The Buddha's Responsive Body, Benefiting Beings

The Tathāgata, journeying through the World of Wondrous Joy, wishing to manifest his wisdom and deliver beings without limit, gathered with his disciples, bodhisattvas, Brahmā, Śakra, and nāgas at a monastery, and emitted from the "萬"-character mark on his chest a light and sound, pure and far-reaching, in five great tones — the tone that delivers through the Great Vehicle, beyond self and other, beyond the pratyekabuddha's path, through skillful means that do not cut off feeling, and into birth and death itself to dissolve its weary dust through teaching. A king named Chuliu, with his people, came before the Buddha and said: "We have long heard the Tathāgata delivers beings from birth and death without limit — our own household still drifts there, unfreed. We beg the Honored One's compassion, that we might understand the clear Dharma." Heaven and earth shook, and they took up the bodhisattva path (Source: Sūtra on the Manifestation of the Wan-Character on the Buddha's Chest).

What is meant by the secret of mind? The pure conduct of the four practices, never losing supernormal power, establishing the boundless work of great compassion — this is the true, universal mastery of all dharmas, opening and transforming beings of the ten directions, bringing them into the Dharma's own discipline (Source: Sūtra of the Guhyaka Vajra-Warrior, fascicle 2). A bodhisattva abiding in vajra samādhi, speaking with a single voice, is understood by every being each according to its own kind; manifesting a single form, each being sees a different form, though he remains unmoved in the one place (Source: Nirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 22). The Buddha expounds the Dharma with a single voice, and every being understands it as its own language, each gaining benefit according to its own capacity — some fear, some joy, some disenchantment, some the end of doubt — this is one of the powers unique to a buddha (Source: Vimalakīrti Sūtra, fascicle 1). With a single word he expounds every dharma; the beings of the great-thousandfold world ask their questions at once, each different, yet in a single instant, with a single voice, he answers them all, and each understands (Source: Avataṃsaka Sūtra, fascicle 26; several related sūtras largely agree).

In the country of Vairañjā, there was a brahmin king named Agnidatta, clever and learned, who, after debating at length with Anāthapiṇḍada, asked Sudatta whether this land had any divine sage worthy of reverence. Told of Prince Siddhārtha's own buddhahood, Agnidatta went at once to Jetavana, and, moved to reverence by the Buddha's bearing, begged him and the sangha to accept his invitation for the three-month rains retreat. The Buddha warned that his assembly was large while the king's own faith differed from theirs, but accepted after being asked three times, and traveled with five hundred monks to that country. But the towns there were poor and largely faithless, alms hard to come by, and no monastery had been prepared — only a grove north of the city where the assembly settled, the Buddha telling the monks that any who wished to stay for the retreat might do so, and any who did not could leave as they pleased. Śāriputra went off separately to accept a heavenly invitation elsewhere. Meanwhile a heavenly Māra beguiled the king's mind, drawing him into his own inner chambers to indulge the five desires, and ordering his gatekeepers that for the full three months no matter, great or small, should be reported to him — so that even the small support he had begun stopped after only six days, and the monks found alms extremely hard to come by.

Maudgalyāyana offered to gather fruit from magical trees, groves, and even the food of Uttarakuru and the gods of Trāyastriṃśa to feed the assembly by his own supernormal power, but the Buddha refused, explaining that the monks' own ripening karma could not be so displaced. In that country, horse-keepers pasturing their animals on the local water and grass, moved by sincere faith, told the monks that they had only horse fodder to offer, since the sangha's food had run out entirely — and asked if they could eat it. The Buddha permitted this, since the horses themselves could be fed on grass and salted water instead. Of the five hundred horses, each eating two liters of grain daily, half of every portion was given to the monks; and of the four dou eaten daily by one especially fine horse, half again was offered to the Buddha himself.

Ānanda carried the Buddha's own portion along with his own into the village, and asked a woman there to make dry rations from it, praising the Buddha's virtue; she declined, being too occupied, but another woman nearby offered to cook it herself for the monks. When Ānanda served this coarse food to the Buddha, his heart was choked with grief that a prince once raised on fine delicacies should now eat so poorly — but the Buddha, sensing this, asked him to taste it himself, and Ānanda found its flavor extraordinary, secretly enhanced by the devas, and his grief lifted at once. Told of the two women, the Buddha said that the first, had she made the food, would have earned rebirth as a wheel-turning king's chief consort — but the second, who acted though unasked, earned merit beyond measure. Word of the Buddha's plight eventually reached wealthy nobles in other kingdoms, who came bearing lavish offerings; but as the retreat neared its end, the Buddha sent Ānanda to inform Agnidatta that he intended to travel on. Only then, questioning Ānanda, did the king finally realize the Buddha and sangha had eaten nothing but horse fodder for three months under his own roof — appalled at the scandal this would bring upon his name throughout every land, he came with his whole clan to confess and beg the Buddha to remain longer.

