Serving A Purpose

November 4, 1958
My own motto is, "Make yourself as good as possible, and everything else will have to follow along in being good." If you don't neglect yourself for the sake of external things, you'll have to be good. So you shouldn't neglect yourself. Develop your inner worth to your own satisfaction.

The world says, "Don't worry about whether you're good or bad, as long as you have money." This is just the opposite of the Dhamma, which says, "Don't worry about whether you're rich or poor, as long as you're a good person."

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Your good qualities, if you don't know how to use them, can hurt you — like money, which is something good but, if you don't know how to spend it wisely, can lead to your ruin; or like a good sharp knife that, if you don't know how to use it properly, can do you harm. Say, for instance, that you use the knife to kill someone. When you're caught, you'll have to be thrown in jail or executed, which means that you used the knife to kill yourself.

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Each of us has four kinds of valuables: the goodness of our deeds, the goodness of our words, the goodness of our manners, and the goodness of our thoughts. For this reason, we have to care for these valuables as best we can.

Most of us have good things to our name but we hardly ever bring them out to put them to use. Instead, we like to bring out only our worst things to use. In other words, we keep our goodness to ourselves and show only our worst side — like the plates, cups, and saucers in our homes: The good ones we keep in the cupboard, and only the chipped, cracked, and broken ones get put on the table, because we're afraid the good ones will break. As for our best clothes, we don't dare use them because we're afraid they'll get old, stained, or torn. So we end up keeping them packed away until they get so moldy or moth-eaten that they can't be worn and have to become rags. As a result, we don't get any good out of our valuables in line with their worth. In the same way, if we have any goodness within ourselves but don't put it to use, it serves no purpose at all, either for ourselves or for others — like a knife you keep packed away until it gets rusty: If you finally bring it out to slice some food, the rust will poison you. If you happen to cut your hand or foot with it, you may come down with tetanus and die.

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An intelligent person knows how to use both good and evil without causing harm. Arahants even know how to use their defilements so as to be of benefit. When sages use common language, it can serve a good purpose. But when fools use fine language, it can be bad. If they use bad language; it's even worse. An example of a person who used common language to serve a good purpose is Chao Khun Upali (Siricando Jan). One time he was invited to give a sermon in the palace during the weekly funeral observances for a young prince whose death had caused a great deal of sorrow to the royal relatives. On the previous weeks, some very high-ranking monks from Wat Debsirin had been invited to give sermons and they had all gone on about what a good man the prince had been, and how sad it was that he had come to such an untimely end that prevented him from living on to do more good for the world. This had caused the relatives to cry all the more.

When it came Chao Khun Upali's turn to give a sermon, though, he didn't carry on in the same vein at all. Instead, he started out with the theme of mindfulness of the body, describing the ugliness and foulness of the body, which is full of repulsive and disgusting things: snot, spit, dandruff, sweat, etc., etc. "When the body dies, there's not one good thing about it," he said, "but people sit around weeping and wailing with tears streaming in tracks down their cheeks and mucus running out their noses and dribbling down to their chins. With their faces all in a mess like this, they don't look the least bit attractive."

This made the relatives who had been crying so embarrassed that they stopped crying immediately, after which they expressed a great deal of admiration for Chao Khun Upali and his sermon. This is why it's said that a person who uses a sharp tongue with skill is a great sage. If people are wise, then no matter what they say, it serves a good purpose because they have a sense of time, place, and the people they're talking to. If something will serve a purpose, even if it sounds unpleasant, it should be said. If it won't serve a purpose, even if it sounds pleasant, don't say it.

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The affairs of the religion are an affair of the heart: Don't go looking for them in the dirt or the grass, in temples or in monastery buildings. Although people may do good with their words and deeds, it's still an affair of the world. The affairs of the religion are quiet and still, without any fuss or bother. They're aimed at a mind that's pure, undefiled, and bright. With goodness, there's no need to do anything much at all. Simply sit still, and there's purity.

Take the example of the little novice with quiet and composed manners who, as he was going out for alms one morning, happened to enter the compound of a stingy moneylender and his wife. Whether or not they would put any food in his bowl, he didn't show the least concern, and he didn't open his mouth to say a word. When he left — his bowl still empty — he went calmly and unhurriedly along his way. The moneylender's wife, seeing him, became curious and trailed him from a distance, until he reached a point where he suddenly had to go to the bathroom. Carefully he put down his bowl and, using his foot, cleared away the leaves to make a little depression in the dirt so that the urine wouldn't flow off anywhere. Then, after looking right, left and all around him to make sure that there wouldn't be anyone walking past, he squatted down to urinate unobtrusively in the proper way. When he had finished, he used his foot to cover the spot with dirt and leaves as it had been before, picked up his bowl and went calmly on his way.

As for the moneylender's wife, who had been watching from a distance, when she saw the manner in which the little novice was acting, the thought occurred to her that he had probably buried something of value. So she stealthily crept to the spot and, using her hand, dug the earth out of the hole buried by the novice and sniffed it to see what it was — and that was when she realized that it was urine. The little novice had taken care of his urine as if it were gold. "If it were something more valuable than this," she thought, "there's no doubt how well he'd care for it. With manners like this, we should adopt him as our foster son. He'd be sure to look after our fortune to make sure that it wouldn't get wasted away."

She went home to tell her husband who, impressed with her story, had a servant go and invite the novice into their home so that they could inform him of their intentions. The novice, however, declined their offer to make him their heir, and taught them the Dhamma, making them see the rewards of practicing generosity, virtue, and meditation. The moneylender and his wife were deeply moved, overcame their stinginess, and asked to take refuge in the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha from that day onward. Eventually, they progressed in virtue, meditation, and right practice to the point where they both gained a glimpse of Liberation. Afterwards, they made a large donation to build a memorial over the spot where the novice had urinated, as a reminder of the goodness that had grown within them from the puddle of urine the little novice had bestowed on them that day.

The affairs of the religion come down to "sacitta-pariyodapanam" — making the heart entirely clean, clear and pure. "Etam buddhana-sasanam" — this is the heart of the Buddhas' teachings.