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Mahāparinibbāṇa Sutta (2 of 4)

Introduction and Recap

Last week we looked at the Mahāparinibbāna Sutta^[1]. We have a series of four talks, so I won't go back over what we did last week in much detail, but just to briefly recap: we began with the opening of the sutta, where King Ajātasattu, the king of Magadha, wanted to invade the Vajjis. He sent his minister, Vassakāra, to ask for the Buddha's opinion, and the Buddha gave a very diplomatic response.

I pointed out that the compiler, Ānanda, was situating the events of the Mahāparinibbāna Sutta in the midst of the dramatic social and political changes, turmoil, and uncertainty going on towards the end of the Buddha's life. This reflects the unease and concern of the tradition as a whole for the survival of the Dharma. Think about how many religious movements there are, how many gurus, sects, orders, and centers, and how many actually survive past the death of their founder, much less longer than that. There was a very real concern and anxiety among those people, which really permeates the entirety of the text.

The Buddha taught the seven principles that prevent decline among the Vajjian federation, and the further principles that prevent decline among the mendicants. After which, the Buddha set north from Rājagaha and arrived at Nālandā, where he met Venerable Sāriputta for the last time, and Sāriputta gave his lion's roar of confidence in the Buddha. The Buddha then continued further north to Pāṭaligāma (later renamed Pāṭaliputta, the capital of Ashoka, currently known as Patna) on the Ganges River. This was the major crossing from what was then the Magadhan kingdom to the Vajjian federation. There he met Vassakāra the Brahmin once more and gave some talks and teachings, before crossing over the Ganges River into the Vajji federation.

Once there, he visited a number of towns, including a town called Ñātika, at which a number of disciples had died. There is a somewhat curious episode where the Buddha tells Ānanda about where all these disciples had been reborn. I believe the reason that episode is told—and why Ñātika, which doesn't feature anywhere else in the suttas, suddenly became so important—is because it was the hometown of Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta, more commonly known as Mahāvīra Vardhamāna, who was the leader of the Jain community. Effectively, this is a bit of propaganda saying that even the hometown of Mahāvīra was full of disciples of the Buddha. The suttas aren't above a little bit of propaganda now and then.

Then the Buddha went further to Vesālī, where he met the courtesan Ambapālī in a very famous event. Ambapālī came to see the Buddha and donated her mango grove, which later became one of the great monasteries in that region. She invited the Buddha for a meal. The leaders of the Vajji clan, the Licchavis, were upset by this, feeling they'd been one-upped by Ambapālī. They tried to get the meal offering off her, but she refused, and the Buddha accepted the meal at Ambapālī's.

Following that, the Buddha entered the rains retreat near Vesālī in a little town called Beluva. While he was there, or a little bit afterwards, he surrendered his life force. There is a somewhat complex series of teachings around that, but the main principle is that the Buddha said that in three months' time he would become finally extinguished; he would enter Parinirvāṇa. It is worth noting that the detail of the three months contradicts the date of putting Vesak in May. More likely, the Buddha's Parinirvāṇa would have been in December or January, which is confirmed by the mention of some flowers blossoming out of season. The hot season in May is, in fact, the time when they are in season, again supporting the idea that the actual date of the Parinirvāṇa was probably in December or January.

Moving along, the Buddha gives a number of different teachings. Famously, he gives the "elephant look," where he visits these places for the last time, turns around, and gazes back at them. That's just about the closest you'll find the Buddha coming to sentimentality. I am going to skip over all those events and proceed to when the Buddha arrived at Bhoga City.

The Four Great References (Mahāpadesa)

The Buddha traveled with a large sangha of mendicants, arriving at Bhoga City, where he stayed at the Ānanda shrine. (Ānanda is quite a common name, so it wasn't named after Venerable Ānanda). There the Buddha addressed the mendicants: "Mendicants, I will teach you the four great references, the four Mahāpadesa."