The Buddha accepted seven more days, during which the king lavished offerings on the whole sangha, then scattered his gifts along the road hoping the Buddha would walk over them — but the Buddha explained that food is for eating, not for trampling out of misplaced reverence, and had it properly presented instead. The king's own heart, its knot loosened, attained the pure Dharma-eye.

In a distant past age, under the Buddha Vipaśyin, a brahmin named Indraśiri, teaching five hundred students, was invited along with the Buddha to a royal feast of fine food. When a monk, too ill to collect his own meal, sent another to request food on his behalf, the brahmin refused and cursed: "Shaven-headed monks ought to eat horse fodder, not such fine fare." Śāriputra told the assembled disciples: "That brahmin was myself in that life; the five hundred students are now the five hundred arhats; and the sick monk is now Maitreya" (Source: Zhong Ben Qi Sūtra and Sūtra of the Origin of Actions; the Sarvāstivāda and Mahīśāsaka Vinayas largely agree).

In Śrāvastī, twenty men and another twenty had become bitter enemies, each side seeking to harm the other, until, by the Buddha's own power, all forty found themselves before him instead. The Buddha then caused an iron spear to appear of itself, piercing his own right big toe. Maudgalyāyana offered to remove it and cast it into another world, but the Buddha said not even the utmost power could move it a hair's breadth — wherever he went, even to the Brahmā heaven, the spear followed, until he simply stepped upon it himself. Asked what offense could bring such retribution upon a buddha, he explained: "Long ago, among five hundred merchants, one harbored murderous intent, and I killed him — this is what remains of that act." Hearing this, the forty men said to one another, "If even the Dharma-King must bear this, how much more must we?" — and, confessing their own offenses, entered the wisdom of impartiality (Source: Sūtra of the Bodhisattva Wisdom-Superior, latter fascicle).

Four brahmins of supernormal power, wishing heavenly merit rather than liberation, agreed among themselves to give the Buddha offerings of honey-candy while refusing to hear any of his teaching. As each in turn approached, the Buddha spoke a single phrase — "all conditioned things are impermanent," "all dharmas rise and fall," "whatever is born must die," "this very cessation is bliss" — and each brahmin, on hearing his own single phrase, covered his ears at once and left. Only afterward, comparing what each had heard, did they realize the four phrases formed a single verse — and their hearts opened at once, attaining the fruit of non-returning. Returning in self-reproach to the Buddha, they asked to become monks in order upon the path; the Buddha said, "Welcome, monks," and at once their hair fell away, their garments became monastic robes, and they attained arhatship then and there (Source: Sūtra on Impermanence).

The king of a brahmin country named Many-Flavored Elephant, moved by a sudden good impulse, piled treasure like a mountain and let any beggar take a single handful. The Buddha, transformed into a brahmin, tested him by taking one handful, then three, then seven — each time walking seven steps and setting it back down, explaining each time that even this much would not suffice for a house, then a wife, then children yet to be married off. When the king finally offered the entire pile, the brahmin took it all — and set it down again, walking away. Astonished, the king asked why, and was told: "A person's life is brief, and all things are impermanent; a mountain of treasure brings no true benefit to oneself, and greedy scheming is only empty toil — better to seek instead the unconditioned path." The king's mind opened at this, and the brahmin then revealed the Buddha's own radiant form, rising into the air to speak a verse:

"Though one should pile up treasure high as heaven itself,
filling the whole world with it, this is still not equal to a single glimpse of the path.
What is not good may resemble the good; what is love may resemble its absence;
what is suffering may take on the appearance of joy — and only a madman is content with such semblance."

On seeing the Buddha's light and hearing this verse, the king and his ministers at once received the five precepts and attained the fruit of stream-entry (Source: Dharmapada with Similes, fascicle 1).

