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III. Saṅghaṁ saraṇaṁ gacchāmi

The word Saṅgha, if translated as a substantive, refers to those who have ordained and are wearing the yellow robe. Translated as a quality, it refers to all people in general who have practiced correctly in line with the Buddha’s teachings. Members of the monastic order, however, are of all sorts, and so we have two groups –

Membership in the conventional Saṅgha is attained through consent of the Order, in a formal ceremony with witnesses, following the procedures set out in the Vinaya. Membership in the Noble Saṅgha is attained when the quality of transcendence (lokuttara dhamma) appears in one’s heart as a result of one’s own behavior and practice, with no formalities of any sort whatsoever. All Buddhists – whether formally ordained or not, no matter what their gender, color, or social position – can become members of this Saṅgha. This is termed being ordained by the Dhamma, or being self-ordained in a way that cannot be faulted.

To speak in terms of qualities, the qualities of transcendence, stable and sure, that appear in the hearts of those who practice – leading them solely to good destinations and closing off the four states of destitution (apāya) – are, taken together, called the Noble Saṅgha.

A. Members of the conventional Saṅgha, with regard to the way they conduct themselves, fall into four groups –

Etaṁ buddhāna-sāsanaṁ: All of these factors are the teachings of the Buddhas.

How can a person who harms himself and others be a good monk?

These, then are the attributes of the Saṅgha. In broad terms, they come down to two sorts:

Those with the necessary resources – i.e., discernment – will obtain a good field. Whatever seed they plant will give a yield well worth the effort involved, just as an intelligent person who puts his savings in a safe national bank will protect his capital from loss and even earn a profit.

Just as a good rice field has four characteristics – the ground is level and even, the dike has a water gate that is easy to open and close, the soil is rich in nutrients, the rainfall comes at the proper season – in the same way, members of the Saṅgha who are to be a field of merit for the world have to be endowed with the four following qualities:

1. The analogy of level, even ground refers to those monks who are free from the four forms of personal bias. Whatever they do in thought, word, and deed, they are free from:

2. As for the analogy of a water gate that is easy to open and close, ‘closing’ refers to exercising restraint so that evil doesn’t arise within us. Restraint has four aspects –

To exercise restraint in these ways is called ‘closing.’ ‘Closing,’ however, can be understood in another way, i.e., exercising restraint so that corruption doesn’t arise in the three areas of our thoughts, words, and deeds.

As for ‘opening,’ it refers to practicing the five forms of unselfishness –

a. Āvāsāmacchariya: not being possessive of the place over which we have control, such as our temple or monastery; not preventing good people from coming to stay. If people are pure in their behavior and able to impart what is good to us, we should give up our space to make room for them so that they can stay in comfort. Evil people, however, shouldn’t be allowed to infiltrate our group; and bad people who are already in the group should be expelled. This is how to behave with discernment in this area.

b. Kulāmacchariya: not being possessive of our families. On the external level, this refers to the families who support us. We don’t prevent them from making offerings to other individuals and we don’t prevent capable individuals from teaching and advising them. Some monks stand in the way of such interchanges, creating barriers with their thoughts, words, and deeds. Sometimes if their supporters make merit with other individuals, they even make reprisals, such as refusing to allow that family to make merit with their own groups or factions. These unskillful attitudes shouldn’t be allowed to arise in our hearts.

This is on the external level.

On the internal level, being possessive of our ‘family’ refers to the heart’s attachment to sensations and mental acts, which form the family line of unawakened people. We should abandon this attachment so that we can enter the lineage of the Noble Ones.

c. Lābhāmacchariya: not being possessive of the material gains we have attained through proper means, not regarding them as being our own. Material gains, as classified by the Vinaya, are of four sorts: food, clothing, shelter (lodgings and the items used in them, such as furniture, matting, etc.), and medicine. We should see that when people present us with offerings of this sort, they have abandoned an enemy – their own stinginess and selfishness – and have gained in merit and skillfulness through the power of their sacrifice. Anyone who receives such an offering and clings to it as really being his own is like a person who collects coconut pulp or sugar cane pulp from which others have already squeezed and drunk the juice. For this reason, people of wisdom and discernment aren’t possessive of their belongings and don’t really see them as their own.. They are always willing to relinquish and share their gains – in proportion to the amount they have received – so that others can make use of them.

