Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #10

Even nectar can become poison in ignorance. The wise can turn poison into nectar. Neither is nectar inherently nectar nor poison inherently poison; everything depends on knowledge or ignorance. For those who know, even a prison is an open sky; for those who do not, even the open sky is a prison.

Where you are is not the question; what you are is the question. And if you are filled with ignorance, changing houses will do nothing. Wherever you go, your prison will go with you. You cannot break out of the jail because the walls are not outside. You may exit one jail only to enter another in no time. You will not even wait for a moment. Without a prison you will not be able to live.

Therefore the real issue is not to “obtain freedom,” but to obtain the capacity to be free—an altogether different matter.

Freedom as such is an outer event—your hands are not in chains. But if inside you are habituated to dependence, how long can you avoid chains? You will create new chains. And if you are going to forge chains anyway, what was wrong with the old ones!

This is the difference between religion and politics. Politics says: the bondage is outside; break it and you will be free. Religion says: the bondage is inside. Break as much as you like outside—you will not be free.

Dependence is something you manufacture. You cannot live without it: you have a taste for it. So if you somehow break down a wall on one side, you will build a wall on the other.

Once you understand that nectar can turn into poison and poison into nectar—it depends on you—then Joshu’s words and his conduct, seemingly full of contradictions, will become clear.

Buddha again and again said: “By all means come to me, but do not become bound to me.” The desire to get bound to a Buddha is so strong that it is very difficult to overcome.

You get bound to ordinary people—even those who have nothing in them worth being bound to. You fashion iron handcuffs for yourself that have no meaning except to burden you. If, upon finding someone like a Buddha, you still want to be bound, it is because now the “handcuffs” are of gold—studded with diamonds and gems.

You make anyone your bondage: a wife, a husband, a son. How will you save yourself upon finding a Buddha? You will make the Buddha your greatest prison.

Husbands free themselves from wives—quite easily; wives free themselves from husbands—quite easily. But to become free of Buddhas can take thousands of years; and millions never become free at all, they remain bound.

Whom do you call “religions”? Crowds of those who have not yet become free of their chosen figures. Who are the Hindus? Those who have not yet become free of Rama and Krishna. Who are the Jains? Those who have not yet been able to get free of Mahavira. Who are the Buddhists? The prison of Buddha.

All religions became prisons—not because they were prisons in themselves, but because you are the kind of people who will manufacture bondage wherever you go.

Your way of living forges only handcuffs—unknowingly, of course. Consciously you want freedom; consciously you seek liberation. But unconsciously you desire things that make liberation impossible.

Buddha said: “Come to me, but do not become bound to me. Honor me only because I am your future: I am a reminder that you too can be like me. When you honor me, let it be honor to your own buddha-nature. But do not imitate me blindly. If you follow me blindly, how will you ever become a buddha?”

Buddhahood is realized with open eyes—not with closed ones. And it is realized only when you follow no one but go within yourself.

Following behind is always an outward journey, because whomever you follow will be outside. Follow Buddha and the journey remains outward; follow Mahavira and the journey remains outward. When will you go within?

You will go within only when you stop going without: when you close your eyes and turn inward.

Whom will you imitate within? There, other than you, there is no one. Self-experience happens only to the one who is free of all imitation.

Thus Buddha says: “Pay me respect, but not blind faith. Respect me only because I point to your future.” Like a seed lying on the ground, and next to it a fully grown tree: what is hidden in the seed has manifested as the tree. The seed can honor the tree because the tree announces, “You too can be a tree.” The seed can be grateful: “You woke me up; you made me aware of what is possible; you alerted me to my potential. I was shut within myself—like a pebble. I did not even know I was a seed. In the company of pebbles, I took myself to be a pebble. Seeing you, I was startled awake; it dawned on me that I too could become this. Once I was a seed and became a tree; today you are a seed, one day you too can be a tree.”

Our reverence for the Buddhas is reverence for this hint—they made us aware of our possibilities; they unveiled what was hidden; they brought news of what even we did not know.

What we are is not our completion. We can be far, far more. Seeing the Buddhas, the dream of that “far more” arises in us; we get a glimpse of the ideal. As lightning flashes in the dark and we see the path, so in the vicinity of a Buddha, in satsang, in their glimpse, we see the way. We are blessed. Buddha said: “Blessing is right; blind imitation is not.”

