Converting Anāthapiṇḍada (II)

And if this inherent nature were truly the cause of everything, then one ought not to seek liberation from it at all — for since it possesses this fixed nature already, one would simply have to submit to its own pattern of arising and ceasing; and even should one somehow attain liberation from it, that same inherent nature would only give rise to bondage all over again.

And should one claim that this inherent nature, though itself unseen, is nonetheless the cause of the visible phenomena we do observe — this too cannot be a true cause, since cause and effect, by their very nature, must correspond to one another; and indeed, whatever we actually observe throughout the world always shows cause and effect appearing together, visible together.

And if this inherent nature has no mind of its own, it could not possibly serve as the cause of anything possessing a mind — for cause and effect must belong to corresponding categories, the way seeing smoke lets us infer the presence of fire.

It is not the case that an unseen cause can simply give rise to visible phenomena unrelated to it in kind — just as vessels and ornaments made of gold never cease, from beginning to end, to be gold itself. If this inherent nature is truly the cause of all these phenomena, how could cause and effect possibly differ in kind from beginning to end?

And should one claim that time itself is the true agent behind all things, then one ought not to seek liberation from it either — for since time itself is held to be eternal, one would simply have to submit entirely to its own seasons and cycles; and since the world itself has no boundary or edge, time's own seasons, too, would have to be equally without end — and so, on this view, no practitioner ought ever to seek anything through deliberate effort at all.

As for the theories current in the world concerning substance (dravya) and quality (guṇa), and whether these are ultimately one or different — however many different accounts are given of them, one ought to recognize that none of them amounts to any single, true cause of things.

And should one claim instead that it is the self (ātman) itself that is the true agent of all action, then things ought to arise exactly according to that self's own wishes — yet since things plainly do not arise according to what we ourselves wish, how could one possibly claim that the self is the true agent behind them?

We often obtain what we did not wish for, while what we do wish for often turns out contrary to our hopes instead — since suffering and pleasure are thus clearly not within our own sovereign control, how could one say that the self is their true maker?

And if the self were truly the maker of all things, then there ought to be no karmic action at all leading to the evil destinies — yet since every manner of different karmic result plainly does arise, one must conclude that the self is not, in fact, their true maker.

Should one instead say that the self acts only according to the proper time, then it ought, at each such proper time, to produce only good results — yet since both good and evil arise instead according to their own respective conditions, one must conclude from this, too, that the self is not their true maker.

And should one hold instead that all things arise from no cause whatsoever, then no one ought ever to cultivate any deliberate effort at all — for if everything is already fixed by its own nature regardless, what purpose could there possibly be in cultivating causes for anything?

Yet since the manifold varieties of karmic action in this world do plainly yield their own corresponding varieties of result, one must conclude from this that nothing at all arises without a cause.

Whether possessing mind or lacking it, everything without exception arises from causes and conditions — there is not a single dharma, anywhere in this whole world, that arises without any cause at all.

The elder's heart opened wide in understanding, penetrating this most excellent and subtle meaning; a true and unified wisdom arose in him, and he came to a firm and settled grasp of ultimate truth. He bowed reverently at the World-Honored One's feet, and, joining his palms, entreated him: "In the city of Śrāvastī, where the land is rich and its people live in peace and comfort, King Prasenajit rules — himself descended from the original lion-clan lineage.

His merit and renown have spread widely, honored near and far — I wish now to build a monastery there, and beg you, out of compassion, to accept my offer.

Knowing that the Buddha's heart holds all things with perfect equanimity, and that wherever he dwells he seeks no comfort for himself alone, I ask this only for the sake of these sentient beings — I beg you not to refuse my request."

The Buddha, knowing that the elder's heart had, at this very moment, given rise to this great act of generosity, entirely free of any defilement or attachment, and wishing to guard well the hearts of sentient beings everywhere, said to him:

"You have already seen the ultimate truth, and your heart has always delighted in the practice of giving; wealth and riches are no eternal treasure, and so you ought to give it away quickly, while you still can.

It is like a storehouse caught in fire — only what has already been carried out of it remains a true treasure; the wise, understanding impermanence in this way, bring their own wealth out and give it generously and widely to others.

The miserly and greedy hold their wealth close and guard it jealously, fearing only that it might run out and leave them without anything to use — never once fearing impermanence itself, they lose it all the same in the end, and gain nothing for it but increased regret and sorrow.