This is external relinquishment. As for internal relinquishment: Whereas we once ate as we liked, many times a day, we now eat less, only one meal a day. We use only one set of robes. We relinquish our comfortable lodgings and undertake the ascetic practice of living in the forest or under the shade of a tree. If we become ill, we search for medicine and treat our disease with moderation, in a way that doesn’t create burdens for others. In other words, we relinquish ourselves as an offering to the religion by putting it into practice. This is classed as the internal relinquishment of material gain through the power of our practice and conduct.

d. Vaṇṇāmacchariya: not being possessive of our ‘color’ (vaṇṇa). ‘Vaṇṇa,’ here, has been interpreted in two senses. In one sense, it refers to social caste or class. For example, the ruling class, the religious elite, property owners, and laborers are held to be unequal in status, and the members of one group are unwilling to let other groups mix with theirs. If such mixing occurs, they regard it as something base and disgraceful and so they continually put up barriers to prevent it from happening. In this sense, we can infer that we shouldn’t make distinctions based on faction, nationality, color, or race, because the Buddha taught that a person’s worth comes not from his or her birth, but from the goodness of his or her own actions; or, as we say, ‘Those who do good will meet with good, those who do evil will meet with evil.’ For example, we at present worship and respect the Buddha even though he wasn’t Thai as we are. We respect him through the power of his goodness. If we were to be close-minded and nationalistic, we Thai’s wouldn’t have any religion to worship at all aside from the religion of spirits and ghosts.

The second sense of ‘vaṇṇa’ refers to the complexion of our skin. This, too, we cling to, unwilling to sacrifice it for what is meritorious and skillful. We hesitate to observe the precepts, to meditate, or to undertake the ascetic practices for fear that we’ll spoil our looks and complexion.

e. Dhammāmacchariya: not being possessive of the Buddha’s teachings we have learned. Possessiveness in this case can mean not wanting to teach unless we are reimbursed, not wanting to preach unless there is an offering, or complaining if the offering is small.

On another level, being possessive of the dhamma can refer to holding on to the unskillful qualities (akusala-dhamma) within us; being unwilling to rid ourselves of such evils as greed, anger, delusion, pride, conceit, or any of the other fermentations of defilement; clinging to these things without searching for the techniques, called the Path, for relinquishing them, i.e.:

When we develop these five forms of unselfishness, we can be classed as open – and our eyes will be open to perceiving the highest quality, the transcendent.

3. The analogy of soil rich in nutrients refers to our putting four qualities into practice –

For these four qualities to arise in fully mature form, they have to appear in our thoughts, words, and deeds. Whatever we may do in thought, word, or deed should not be done through the power of anger. We should regard anger as an ogre – and when anger takes over, our body becomes an ogre’s tool: his bludgeon. To see the drawbacks of anger in this way can give rise to goodwill in thought, word, and deed, extending without partiality to all people and living beings throughout the world.

Even with our enemies we should try to develop these same thoughts of goodwill, by looking for their good side, in one way or another, instead of looking just at their bad side, which can cause hatred to invade and consume our hearts. Anger is a fire that can’t burn other people; it burns only ourselves. This is why we should develop goodwill within our hearts. The power of goodwill brings good to everyone – just as food that contains the nutrients needed by people brings health and contentment to all who eat it; or as fertilizer with the proper nutrients can cause plants and trees to grow, flower, give fruit, and so be of use to people and other living beings. Goodwill is thus a form of goodness that can be classed as a nutrient. (Goodwill is what cools the fevers of the world.)

4. The analogy of seasonable rain refers to our establishing ourselves in the four bases of success (iddhipāda) –

These four qualities can lead to two kinds of success: iddhiriddhi – success through the power of thought; and puññariddhi – success that comes on its own. Both of these forms of success, on the level of the world or the Dhamma, have to be based on the four qualities mentioned above. These four qualities are like preservatives: Whoever is saturated with them won’t go sour or stale. And when we’re free from going stale, our work is bound not to stagnate and so is sure to succeed.

