The Essence of Merit
July 23, 1957
Merit is the intention that arises in the
heart beginning with your first thought of doing something
good. For example, today you decided that you wanted to come
to the monastery. That thought, in and of itself, was merit
arising in the mind. Then you came to the monastery,
received the precepts, and listened to a sermon in line with
your original intention. In this way, your original
intention succeeded in producing more merit in line with its
aims. But if you think that you want to go to the monastery,
to receive the precepts and listen to the Dhamma, but
someone else happens to object or criticizes you in a way
that spoils your mood, the merit in your mind — the original
intention — disappears. Even if someone else then invites
you to come to the monastery, you come here against your
will and sit here like a stump, with no merit arising in
your mind. This is because the essence of merit in your mind
has already died.
The meritorious things that you do aren't
the essence of merit. For example, giving donations,
observing the precepts, listening to sermons, or sitting in
meditation aren't the essence of merit. Still, we have to
keep doing these things so that our old merit can grow fat
and healthy instead of dying away. For this reason, when you
make up your mind to do something good, hurry up and do it
right away. When you want to give a donation, go ahead and
give a donation. When you want to observe the precepts,
observe the precepts. When you want to listen to the Dhamma,
listen to the Dhamma. When you want to meditate, meditate.
In this way, the results of your actions will grow full and
complete in all three time periods. In other words, your
mind will feel happy, joyful, and satisfied in your merit
when you first think of doing it, while you're doing it, and
when you're done...
The intention to do good — the first
stage in your goodness — is the essence of merit. It's like
planting a tree. When you give a donation, it's like putting
fertilizer around the tree. When you observe the precepts,
it's like picking away the worms and caterpillars that will
eat the flowers or leaves. As for meditating, that's like
watering the tree with clean, clear, cool water. In this
way, your tree is sure to keep growing until it produces
leaves and fruit that you can eat for your enjoyment in line
with your original aim. If it's a flowering tree, the
flowers will be bright and colorful, with large petals and a
refreshing scent. If it's a fruit tree, the fruits will be
plentiful, large, and sweet. This is how generosity, virtue,
and meditation are means of developing the merit of your
original thought.
But if your heart is in a sour mood, then
you won't get much fruit from making merit or giving
donations. It's like giving fertilizer to a tree that's
already died. Even if all you want is a single custard apple
from the tree, you won't be able to get what you want,
because the fertilizer you gave to the tree has all gone to
nourish the grasses and herbs growing at the foot of the
tree, and hasn't done a thing for the custard apple you
wanted. In the same way, if you just go through the motions
of making merit, your original aim — to abandon greed,
aversion, and delusion — won't bear fruit. The act of
generosity is simply the fertilizer of merit. When the
essence of merit has died, there's no way that you can eat
the fertilizer, for it's nothing but filth — cow dung and
chicken droppings. How can you ask for filthy stuff like
that to come and help you in any way? But still, you're
better off than people who haven't fertilized anything at
all — i.e., who haven't developed virtue, concentration, or
discernment — for at the very least you can gather the
grasses and herbs that have fed on your fertilizer, to boil
in a soup or fix as a salad.
So whenever you do anything, you have to
check to see whether the essence of merit is in your heart.
Some people make merit when their hearts are evil. They're
like a sticky-rice sweet roasted in bamboo, where the rice
on the top is soft and well-cooked, but the rice at the
bottom is raw or burnt to a crisp. When this is the case,
there's no way you can eat it, for it's not good all the way
through. People by and large act in ways that aren't in line
with their minds. Some people make donations but their
hearts are still greedy, as when they give a gift because
they want to become millionaires. Some people give one
dollar expecting to get ten thousand or a hundred thousand
in return. Some people observe the precepts but their hearts
are still angry, jealous, or hateful toward this person or
that. Some people meditate so that they can be beautiful and
shapely in their next birth, or because they want to become
devas up in heaven. Other people want to be this or that —
always looking for something in exchange. This kind of merit
is still wide of the mark.
The Buddha taught us to be generous for
the sake of doing away with greed, to observe the precepts
to do away with anger, and to meditate to do away with
delusion, not for the sake of feeding these defilements.