And here lies the difficulty. You can either follow blindly or oppose blindly—both are easy. People treat Buddhas in only two ways: either as followers—eyes closed—or as enemies—also eyes closed. Both are blind; they are the same, not very different.

To find the third kind of person is difficult. Only such a one understands Buddha. He will be like Joshu: in the morning he offers flowers in the temple to the Buddha, bowing his head, and by noon he tells his disciples, “Be careful of the Buddha. If the Buddha’s name comes to your lips, rinse your mouth clean.”

Joshu said: “If, in meditation, Buddha appears in the middle, take up your sword and cut him in two. Do not let him stand there—do not let the Buddha stand in your meditation.”

It is difficult to find a man like Joshu who bows at the Buddha’s feet and also says, “Do not let the Buddha stand in your meditation; lift the sword and cut him into two!”

He has grasped the essence. He neither imitates blindly nor is blindly opposed. He walks the middle. So he offers flowers in the morning and denies in the evening, explaining to his disciples that names and words—are all impure.

Not only the name of a prostitute is impure; the name of Buddha is also impure. Because the moment a word arises on the lips, mind has arrived. Where mind arrives, impurity arrives. When no word rises within, mind is empty. Where there is emptiness, there alone is the pure and the sacred. Emptiness is the only holiness.

So if you repeat in your mind, “Buddham sharanam gachhami”—that I go to the refuge of the Buddha—the moment the word arises, the mind is manufactured.

Who is repeating? The soul repeats nothing; consciousness echoes no refrain. This is the mind repeating.

Who says, “Buddham sharanam gachhami”? Who is going to the refuge of the Buddha? Is it you, or is it your mind? If you inquire even a little, you will find it is your mind. And the mind is impure.

Changing words changes nothing. Whether you say “prostitute” or “Buddha,” what difference does it make? Whether you hurl abuse or chant a mantra, what difference does it make? Whether you repeat obscene words or scripture—no difference! The mind arrives with words, on both sides. And where mind arrives, says Joshu, rinse your mouth. Do not forget it. With sweet words the danger is greatest; words play a deep game.

I have heard: an emperor was very troubled by the suffering of the poor. A few were prosperous; the whole kingdom was poor. There was no milk, no butter; the poor had to live on buttermilk. He called his wise men and asked for a way so that the poor could drink milk. They thought hard, but what solution? The wise have been thinking for ages; no solution has appeared. They tried many measures; all in vain.

But in old times every king kept, along with his wise men, one great fool at court. Strange to say, sometimes the fool finds what the wise cannot—because the wise keeps thinking while the fool leaps.

There is a saying: where the wise fear to tread, the fool enters with eyes shut. Sometimes he even arrives; sometimes he lands such a blow that the wise are stunned.

The wise brought no answer. One morning the fool came running and shouted, “I have found the formula! I have caught the trick! I have brought the key.”

The court gathered. “What solution have you found?” He said, “A very simple device: from tomorrow every poor person will drink milk.” The king was astonished: “Tell us.” He said, “A small thing. Issue a decree that from now on buttermilk will be called milk, and milk will be called buttermilk. That’s all. Every poor person will drink milk; every rich person will drink buttermilk. Just one small decree is needed—change the names. Why all this fuss!”

And in life we often follow that fool’s advice—we change names and words. We change the word and think all is solved.

Yesterday worldly words were in vogue; today religious words are in vogue—so we think everything is solved. But changing words does not make milk into buttermilk nor buttermilk into milk. Changing words does not turn mind into soul. By changing words, the mind remains the mind. This is what Joshu is saying.

Joshu is alerting you. But the point is very subtle. He says: go to the Buddha, but be careful not to make the Buddha into a prison. Before the Buddha can start enclosing you—and he doesn’t enclose you, you enclose yourself—before you put Buddha’s chains on your own hands, run away.

And if there is such danger even with a Buddha, how much more with those who are not Buddhas?

If Joshu says, “Run away immediately even from the Buddha,” then do not go near the non-Buddhas at all. The Buddha will alert you when you try to make him your prison; he will warn you and explain.

There is a sweet story—sweet and also harsh—with many facets. One aspect is worth understanding today.