Another comparison: These four qualities are sacca-kamma – actions that give rise to truth, achieving our purposes. Those who bring these qualities into themselves will become true people. Truth can be compared to salt: If we try to keep food, like vegetables or fish, without salting it, it soon turns rotten and wormy, making it unfit for human consumption. But if we salt it, it can keep for a long time. A good example of this is our Lord Buddha, whose actions gave rise to truth and who thus was able to establish the religion so as to benefit people at large. Even the body he left behind still serves a purpose for human and divine beings. For instance, his bones, which have become relics, are still with us even though he gained total nibbāna a long time ago. As for his teachings, they have lasted for more than 2,500 years. And he himself is deathless, i.e., he has entered total nibbāna. All of this was achieved by means of truth, i.e., the four bases of success.

Those of us who have no truth, though, are like unsalted fish or meat, and are bound to go wormy. The worms, here, refer to our various defilements and are of three main species: The first species is composed of passion, aversion, and delusion; these feed on us from our feet to our waists. The second species – sensual desire, ill-will, sloth & torpor, restlessness & anxiety, and uncertainty – latch on and bore into us from our waists to our necks. And the third species – the fermentations of sensuality, states of becoming, views, and ignorance (cloudy, unclear knowledge) – eats us up whole: ears, eyes, nose, mouth, body, and mind. Whoever is all worm-eaten like this is classed as a person gone rotten and stale, who hasn’t reached any qualities of substance. And for this reason, the bones of such a person after death are no match for the bones of chickens and pigs, for no one wants them. If the bones and meat of such a person were put up for sale, no one would buy. And furthermore, such a person will have to come back as an angry demon, lolling its tongue and rolling its eyes, to frighten its children and grandchildren.

So whoever develops the four qualities mentioned above will reach deathlessness – amata-dhamma – which is like a crystalline shower that comes from distilling away all impurities, just as rain water, which is distilled from the sea, rises into the air and falls back on the earth, nourishing the grasses, crops, and trees, giving refreshment to people and other living beings.

These, then, are some of the characteristics of those who form the field of merit for the world both on the mundane and on the transcendent levels, who conduct themselves rightly in keeping with the phrase in the chant of the virtues of the Saṅgha:

Now we will discuss the chant of the virtues of the Saṅgha further as a path to practice, because the virtues of the Saṅgha are open to all Buddhists in general, without excluding any individual, race, or social class at all. Whoever puts these principles into practice is capable of becoming a member of the Noble Saṅgha within the heart, without having to go through the formalities of the Vinaya. In other words, this is a community and a state of worthiness in the area of the Dhamma open to all who put the following principles into practice –

1. Supaṭipanno: being a person whose conduct is good. ‘Good conduct’ refers to seven principles –

This is what is meant by good conduct.

2. Uju-paṭipanno: being a person whose conduct is straightforward, firmly established in the threefold training – virtue, concentration, and discernment – which leads straight to nibbāna; being fair and just, unswayed by any of the four forms of personal bias. This is what is meant by straightforward conduct.

3. Ñāya-paṭipanno: being a person whose conduct leads to higher knowledge. This refers to following fifteen procedures (caraṇa-dhamma) –

This is what is meant by conduct leading to higher knowledge.

Here we will discuss how to give rise to the first jhāna.

Directed thought: Think of the breath until you can recognize it both as it comes in and as it goes out.

Singleness of preoccupation: Let the mind become one, at rest with the breath, not straying away to other objects. Watch over your thoughts so that they deal only with the breath until the breath becomes comfortable.

Evaluation: Focus exclusively on issues connected with the breath and acquaint yourself with how to let this comfortable breath-sensation spread and co-ordinate with the other breath-sensations in the body. Let these breath-sensations spread until they all merge. Once the body has benefited from the breath, feelings of pain will grow calm. The body will be filled with good breath energy.

For jhāna to arise, these three factors have to be brought to bear on the same breath sensation. This breath sensation can lead all the way to the fourth jhāna, the level of refinement depending on the act of focusing through the power of mindfulness: Sometimes the focus is broad, sometimes narrow, in accordance with the different factors in the different jhānas. But to be really beneficial, you should let the breath spread as broadly as possible, being constantly aware throughout the body of the various aspects of the breath. You will then get excellent results from your practice of jhāna. You might even gain liberating insight on this level, because the first jhāna is what constitutes threshold concentration (upacāra samadhi).

