Accepting the Jetavana

Buddhacarita, Chapter Twenty: Accepting the Jetavana

The World-Honored One, having now finished teaching and converting the people of Kapilavastu according to their own causes and conditions, set out together with his great assembly for the country of Kosala, to visit King Prasenajit.

The Jetavana had already been magnificently adorned, its halls and buildings all complete, flowing springs pouring one into another, flowers and fruit blooming in profusion, and rare birds of water and land calling out in harmonious chorus, each according to its own kind — a beauty unmatched anywhere in the world, like the very palace of Mount Kailāsa itself.

Elder Anāthapiṇḍada and his whole household came out along the road to welcome him, scattering flowers and burning fine incense as they invited him respectfully into the Jetavana.

Holding a golden dragon-shaped vessel in his own hands, he knelt and poured out a long stream of water, formally offering the Jetavana monastery to the whole community of monks throughout the ten directions.

The World-Honored One pronounced a blessing and accepted the gift, that it might secure the kingdom in lasting peace; and Elder Anāthapiṇḍada's own merit and good fortune flowed on, without end, from that day forward.

At that time King Prasenajit, hearing that the World-Honored One had already arrived, had his own carriage made ready and went out to the Jetavana, bowing reverently at the World-Honored One's own feet; withdrawing to sit to one side, he joined his palms and said to the Buddha: "I never imagined that so small and humble a kingdom as mine could suddenly become the site of so great and auspicious an event — how could a land beset by so much wickedness and misfortune possibly attract so great a being as you?

Yet today I have been granted the sight of your own sacred countenance, and, as though bathed in it, I drink in this pure transformation you bring.

Though I myself remain but an ordinary man, I have now been graced to enter, through you, into this most excellent stream — as when a wind passing through a fragrant forest carries that very fragrance abroad on its own current, or as when every bird throughout the world gathers upon Mount Sumeru, their every different color made equally golden in its light.

To be granted the chance to meet with a person of such clarity, and to share, sheltered beneath him, in his own glory — this is like a mere rustic who makes an offering to a sage, and is thereby reborn as one of the three-legged stars in heaven.

Every worldly benefit comes eventually to its end, while the benefit a sage bestows is forever inexhaustible; a human king accumulates fault upon fault, while one who encounters a sage finds lasting peace instead."

The Buddha, knowing that the king's own sincerity in delighting in the Dharma matched even Śakra's own, yet seeing that two attachments still remained in him — an inability to set aside wealth and sensual pleasure entirely —

knowing both the right moment and the true state of his heart, taught him the Dharma: "Even a lowly man of evil karma knows enough to show reverence when he sees goodness before him.

How much more so, then, for a sovereign king, who has accumulated virtue through causes planted in former lives — that he should show reverence upon encountering a buddha is no difficult thing at all.

Your kingdom has long been peaceful and its people at ease already, and this owes nothing to your having merely seen a buddha now.

Let me now explain the Dharma to you in brief; listen closely, great king, and take to heart what I now say, and you will see the fruit of this merit come to its own completion.

When life comes to its end, body and spirit part ways, and every one of your kinsmen will be parted from you as well — only your good and evil karma will follow after you, like a shadow, from beginning to end.

You ought to honor the true work of a righteous king, caring for the myriad people as your own children — in this present life your renown will spread abroad, and when your life ends you will be reborn in heaven; but should you instead indulge your own passions and go against the Dharma, you will suffer now, and find no joy at all hereafter.

In ages past, King Ashvamedha followed the Dharma and received the blessings of heaven for it, while King Suvarṇapāda did evil, and at the end of his life was reborn into an evil destiny.

Let me now explain to you, great king, in brief, the difference between good and evil conduct: the essential point is to hold a heart of loving-kindness, regarding your own people exactly as you would your own children.

Neither oppress nor harm them; skillfully master your own faculties; abandon what is crooked and take up the correct path; and never exalt yourself while demeaning those beneath you.

Form your friendships among those who practice diligent effort, and do not associate with companions of false and heterodox views; do not rely upon your own royal power and authority; do not heed flattering and deceitful speech; do not trouble those engaged in ascetic practice; do not overstep the proper laws of kingship; keep the Buddha and the true Dharma always in mind; and subdue those who act against the Dharma.

You now stand foremost among men, your virtue soon to flourish upon the very path itself — reflect deeply, then, on the truth of impermanence, and how body and life itself shift and change with every passing moment.

Let your heart dwell in a realm both high and excellent, your resolve set on seeking the very ford of coolness and peace; preserve this compassion and this sovereign bliss, and in the life to come your joy will only increase, your renown carried on across boundless ages — and you will surely, in this way, repay the Tathāgata's own kindness to you.

It is like a man who loves a sweet fruit: he is certain to plant its finest seedling for himself.

Some pass from brightness into darkness, some from darkness into brightness; some remain in darkness following upon darkness, and some in brightness following upon brightness — the wise set aside the other three paths, and take up only the one that leads from brightness to brightness, beginning to end.

When one speaks of evil, the crowd readily responds and follows along; when one proclaims goodness, followers are hard to find — yet there is no action at all that fails to bear its own fruit, and one who acts diligently is never, in the end, truly ruined by it; but if one fails to apply oneself diligently from the very start of an undertaking, one will never, in the end, be able to accomplish it at all.

One who has never cultivated the causes of goodness will, afterward, find no such joy awaiting him; and since what is past can never be recalled or paused, one ought, then, to cultivate goodness now, without delay.