For many years Buddha did not admit women into the sangha; he was strict. He said, “I will not initiate women.” The order was originally for men. But this caused great unrest. Women are half of humanity. Again and again they petitioned. Buddha remained firm. Then Kisa Gotami came to plead.

She cried and lamented: “How is it that the door of liberation is open only to men? What is the fault of women?”

Ananda felt great compassion and said to Buddha: “Enough now; women must be allowed.” Buddha relented, saying women could join; they too would be initiated. But he warned, “Let me caution you: my dharma, which would have lasted five thousand years, will now last only five hundred.” He said, “You do not agree, but I grant it.” What would have remained pure for five thousand years will remain pure only five hundred.

Many meanings have been drawn. Buddha said little more on this. But in the present context one meaning can be understood: the sole deep reason for restraining women was that it is much harder to save women from falling into emotional attachment. They will turn even a Buddha into a prison—faster than men.

In forging prisons, women are more adept than men, because a woman’s way of life is less of the head and more of the heart. Reaching the heights of love is very difficult; falling into the lowlands of attachment is very easy.

Man thinks with the intellect; woman lives from the heart. And of all the prisons constructed, ninety-nine percent are constructed by the heart, only one percent by the head. And the intellect can be reasoned with: “Be alert.” The heart does not listen.

And the feminine way of understanding is affective, raga-based. Buddha’s entire dharma is dispassion—viraga. There is no place for raga in Buddha’s dharma; raga will become prison.

There are also paths of raga in which raga is refined into pure love—as in Krishna, Meera, Chaitanya.

Rightly understood, whenever a man-mind enters the traditions of Chaitanya, Meera, or Krishna, the lineage begins to be corrupted—because where raga is to be purified into love’s heights, man finds himself in great difficulty.

For a man, breaking prisons is easier; attaining love’s highest peaks is far harder. To take a prison and refine it into a temple is very difficult.

In the fundamental sense, Buddha’s path is a man’s path. Hence he kept saying: do not let women enter. It will be hard to explain to them; it will be nearly impossible to say, “Do not fall into emotional attachment to Buddha.” For she will come to Buddha through attachment.

I continually observe: when a man comes to me for initiation—into sannyas, meditation, an inner journey—he comes influenced by what I say. He says, “Your words feel right.” When a woman comes, she says, “You feel right.” These are two fundamentally different things. “You feel right” is dangerous. My words feel right because I feel right. For a man, I feel right because my words feel right. The base is different. If someday my words no longer feel right, that day I will no longer feel right to him—the basis is the word, the connection is intellectual.

For the woman I first feel right; therefore my words feel right. That is why you cannot change a woman by arguing about what I say—she has no connection with that. However much you refute my statements, you cannot change her, because that is not the basis of her relation. The day I become “not right,” that day my words will also become not right. The bond is of the heart, not of the head; it is raga, not thought. Therefore Buddha said: as long as possible, restrain women.

What Joshu is saying will be very hard for women to understand. It will be difficult even to think it: the very name of Buddha—and wash your mouth! Go to Buddha—and run away! Do not stay long!

There are only two kinds of religions in the world. One is fundamentally feminine: Meera, Chaitanya, the Sufis, the Vaishnavas—feminine. Their source is the feminine; man is secondary. If he enters, he must enter by becoming feminine.

India had a unique sect, unlike anything elsewhere: the Sakhi sect. In Bengal there is still a sizable following, but they have become so shy they cannot declare it, for people laugh.

In the Sakhi sect, a man considers himself a woman, a sakhi of Krishna. At night he sleeps holding Krishna’s image to his chest. For men, this is very difficult to understand; it even seems absurd. Yet people have realized through that path too; they have reached the supreme peak.

Consider: if a man can become so feminine, his ego will be lost. The feeling can go so deep that—it is said—when Ramakrishna practiced the Sakhi path, his menstrual cycle began. This is a historical fact. His breasts swelled, his gait became feminine. For six months, while practicing, he walked like a woman, sat like a woman; his voice changed. A deep biological miracle occurred: he began to menstruate. After completing the practice, for about a year feminine traits persisted.

The feeling can go so deep that it brings revolution—but only if it goes so deep that you are not left, only feeling remains. Then no prison will be created.