If you want to go on to fixed penetration (appanā samadhi), you should keep practicing this level until you are adept, i.e., adept at fixing the mind on a single object and keeping it there, adept at adjusting and expanding the object, and adept at staying firmly in place. When you want your concentration to have energy, make the breath light and refined – but keep your mindfulness broad. Otherwise, the mind might go into arūpa jhāna, where it has no sense of the form of the body; or you might sit absolutely still, without any awareness of the body at all, while the mind pays attention to another area, such as simple awareness, completely disregarding the body or sitting unconscious, like a log. This is bāhira-jhāna, concentration outside of the Buddha’s teachings, incapable of giving rise to liberating insight.

So when you begin, you should develop the three above-mentioned factors as much as possible, and the mind will then be able to go on to the second jhāna. When you fix the mind on the breath repeatedly using these three beginning factors, they give rise to two more factors:

Rapture: a sense of fullness and refreshment of body and mind, going straight to the heart, independent of all else.

Pleasure: a sense of ease arising from the body’s being still and undisturbed (kāya-passaddhi), and from the mind’s being at rest on its own, placid, serene, and undistracted (citta-passaddhi).

The factors of the first jhāna, then, are of two sorts: cause and result. The causes are directed thought, evaluation, and singleness of preoccupation; the results, rapture and pleasure.

As for the second jhāna, with its three factors of rapture, pleasure, and singleness of preoccupation: This refers to the state of mind that has tasted the results coming from the first jhāna. The sense of fullness becomes more powerful, as does the sense of pleasure, allowing the mind to abandon its thinking and evaluating, so that the singleness of the preoccupation takes the lead from here on in. Make the mind still in the refined sense of the breath. Body and mind are full and at ease; the mind is more firmly implanted in its object than before. After a while, as you keep focusing in, the sense of fullness and pleasure begins to expand and contract. Focus the mind down to a more refined level and you will enter the third jhāna.

The third jhāna has two factors – pleasure and singleness of preoccupation: The mind is solitary; the body, solitary and still. The breath is refined and broad, with a white glow like cotton-wool throughout the body, stilling all painful feelings in body and mind. Not a single hindrance (nīvaraṇa) arises to interfere. The four properties – earth, water, fire, and wind – are at peace with one another in every part. You could almost say that they’re pure throughout the entire body. The mind is completely still – steady, solid, and sure – reaching oneness in a solitary sense of ease. Body and mind are in solitude. Even if you’re with a group of people, you feel as if you were alone. The mind is strong, expansive, and large. Mindfulness is expansive – spreading throughout the body, focused exclusively on the present, not affected by any perceptions of past or future. The breath gives rise to an energy that is pure white. The mind has power. The focus is strong, and the light brilliant. Energy is strong, so that you are no longer concerned with your sense of pleasure, which dilates somewhat. This causes the mind to focus on into the fourth jhāna.

The fourth jhāna has two factors – equanimity and singleness of preoccupation (or mindfulness). The breath energy is still, with no ripples or gaps. The properties of the body are undisturbed. As for the mind, it’s undisturbed with regard to all three time periods: uninvolved with the past, uninvolved with the future, undisturbed by the present. When the mind stays with this undisturbed sense of equanimity, this is the true meaning of ‘singleness of preoccupation.’ The breath is at peace, the body at peace in every part. There is no need to use the in-and-out breath. The breath energy has reached saturation point.