Examine yourself, and do no evil — for whatever one does, one alone must bear its consequence; it is like the four great mountains of stone closing in together, from which no sentient being has anywhere at all to flee.

The mountains of birth, old age, sickness, and death leave sentient beings with no way of escape at all — only by practicing the true Dharma can one emerge from this heavy mountain of suffering.

Everything in this world is entirely impermanent, and the realm of the five desires is like a flash of lightning; with old age and death already resting at the very point of the blade against your neck, why would you still take up what is contrary to the Dharma?

The great and excellent kings of ages past, mighty as Īśvara himself, valiant and soaring in their own ambition, shone forth for but a moment before being ground away to nothing.

Even the fire that ends an age can melt Mount Sumeru itself, and dry up the very waters of the ocean — how much more so, then, a body as insubstantial as foam upon water, that it should ever hope to endure long in this world?

A raging wind is stilled only by an even fiercer one; the sun's own light is eclipsed by Mount Sumeru's shadow; a blazing fire is quenched by water — everything that exists returns, in the end, to its own extinction.

This body is itself an impermanent vessel, and yet one guards it painstakingly through the long night of existence, lavishing it with wealth and sensual pleasure, growing reckless and arrogant because of it.

Yet the moment of death arrives all at once, and the body lies rigid as a withered log — seeing this transformation so clearly, how could a person of true clarity possibly remain asleep, rather than apply himself diligently while there is still time?

Birth and death turn alone upon their own hidden mechanism, and one who does not bring it to a halt is certain, in the end, to fall; one who does not cultivate this practice will find no lasting joy, and one destined for a bitter reward will not escape it by inaction alone.

One who does not draw near to superior friends will never learn to cut off attachment through wisdom; and even learning it, if one does not put it into actual practice, one will not attain true wisdom — yet to truly attain it is, in the end, to bring an end to further embodied existence altogether.

To have a body and yet remain untainted by its objects of desire is possible, yet to be tainted by them is itself a grave fault; even one reborn in the formless heavens still cannot escape the ceaseless shifting and changing of time.

One ought, then, to aspire to a body beyond all change — for only what is beyond change is beyond fault; and it is precisely because one has this body at all that it becomes the very root of every kind of suffering — and so it is that the wise seek to bring this very root to rest in the state beyond embodiment altogether.

Every kind of sentient being suffers precisely because of desire — and so, with respect to desire and conditioned existence, one ought to give rise to a heart of weariness and renunciation; and once one is weary of and renounces desire and existence, one no longer receives the suffering that follows from them.

Even rebirth in the realms of form or formlessness still carries the great affliction of ceaseless change, since these states are not truly quiescent at all — how much more so, then, one who has not even departed from desire in the first place?

Contemplating the three realms of existence in this way — impermanent, and with no true master over them at all, forever ablaze with every kind of suffering — how could the wise possibly wish to take their pleasure in them?

It is like a tree engulfed in raging flame — would any flock of birds ever gather there?

To be awakened is to be a person of true clarity; apart from this, there is only ignorance. This alone is what opens a person to awakening; apart from this, there is no true awakening at all. This alone is what ought rightly to be done; apart from this, nothing else ought to be done at all. This alone brings one close to the true source; apart from this, one runs contrary to the very principle of things.

And should anyone say that this most excellent Dharma is not fitting for one who remains at home in ordinary life, this itself is a false statement — for the Dharma is spread abroad precisely through the very people who take it up, wherever they may dwell.

One suffering from fever finds coolness the moment he enters cold water, from wherever he happens to be; a lamp lit within a darkened room reveals every one of the five colors at once, regardless of the room itself.

Cultivating the path is exactly the same: household life and renunciate life are not, in themselves, different paths at all — for some, dwelling in the mountains, still fall into wrongdoing, while others, remaining at home, still rise to the rank of a sage.

Ignorance and delusion form a vast ocean, and false views are its rolling waves; sentient beings, swept along by the current of their own craving, drift and turn without ever managing to cross to the other side.

Wisdom alone is the light boat that can carry one across; holding fast to correct samādhi, and rowing forward with the oar of right mindfulness applied through skillful means, one is able to cross this very ocean of ignorance."

The king listened with his whole heart to this teaching of the all-knowing one, and grew weary of and indifferent to worldly glory, understanding at last that a king finds no true joy in it — like a wild, drunken elephant who, once its intoxication has fully passed, returns at last to its own true and settled nature.

At that time there were various followers of heterodox paths who, seeing the king's own faith and reverence for the Buddha, all urged the great king to arrange a contest of spiritual powers between the Buddha and themselves.

The king then relayed this request to the World-Honored One, asking that he grant what they sought.

The Buddha assented in silence. Every manner of practitioner of heterodox views, sages possessed of the five superknowledges, all came then to where the Buddha was; and the Buddha at once manifested his own spiritual power, sitting upright and firmly settled there in the open sky.

He radiated a great light everywhere, brilliant as the morning sun at its rising, and every one of the heterodox practitioners was subdued at once, and the whole people of the kingdom turned to take refuge in him.

For the sake of teaching the Dharma to his own mother, he then ascended to the Trāyastriṃśa heaven, dwelling three months in that heavenly palace, teaching and transforming the gods and their people there widely.

Having delivered his mother and repaid her kindness in full, and the time of his heavenly retreat having now passed, he descended, escorted by a great host of gods, upon a staircase of the seven treasures, down to Jambudvīpa, at the very place where every buddha is accustomed to descend.

Countless gods and heavenly beings, riding their own palace-chariots, escorted him in procession; and the rulers and people of Jambudvīpa joined their palms and gazed up at him in reverence.