This is a set of standards or key principles that the Buddha used for assessing what is the teaching and what is the Dhamma after he has passed away. There is another set of four great references found in the Vinaya^[2], which has a similar kind of idea but is much more limited in application—knowing what is allowable and what isn't allowable by comparison with other things that are allowable. For example, green tea didn't exist in the time of the Buddha, but there are various things kind of like that which were allowed, so these days we take this under the Vinaya four great standards as being allowable.

But in the suttas, the four great references have a much wider scope of application. They refer to standards by which the entire Dhamma can be assessed, allowing us to know the reliability and authenticity of the tradition. Despite the fact that these teachings are very well known and often cited, there is considerable confusion as to what they actually mean. The earliest commentary to this text is a late canonical text in Pāli called the Nettipakaraṇa, which sets out to give a method for interpreting the Buddha's teaching in the suttas. There are basically two ways you can explain this: one is that the Dhamma is explained in terms of a principle of what's right and what's wrong, and the other is to explain it in terms of a scriptural text.

The Buddha says:

"Take a mendicant who says, 'Reverend, I have heard and learned this in the presence of the Buddha. This is the teaching, this is the training, this is the Teacher's instruction.' You should neither approve nor dismiss that mendicant's statement. Instead, having carefully memorized those words and phrases, they should be fit into the discourse and exhibited in the training. If they do not fit in the discourse and are not exhibited in the training, you should draw the conclusion, 'Clearly, this is not the word of the Buddha. It has been incorrectly memorized by that mendicant, and so you should reject it.' If they do fit in the discourse and are exhibited in the training, you should draw the conclusion, 'Clearly, this is the word of the Buddha. It has been correctly memorized by that mendicant. You should remember it.' This is the first great reference."

The second, third, and fourth great references vary only by the person who makes the claim. The first one is a mendicant who heard it directly from the Buddha. The second is one who claims to have heard it from a sangha with many seniors and leaders. The third is someone who heard it from a few learned mendicants. And the last is someone who heard it from a single learned mendicant. There's a decreasing standard of reliability, but in each case, the exact same procedure is to be followed.

Let's look closely at the language being used. Does this mean just keep an open mind for now? "You should neither approve nor dismiss." Imagine what the world would be like if Facebook had rolled out a button saying, "I'm going to neither approve nor dismiss." [Laughter] What kind of world would we be living in if that was our response? "I'm going to pay attention and respect you as a human being, so I'll listen, but I'm not going to rush to judge." To suspend judgment is one of the prerequisites of wisdom. We live in a world where we are railroaded into passing instant judgment, as if an opinion based on an immediate reaction is worth anything. From a Buddhist point of view, those kinds of opinions are worthless. What matters is an opinion from a perspective of wisdom, which takes some time to sink in.

"Having carefully memorized those words and phrases..." How often do we take the time to memorize something before evaluating it? It implies spending quite a bit of time getting to know the teaching well. These days we might not memorize things, but it's a reminder to take time, care, and go into a teaching deeply if you want to pass judgment.

Then the sutta says, "They should fit in the discourse and be exhibited in the training." These two words are very specific in Pāli: osāretabbāni (fit into the discourse) and sandassetabbāni (exhibited in the training). Sandassetabbāni is related to the word sandhiṭṭhiko, which means "apparent in this life." If you practice the Dhamma, you can see the outcome here and now. I've translated this as "be exhibited in the training." The Nettipakaraṇa explains the discourse (sutta) as the Four Noble Truths and the training (vinaya) as the removal of greed, hate, and delusion. The idea that a teaching should fit into the discourse recalls the elephant's footprint analogy, which says that all the teachings of the Buddha fit into the Four Noble Truths just as the footprints of any animal fit into an elephant's footprint.

Basically, it's saying that if you're practicing the Dhamma, it's got to make a meaningful difference. If you claim to be practicing, but you end up being the exact same person you were, what is the point?

Pāvā and Cunda the Smith

After staying at Bhoga City as long as he pleased, the Buddha and the mendicants traveled to Pāvā, staying in Cunda the smith's mango grove. Pāvā is interesting because it was the town where Mahāvīra died. It is also associated with ascetic monks in Buddhism, such as Mahākassapa, and the strict monks who later argued for a strict interpretation of the Vinaya in the Second Council.