The four properties (dhātu) are equal, all with the same characteristics. The mind is completely at peace, with a brilliance streaming in all directions. The brilliance of the breath at peace reaches full strength. The brilliance of the mind arises from the power of mindfulness focused on all four of the great frames of reference: body, feelings, mind, and mental qualities. The question of their being four doesn’t arise, for in this mental moment they coalesce in perfect unity. The brilliance of the mind and of the body, which arises from the power of their solitary stillness, shines as jāgariyānuyoga, the purifying inner fire (tapas) that can dispel darkness thoroughly. The bright light of the mind reaches full strength. The purity of the different parts of the breath energy keeps the other properties in good order. The body is completely at peace, like a factory at rest. In other words, you don’t have to use the in-and-out breath. The body develops potency; the mind, resilient power. When these reach saturation point, if you then want to give rise to knowledge, shift your awareness so that it dilates slightly, and the important skills that arise from the power of the mind – such as the Eight Skills – will appear, i.e.:

If you want to give rise to supernormal powers, formulate an intention at that point, and it will appear openly, so that ordinary people will be able to see it.

Both of these aspects – knowledge and power – can lead to mastery on the level of the world and of the Dhamma. The properties in the body acquire potency; the mind becomes a potent center of consciousness. This is the science of the mind on an advanced level, giving rise to an advanced form of Buddhist learning: lokavidū, wide-ranging knowledge of the cosmos.

To develop the factors discussed here is to warrant the name, ñāya-paṭipanno, one whose conduct leads to higher knowledge.

(The moment in which the enemies of the body – impure properties – disband and disappear is termed saṅkhata-lakkhaṇa-nirodha, conditioned disbanding. When the enemies of the mind – i.e., the five hindrances – disappear completely, leaving the mind radiant and clear, that is termed bhujissaka-nirodha, disbanding in a state of dependency.)

4. Sāmīci-paṭipanno: being a person whose conduct is masterful. This refers to our conduct in developing two qualities: tranquility and insight.

a. The practice of tranquility means stilling the mind in a single preoccupation, free from the five hindrances, so as to attain the four levels of rūpa-jhāna.

b. The practice of insight means seeing clearly and truly into the nature of all fabrications (saṅkhāra), e.g., seeing that they are inconstant, stressful, and not-self; gaining discernment that sees distinctly in terms of the four noble truths; seeing fabrications from both sides, i.e., the side that is inconstant, stressful, and not-self, and the side that is constant, pleasant, and self; giving rise to the purity of knowledge and vision termed gotarabhū-ñāṇa, escaping from the assumption that things are either constant or inconstant; knowing both the side that arises and disbands, as well as the side that doesn’t arise and doesn’t disband, without making assumptions about or being attached to either side. Theories, views, and conceits disappear. The mind doesn’t fasten onto anything at all: past, present, or future. This is termed asesa-virāga-nirodha, utter disbanding and dispassion. This is the way of insight.

Insight, analyzed in detail in terms of the Dhamma in line with the conventions of the sages of the past, means knowledge of the four noble truths:

All four of these noble truths already exist in the world, but ordinarily are hard to perceive because they show us only their images or reflections. On this level, we can’t yet see them for what they really are. But for the Buddha to know them, he had to start out with the reflections that appear, before he was able to trace them back to the real thing. This is why they are termed noble truths: They are the possessions of noble people; only those who search and explore can know them. Thus, the noble truths have two aspects: their first aspect, which is the way they are found in the experience of ordinary people in general; and their second aspect, which is more subtle and can be known only by people of wisdom who explore in the area of the heart and mind.

An example of the four Truths on the ordinary level, as experienced by ordinary people: Physical discomfort, such as illness or disease, can be called the truth of stress. Knowing enough to buy the right medicine, or being a doctor who knows the medicine for curing that particular kind of disease, is the truth of the path. As the symptoms of the disease disband and disappear, that is termed conditioned disbanding. When the disease is cured, that is the truth of disbanding. If, however, we suffer from a disease, such as a wound, but don’t know how to treat it – simply wanting it to heal and using whatever medicine we can lay our hands on, without any knowledge (this is termed craving and ignorance) – the wound will only worsen, for the medicine we take isn’t right for the disease. This is the truth of the cause of stress.

If we want to go deeper than the ordinary level, we have to practice correctly in line with the way of the Path, developing our virtue, concentration, and discernment, before we will be able to perceive the four Truths on the noble level.

