|
Although it is difficult to cross over the storm-swept sea of passion,
those who live in accord with the well-taught Way, arrive at the beyond.
Dhammapada, verse 86
Question: Does prayer have any place or any part to play in Theravada
Buddhism?
Ajahn Munindo: I am happy this question has been asked. Although prayer
might appear to belong to forms of spiritual practice quite different to
this one, it is a dimension of spiritual work that personally I feel we
are not wise to dismiss. I can say for myself that for many years now
hardly a day has gone by when I haven’t offered up some prayers.
Although I may not have sat in formal meditation every day, I never
forget my prayers. In other words I consider prayer life to be
essential. I can’t imagine living this life without a conscious
engagement in this way.
How does one talk about something so mysterious and intensely personal?
It is difficult to say what prayer is, or how we learn about it. During
my Protestant upbringing there was a general assumption that everybody
knew how to pray. We sang hymns, I heard the Bible readings and the
prayers during services, but nothing was said about how to enter into a
conversation with the ‘divine principle’. We were told, ‘Ask and ye
shall be given.’ But how exactly were we to do the asking?
More recntly I had a conversation with a Christian monk who came to
visit us. He lives the life of a hermit just north of here, in the
Scottish Borders. We talked about the joys and sorrows of the monastic
life, and about the people who came to visit him at his humble abode. I
asked, “Do you ever teach them how to pray?” He gave a brilliant reply.
“Oh no,” he said, “prayer is not taught – it is caught. It’s like a
disease. You catch it off someone else who has it.”
I immediately knew what he was talking about, having lived around
traditional Theravada Buddhists for five or six years in Thailand. There
was something that one might call a prayerful attitude towards practice,
which I do feel that I ‘picked up’ there.
I wasn’t altogether conscious of this dimension when I loved there, but
a few years later, when I was on solitary retreat in this country and
having a very difficult time, I discovered that there was a voice within
me which wanted to speak out. During this period I had put myself on a
solitary retreat for two months. Other than the fortnightly recitation
of the rule, which I was obliged to attend, I wasn’t going to see
anybody for two months. I locked myself in a small room at the top of
Chithurst House and covered the windows with tracing paper so that I
received daylight but no view of the outside world. All this served the
purpose of bringing about great intensity, which I thought of course I
could handle. I had a few things to learn. One of those things was the
value of prayer. The only things comparable to prayers that I had as a
part of my Buddhist practice were the reflections that we do in the
morning and evening chanting. When I started to give voice to the verses
that I had been reciting daily for years, I found I was speaking them
with feeling. Something within was quickened and uplifted, so that I was
able to say these things and mean them. ‘May I abide in well-being, in
freedom from affliction.’ ‘May I be free from suffering. May all beings
be free from suffering.’ To say those things with conscious intent was
truly gladdening. I remember it inspired me to look a little further and
in so doing I began to come up with my own words. That was a significant
step on a path towards a meaningful prayer life, which I recognise with
hindsight to have been something of importance that was missing from all
the spiritual exercises that had been a part of my life as a monk up to
that point.
The Dynamics of Prayer
To find our own words to express our innermost wishes can be of great
significance when it comes to finding out how to take responsibility for
our own hearts. It opens a pathway whereby we connect with that which is
deepest within us; all aspects of our being are gathered together,
focusing intent. It is also a way of investing a form or an outward
gesture with spiritual power. When I light incense, I silently make this
prayer, or some variation on it: ‘May the fragrance of the truth
permeate all aspects of my being, activity of body, activity of speech,
activity of mind.’ When prayer is made with feeling and emotion, made
with intention, because body, speech and mind are all involved, there is
power in it. In that moment of offering something is done. I can’t say
precisely what this something is, but it is of relevance to the path. In
connecting consciously with that which one longs for, beyond the realm
of casual concerns, one’s life is given direction. Mindful prayer,
informed by wise contemplation, is a way of revealing our most treasured
aspirations and allowing them to guide the rest of our life.
When I lived in Thailand, I noticed that there was something in common
between the Buddhist monks and the Christian missionaries in their use
of a particular word. The Thai Buddhists often discussed the importance
of making adhitthan, which is the Thai version of the Pali word
adhitthana. In Theravadin Buddhism, adhitthana means a conscious
determined intention to practise with effort and dedication. Thai
Christians used this very same word – adhitthan – when they talked about
prayer.