To give at the proper time, and to the proper recipient, is like a valiant warrior facing the enemy: one who is able both to give generously and to fight bravely deserves to be called a truly courageous and wise man.

One who gives is beloved by all, his good reputation spreading far and wide; the good and virtuous delight in becoming his friends, and at the end of his life, his heart remains forever joyful.

Free of regret and free of fear, he is never reborn among the hungry ghosts — this alone is but the flowering of his reward; the true fruit that follows is beyond all conception.

Circling through the six realms of rebirth, there is no better companion than the practice of generosity — should one be reborn among gods or humans, one will be served and honored by all.

Even should one be reborn in the animal realm, the reward of one's past generosity still brings its own share of ease and pleasure there; and through wisdom cultivated in quiet stillness, one attains a state beyond all reliance and beyond all reckoning.

Even the attainment of the very path of immortality still relies, in the end, on the practice of generosity as its support — for it is through this very generosity that one cultivates the eight reflections of a great being.

Following these reflections, a joyful heart arises, and samādhi becomes firmly established; this samādhi, in turn, increases wisdom, enabling one to observe correctly the arising and ceasing of all things — and having observed this arising and ceasing correctly, one attains liberation in due and proper order.

One who gives away wealth in generosity thereby removes his own attachment and craving; giving with compassion and reverence removes as well envy, hatred, and arrogance; clearly seeing the fruit that generosity brings removes the ignorant view that denies any value in giving at all; and every bond and every affliction is, in this way, dissolved through the practice of generosity itself.

One ought to understand, then, that generosity is itself a true cause of liberation — just as a person plants a tree for the sake of its future shade and fruit, so, too, does the practice of giving bring, as its reward, the very bliss of great nirvāṇa.

Giving away wealth, itself impermanent and insubstantial, one obtains in return a fruit that is firm and enduring: giving food brings the reward of physical strength; giving clothing brings the reward of a fine complexion; and should one build and establish a monastery, every kind of good fruit is thereby brought to its full completion.

Some give in pursuit of the five desires; some give out of greed for still greater wealth; some give for the sake of their own reputation, or in hope of rebirth in heaven; some give simply to escape their own poverty and hardship. You alone give with no thought of gain or reward at all — this is the very highest form of giving there is, one from which no benefit whatsoever fails to follow. Since your own heart already holds so vast an intention, you ought now to bring it swiftly to completion."

The confusion and craving that had once wandered in his heart now departed, and the pure eye of wisdom opened once more within him; and the elder, receiving the Buddha's teaching in this way, found his own heart of generosity grow only more radiant still.

He invited Upatiṣya, his own worthy friend, to return home together with him, and, back in his own country of Kosala, went about searching everywhere for a fitting site.

Seeing Prince Jeta's own grove, its groves and streams utterly clear and tranquil, he went to the prince and asked to purchase that land from him.

The prince held it as a most treasured possession, and had no thought at all of selling it: "Even should you cover the whole ground with gold, I still would not let this land pass from me."

The elder, delighted at this, at once began spreading gold coins across the entire ground; and Jeta said: "I never agreed to sell it — why are you spreading gold here?"

The elder answered: "You said you would not give it up unless the ground were entirely covered in gold — why, then, do you now say otherwise?"

The two of them fell into a dispute over this, which was eventually brought before a magistrate to be settled.

Everyone marveled at this extraordinary affair, and Jeta himself, sensing the elder's own sincerity, asked him at length what his reason was; and the elder explained that he meant to build a monastery there, as an offering to the Tathāgata and to the whole community of monks.

Prince Jeta, hearing the very name of the Buddha, felt his own heart open in understanding at once; he accepted only half the gold offered, and proposed instead that the two of them build it together in partnership: "Let your land and my own trees together be offered up jointly to the Buddha."

The elder then entrusted the land, and Jeta the grove of trees upon it, to Śāriputra, who oversaw the beginning of construction; and the monastery was completed swiftly, worked on diligently day and night, rising high and magnificently adorned, like the very palace of the Four Heavenly Kings themselves.

Built in full accordance with the Dharma and suited exactly to what the Tathāgata required, it was a thing such as the world had never before seen, adding new splendor to the city of Śrāvastī; and there the Tathāgata made manifest his own protective presence, gathering every kind of noble and holy being to dwell there in peace — with no attendant left wanting for compassionate care, and every attendant well provided for in support of the path.

The elder, carried by the merit of this deed, was reborn in heaven once his own life came to its end; and his sons and grandsons carried on his work after him, planting this same field of merit across the generations that followed.