The heartwood or essence of the Dhamma, by its nature, lies mixed with its outer bark. If we don’t have the right knowledge and skill, we won’t get very much use from the Dhamma. Whatever benefits we do get will be only on the mundane level. We can make a comparison with diamond or gold ore buried in the ground: If a person doesn’t have enough knowledge to extract the ore, he will get only the traces that come flowing out in spring water or that adhere to rocks along the surface of the ground. These will earn him only a meager profit, which won’t be enough to insure his livelihood. A person with knowledge and skill, though, can use the gold to insure his livelihood without having to search for any other occupations, but he’ll have to follow the traces down into the earth until he meets with the real thing, i.e. the genuine ore. Even just a single hunk – if it’s large and of high quality, weighing a ton – will enable him to rest secure for the rest of his life. In the same way, those who are wise in Buddhism see stress as a noble treasure and so go digging down into stress; they see the cause of stress as a noble treasure and so dig down into it; they see the Path as a noble treasure; they see disbanding and nibbāna as noble treasures and so dig on down until they meet with the genuine ore. Only then can they be called noble sages.

Those of us who are dauntless enough to unearth our inner resources in this way will be able to use those resources to protect ourselves throughout time, gaining release from the cycle of rebirth, the jail for imprisoning foolish and ignorant people. We who like to explore in general should be glad that we’ve come across a good mine with genuine ore whose traces lie scattered about for us to see. If we don’t disregard the things we see, we’ll meet the four Truths mentioned above.

If we were to summarize the four noble truths briefly, we could do so as follows: The objects or preoccupations of the mind that arise and disappear are the truth of stress. The mental act that deludedly enters into and takes possession of those objects is the truth of the cause of stress. The mental act that focuses in on those objects and examines them as they arise and disappear is the truth of the Path; and the mental act that lets go of those objects as they arise and disappear is the truth of disbanding, or release – i.e., that which knows the reality that doesn’t arise and doesn’t disappear.

These, then, are the four noble truths. Those who see these four Truths directly for themselves will give rise to the noble path and fruition termed ‘stream-entry.’ Such people are a field of merit for the world: worthy of respect, worthy of welcome, worthy of offerings and veneration.

Whoever possesses the qualities mentioned here qualifies rightly as a member of the Saṅgha in line with the Dhamma and Vinaya taught by the Buddha, and may be called, sāmīci-paṭipanno, one whose conduct is masterful, reaching the apex of the mundane level and becoming transcendent.

B. Now we will discuss the second main heading, the Noble Saṅgha, the family of the Noble Ones, which may be joined by virtue of having developed one’s inner qualities, with no need to go through the formalities of the Vinaya. The Noble Saṅgha, like the conventional Saṅgha, is composed of four groups:

1. Stream-enterers: those who have reached the beginning stage of the current leading to nibbāna. At most they will have to be reborn only seven more times. They have developed enough tranquility and insight for the Path to converge in a single mental instant, enabling them to gain true insight into all phenomena – mundane and transcendent – as they really are. When they see in this way, they have cut three of the fetters (saṅyojana) that keep living beings under the spell of the world. The fetters they have cut absolutely are –

These three fetters, stream-enterers have cut absolutely, once and for all. They have attained the noble quality of having closed off completely the four states of deprivation. In other words, they are destined never again to be born in hell, on the level of the angry demons, the level of the hungry ghosts, or the level of common animals. This is what it means to close off all four states of deprivation.

2. Once-returners: those who have gained the second level of Awakening, who will attain nibbāna after being born once more in the world. Once-returners have cut three fetters, like stream-enterers, but have also reduced the amount of desire, anger, and delusion in their hearts. (They know how to keep the mind within bounds.)

3. Non-returners: those who have awakened to the third level and who will never again return to the human world. After they die they will be born in the Brahmā worlds on the levels of the Pure Abodes, there to attain nibbāna. They have absolutely abandoned five of the fetters –

4. Arahants: those who have awakened to the ultimate level of the four noble truths and have reached the quality of deathlessness, free from all the fermentations of defilement; whose ignorance, craving, attachments, and kamma have ended. Arahants have abandoned their fetters by means of the factors of the highest of the noble paths. The fetters they have abandoned are ten:

These ten fetters, arahants – both men and women – have cut absolutely, freeing themselves from every sort of bond or domination, so that their hearts are brilliant and dazzling, like the full moon unobscured by clouds. This is sāmīci-paṭipanno – one whose conduct is masterful – on the transcendent level.

