Chapter 9
What This Teaches About Conducting Long Retreats
This chapter is part of Vipassanā in Jhāna: A Personal Narrative and Practical Guide, by Gary Buck.
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Chapter 9: Conducting Long Retreats
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My Gratitude
Although I have spent almost all my meditation career in one tradition, throughout this book I have tried to keep the discussion as general as possible, for the benefit of meditators from other traditions. However, in this chapter, I wish to address my remarks to my peers in the movement established by Goenkaji, teaching in the U Ba Khin tradition. Before addressing the issue of how I think we should conduct longer retreats, and how we should deal with jhāna arising on vipassanā courses, I would like to say something about my teachers, and my relationship with the organization Goenakji established.
Firstly, I want to fully express my deep gratitude to Goenkaji. It is fifty years since I first sat at his feet, and I am deeply grateful for the gift of Dhamma. At the time, I was living in Varanasi, India, practicing vipassanā in a different tradition—the one established by Mahasi Sayadaw. At that time, Goenkaji came to town, and I took two of his ten-day courses. I immediately felt that his technique of vipassanā, with the focus on observing vedanā (body sensations) was more in line with the Buddha’s path—or at least with what I thought was the Buddha’s path. Vipassanā focused on vedanā is called, no surprise, vedanānupassanā. Since that time, I have continued to practice vedanānupassanā as I was taught. I have never felt any inclination to try anything different or to study other vipassanā traditions. That was over fifty years ago, and thanks to Goenkaji, by following his advice, I have lived a wonderful life. Words cannot express my feelings of gratitude. The truth is: Dhamma works, and he gave it to me.
I was amazed—and still am—at the mettā, the force of unconditional love, that seemed to radiate from his every pore. Everyone felt it. It was wonderful to sit in his presence. For this, I will forever have a deep debt of gratitude. And he asked for nothing in return—not one penny! He did this not just for me, but for a huge number of other fortunate beings.
He dedicated his life to giving the gift of Dhamma to anyone who asked. He was a well-established vipassanā student when he came to India to teach the practice to his mother, who was sick, and who he believed would benefit from the practice. At the end of that first ten-day course, people asked for more and then more. People were in misery; he knew the benefits of the practice he had learned, and he was eager to share that with others. This rapidly took over his life.
When I first met him, five years later, he had already conducted about 100 such courses, traveling to the most obscure corners of India. That is an average of about twenty ten-day courses every year—220 days a year. With travel time, organizing, and support activities, that means he did little else but devote his life to helping others, teaching Dhamma. After a few more years, and many more courses, he established a meditation center, and then, when he found that he himself could not meet the constant worldwide demand, he figured out how to build an organization that could do so on his behalf, using assistant teachers and recordings. Droves of people constantly vied for his time, demanded his attention and sought his advice; rarely was he left alone. I don’t know how he managed all that. He continued this for the rest of his active life. I am sure that he paid a very heavy personal price for all this: it must have come at considerable cost to his family life, to his business activities, and to his own meditation practice. I don’t know how he found time enough to sit quietly, but somehow he did.
Once he had his own center, all of these retreats were completely free of charge, supported by volunteer workers and donations accepted only from old students. He would not accept donations from people who had not completed a ten-day retreat. Everyone who attended a course did so completely free of charge and was served by volunteers who had already completed a ten-day retreat. He told students, “It is through the donation and service of others that you could receive this benefit. Now, having tasted this yourself, if you wish, you may donate to provide the same benefit to others.” There is a purity to this that is wonderful to behold.
Goenkji’s mission was to bring Dhamma to a suffering world. He did this on behalf of his teacher, U Ba Khin. who believed that “the clock of vipassanā has struck.” In other words, U Ba Khin held the traditional belief that there would be a revival of the Buddha’s teaching halfway though the 5,000-year Buddha sāsana (this is the period in which the Buddha’s teaching would persist in the world). This half-way point occurred in the middle of the twentieth century, and U Ba Khin was very eager to teach his technique of vipassanā—the ancient technique of vedanānupassanā, preserved in Burma since ancient times—to give this technique to the world, just at that time when the world would be most ready to receive it. That was U Ba Khin’s mission.
However, Burma was essentially closed, due to a military dictatorship that severely restricted travel in and out of Burma. U Ba Khin was not allowed a passport. He was clearly frustrated by his inability to teach Dhamma abroad, just at the very time that the clock of vipassanā had struck. Perhaps he was even desperate. I say that because during the 1960’s, he made several attempts to persuade some of his foreign ex-students to teach vipassanā in the outside world. Some declined, and some almost certainly were not currently practicing. None of these people were trained as teachers; as far as I am aware, their main qualification was that they had taken vipassanā courses with U Ba Khin.