Understand this subtlety: two things are needed to make a prison—you, the ego that can be bound, and the chains that can bind you. If chains alone exist but you do not, there is no prison—who will be bound? If you exist and there are no chains, there is no prison—what will bind you?

Buddha’s and Mahavira’s paths say: you remain, let there be no chains. So wherever you sense the danger of prison, where attachment is born—move away. Be even careful of Buddha-beings, because their attraction is tremendous; they are magnetic forces. If you do not watch, you will be swept into their current like a straw in a flood.

Krishna, Meera and Chaitanya’s lineage says: drown so totally in feeling that you are not. Then whom can the chains bind? Let them bind Krishna—who is there to be bound? They too arrive.

There are only these two ways. If you grasp this, you can understand Joshu’s story on Buddha’s path, and the contradictions in his conduct will become clear.

Once Master Joshu warned his disciples: “Wherever there is an enlightened one, do not linger long.” Go, stay, but do not stay long.

What does “not stay long” mean? What is the limit? How long counts as “long”? It will differ for each person, but one criterion applies to all: the moment attachment begins to arise, know you have stayed too long—run. When love of the person begins to arise, when the Buddha starts to feel pleasing rather than salutary; when the Buddha appears as what is pleasant (preya) rather than what is beneficial (shreya); when your bond is no longer of meditation but of attachment—enough, you’ve stayed too long. Since it differs for each, Joshu did not specify time. Do not stay “too long.”

Some can stay a year and no emotion arises; some can stay twelve years and still none; in some, emotion arises in twelve moments. It depends on the person’s liquidity, the heart’s softness. The instant you feel attachment blossoming, run. This is the Buddha’s teaching: let no attachment arise—attachment is bondage.

“Do not stay long where an enlightened one resides. And where there is no enlightened one, leave immediately.”

The convenience for spreading attachment lies within you. The attachment is within you. It is neither because of a Buddha nor of a non-Buddha; the capacity for attachment is in you, the hunger is in you.

And you cannot stay hungry long. However much fine food you’ve always eaten, if famine strikes or you wander into a desert and food is not found, you will be ready to eat grass and leaves. You may always have drunk clean water, but if you fall into a desert and there’s no water, you will be ready to drink from a dirty puddle. People even drink their own urine in the desert if there is no other way.

So, with a Buddha—depart in time. But do not go to the non-Buddha at all, because your capacity for attachment is such that if you do not find a Buddha—if fine food is not available—you will relate even to rotten food. The hunger is within you. If clean water is not found, you will drink dirty water.

Do not stay where there is no enlightened one. The moment you know, move away at once. The danger is within you; it is not outside.

Understand this. People think lust arises because a woman is beautiful—then you are mistaken. The old scriptures told celibates: do not spend long even with an old, crippled, blind, diseased woman. And if women are not available, even such a woman will gradually begin to look beautiful, because beauty is not outside; it is hidden within you—it is your desire. When clean water is unavailable, even dirty water appears clean.

It is not that a woman seems beautiful because she is beautiful; she seems so because of your lust. The day lust is gone, the most beautiful woman—even Cleopatra—will appear ordinary. She will be nothing but bone, flesh and marrow. And now? Now even a dead woman can arouse lust.

About Cleopatra there is a tale: when she died—the most beautiful woman of Egypt, and some say the most beautiful in history—her body was lost for three days. It had been stolen from her coffin. When it was found outside the city, people discovered that men had had intercourse with the corpse; that was why it was stolen. Court nobles must have done it—the only ones who could access the palace. They must have burned with desire all their lives—such a desert of thirst that they forgot she was dead. They copulated with a dead woman.

Without lust, there is only bone, flesh and marrow. With lust, even a decaying corpse becomes gold.

The whole play is within you.

If you stay too long with a non-Buddha, you will manufacture attachment there as well.

People ask me: how does it happen that ignorant men become gurus and many follow them? It happens because if you stay too long even with an ignorant guru, your attachment will form; then you will not see his ignorance. An ugly woman becomes beautiful; an ignorant man appears wise. It is all the play of attachment.

Joshu says: “Leave immediately from where there is no enlightened one.”