When we read about someone who's a "smith" or a metalworker, we must remember that in those days, metalwork was the most advanced industrial technology. The advances in civilization at the time of the Buddha were really stimulated by innovations in pottery and ironwork, both of which require a high degree of control over fire. So, staying at Cunda the smith's mango grove is not like staying with a local mechanic; it's more like staying with an engineer or factory owner—a wealthy person of status.

Cunda heard the Buddha had arrived, went to him, and invited him for a meal. The Buddha gave him a Dhamma talk. The Buddha went for the meal, leading to one of the most curious episodes in the Buddhist scriptures. Cunda prepared what is called sūkaramaddava. It is not entirely clear what this is. Sūkara means a pig or a hog. Maddava means softness or a soft thing—perhaps tender pork. I've translated it as "pork on the turn" because a common practice is to let meat hang to tenderize and develop flavor. But it's a risky procedure; if you don't do it right, you can get bacterial growths, which would explain why the Buddha got sick from it. Others explain it as a kind of mushroom, supported by a Chinese translation that calls it "tree ears," a fungus that grows on trees. There are quite a number of foods in ancient India named after animals that are actually vegetables.

This passage is often used in discussions about whether the Buddha was vegetarian. As a matter of textual procedure, it is unwise to rely on an uncertain passage when making a decision about a controversial topic. However, there are a number of places in the suttas and the Vinaya making it clear that the Buddha did eat meat. The concept they had in ancient India for meat-eating was pavatta mamsa, meaning "meat that is available." You couldn't eat meat killed specifically for you. Society had no industrialized capacity to change the amount of meat produced to fit demand. The amount of meat was determined by the animals naturally around, not by supply and demand.

Personally, I'm a vegetarian. While the Vinaya allowed eating meat, the Buddha urged us to aspire to what is better. Today, the animal husbandry industry is horrifying in ways unimaginable to people in the Buddha's day, in terms of environmental impact, animal welfare, and toxicity. I think we'd be much better as a species if we were to become vegetarian or vegan.

At the meal, the Buddha asked to be served the sūkaramaddava and told Cunda to serve the other food to the mendicants. Why would he do that if he knew something was wrong with the food? Why not just say it had gone off? It's a mystery. I suspect it relates to the cultural and ritual connotations of food. In the Upanishads^[3], food (anna) is seen as a gift from God, the essence of the divine that sustains life. There were complex rules and customs about eating and sharing food. Whatever the reason, the Buddha told Cunda to bury any leftover sūkaramaddava in a pit, saying, "I don't see anyone in this world... who could properly digest it, except for the Realized One."

The irony, of course, is that the Buddha himself wasn't able to properly digest it.

Sickness and the Journey to Kusinārā

After the meal, the Buddha fell severely ill with bloody dysentery, struck by painful, death-like pains. But he endured unbothered, with mindfulness and situational awareness (sato sampajāno^[4]). This reminds us of his mortality, that he was simply a human being. It also shows us how to be a good patient. He didn't whine or complain, but he clearly expressed what he needed.

He told Ānanda, "Come, Ānanda, let's go to Kusinārā," and they continued on even though he was very sick. While on the road, the Buddha left the path, went to the root of a tree, and asked Ānanda to fold his outer robe (saṅghāṭi^[5]) in four to make a seat. When seated, he said, "Please, Ānanda, fetch me some water. I'm thirsty and will drink."

Ānanda replied, "Sir, just now about 500 carts have passed by. The shallow water has been churned up by their wheels, and it flows cloudy and murky. The Kakudhā River is not far away with clear, sweet, cool water. There the Buddha can drink and cool his limbs."

For a second and a third time, the Buddha asked for water. Finally, Ānanda took his bowl and went to the river. When Ānanda approached the creek, though it had been churned up by wheels, it flowed transparent, clear, and unclouded. Ānanda thought, "It's amazing. The Realized One has such psychic power and might." He brought the water to the Buddha, and the Buddha drank.

It's a mundane, everyday episode, but it shows the beautiful relationship between the Buddha and Ānanda, with Ānanda trying his best to care for his teacher, and the Buddha remaining patient. Whether the Buddha used his psychic power to clear the water, or whether Ānanda simply mistook its state, I am unable to say.