My prayer life as a young person came with an understanding that there
was some almighty authority out there who was somehow responsible for
everything that happened, and that if you had a ticket you could get a
privileged relationship with this character, and he could do what you
wanted – if you asked nicely. The Thai Buddhists don’t have that idea at
all. That is not part of their conception of reality. After a few years
as a Buddhist monk I came to realise that, without having to believe I
was talking to an all-powerful figure who I had to obey and appease, I
was able to give voice to the heart’s wishes in a genuinely meaningful
way.
The heart longs to speak and be heard. Some of you may be acquainted
with the bible where it says, in Psalm 130: ‘Out of the depths have I
called unto thee, oh Lord. Lord hear my voice: May Thine ears consider
well the voice of my complaint.’ I believe that the heart’s longing to
be heard is most naturally served by engaging in prayer. For those of us
who were brought up as theists and learned to pray in that context, but
later, feeling unfulfilled, withdrew from that form of religious
expression, it can be an uncomfortable and difficult prospect to begin
to pray again. Picking up a prayer life against the background of such
associations can bring serious reservations, even fear. I recall having
to deal with a strong fear that I might end up losing my faith as a
Buddhist and return to being a theist. As things turned out, that
testing was part of the process of finding my own way into a prayer life
again.
By exercising careful mindfulness one can allow such fears without
necessarily believing in them. Just because we’re afraid something’s
going to happen doesn’t mean that it will happen. Just because you feel
guilty about something, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ve done
anything wrong; just because you want something doesn’t mean that you’ll
be happy when you get it. We’ve all seen how delusive apparent reality
can be. When I began to offer up my own prayers in a conscious way I had
to bear with my fears, but at the same time I was also aware of an
emerging sense of gratitude in being able to give voice to these deep
longings. Eventually the worries and doubts subsided and I found a
natural lightness and ease in what I was doing.
One evening I was leading the community at Chithurst when a prayer group
from a local church came to visit. After I had given a talk I asked if
there were any questions. One of the group put up their hand and said,
“What good do you do for anybody else? You don’t even pray.” I replied
that I prayed every day. She responded, “Well, how can you pray when you
haven’t got a God?” What I found myself saying was, “The sun shines
whether or not it has anything to shine on.” The sun just shines, that
is its nature, and likewise it is the heart’s nature to speak and
express itself. It is not necessary to believe in an external ‘other’
receiving us.
This incident helped me to come to a clearer understanding of prayer
from the perspective of Buddhist practice. I came to see that in my
practice the orientation of attention was inward, whereas the person who
had asked the question was focused on the object of her supplications,
that is, a perceived Almighty. I wasn’t expecting intervention from
above in the way she was. When I pray it is for the sake of the heart
itself. The heart prays because it needs to if it wants to become free.
Our hearts are speaking all the time, but are we listening? We have deep
concerns, we have deep longings; with skilful attention we can enter
into a dialogue with this dimension of ourselves and in so doing be
enriched. The mysteriousness is welcoming and inviting. It is our own
true heart with which we are engaged. We don’t need to be afraid.
Insight Practice
Insight (vipassana) meditation practice entails investigating all
phenomena according to their characteristics of impermanence,
unsatisfactoriness and not-self, with the aim of letting go of our
tendency to cling to them. If that is the totality of our practice,
however, we may try to let go of everything but still find that there’s
a cold dark contraction within that doesn’t want to let go.
Equipping ourselves with mindfulness and non-judgemental here-and-now
awareness, it is possible to find our way into an intimate dialogue with
the dimension that theists might call ‘the divine principle’. For me the
divine principle is symbolised by the Triple Gem – the Buddha, the
Dhamma and the Sangha. In my own devotional practice I refer to it as
Lord Buddha, Lord Dhamma and Lord Sangha because I find the word ‘Lord’
meaningful. To me the word ‘Lord’ carries the positive meaning of that
which rules over: the overriding governing principle.