How will you know where there is an enlightened one and where there is not? What yardstick do you have? Any thermometer to measure? There is a deep gauge; if you learn to use it, you will know unerringly.

Wherever, upon coming near a person, you suddenly and without cause feel peace—suddenly, without cause—know that there, Buddhahood is either near or has happened. Without cause, because if the cause is within you, then it doesn’t count; the cause lies outside.

In the presence of an enlightened one, you suddenly find yourself becoming peaceful. Suddenly you feel light, weightless. Your worries and problems seem worthless, valueless, lifeless. Suddenly you find there is no problem—life is not a question. You are light; you could fly.

Move away from the enlightened one and your problems return; you become heavy again; life seems a tangle.

Whenever you go near an enlightened one, it is like going near a waterfall, the air turns cool; like approaching a garden, fragrance rides the breeze; a subtle inner fragrance arises, a recognition sufficient to show that, without cause, you are becoming peaceful. You—who are habitually restless—taste peace.

Joshu says: where such peace is found, stay—but do not stay long. And the touchstone for “too long” is this: the moment you begin to love the “person,” the “body,” the “form,” the moment your connection shifts from the formless enlightened one to the form, the moment you become an idol-worshiper and the statue becomes important—leave. The time has come, because you will fall into attachment. Better to move away.

Therefore a true master repeatedly sends his disciples away. You may not see it, but the moment he sees that attachment is about to form, he sends you off. You may feel hurt, you may think him harsh. Sometimes you may get so upset you never return. All this can happen.

But the master knows when he must send you away. As soon as he sees the blindness of attachment in your eyes, the claws spreading within, the enthrallment arising; as soon as he sees you binding yourself to a person rather than truth, that your search for the formless has ended and the form has become important—he sends you away.

Sariputta once said to Buddha: “Having found you, there is nothing left to find; my search for truth is over. Having found you, I have found all.” Buddha said: “Do not say such words; it is a mistake. I am here today, tomorrow I won’t be. Then what will you do? This body is here today; tomorrow it will be burnt to ashes. Then what will you do? You will wander again. Seek not me, seek truth. Use me as a path to reach truth. Do not take me to be the truth. It is your own truth that will always be with you.”

“And where there is no enlightened one, leave at once.” Wherever, without cause, your restlessness increases, your anxiety thickens, a heaviness comes over you—do not stay there even a little while. For the danger is that even a short stay will breed habit.

People become habituated even to disease. They get attached to their illnesses. When illness leaves them, they feel great unease. If you have lain sick for ten or twelve years, it becomes hard to give it up—because a way of life has formed; your self-interest is invested. In those years no one scolds you; your wife never quarrels, she massages your feet. Whoever comes is overawed, as if you are some emperor. You do nothing; others work and serve. You do not go to the market; responsibility lies on no one but others. Being sick becomes your big “job,” needing no other. No anxieties catch hold.

After twelve years, when the doctor says, “You are well—get up,” your whole being says, “Now why get up? Why go? Again the market, troubles, duties?” You collapse.

Once someone remains ill long, he develops psychological bonds with the illness; then he does not want to get well. And if you do not want to get well, no doctor can cure you.

Once you find a relish in illness, once you see that illness is a profitable “business,” why would you want to be free! People get bound even to illness.

So when you stay with a non-Buddha, the restlessness, pain and anxiety born there also become part of your bondage. When you do not feel anxious, you begin to feel anxious about that—“What’s wrong?” If there is no restlessness, you are in trouble—“What’s this, I am not restless!” If anger does not come, you think something untoward is happening.

Man walks in grooves. Even the difficult groove becomes easy. Live in filth and filth no longer seems filthy. Sleep at a railway station long enough and you will not sleep comfortably at home; you will need the trains and their noise. Those who can sleep at the station find it very hard to rest at home.

We become habituated even to the wrong. And whatever becomes a habit becomes hard to drop. That is why people go on smoking and drinking.

Give a cigarette to a child—what happens? He coughs, tears well up, his throat chokes, he panics, breaks into a sweat. He cannot understand why people smoke with such relish—when the packet even says, “Injurious to health,” when every doctor shouts, “Poison!” They became habituated. The first time it was the same for them; gradually they grew used to it.