However four agreed to teach courses. John Coleman taught quite a number of ten-day courses. I sat one in England. He was a very nice chap, who was well liked by the local meditation community. Leon Wright, Robert Hover and Ruth Denison also conducted a number of ten-day courses. I have met students who took courses with all three of them, and it is clear that they undertook their responsibilities with serious intent and did remarkably well considering their relative lack of training. However, it seems to me that this was not how a teacher of U Ba Khin’s prodigious experience would normally select new dhamma teachers, unless he was desperate.
Eventually, considerable success came. His student S. N. Goenaka—a very serious and devoted student, and, as a local Indian businessman, someone who could leave Burma—went to India and taught his first course to his own mother. A lovely detail! (As a side note, the Buddha said that the debt we owe to our parents is so considerable that it can only be repaid by getting them establishing in dhamma.) And by teaching this course, not only did Goenkaj repay his debt to his parents, but also, as many like to think, this was the first time vipassanā had been taught in India, the land of its origin, in long centuries, or even millennia. A very propitious start! The rest is history, as they say.
Goenkaji was amazingly successful in promoting this mission. There are currently over 200 vipassanā meditation centers worldwide built through his efforts. They form a loose association, cooperating by using his recordings along with his instructions. To make this work, he inspired large numbers of people to dedicate their lives to helping spread Dhamma as assistants, teachers, administrators, and workers. The organization continues its work long after he retired and many years since he passed away, and the numbers are still growing. We cannot say exactly how many people have attended his vipassanā retreats, free of charge, but it is not just thousands, nor tens of thousands, nor even hundreds of thousands—it is literally in the millions.
Despite this great achievement, and this wonderful service to humanity, I sometimes hear, or read, criticisms of Goenkaji: of how he conducted his courses, or of things that he said. “He doesn’t understand this,” or “he doesn’t understand that,” or “he did this,” or “he said that” and so forth. Some of these criticisms may be true; perhaps many are. All his life, he remained a layman, a business man, and a public figure. I am sure he got many things wrong, in many ways; how could it be otherwise? But it is easy to sit in a comfortable chair, years later with the benefit of hindsight, and nit-pick about this, and criticize that. The simple truth is that when he saw people suffering, needing help, he simply “rolled up his sleeves and got to work,” helping them as best he knew how, by giving them the meditation technique that had helped him so much. Whatever we think about whatever he did, or whatever he said, we should never forget that few people have worked so hard, with so much sincerity, to the benefit of so many.
But Goenkaji was not U Ba Khin’s only success. The story gets even better. Ten years after Goenkaji started teaching, and about eight years after U Ba Khin’s demise, Daw Mya Thwin, whom we all knew as Mother Sayama, the most widely respected of U Ba Khin students, was able to leave Burma, along with her husband, U Chit Tin. She established a meditation center in the south of England, which she called the International Meditation Center, essentially making it a branch of U Ba Khin’s original International Meditation Center in Rangoon. Like Goenkaji, she explicitly and publicly said that she was teaching the U Ba Khin technique. She later opened a number of other meditation centers world wide. She continued teaching into her eighties, and died in 2017. She trained a number of teachers, world-wide, and they continue to conduct regular ten-day retreats, across the world.
Both Goenkaji and Sayamagyi continued Sayagyi U Ba Khin’s mission for the rest of their lives. And both have left a legacy, an organization that has continued to teach this technique up to the present, and that will surely continue into the future. The ancient technique of vedanānupassanā is all around the world now, in hundreds of meditation centers, in thousands of informal groups of meditators, and in tens of thousands of households. There is now a large global community of people practicing this, thanks to U Ba Khin.
So finally, I want to express my deep gratitude to U Ba Khin for sticking with his mission. I did not meet U Ba Khin, but I did meet a number of his most dedicated students a few years after his death. I attended ten seven-day meditation courses at his meditation center in Rangoon under Mother Sayama’s guidance, surrounded by many other old students of his: U Chit Tin, U Tin Ye, U Ba Po and many others. I also spent time at the new International Meditation Center in England, with Sayama and U Chit Tin, helping them get the place established. As a young vipassanā meditator, it was wonderful to spend time with older, established practitioners. They were always happy to tell us all about “Sayagyi,” as they called U Ba Khin. They all spoke of him with great reverence and the very highest esteem. Of course, one expects students to admire their teacher, but this went far beyond the admiration one would normally expect. They regarded him as a “great being,” a bodhisattva—someone with enormously powerful pāramīs, whose life was of great spiritual significance. I heard many stories of his strict moral discipline; his towering commitment to the Dhamma; his metta; his enormous self-discipline; and his close relationship with a number of monks famous for their meditation success. While holding down demanding, high-level government positions, every day after finishing work, he went to his meditation center and spent the rest of the day and part of the night, working with his students. Mother Sayama told me that he did not normally sleep much; rather, he would lie down in the shrine room and meditate for a few hours, then get up and begin again before the night was done.