Some people come here to meditate and sit here absolutely
still — their eyes are closed, their posture straight and
unmoving, everything on the outside just the way it should
be — but their minds are running around all over the place:
to their orchards, their fields; some people's minds go
zooming abroad in search of their children or friends,
thinking about all kinds of things. Their minds aren't
sitting together with their bodies. This is called a mind
and a body not in line with each other — like a sticky-rice
sweet where the top is cooked but the bottom is still raw.
If you're careful to keep the essence of
merit with your heart, then go ahead and do whatever
goodness you want. Don't come to the monastery behind the
corpse of your merit. In other words, if you originally
want to come to the monastery but someone else yells at you
so that you come here in a foul mood against your will, this
kind of merit-making doesn't help you much at all.
The reason we need to train our minds to
be solid and strong in the Dhamma is because we're sure to
face the three dangers of the world: (1) suffering, illness,
and poverty; (2) death; and (3) enemies and foolish friends.
We have to prepare ourselves so that when any of these
things come our way, our hearts will be strong enough to
contend with them bravely and without fear. No matter what
side they may attack from, we have a strategy to fight them
off in every way. This is why the daily blessing says, "Icchitam
patthitam tumham khippameva samijjhatu," which means,
"Whatever you want and desire, may it succeed quickly." In
other words, when the mind is strong and powerful, whatever
you think of doing is bound to succeed.
If you let your original thoughts of
merit die or disappear from the mind before you come to give
a donation, observe the precepts, or meditate, the results
of the original intention won't develop, but at least you're
better off than people who don't come at all. The original
thought of merit is like a tree. If your tree doesn't die,
then the more you fertilize it, the bigger it'll grow and
the more it'll branch out. In other words, your actions will
be lovely and quiet. Whatever your hands do will be merit.
Wherever your feet step will be merit. Whatever your mouth
says will be merit. Whatever your mind thinks will be merit.
Your whole body will be merit. When this is the case, you'll
meet with nothing but happiness.
Virtue, in terms its wording, consists of
undertaking the five, eight, ten, or 227 precepts. In terms
of its meaning, it consists of thinking, speaking, and
acting in ways that harm no one. When you think, you do it
with a mind of good will. When you speak, you do it with a
mind of good will. When you act, you do it with a mind of
good will. In terms of its flavor, virtue is coolness. For
this reason, the act of undertaking the precepts isn't the
essence of virtue; it's simply a way of fertilizing virtue —
our original intention — so that it'll grow fat and strong.
The Pali word for virtue — sila —
comes from sela, or rock, so when you develop virtue
you have to make your heart large like an enormous rock.
What's a rock like? It's solid, stable, and cool. Even
though the sun may burn it all day, or rain may lash at it
all night, it doesn't tremble or shake. In addition, it
keeps its coolness inside. What kind of coolness is that?
The coolness of bravery, quick reflexes, and circumspection.
This kind of coolness is virtue — not the kind of coolness
of a person who's slow and lackadaisical. If you're cool,
you have to be cool from the virtue within you. Having
virtue within you is like having a pool of water in your
house. When your house has a pool of water, how can fire
burn it down? When you have this kind of coolness looking
after your heart, how can anger, hatred, or ill will
overcome it?
In addition, this cool rock of virtue
holds fire within it — but not the fire of defilement. It's
a cool fire that you can put to all kinds of good uses. When
you strike one rock against another, the spark can light a
fire that you can use to cook your food or light your house.
These are some of the benefits of virtue.
When you practice concentration but your
mind isn't firmly established in genuine merit, Mara will
come after you with a big grin on his face. What this means
is the Maras of the aggregates: there will be feelings of
pain throughout your body, your perceptions will be a
turmoil, your thought-constructs will think of 108,000
different things, your consciousness will be aware all over
the place. When this happens, your heart will be crushed and
your merit snuffed out. Like a sticky-rice sweet that's not
cooked all the way through: if you eat it, you'll get
indigestion.