The four groups mentioned here are termed the Ariya Saṅgha, the Noble Community, which can be found only in Buddhism. Therefore, all Buddhists who daily pay homage to the Saṅgha should make themselves aware of what the Saṅgha is, of how genuine or counterfeit the members of the Saṅgha are. Otherwise, our respect will be blind and misguided, ignorant of what the Buddha is like, what the Dhamma is like, and what the Saṅgha is like. We should use our judgment and reason to be selective so that we can help one another look after the state of the religion, bringing it into proper line with the principles of the Buddha’s teachings.

The Saṅgha can be compared to a tree: Some members are like the heartwood, others are like the sapwood, others are like the outer bark, and still others are like parasitic creepers. Another popular analogy is to compare the Saṅgha to a jewel. Now, there are many kinds of jewels, just as there are many parts to a tree: artificial gems, zircons, rubies, amethysts, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. Just as all of these are called jewels, and are all of differing value, so it is with the members of the Saṅgha. Whoever is rich in discernment will obtain a valuable jewel as an adornment. Whoever is poor in discernment will end up with nothing but artificial gems or bits of gravel: Some people believe that all who wear the yellow robe are alike. They ‘make donations to the yellow robe,’ or ‘pay respect to the yellow robe,’ or ‘make donations to the virtuous’… Thus I ask that all Buddhists make a point of learning where the gems of the religion that we as a nation revere may be found.

A person who doesn’t know what the Saṅgha is, is like a child who doesn’t know his family and relatives – who doesn’t know who his father is, who his mother is, who his elder brothers and sisters are. When this is the case, he has no one to rely on. If he tries to rely on others, he can do so only as long as he has money in his pockets. As soon as he runs out of money, he’s in for trouble: His friends and companions are sure to act as if they don’t recognize him; and he can’t turn to his family and relatives because he doesn’t know where they are. So in the end he’ll meet with nothing but suffering.

This is why we’re taught that, as long as we still have life, we shouldn’t rest complacent. We should urgently make the virtues of the Saṅgha our guardians – because our friend, the body, can be relied on only as long as it doesn’t die. And when the time comes, who will care for us aside from our guardians, the virtues of the Saṅgha?

We shouldn’t waste our time engrossed simply with the life of the body for, as far as I can see, there’s nothing to the life of the body but eating and then sleeping, sleeping and then eating again. If we let ourselves get stuck simply on the level of sleeping and eating, we’re eventually headed for trouble. This can be illustrated with a story:

Once in a village by the seaside, there came a time of unbalance in the natural elements, and large numbers of the livestock – the water buffaloes – died of the plague. The men of the village, fearing that the disease would spread, took the buffalo carcasses and threw them into the sea. As the carcasses floated away from shore, a flock of crows came to feed on them for many days. Each day, when the crows had eaten their fill, they would fly back to spend the night in the trees by the shore; and then would fly out the following dawn to continue eating. As days passed, and the carcasses floated further and further out to the deep sea, some of the crows – seeing the hardships in flying back to shore – decided to spend the night floating on the carcasses; others of the flock, though, didn’t mind the hardships and continued flying back to shore every evening.

Finally, when the carcasses had floated so far out to sea that flying back and forth was no longer possible, the flock decided to abandon that source of food and to search for a new source of food on land. One of the crows, though, had stayed with the carcasses; when he saw that his fellows were no longer coming to claim a share of the food, he became overjoyed, thinking that the food he had would last him a long time. He became so engrossed in his eating that he never thought of looking back to shore. As the carcasses went floating further and further out, swarms of fish came from below to devour them until there was nothing left to eat. Finally, the remains of the carcasses sank deep into the sea; and at that point, the crow realized that the time had come to fly back to shore. With this in mind, he flew to the north, but didn’t see land. He flew to the south, to the east and west, but didn’t see land. Finally, he ran out of strength and could fly no further, and so lowered his wings and dropped into the sea, where he became food for the fishes.