In a great South Indian city named Śubhapura lived an elder, Ruzhi, who had planted deep roots of goodness under countless past buddhas — though the whole city served the heterodox Nirgrantha ascetics instead. Wishing to deliver this elder, the Buddha journeyed toward the city; the Nirgranthas, fearing the loss of their own support, warned the people that the approaching śramaṇa Gautama brought famine and death wherever he went, and told them to cut down every tree, foul every spring and well, and shut the gates armed against him. The people obeyed — but when the Buddha arrived and saw what had been done, compassion arose in him, and every felled tree grew back at once, every fouled spring ran clear again covered in flowers, the city walls themselves turned to beryl so the people within could see clearly through them, the gates opened of themselves, and every weapon raised against him transformed into flowers. Elder Ruzhi, foremost among them, led the whole people out to the Buddha, who then expounded the Dharma for them, and every one of them awakened the aspiration for unsurpassed, perfect, complete awakening (Source: Nirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 14).

Five monks studying the path on a mountain far from town wore themselves out each day walking down to beg for food and back, leaving no strength for real meditation, year after year without progress. The Buddha, transformed into a fellow ascetic, told them: "One who practices the path takes the precepts as root and the gathering of mind as practice, valuing what is true over mere form — even sacrificing the body for food that only sustains it can never free one from suffering." He asked them not to go down the next day, promising to provide for them instead — and, freed from their usual exhaustion for once, their minds grew calm; the next day he brought them food, spoke a verse, and revealed the radiant form of the Buddha himself. The five monks, deeply moved, reflected on the precepts and attained arhatship at once (Source: Dharmapada with Similes, fascicle 3).

A stingy, faithless couple in Śrāvastī turned away a mendicant monk with abuse; the monk, actually the Buddha in disguise, manifested the appearance of dying on the spot, his body rotting before her eyes, and the terrified wife fled screaming. Her enraged husband pursued the vanished monk with bow and sword, only to find him transformed into a small crystal city he could not breach. Told the gate would open once he cast aside his weapons, he did so — but the gate stayed shut, until the monk explained he meant the weapon of malice in the man's own heart, not merely the ones in his hand. Struck with fear at this insight into his own mind, the man confessed, fetched his wife, and both prostrated themselves, asking by what virtue the monk had achieved such power. He answered simply: "Through wide learning, unfailing practice of the Dharma, diligence, and keeping the precepts without ever growing heedless — through this alone I attained the path and reached nirvāṇa of myself" (Source: Dharmapada Sūtra, fascicle 3).

Five hundred brahmins, plotting to slander the Buddha, arranged for a butcher to invite him to a meal, planning to mock him whether he praised or condemned a man who killed for his living. The Buddha simply told the butcher, "When the fruit ripens it falls of itself; when merit ripens it delivers of itself," and, at the meal, extended his tongue to touch his own ears, emitting a great light, and spoke a verse instead:

"As the true sage teaches, one who lives by the path may still be envied by fools,
who, seeing it, do evil in turn — but evil done brings evil, as bitter seed brings bitter fruit;
evil receives its own punishment, good its own reward, each ripening in its own time,
one never substituting for the other — just as cultivating good brings good, as sweet seed brings sweet fruit."

The five hundred brahmins' minds opened at once, and they prostrated themselves, begging to become monks; the Buddha accepted them all, and the whole village, witnessing this transformation, attained the fruits of the path — the village itself becoming known as Worthy Hamlet, no longer named for its butcher (Source: Dharmapada with Similes, fascicle 1).

A faithless village along a deep, wide river southeast of Śrāvastī remained unmoved even after the Buddha himself came to teach them, until he conjured a man who walked across the water from the far bank, sinking only to his ankles. Asked how he managed such a feat, the conjured man explained: "I am simply a plain, honest man. Hearing the Buddha was here, I asked someone on the far shore how deep the water was, and was told it only reached the ankle — I believed him, and so I crossed. I have no special art at all." The Buddha praised this, saying, "It is precisely such simple faith that can carry one across the very abyss of birth and death — what wonder, then, is a river only a few li wide?" The villagers' hearts opened at once, and they all received the five precepts (Source: Dharmapada Sūtra, fascicle 3).

War between Śrāvastī and Vaiśālī led the king of Śrāvastī to order the capture of enemy raiders; a group of Śrāvastī monks, having lost their way after their retreat, were mistakenly swept up among an actual band of bandits when soldiers arrived, and one monk, despite explaining the truth, was accused by the king of lying because the bandits themselves called him their companion. Only after the king decided to deal with the true bandits — five hundred in number — did the misunderstanding resolve; but as the condemned men were led to execution, their wailing reached the Buddha, who sent Ānanda to ask the king how he could bear to kill five hundred at once. The king, moved, agreed to spare them on the sole condition that the Buddha ensure they never returned to banditry — a condition the Buddha accepted at once. Freed and brought before him still bound, the bandits found their own ropes loosening the moment they saw him; hearing him teach the four noble truths, they attained stream-entry on the spot, and, begging to go forth rather than risk such suffering again, were accepted as monks — their prisoners' garments transforming instantly into monastic robes, their bearing as dignified as monks of a hundred years' standing, and all of them soon attaining arhatship (Source: Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 19).

