Giving Yourself Up First

1.3 Giving Yourself Up First

It was in the Kalandaka Bamboo Grove outside Rājagaha. The Buddha had passed the rains retreat there with five hundred bhikkhus — all of them, says the Saṃyukta Āgama, arahants who had ended every taint. The retreat nearly over, on the full-moon fifteenth, the day of the invitation, the Buddha arranged a seat before the great assembly and sat.

He did not first teach the Dhamma. He first gave Himself up:

You are my sons, born from my mouth, born of the Dhamma's transforming, heirs to the riches of the Dhamma; now bear with me — let nothing in my body, my speech, or my mind remain that could be blamed.

You are my disciples, born from the Buddha's mouth and of the Dhamma's transforming, inheritors of the household of the Dhamma; now, I ask you to bear with me — let nothing in my body, my speech, or my mind remain that could be reproved. In other words, He asked these five hundred disciples to point out whether He had any fault.

From the assembly the venerable Sāriputta rose, straightened his robe, bowed to the Buddha, and answered first: in the World-Honored One's body, speech, and mind there is truly nothing to be reproved. Then he turned about and gave himself up in turn:

I now, before the World-Honored One, beg you to bear with me, by what is seen, heard, or suspected — if there is anything to be reproved in my body, speech, or mind.

He asked the Buddha, in turn, to point out his own faults — if there were anything to be reproved in his body, speech, or mind, whether seen, heard, or suspected, let the World-Honored One name it.

See what this opening inverts. In the world's imagining, the exposing of faults always runs from above to below: the high expose the low, the strong expose the weak. But here it is the one of highest standing in the Saṅgha, the one with the least "need" to be reproved, who first sets Himself where He can be reproved — and lays out body, speech, and mind, all three at once. When the one least obliged to be called out is the first to be called out, the pointing-out of another's faults turns from an exercise of power into the mutual support of those who dwell together.

In the last chapter we watched the Saṅgha treat the disease of hiding — probation, mānatta, rehabilitation: the disease present, then the medicine given. This chapter watches the Saṅgha's other hand: casting "not hiding" into institutions, so that the disease can hardly arise. This other hand holds two sets — one performed yearly, one fortnightly — and their common source is that moment in the Kalandaka Bamboo Grove, on the day of the invitation, when the Buddha gave Himself up first.

A Rains Retreat Mute for a Whole Season

The yearly one is called the invitation (pavāraṇā) — letting the assembly, freely and at will, raise my faults. Its origin is a cautionary tale about silence.

The Vinaya records: at Sāvatthī, a group of bhikkhus passed the rains retreat together, and for the sake of "harmony without dispute" agreed at the outset not to speak to one another, not even to exchange greetings; the whole season through, food and daily needs were managed by gesture. The season passed without a quarrel, and they thought their retreat had gone happily. But when the retreat was over and they came with robes and bowls to see the Buddha, reporting the thing as something to be admired, the Buddha, hearing it, far from approving, rebuked them sharply: you foolish men — like the outsiders, you have taken up the "dumb rule," the practice of playing mute; to dwell together so is "dwelling like enemies" — living together like foes.

At first hearing, the words sound heavy. Those bhikkhus had done no evil; they had merely not spoken. But the disease the Buddha diagnosed lay exactly in that seemingly pure quiet. A whole season without a word exchanged, each hiding his own mind, no one asking after anyone — when one person conceals, a single fault is hidden in one heart; when a whole group vows silence together, concealment is magnified into a collective wrong. Harmony on the surface; in truth, no one answerable for anyone else's purity.

So the Buddha abolished the dumb rule and instituted the invitation: when the retreat ends, the assembly may not disperse in silence; each person must, before all, give himself up, and ask the Saṅgha to point out his faults.

Seen, Heard, Suspected: Shutting the Door on Excuses

At the core of the invitation is a sentence of asking. The several Vinayas record it with only small differences. The Dharmaguptaka Vinaya reads:

Venerable Saṅgha, today is the invitation; I, the monk so-and-so, also invite. If there is an offense seen, heard, or suspected, may the elders, out of compassion, tell me; and if I see the offense, I shall make amends as the Dhamma requires.

Worth a close look are the three words: seen, heard, suspected. What is invited for reproof is not only the fault witnessed with one's own eyes (seen), but what others have spoken of (heard), and even a mere sign that rouses doubt (suspected). The door the invitation opens, in other words, is far wider than the threshold of "produce your evidence." A matter not yet established, no more than suspicious, is welcome to be raised here. And the one called out cannot fend it off with "but you never saw it yourself" — for heard and suspected were in the invitation from the start.

The Dharmaguptaka Vinaya has one verdict, compressed almost to nothing, that is nearly the definition of the institution: to invite is to consent. The act of invitation is itself an allowing — allowing everyone to speak of me. The one who performs the invitation is not reporting an innocence already achieved; he is opening a door, announcing to the assembly: from this moment, speak to me.

Wherever there is an institution, someone will look for the loophole, and the Vinaya is not shy about this. Some schemed to mutter the invitation through, low and indistinct, so that no one could hear it clearly; some schemed to race through it at speed, shutting the window before anyone could open their mouth. The Buddha cut down each in turn and laid the rule: one must "invite clearly, so that others can hear" — speak distinctly, so those present truly hear it; and "invite unhurriedly" — speak at an even pace, not using speed to slam the window for reproof shut. Merely "having said it" does not count; it counts only when it is said so that others have time to speak. Words held in the mouth are the same as words unsaid.

A Fortnightly Threshold of Purity

The fortnightly one is the recitation of the precepts that has already shown its face in the last two chapters — the uposatha. Every fortnight the Saṅgha gathers in one place and recites the precepts entire; this is the Saṅgha's most ordinary beat. What concerns this chapter lies wholly in the threshold standing before the recitation.