In traditional Buddhist countries nobody ever says, ‘Buddha said such
and such’. This would be to bring among common, ordinary things
something that is held in the highest possible esteem. Instead one
always says Lord Buddha, or, in Thai, Phra Buddha Jao. Phra Jao means a
Lord or God. Similarly, both the Dhamma and the Sangha are referred to
in Thailand as Lord Dhamma and Lord Sangha. This is not simply
child-like naïveté – this is to qualify these realities with words that
raise them up as worthy of veneration. Heart matters are more important
to us than casual concerns. If we don’t get to read the newspaper one
day, so what? We like to read the newspaper or drink coffee in the
morning, but we can do without gratifying these casual desires, which
are ultimately of trivial significance. But our heart’s longings – if
they go unattended to, there are serious consequences.
There has been a general trend in our culture over the last few decades
towards a philosophy of relativism. The outlook of relativism is that
there is no objective good or bad – there are only personal preferences.
This is reflected in our day-to-day language: we have lost the usage of
words that once testified to the fact that we held certain things as
sacred and worthy of our deepest respect. In prayer – as a personal and
private matter – we have the opportunity to give expression to these
feelings that we all have in our hearts. It’s a conversation with a
higher principle – an intimate conversation.
Prayer and ‘merit’
The Buddha made it very clear that if we make the right kind of effort
in the conduct of our body, speech and mind, we generate an active
potential that he referred to as puñña, which is rather ineloquently
translated into English as ‘merit’. Puñña is a living force of goodness.
In most schools of Buddhism it is a common practice to dedicate the
wholesome potential one has generated to particular individuals or to
all beings. We can think of this as either blessing or prayer.
I appreciate how, for many, the concept of ‘merit’ smacks of materialism
and is off-putting. However, we can sometimes learn from a material
metaphor. For instance, in order to start a business we have to generate
potential to get it up and running. The potential in this case is
capital – we need to have accumulated sufficient savings of our own or
have secured a loan from a bank. This preparation is not the business
itself, because we are not yet doing what we have set out to do or
realising the result of the business that we want to run. Yet without
the potential that capital stands for, we can’t run the business –
that’s the reality. The same principle holds true spiritually.
If out of unawareness we have come to a condition of selfishness,
isolation and loneliness and we wish to see our condition transformed,
we may wonder where the necessary force or energy will come from to
effect this transformation. Whether we are lay or monastic Buddhist
practitioners, a lot of our practice is concerned with generating the
accumulated momentum required for that transformation. This is one way
of understanding puñña.
The act of dedicating puñña is aimed at purifying our effort. Despite
doing our best, without our noticing it, there can be a steadily
increasing sense of ourselves as being somehow spiritually superior to
other people. This sense of accumulated benefit can, if we are not
careful, increase our burden of conceit. When we dedicate any puñña that
we may have generated by wholesome conduct we are making the gesture of
giving it away. We pray, ‘may the goodness resulting from my practice
today, bring benefit to all beings’. When we do this, the focus of our
attention is on the heart itself; it is not outwardly directed,
concerned with what effect this gesture might have on the ‘world’.
The Buddha told this story: There were two acrobats who travelled from
village to village, performing tricks as a way of earning a living. As
part of their act the older of the two would hold a ladder on his
shoulders while the younger scampered up and performed. They were
obviously aware that they needed to maintain close attention; otherwise
it could have been dangerous. One day the older one spoke saying that he
thought for the sake of keeping their act on the road the younger one
needed to pay closer attention to what he was doing down below on the
ground. He in turn would apply closer attention to what was going on at
the top of the ladder. The younger one respectfully listened, but then
said he felt it would be more effective if instead of watching each
other they paid closer attention to what each one was themselves doing.
That way, he said, there would be benefit. The Buddha’s comment on this
was that the younger one had it right. If we are each more careful about
what is ours to be responsible for, then we actually benefit each other.
At the end of each day I find it wonderfully rewarding to dedicate the
merit of my practice. It is not my place to worry about whether by
making these wishes anyone else feels better. I am focused on doing what
I can to reduce the tendencies of greed, aversion and delusion in my own
heart. So I dwell on the thought, ‘May this act of dedication bring
benefit to my teachers – to Ajahn Tate, Ajahn Chah, and all those
teachers I’ve lived with; Ajahn Sumedho, without whom the monasteries in
Britain wouldn’t exist; the monks that I’ve lived with, my mother, my
father and the people that I care about, and those that I don’t
particularly care about; everybody who’s ever lived here at Ratanagiri,
who are living here now and will ever live here in the future.’ The
contents of the prayer can differ from day to day but the important
thing is generating a genuine sense of well-wishing or loving-kindness
to all people and all beings, without exception. I am not doing this
because it is ‘a part of our religion’. To make this gesture at the end
of the day lightens the burden of self-centredness.