Pukkusa the Malla

While in the Mallan country, Pukkusa the Malla, a disciple of Āḷāra Kālāma, was traveling along the road. Āḷāra Kālāma was one of the Buddha's early teachers before his enlightenment. It seems these were Brahmanical teachers heavily influenced by the teachings of the Upanishads, particularly those of Yājñavalkya.

Pukkusa approached the Buddha and said, "It's amazing how those gone forth remain in such peaceful meditations." He wasn't partisan; he simply appreciated the profound peace. He then told a story about his teacher, Āḷāra Kālāma, who was meditating near a road when 500 carts passed by right next to him. Someone asked him if he saw or heard the carts. Āḷāra Kālāma replied that he was conscious and awake, but neither saw nor heard them, even though his outer robe was covered with dust.

The Buddha didn't immediately contradict or criticize this teaching. Instead, he found common ground. He asked Pukkusa^[6], "Which is harder and more challenging to do while conscious and awake: to neither see nor hear a sound as 500 carts pass you by, or to neither see nor hear a sound as it's raining and pouring, lightning is flashing, and thunder is cracking?" Pukkusa agreed the latter was far more challenging.

The Buddha then related an incident when he was staying near Ātumā in a threshing hut. A terrible storm struck, and lightning killed two farmers and four oxen nearby. A large crowd gathered. The Buddha came out of the hut and walked mindfully. When asked if he had seen or heard the storm, he replied that he was conscious and awake, but had neither seen nor heard the cracking thunder and flashing lightning.

Hearing this, Pukkusa was amazed at the depth of the Buddha's samādhi^[7]. He declared his confidence in the Buddha, saying, "Any confidence I had in Āḷāra Kālāma, I sweep away as in a strong wind... I go for refuge to the Buddha, to the teaching, and to the mendicant Sangha." He then offered robes the color of gold to the Buddha.

This narrative shows the Buddha implicitly engaging with the Brahmanical teachers of meditation, asserting the profundity of Buddhist meditation without being aggressive or polemical.

Reflections and Q&A

On Sūkaramaddava as Fungus: Some comments noted that in the Kannada dictionary, sūkaramaddava is listed as a kind of fungus. While Kannada is a Dravidian language, it's possible this usage was drawn from the Buddhist context, as the "mushroom" explanation is a common narrative in pro-vegetarian India.

On Eggs in the Vinaya: I don't believe eggs count as meat in the Dhamma-vinaya, though there isn't much mention of them, perhaps because they weren't a large part of the diet at the time.

On Modern Reviews vs. The Buddha: Normal people today, when they do a Google review, say things like, "I'll give it zero stars if possible. Bad service. Food was burnt. Way overpriced. Won't come back." Whereas the Buddha says you should bury the food in a pit, remarking, "I don't see anyone in the world... who could properly digest it." Maybe the Buddha was the one who pioneered the restaurant review. He might have invented the whole concept of Yelp! [Laughter]

On the Next Buddhist Council and Vegetarianism: What are the chances of a seventh Buddhist council updating the Vinaya to explicitly prohibit meat? Slim at best. The scriptures are 2,500 years old; you don't revise them. Instead, you interpret and adapt how you practice them. Different communities interpret the Vinaya differently, and many are vegetarian. While it's good to encourage vegetarianism, it's unlikely there will be a global council agreement to mandate it.

On Walking on the Right (Padakkhiṇā^[8]): Keeping the right side towards the Buddha when walking or leaving is a gesture of respect. The right side was considered the respectful side, and traditionally, it exposed the side without weapons.

On Silence and Speech: The advice to "neither approve nor dismiss" reminds us of Right Speech, which sometimes means remaining in silence for a while. The more space there is around your speech, the more people will hear it. It often seems like those who speak the fastest and loudest get listened to, but we should try to create contexts that value and appreciate silence.

From next week, we will pick up closer to the time of the Buddha's actual passing away. Until then, may you be happy and thrive in the Dhamma.