The first time, when this happened, their ego said, “This won’t do—so many smoke, am I so weak that I cough and cry? This is not a good look. I must practice.” And they practiced.

When anyone first drinks alcohol, it tastes bitter and unpleasant; there is no taste. But keep drinking and the tasteless becomes tasteful.

And note this: when you start getting a taste for the non-Buddha, you will not be able to taste the Buddha. This is the greatest danger.

When you start relishing the false, your eyes close to the true. When you become accustomed to darkness, light hurts your eyes; you start sliding back into darkness, becoming an enemy of the sun. Wherever you see light, you cry out, “Wrong!” because light will disturb you.

We are all so accustomed to living among non-Buddhas—and they are everywhere. Do not think Buddhas are easily found under some bodhi tree once in centuries. Non-Buddhas stand under every tree, in crowds. You cannot avoid them; they seek you even if you do not seek them. Hence awareness is necessary.

Joshu says: “Leave immediately where there is no enlightened one.” Wherever, without cause, some worry, restlessness, tension, agitation grips you, where clouds surround and weigh you down, where sadness sits on your chest like a stone, where the very presence makes your mind sick—depart at once. Even a little stay risks forming a habit.

The same great master said on another occasion: “If you utter the Buddha’s name, rinse your mouth carefully afterwards.” All words are impure—even mantras, even great mantras—because they too are made of words.

Words have no value in themselves. Words are makeshift tools—useful for talking to one another. But if you wish to converse with existence, words are not only useless, they are obstacles. There, the wordless is useful.

With man, words are useful as a medium. With the sky, they are not. To speak with trees, words are not a medium. To speak with the stars, words are not a medium. And if you use words even with the stars, you are mad—you are speaking alone. That is a monologue, not a dialogue; no reply is coming from the other side.

But if you fall silent, the stars speak; if you fall silent, the sky speaks; even rocks and pebbles speak—when you are silent.

Jesus said: “Split wood, I am there. Lift a stone, and you will find me there.” But you have split wood many times and never found Jesus; you have lifted stones and found only a hole—not Jesus. Because you are filled with words. If you lift a stone while silent, Jesus is right—there you will find him. There is no need to go to any temple to find God. Wherever you fall silent, he is present—always.

Existence is speaking every moment; its voice resounds each instant. But you are not silent; your skull suffers one disease: you go on piling up words and more words. You do not know how to be quiet. That is your miss.

Then there are people filled with marketplace and shop who come to the temple and say, “Give us a mantra.”

People come to me asking for a mantra. “What will you do with a mantra? You are already full of mantras. Learn silence.” They say, “Silence is difficult; give a mantra so we can keep repeating it.”

A mantra is easy because the mind knows that work well. It does not go against the mind. Earlier it chanted, “Money, money, money.” Now it chants, “Ram, Ram, Ram.” No difference. On the shop stool you chanted; now you chant in the temple. The chanting continues; silence does not happen.

You drop one disease and pick up another. Earlier your eyes were glued to the ledger; now to the Gita, the Quran, the Bible—but you do not drop words. And until you are free of words, there is no meeting with truth.

Before you were born, what language did you know? Yet you were—wordless, silent. When you die, all your language will be left here; your words will scatter here. You will go empty.

Empty you came, empty you go. In the middle there is a short noise. If only you could be empty in the middle too—you would have found meditation.

Joshu is saying this to monks and renunciates, not shopkeepers. They were chanting from morning to night, “Namo Buddhaya, Namo Buddhaya,” filling themselves with Buddha. To them he says, “If you take the Buddha’s name, know your mouth has become impure. Wash it, rinse it.” And yet the same Joshu was often seen at dusk offering flowers, lighting incense before Buddha’s image, and bowing his head.

One day a new guest cornered Joshu. He had heard Joshu in the morning and found it perfectly right: “Get free of everything—no scriptures, no words, no worship, no prayer.” He was an atheist; he already believed all this was useless. When he heard Joshu say, “Avoid even the Buddha; avoid even the Buddha’s name,” it felt right.

Such is the difficulty with words: sometimes words that look alike carry very different meanings; sometimes those that look different carry the same meaning.

Now where is someone like Joshu! It is hard to find a greater theist. And where is this atheist! Yet the atheist felt Joshu was saying exactly what he believes—this is all nonsense.