This is human life. If we let ourselves become engrossed only with eating and sleeping and mundane pleasures, without searching for virtue – i.e., if we don’t practice the virtues of the Saṅgha as we’ve been taught – we’re sure to reap the rewards – suffering – just like the crow who had to fall to his death in the sea. This story is about us: The sea stands for the world, the flood of rebirth; the carcasses of the water buffaloes who had died of the plague stand for the body; the trees on the shore stand for monasteries and the Dhamma, and the crows stand for the heart – i.e., sometimes we feel like going to a monastery to practice the Dhamma and sometimes we don’t.

The virtues of the Saṅgha are subtle, deep, and hard to perceive. If we don’t have knowledge in ourselves, we won’t be able to see them, just as a mute person doesn’t know how to speak his native tongue.

Here I would like to tell another story to illustrate what it means not to know the virtues of the Saṅgha. Once there was a mute person who made his living by playing a conch shell trumpet. Now, the way he played the conch shell was to make it sound like human voices or animal calls. When he had perfected his skill, he wandered about the cities and country towns, playing his conch. One day he went to play in a village deep in the countryside. As he was about to reach the village, he stopped to rest under the shade of a tree and picked up his conch to practice for a moment. Within minutes a swarm of people, hearing the sound of the conch, came bursting wide-eyed from the village to see what it was. They saw the mute man sitting under the tree and so asked him, ‘What was that beautiful sound we heard just now?’ The mute man pointed to the conch shell lying nearby. The people, thinking that they had heard the cry of the conch, ran over to tap on it to make it cry again, but it didn’t make a sound. Some of them picked it up and tried shaking it, but still no sound, so they put it back down. Others turned it over to see exactly where its cry came from, but no matter what they did, the sound of the conch wouldn’t come out. So they ran back to the mute person.

The mute person didn’t know what to say, but he could tell from their actions that they wanted to know what made the sound of the conch come out in such a variety of calls, so he pointed to his mouth. The villagers ran to take a look. They had him open his mouth and looked up and down inside, but didn’t see how it could be made to sound. So the mute man flickered his tongue for them to see. With this, they realized that the sound came from the mute man’s tongue; and so they tried flickering their own tongues, but no beautiful sounds came out. So they ran back to the mute man, who blew air out of his mouth, meaning that the sound came from the breath. They tried blowing air from their own mouths, but still no beautiful sounds. Finally, the mute man reached for the conch, put it to his lips – and out came the beautiful sounds: the sounds of people crying, people laughing, people wailing and mourning, the sounds of birds, mice, and forest beasts.

So it is with us: If we don’t know how to train ourselves so as to attain the virtues of the Saṅgha, we won’t know how beneficial to us the Saṅgha can be. We’ll become uncivilized savages, not knowing whether the Saṅgha is good or bad, and we’ll end up like the villagers who didn’t know where the sound of the conch came from.

This story doesn’t refer to anything distant: The mute man, producing various sounds from his conch shell, stands for preaching monks. For example, sometimes they try to be correct, proper, and principled in their preaching; sometimes they preach like animals, i.e., using a song-like voice or cracking jokes that go beyond the bounds of the Dhamma and Vinaya. In this way they are like the man blowing the conch. As for the villagers who came running wide-eyed to hear the sound of the conch, they stand for Buddhist laypeople who don’t understand the virtues of the Saṅgha and so are destined not to find the Saṅgha, just as the villagers couldn’t find the sound of the conch. When this is the case, they will simply shell out money to hear the sound of conch trumpets, without any thought of the practices taught by the Buddha. Monks will be deluded into blowing conch shells for their living, without any thought of the qualities of the Saṅgha; and so our religion will degenerate day by day, becoming ultimately a theater or playhouse for the world.

This has been an extended discussion of the Triple Gem. If we were to put it briefly, there wouldn’t be a great deal to say. We’ve kept the discussion drawn-out in this way so as to show the general usefulness of the Triple Gem for those who revere it. If you want to go for refuge in the Buddha, Dhamma, and Saṅgha in a way that will reach their genuine benefits, then you should gather their main points into yourself, training yourself so as to give rise to the virtues of the Buddha, Dhamma, and Saṅgha in your heart. This is where the value of the Triple Gem lies.