The Dharmaguptaka Vinaya records it plainly:

The World-Honored One laid down the precept: an offender may not recite the precepts, may not listen to the recitation, may not make amends toward another offender.

One who carries an undisclosed offense has no standing to recite with the assembly, none even to sit and listen. Through this door there is one road only: disclose first, before all, "not daring to conceal." And the clause that follows at once — "one who conceals incurs a graver offense" — is exactly the last chapter's principle: the hiding itself aggravates. Here it has come down from the crisis-handling of grave offenses to the ordinary doorway of every fortnight. Each fortnight, every bhikkhu must face it anew: you may hide, but the hiding is itself a graver offense, and it bars your way into the assembly.

Chapter one told how the recitation opens with three askings: whoever recalls an offense upon him, let him disclose it; to hold it back through three askings is deliberate false speech, is the obstructing of one's own path.

How strict is this threshold? The Madhyama Āgama's Campā Sūtra records one night. It was the fifteenth night of reciting the precepts; the Buddha had arranged a seat before the assembly of monks and sat — but having sat, He entered concentration and kept silent, saying nothing. A monk in the assembly rose, joined his palms, and asked the Buddha: the first watch is spent now, the assembly has sat long; may the World-Honored One recite the precepts. The Buddha did not answer. By the middle watch the monk asked again; the Buddha was silent still. By the last watch, asked a third time, the Buddha at last spoke: in this assembly there is one monk no longer pure.

The venerable Moggallāna, hearing this, entered concentration and with the knowledge of others' minds surveyed the assembly, and saw which one the Buddha meant. He rose from concentration, went up to that monk, took him by the arm, led him outside the door, and let fall these words:

Foolish man, get far from here; do not dwell here; you may no longer take part in the assembly of monks; from this day forth, you are no monk.

Then he barred and locked the door, and returned before the Buddha to report. Only then did the Buddha explain why:

Were the Tathāgata to recite that which leads to liberation before an impure assembly, that person's head would split into seven pieces.

To "recite that which leads to liberation" is to recite the precepts that draw a person toward release. Even the Buddha would not recite the precepts facing an assembly that harbored a hidden stain — He would rather keep silent three watches through, and wait until that one had been led out, before opening His mouth. So strict, to this degree, is purity as the precondition of recitation.

And this same night both the Chinese and the Pāli transmissions record: besides the Campā Sūtra of the Madhyama Āgama, the Uposatha Sutta (of the Aṅguttara Nikāya) and the Ekottarika Āgama carry the same event — the Buddha silent three watches, Moggallāna surveying the assembly's minds, the impure one led out by the arm. The details corroborate one another; this is no isolated witness but an iron rule the Saṅgha held in common.

The invitation and the uposatha: one yearly, the grand reckoning; one fortnightly, the constant rhythm. The former abolishes silence and welcomes reproof; the latter sets "disclose first, then enter" as a door to be passed on schedule. Together, the two take "not concealing" — once a matter left to private conscience — and cast it into a beat of life that everyone keeps, on time.

One Thing to See Clearly Here

At this point, one thing must be seen clearly for the lay reader, lest effort be spent in the wrong place.

The invitation is a formal act of the monastic Saṅgha, once a year, tied to the close of the rains retreat; the Vinaya gives no warrant for a lay invitation — a layperson is not even permitted by the Vinaya to sit in on the Saṅgha's recitation of the precepts, much less perform this Saṅgha act. So the saying one sometimes meets, that "laypeople perform the invitation every fortnight," splices two things, each true on its own, into one thing untrue: the period is wrong (what is fortnightly is the uposatha, not the invitation), and the standing is wrong (the invitation belongs to the Saṅgha alone).

Does the layperson, then, have a periodic practice of purity of his own? He does — but it is another thing: the eight-factor observance (aṭṭhaṅga-uposatha). The sūtras say that on the six fast-days of each month, a lay disciple takes the eight precepts, keeping them for a day and a night, like an arhat. That is a practice on the side of taking precepts and keeping the fast, not the invitation's "asking others to raise my offenses." The two things each have their own place, and need not be mixed; mix them, and both come out crooked.

Two Kinds of Silence

Last, a backward glance at silence — for this chapter began with a silence that was rebuked.

In Saṅgha business, consent is expressed by silence: let those who consent be silent — those who approve need not speak. During the recitation, the pure likewise sit silent and at ease. So silence itself is not the disease. The silence of the dumb rule and the silence of the pure look alike on the outside; in the bone they differ at one point: the former is the silence of those who have not yet given themselves up — everyone hiding, no one asking; the latter is the silence that comes after the giving-up — what should be disclosed has been disclosed, what should be said has been said, and so one rests.

The same absence of speech, with a threshold between. And the threshold is this: you — have you given yourself up?

Walking On

Part One has now laid the first foundation of repentance. Repentance was three things all along — feeling, saying, receiving; hiding has its price, and disclosure its road; and the Saṅgha cast "not hiding" into the rhythm of the years and the months. Taken together, the three chapters have all been about the one act of saying it out, and the institutions that receive it.

And yet there is one thing these procedures and institutions never met head-on.

What pushes a person to disclose is often that ache in the heart — remorse. But the same remorse can crush a person: chapter one told how remorse chewed over in the dark congeals into a path-veiling hindrance, and at the end of life can even burn the mind as it goes. How, then, is this remorse to be settled? When is it the force that spurs a person to mend, and when does it sink into an entangling obstruction?

Procedure can govern the saying or the not-saying; it cannot govern the surge within. To settle that, we must leave the Saṅgha's assembly hall and return to the seat where the Buddha teaches, and hear Him speak of remorse itself.

That is the business of Part Two.