In the evening, returning happily, he saw Joshu worshiping in the temple. He was in a fix: “Contradiction! This man is a cheat. What did he say in the morning, and what is he doing now!”

He entered and said, “This is beyond my understanding!” Joshu opened his eyes and said, “It is beyond my understanding as well. It is beyond understanding—what can you do?” The man said, “You have put me in trouble. I was going home reassured that my views and yours match. But this conduct? In the morning you said not to get bound to Buddha—then why are you worshiping?” Joshu said, “It is this Buddha who awakened me; who brought the news of freedom from all prisons. It is this Buddha whose compassion would not even allow me to be bound to him. I am giving thanks. This worship is not my bondage. I am thanking the one who freed me from all bonds.”

Now the matter grows subtle: worship can be bondage or it can be gratitude.

A literary man used to come to me. Once in a camp at Matheran I said in the morning, “Worship no one—for worship will bind you.” At noon I was walking to the meeting; a gentleman bent and touched my feet. The writer, walking with me, said to him, “Stop! He just said this morning: worship no one.” Then he turned to me: “Why don’t you stop them? Contradiction! In the morning you said…”

If worship is gratitude, there is no contradiction. If worship is attachment, there is. But outwardly both look the same. How will you tell the difference between worship out of attachment and worship out of thanksgiving?

In China there was a master who died. On his death anniversary, a man held a ceremony—the kind held only for the master who initiated you. But villagers knew this man had never been initiated. Some even knew he had begged for initiation, but the master refused.

They asked, “We cannot understand. You were never initiated; you were never his disciple. This ceremony is only for disciples. Why are you holding it? And we also know that you pleaded many times to be initiated and he always refused.”

The man began to laugh; tears of joy welled up. He said, “That is precisely why I celebrate—because many times I tried to bind myself and he refused every time. His refusal set me free. To whom should I give thanks? It is his grace. Whatever the world says, I am his disciple. He did not give me initiation, but by refusing, he initiated me. Each refusal was a step. I tried in every way to be bound; he let none of my efforts succeed. He broke them all. It is his grace that I did not bind myself and became free. Whom should I thank, if not him?”

The atheist said, “What kind of worship is this? What sort of offering? To whom do you offer flowers? If there is no master, no following, no faith—if one must light one’s own lamp—then this is idol-worship.”

This is the crux.

Islam has never understood that there can be a kind of worship that is not idol-worship. If worship is gratitude, it is not worship in the ordinary sense at all. If worship is attachment, if it is demand, if it expands some desire, then it is idol-worship. But if worship is simply thanksgiving at the end of all desires—if worship is an ending, not a beginning…

That is why we offer flowers. The flower is symbolic—it is the tree’s final event; there the tree comes to completion. We offer flowers not for their beauty. It is not that worship needs the most expensive, beautiful flowers; even a blade of grass in bloom will do. But flowers are needed, because they are the final happening.

Worship should be the last event; there should be no demand after worship—“Give me this,” “Grant me that.” No: worship means “You have already showered all grace; I am giving thanks. This is the last act. I am completing this chapter. It is finished.” It is not a beginning.

Joshu is offering flowers before the Buddha, bowing, lighting incense. We will surely perceive contradiction.

In the religious person we see contradiction, because the religious person is the sum of both the atheist and the theist. He is neither theist nor atheist. The theist is half—he says “Yes.” The atheist is half—he says “No.” The religious person is both: he says “No” to the useless and “Yes” to the meaningful. His worship is both: he says “No” to attachment and “Yes” to grace.

The atheist understands the “No”—“Do not worship.” The theist understands the “Yes”—“Worship; then stop all this ‘No’ talk. If you say ‘Yes,’ then chant the name joyfully; do not say ‘rinse your mouth after taking Buddha’s name.’ If Buddha is found, don’t say, ‘Don’t stay long.’ Catch hold of his robe and follow, life after life—never leave.”

Both are straightforward arithmetics: the theist’s and the atheist’s. The religious person’s arithmetic is paradoxical—he is both. Until you become both, you will not even glimpse religion.

The day you are like an atheist—where even the Buddha’s name defiles you—and the day you are like the ultimate theist—able to dance in thanksgiving—that day the flower of religion blooms in your life. That is the flower worthy of the temple.