When practicing concentration, you have
to be careful not to force or squeeze the mind too much, but
at the same time you can't let it run too loose. Force it
when you have to; let it go when you have to. The important
point is to keep directed thought and evaluation in charge
at all times. In this way, the mind gains quality: it won't
play truant or go straying off the path of goodness. The
nature of goodness is that there are bound to be bad things
sneaking in, in the same way that when there are rich people
there are bound to be thieves lying in wait to rob them.
When you make merit, Mara in his different forms is sure to
get in the way. So when you meditate, be careful not to fall
into wrong mindfulness or wrong concentration.
Wrong mindfulness is when your awareness
leaves the four frames of reference — body, feelings, mind,
and mental qualities. Here, the body means the breath,
feelings are sensations of comfort or discomfort, the mind
is the awareness of the body, and the mental quality we want
is the quality of the present.
Wrong concentration is when you're
forgetful or unaware, as when you're unaware of how the body
is sitting, where the mind is wandering off to, how it comes
back. The mind lacks both mindfulness and alertness.
But when your concentration gets
established, the mind will grow higher. And when the mind is
up high, nothing can reach up to destroy its goodness. Like
the stars, the moon, or the sun that shine in the sky: even
though clouds may pass in front of them from time to time,
the clouds can't sneak up or seep up to make the brightness
of the stars, moon, or sun grow murky or dark.
Merit is a noble treasure. It's the
source of all our inner wealth. When it arises in the mind,
don't let anyone else touch it. When you have a source of
wealth like this, it's like having a raw diamond, which is a
hundred times better than having your wealth in property,
cattle, or workers, for those things lie far away and are
hard to look after. If you have a raw diamond, all you have
to do is wrap it in cotton and it'll keep on growing. Just
make sure that you don't cut or polish it. If you turn it
into a cut diamond, then even if you keep it for 100 years
it won't grow any further.
In the same way, when concentration
arises in the mind, you have to look after it. Don't let any
labels or concepts touch it at all. That way your
concentration will develop step by step. Your mind will grow
higher and higher. Happiness and coolness will come flowing
your way. Everything you aspire to will succeed, and
eventually you'll attain the paths and fruitions leading to
nibbana.
August 25, 1957
When a person makes up his mind to do one
thing but then turns around to do something else entirely,
the results of his first intention simply won't come about.
A person like this has to be classed as really stupid — an
ingrate to himself, a traitor to himself. Like a child who
says goodbye to its parents, telling them that it's going to
school, but then goes wandering off to see a movie or a
traveling show. The parents don't know what's going on. They
think the child is at school. By the time they've tracked
down the truth, they will have wasted a lot of time. In this
way, the child harms itself in four ways: (1) there's the
bad karma of having deceived its parents; (2) it throws away
the money the parents paid for its tuition; (3) it stays
ignorant and doesn't pick up any of the knowledge it would
have gained at school; and (4) death keeps creeping closer
day by day, the child itself eventually becomes a parent,
and yet it can't even read or write three letters of the
alphabet.
In the same way, when you aren't really
intent on the practice — you come and sit here meditating
but your mind isn't with the body; it goes wandering off to
think about things unrelated to the Dhamma, thinking about
things at home, thinking about your children or
grandchildren, thinking about this person or that, thinking
about things ahead or behind; your mind isn't established in
stillness; your eyes are closed but your mind slips off to
look for fun with different kinds of preoccupations;
sometimes you meet up with dogs and cats, so you play with
the dog and cats — when this happens, you harm yourself in
the same ways. (1) First, there's the bad karma of deceiving
your teacher, telling him you're going to practice
concentration but then not doing it. (2) The teacher doesn't
know what's going on and so teaches the Dhamma until his
mouth runs out of saliva, but with no results to show for
it. (3) You yourself stay ignorant. You sit and meditate for
three years but don't get anything out of it. If people ask
you about the practice, they can't get any sense out of you,
which reflects badly on the teacher. (4) When death comes,
you'll die with pain and hardship, with no inner wealth to
take along to the next life. So you'll keep on spinning
around in death and rebirth for who knows how many lives,
without ever getting to nibbana.