Five hundred bandits in Kosala, captured for their violence by King Prasenajit, had their eyes gouged out and were driven into a dark forest. Having planted deep roots of virtue under past buddhas, they cried out in their suffering, "Homage to the Buddha!" — and the Buddha, hearing this from Jetavana, felt compassion for them at once. A cool wind arose, carrying fragrant medicinal herbs from the Fragrant Mountains into their empty sockets, and their sight was restored exactly as before. Opening their eyes, they saw the Tathāgata himself standing before them, and, hearing him teach, awakened the aspiration for unsurpassed, perfect, complete awakening (Source: Nirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 14; the Sūtra of the Buddha's Repayment of Kindness through Great Skillful Means largely agrees).

A brahmin couple in Vaiśālī, having prayed to every mountain and tree-spirit for a son to prevent their wealth reverting to the state at their death, at last had a beloved boy — who, at twelve, was trampled to death by a drunken elephant. His parents, driven mad with grief, ran about naked and raving, until the Tathāgata, moved by compassion, transformed himself into their very son; embracing him with boundless joy, their madness vanished at once, their sanity restored, and, as the Buddha then taught them the Dharma, they awakened the resolve for the path (Source: Sūtra of the Buddha's Repayment of Kindness through Great Skillful Means, fascicle 4).

The Buddha told Ānanda: "Once, during a rains retreat in Vārāṇasī, a courtesan named Sundarānandā grew attached not to me but to Nanda, on our daily alms rounds together, and hoped I might send him to fulfill her wishes. When she finally bowed to me out of her fondness for Nanda and for Ānanda, I conjured three handsome fifteen-year-old youths; delighted, she offered herself and her whole household to one of them, and he did not refuse her. For a full day and night he showed no weariness, but by the second day her own ardor cooled, and by the third she asked him to rise and eat — yet he clung to her all the more, explaining that, by his own custom, once joined with a woman he did not stop for twelve full days. Hearing this, she felt as though choking, her body aching worse each day — crushed, then pierced, then burning — until she vowed never again to crave such desire, preferring even a room shared with a wild beast to this suffering."

"Still he would not release her, and, feigning rage at his own ruined life, stabbed his own throat before her, his blood staining her body as he collapsed — and she could not free herself even from his corpse. Over seven days it blackened, swelled, burst, and rotted around her, crawling with vermin, until only a foul, sticky skeleton remained, clinging to her still. In her extremity she vowed that whoever could free her from this suffering — deva, sage, or the prince of King Śuddhodana — should have her entire house and its treasures. At that very moment I arrived with Ānanda, Nanda, Śakra, and Brahmā in a great procession of light. Seeing me, she tried in shame to hide the bones, wrapping them in cloth and incense that could not mask their stench — and as she bowed before me, the foul skeleton, out of her very shame, seemed to merge onto her own back. Weeping, she begged to be freed and vowed never to turn back as my disciple — and by my own power the skeleton vanished at once. Overjoyed, she offered me everything she owned, and, as I chanted a blessing, attained the fruit of stream-entry in that very moment" (Source: Sūtra on the Samādhi of Buddha-Contemplation, fascicle 7).

"Good son, when I entered Rājagṛha to beg for food, Devadatta had King Ajātaśatru release the elephant Dhanapālaka, wild with drink, hoping it would kill me and my disciples. I entered the absorption of loving-kindness and extended my hand toward it, and from my five fingers there issued five lions. The elephant, terrified, lost control of its bowels and threw itself to the ground, bowing at my feet. Good son, there were, in truth, no lions on my fingers at all — it was solely the power of the root of goodness cultivated in loving-kindness that subdued the beast" (Source: Nirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 14).

"Furthermore, good son, when I set out toward Kuśinagara to enter nirvāṇa, five hundred strongmen clearing the road could not move a great boulder for all their combined strength. Moved by compassion, I lifted it with the toe of my own foot, tossed it into the air, caught it in my hand, blew it to fine dust, and restored it whole again — quelling the strongmen's own pride. I then briefly taught them the essentials of the Dharma, and they all awakened the aspiration for unsurpassed, perfect, complete awakening" (Source: Nirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 14).