The flowers you pluck from trees are only symbols. The true flower is your personality, in which both “Yes” and “No” are included.

Have you ever noticed? “Yes” alone is insipid; “No” alone is lifeless. When the two meet, the tension of their opposites creates energy.

A man alone is incomplete; a woman alone is incomplete; a child is born of their union. The theist alone is incomplete; the atheist alone is incomplete. The child born of their union—that is what we seek. That is truth; that is liberation.

No, there is no contradiction in Joshu; it only appears so to you. The day you do not see contradiction in Joshu, your steps will be steady and on the right path.

The religious person does not know contradiction. It is others who see the religious person as inconsistent, filled with opposites.

Here Buddha says, “Be a lamp unto yourself,” and people bow at his feet reciting, “Buddham sharanam gachhami.” And he does not refuse. Here he says, “Follow no one,” and he gives initiation to thousands! Here he says, “What will changing clothes do?” and he robes thousands in yellow! Here he says, “Organizations and sects are useless,” and a sangha forms!

The religious person is full of apparent contradictions, because intellect can see only halves and the religious person is whole. The whole slips beyond your intellect’s grasp.

Have you noticed? If I place a small pebble in your hand, can you see it in its entirety? Even a small pebble on your palm: you can never see the whole—only the side on top; the underside is invisible. Turn it over and the other side appears while the first vanishes. If you are a strict rationalist, you should speak only of halves—never of the whole. You should not say, “The whole pebble is in my hand.” Only the half you see.

There was a great mathematician, a logician, traveling by train. By the fields stood thousands of sheep. A fellow passenger said, “Looks like the wool is very good this year—their bodies are full of fleece.” The logician said, “I can say yes only about this side—about half the sheep. About the other side, I can say nothing.” He added, “In fact, I can say only half sheep, because who knows about the unseen half!”

You look at me and see my face; whether my back exists or not, strictly speaking, you cannot say—maybe, maybe not. No one has ever seen you whole—either your back or your face. We join the two by imagination and call it the whole. But no one has seen the whole pebble—then how will you see the whole of life? And Joshu is the whole of life.

Sainthood means one who is whole—who has gathered all the halves; in whom straight lines have become a circle; who is completion. From one angle, half seems right; from another, another half seems right. If you see from both, you are in difficulty.

Had you heard only Joshu in the morning and not seen his evening worship, there would be no problem—you would decide he is an atheist like yourself. Those who saw only the evening worship and did not hear the morning talk also had no problem—“Religious, theistic.” But those who saw both felt contradiction.

For Joshu there is none. When he was speaking, he was whole; when he was worshiping, he was whole. He is nowhere cut into pieces.

For you there is contradiction because “Yes” and “No” appear opposite; it is the result of your way of thinking. If you go on thinking, contradiction will persist.

Lay down thinking for a moment and look at Joshu—and you will see him whole and understand his glory.

The glory is this: do not follow Buddha—and that is the true way to follow Buddha. Do not worship Buddha—that is the highest worship. Do not take the Buddha’s name; for if you name him, you make him cheap—rinse your mouth. A being as majestic as Buddha cannot be named. Remember—without name—that is his true name.

Among Jews there is a convention: they do not take God’s real name. They use a makeshift term; the real name is never spoken. All names of God are makeshift; the real word is never uttered.

In ancient days, when the Jewish temple stood in Jerusalem, the high priest remained silent for a year, fasting, becoming utterly empty. On the holy day, once a year, only he would speak the name of God; people would listen. Then, for a year, he purified himself again.

It is a wonderful thing: purification was twofold. For a year he purified and stilled himself so that he could utter the name—and once he uttered it, he became impure again, and had to refine himself for another year, because to name God is to render him impure. He is beyond name and form. If we give him any boundary, we defile him.

Only the high priest had the right. Becoming such a priest was hard; sometimes for years there was no high priest—the name went unspoken. Then the temple was destroyed and the tradition lost.

Judaism is the only religion that has no name for God. No one has God’s name; all names are provisional.

Joshu is exactly right. Try to see. And if contradictions still appear, know you have not yet understood. Moments of glimpse will come within when contradiction vanishes. That very moment is understanding, prajna manifest.

Enough for today.