All of this comes from not really being
intent. If you're really intent on practicing the Dhamma,
then no matter what, you'll have to get results — large or
small — depending on the strength of what you can do. If
you're going to meditate, be intent on meditating. If you're
going to listen to the Dhamma, be intent on listening. If
you're going to speak, be intent on speaking. Whatever you
do, be intent on what you're doing. That way you'll get the
results you want from your actions.
To get results, your intent has to be
composed of the four bases for success. In other words, (1),
chanda: Like what you're doing. If you're going to
meditate, be content to stay mindful of the breath. (2)
Viriya: Be persistent and don't get discouraged. Even
though there may be pains in the body, you endure them. (3)
Citta: Give your full mind to what you're doing.
Don't just play around. Don't let your mind wander off to
think of other things. (4) Vimansa: When you really
do the meditation, you contemplate to see what gives rise to
a sense of peace and ease in the body and mind.
When your meditation is composed of these
four factors in full, it's as if you're sitting on a chair
with four good legs. You won't have to fear that the chair
will start tilting or fall over. This is different from a
person who's sitting on a chair with only two legs or one.
If anyone happens to brush past, he may tip over or fall
flat on his back. But if you're sitting on a chair with four
good legs, then even if someone runs into you or grabs hold
of the chair to give it a shake, you needn't be afraid of
falling off. Even if they pick up the chair and move it
somewhere else, you'll still be able to sit on it in
comfort. You don't have fear any danger at all.
This is what it's like when you make your
mind fully solid and strong in the goodness of what you're
doing. You can sit and lie down in ease. Whether you're in
the monastery or at home, you can live at your ease. You can
eat or go without food and still be at ease. You can handle
a lot of work or only a little and still be at ease. You can
have ten million billions in money or not even a single red
cent and still be at ease. When death comes, you can die
with ease, free from suffering or hardship. When anyone can
do this, the devas clap their hands in joy. When anyone
can't, the devas screw up their faces, while Mara and his
gang laugh and clap their hands because they've beat another
of the Buddha's disciples. Think about it: do you really
want to be one of Mara's disciples?
We have to use skillfulness and merit to
polish ourselves until we're shining and bright. In other
words, we polish our actions with virtue, concentration, and
discernment. When you train your mind with concentration
until it's fully tempered and strong, it'll be calm and
cool, bright and gleaming like still water in a deep well,
or like the stars in the sky. The hindrances won't be able
to walk all over you, for the level of the mind will keep
growing higher and higher at all times. When it's really up
high, it grows cool. Just as when we're sitting here: we
don't feel especially cool where we're sitting, but if we go
up two or three kilometers off the surface of the earth,
we'll feel cold right away. In addition to cooling off, our
eyes will be able to see things far, far away. We'll be able
to see the condition of human beings and animals, all the
dangers and difficulties of life on the world beneath us.
We'll start taking these dangers to heart, so that we won't
want to come back down again.
When we talk about the mind's being on a
high level, we don't mean that it's high up like an
airplane, simply that the quality of its awareness is
heightened through training its concentration and
discernment. When this happens, you'll be able to see the
causes and effects of everything true and false. You'll see
the dangers of wandering on through death and rebirth, and
gain a sense of disenchantment with birth, aging, illness,
and death, seeing them as nothing but pain and trouble. When
you see things in this way, you'll lose all hankering for
sights, sounds, smells, tastes, tactile sensations, and
ideas. You'll be intent solely on developing the heart to
gain release from all defilements and mental fermentations,
so that you won't have to come swimming around through death
and rebirth in the world ever again.
The Fresh Flavor of Dhamma
August 23, 1959
When you sit in meditation, focus your
attention solely on a single preoccupation. If you slip off
that preoccupation, you fall into hell. What does "hell"
mean here? Cakkhum adittam: Any preoccupations that
come in by way of the eye are said to be a ball of hellfire.
Sotam adittam: Any preoccupations that come in by way
of the ear are a ball of fire. Any preoccupations that come
in by way of the nose, tongue, body and mind are all balls
of fire. If you focus your attention on any of these
preoccupations, they'll make you as hot as if you had fallen
into hell in this very lifetime That's why you should cut
away all perceptions of that sort. Don't let them get
involved with your mind at all.
