caught in the fault of clinging to our own opinion: whatever we think, we take to be the truth, and other people's opinions to be wrong, even our teacher's. Only a disciple whose practice is firm can say: “I no longer have any opinion of my own. Whatever my teacher teaches, I do, with nothing to question.” But most of us like to do things our own way; sometimes when our teacher scolds or reprimands us, we say “yes, yes, certainly,” but quietly resist, whether in our mind or in our actions and outward words. And the monk Meghiya long ago lost so much merit that his mind became disturbed, also because of this clinging to opinion. Let us look at that lesson and be on guard for ourselves. Whatever we think of, do not believe it is the truth; otherwise we fall into the very fault of the monk Meghiya and cannot avoid depleting our merit and virtue.

A wise person always doubts each of his own thoughts, knowing he is still an ordinary being, not yet absolutely pure. In the Sutra of Forty-two Chapters the Buddha taught: “Nhữ ý bất khả tín” (never trust your own mind) until you have attained arahantship. So until we attain arahantship, we must go on doubting, and being wary of, all of our thoughts and wishes.

For example, a friend comes to invite us to go to the temple, and we think: “Going to the temple is good.” But if the circumstances are not convenient, let us reconsider; if we force ourselves to go it would not be right, and going the next day would be better. Or a neighbouring family has just lost someone, and they need us to come over to advise and help with the funeral. But we pass it by and go to the temple all day, and by the time we go over in the evening, the neighbours have already begun to doubt the temple and the Buddhists a little, seeing that their own neighbour could bear to go away just when their parent had died and their family needed help. If at that time we had not clung to our opinion, had put aside what we liked and gone over to help the neighbouring family, things would often have turned out better.

So in this world there are always things that seem good and right but turn out, unexpectedly, to be wrong. That is why we should be on guard against every thought of ours. The monk Meghiya also once thought: “The Buddha often taught us to practise diligently in solitude, sitting in meditation in quiet forests, in deep caves... Now there is a mango grove as beautiful as this; I want to live alone and practise diligently as the Buddha taught. That is good, isn't it?” It sounds good but is still wrong, because he left the Buddha alone, and that was an irresponsible attitude. Moreover, his bond with his teacher was not deep, and that was the great mistake. There is still time to practise, but every day we can serve the Buddha and be at the Buddha's side is a great sacred opportunity.

Meghiya at that time was so stubborn, clinging to his opinion so much that even when the Buddha stopped him three times it did no good, and the Buddha had to let him go. Only after leaving the Buddha did he realise with alarm that he had indeed lost merit at once: his mind became disturbed immediately, and thoughts of lust, resentment, hatred and killing, like a blazing fire, burned him and left him in great suffering and distress. And if those thoughts had grown stronger and driven him to act, they would have taken him down to the hells and the animal realm, which is no small matter. After months of being unable to subdue his mind, Meghiya finally returned to repent to the Buddha.