Ancient Practices
Our Asian teachers may not have explicitly taught the necessity of
cultivating an attitude of devotion, but they certainly demonstrated it
themselves. There are a number of instances I can remember when I saw
certain gestures that really cut right through any doubts or confusion I
may have had about the overall attitude I should be keeping in my
day-to-day practice.
When I was a new monk and visiting Wat Pah Bahn Tard, which is the
monastery of Ajahn Mahaboowa – renowned as one of the most ferocious and
mighty masters of the present Theravada Buddhist Forest tradition – I
was waiting in the eating hall in the early morning, before we all went
out on alms round together, when the Venerable Ajahn came in. I expected
that he would probably start snapping orders to the monks, and then rush
off on pindapat – he had a reputation for being very gruff and very
fast. But what did he do? As he quietly entered the Hall, the first
thing he did was humbly kneel before the shrine and bow with the most
gracious prostrations that one would ever wish to see. I wondered, “Why
is he doing that? He’s supposed to be enlightened. I mean what is he
doing bowing to graven images?”
This uninhibited expression of his devotion was a natural part of his
disposition. He had grown up with that sensibility, as Ajahn Chah, Ajahn
Tate and other eminent monks had. The same is true in Burma. At the
monasteries of the various well-known and Venerable Sayadaws, you will
see numerous well-kept shrines with monks, nuns and laity alike offering
respect by way of candles, flowers and incense. Before and after sitting
meditation they always mindfully bow three times in devotion to the
Buddha, their teacher to whom they know they owe so much. This is so
normal, so close to them that they just take it for granted. Addhithan,
making determinations, generating these conscious wishes from a deep
place within is thoroughly natural, and this, I feel, is one of the
essential nourishments of the contemplative life. Many followers of
vipassana teachings in the West that I have met report a lack of warmth,
joy, well-being and wholeness in their life. Perhaps their spiritual
diet lacks some important nutrients.
Silent prayer
So I think prayer does have an important place in Theravada Buddhism.
This Way is about getting to know the nature of our own being, so that
we’re at one with our hearts and attentive to its truest longings. The
heart longs to return to its original condition of purity. To become
more conscious of that dimension of our heart is an important point of
practice. The reflections and ritual verses of contemplations that we
all recite together in the monastery are a safe place to start to pray.
Then, if we feel inclined, we can begin to say our own words. What does
your heart want to say?
When we kneel before the shrine – that which symbolises perfect wisdom,
perfect compassion and perfect freedom for us – and we express our good
wishes for all beings – the bronze statue, beautiful and serene as it
is, is not listening to us. We are not asking the Buddha to grant us any
favours. Rather, beholding an image of the Buddha helps configure the
‘divine principle’ in our minds and creates the appropriate inner space
– a sacred place – in which we feel totally free to speak and in which
we can feel perfectly received.
There is a touching passage in One Dharma by Joseph Goldstein. He refers
to an interview with Mother Theresa, in which the interviewer asks:
“When you pray what do you say to God?”
“I don’t say anything,” she said. “I just listen.”
“Well, what does God say to you?”
“God just listens.”
There was a pause in the interview, and she added, “…and if you don’t
understand that, I am afraid I can’t help you.”
That’s the essence of it. We all have within us the faculty of
intuition, which, if we listen to it, can guide us towards our true
home, where we trust that unshakeable peace lies. Our hearts already
know the Way. Prayer and devotion put us in touch with the heart and its
natural wisdom, allowing it to gently lead us on that journey.
Another question this evening asked: “Being here on retreat I’ve
remembered what I had forgotten about being present, and now I am afraid
that when I leave here I’m going to forget it again and become caught up
in all the many responsibilities and challenges. How can I effectively
remember this presence?”
I think prayer is one way of remembering. If we wish, we can quietly,
reverently, offer up this prayer: ‘May the goodness of my practice
support me in my aspirations to be present in every moment of my day, no
matter what’s going on.’ Prayer helps.
I am grateful for the questions you have asked this evening.
back
© 2005 Aruna Publications |