The defilements are like salt water; the
Dhamma is like fresh water, which benefits the world in
three ways: (1) people can drink it; (2) it washes things
clean; and (3) it helps plants to grow. As for salt water,
you can't drink it, you can't use it to wash things clean,
and if you use it to water plants, they'll die.
A person who sits fermenting in his
defilements is like a salt water fish. Salt water fish have
a strong, nasty smell. Once when I was in Chantaburi,
staying at the LotusPond Monastery, a group of fishwives
carried a batch of ocean fish past the monastery at a
distance of about 80 meters. Even then, the smell of the
fish hit my nose and seemed really foul. As for freshwater
fish, even though they have some smell, it's not as foul as
saltwater fish. In the same way, people with a lot of
defilements really smell: no one wants them to come near,
and wherever they go they're despised.
Ordinarily, saltwater fish like to stay
only in salt water. If you catch them and put them in fresh
water, they'll die in an instant. The same with freshwater
fish: if you catch them and put them in salt water, they'll
immediately die. But modern scientists have found a way to
turn saltwater fish into freshwater fish. They put saltwater
fish in salt water, and then gradually mix in fresh water
little by little. The fish gradually get more and more
accustomed to fresh water until ultimately they can be
released fish into a freshwater pond and they won't die. The
same with freshwater fish: the scientists gradually mix salt
water into the tanks where they're keeping freshwater fish,
and the fish gradually get used to being in salty water,
until the scientists can throw them into the sea and they
won't die. In the same way, people who are full of
defilements are like saltwater fish. When they first start
coming to the monastery, they bring all their defilements
along with them. Then — as they start tasting the flavor of
the Dhamma, as they chant and meditate — their hearts
gradually get further and further away from their
concentrated saltiness: their greed, anger, and delusion.
Goodness seeps into their hearts little by little, gradually
diluting the evil of their defilements until their hearts
are entirely fresh with the taste of the Dhamma. The
restlessness and turmoil in their hearts will vanish, and
they'll be content to stay with the Dhamma happily and at
peace, like a saltwater fish that's grown accustomed to
fresh water.
There are four kinds of fresh water:
still, flowing, falling, and shooting up. Still water is the
water in lakes and wells. Flowing water is the water in
rivers, canals, and streams. Falling water is the water of
waterfalls and rain. Sometimes this type of water is so
heavy and cold that it turns into hailstones, which can hurt
as they hit you on the head. Shooting-up water is the water
of fountains and geysers. In the same way, there are
different kinds of Dhamma — so you can choose to stay with
whichever of the 40 types of meditation themes you like.
When you stay mixed up with your
defilements, or like to run back and forth with your
external concepts and perceptions, you're no different from
a person floating in a boat in the middle of a stormy sea.
You can't sit or lie down to get any rest because the waves
are constantly striking, making you dizzy and nauseous all
the time. Your heart is all stirred up and can't find any
peace. All you can do is cry out, "I'm dying! I'm dying!"
But when you try to pull yourself out
from the mass of defilement or the balls of hellfire —
bringing your mind into the qualities of the Buddha, Dhamma,
and Sangha, and establishing it in concentration — you free
yourself from the wind and waves. You're like a person who
has reached shore and is standing on firm ground. A person
on firm ground can sit, lie down, stand, walk, or jump
around as he likes. He's much more comfortable than a person
out on the ocean. For this reason, we should train our
hearts to reach right concentration, absolutely cutting off
all our external concepts and perceptions. In this way,
we'll all gain shelter and rest.
The flavor of the Dhamma is like
ambrosia, the nectar that — when you drink it — makes you
immortal. If you live with the Dhamma, then when you die
you'll go to a good destination, as a visuddhi-deva,
a deva pure in body and mind. This sort of person doesn't
die easily — and doesn't die at all in the same way as
people in general. If you aspire to the Deathless, you
should wash your thoughts and deeds with cool, clean, clear,
pure Dhamma so that they're sparkling clean. That way you'll
meet with the flavor of the Deathless and go beyond death,
reaching the transcendent and nibbana at last.
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