Those nearest to him all believed in his mission. But they believed it was far more than just spreading vipassanā during the current revival. They believed that he was sowing seeds and nurturing saplings—seeds of dhamma, saplings of dhamma—in order to prepare for the next Buddha sāsana. They believed that he was the bodhisattva; the next Buddha. In other words, that he was Maitreya (Sanskrit) or Metteyya (Pali), the bodhisattva who would become the next Buddha. I know this because Sayama told us. I was among the very first of Goenkaji’s students who went to Rangoon to study at the International Meditation center. U Ba Khin had died a few years before, and his old students still ran the center, teaching ten-day retreats. They missed their teacher, and clearly felt this was the end of an era. They had no idea what was coming! Little did they realize that this was the start of a flood of eager students.
I arrived with four companions. They were overjoyed to see this new crop of young meditators eager to learn. They treated us with enormous kindness and encouragement. On the last day, Sayama sat us down for a serious conversation. She told us that they knew that Sayagyi U Ba Khin would be the next Buddha, and they were working to help. Hearing this from someone famous for high levels of spiritual development, someone said to have extraordinary powers of mind, was surely a momentous thing. Later I asked Goenkaji, in a private interview, whether he also held the same belief about U Ba Khin, namely that he would be the next Buddha, and Goenkaji simply said “yes” he did.
I don’t know how common the knowledge is of this. Probably others know, but I have never heard this discussed publicly. At the time, I regarded this as a confidence, and in the decades since, I don’t think I have ever disclosed this to anyone. I have occasionally heard hints and suggestive remarks from old students close to Goenkaji or Sayamagyi, which is why I assume that others do know. However, this certainly explains much about both Goenkaji and Sayamagyi; their enormous devotion for their teacher, and their public claims that they are carrying out his mission. And they are clearly working for that end; not only to teach vipassanā as part of this current global revival, but also to plant seeds and nurture saplings, in preparation for the next Buddha sāsana.
Of course, we might be inclined to dismiss such beliefs, but I think they should be taken very seriously. They are a valid and genuine measure of the very high esteem in which U Ba Khin was held by those who knew him best. This is without doubt the highest tribute that one vipassanā meditator could pay to another. And who knows; they could be right? Just at the time U Ba Khin was successful in getting his technique out of Burma, at that very same time, there were hundreds and hundreds of people from all over the world, eagerly ready and waiting. Was this a coincidence, perhaps? Or was it something else? Where there powerful unknown forces at work? Could we be the saplings that were being nurtured? Could we be part of such momentous cosmic events as the arising of a Buddha? What heady thoughts indeed! My trained, social-science-research mind insists on evidence, and spurns blind belief. But somewhere, at the very core of my being, there resides the idea that we will all meet again, in the next Buddha sāsana; where we will help as best we can, and make an end of suffering ourselves. A beautiful thought. A lovely story. And who knows, my dear reader; since you are certainly part of this wonderful dhamma revival, this might already be your story too. And if it is not your story yet, you can make it so. The technique is there.
Well, that is all very fine and wonderful, but it is only speculation. What is certain is that I would not have lived the wonderful life I have lived, without U Ba Khin’s successful mission to bring this vipassanā practice out of Burma and into the wider world. I got it because of his commitment and determination. It is thanks to his efforts that so many people have been introduced to the Buddha’s path. Somehow, he knew it could happen, and so he helped make it happen. Truly, a remarkable man. Of course, lots of people have played important roles in helping to bring about the recent global vipassanā movement—the revival predicted long ago—but U Ba Khin’s role has been colossal.
U Ba Khin, Goenkaji and Sayamagyi were my teachers. All three had such compassion for the suffering of others that they devoted their lives to teaching Dhamma, for the welfare of others. They taught the Buddha’s path as they believed it, and they taught it as best they knew how. So many of us have benefited. Great beings, indeed! I am very deeply grateful. Very deeply grateful indeed.
The Organization
I should begin by making it clear that I have no position within the organization Goenkaji created, except as a student who periodically attends vipassanā retreats. I have lost count of how many retreats I have sat over my life. Over the years, I have also served at meditation centers in a number of countries and volunteered time on committees, doing administrative work, and so on. I have made donations, too, and I still do.
I was in India and Burma in the 1970s while Goenkaji was traveling around India establishing his mission, and Western students were also traveling to Burma to study with Mother Sayama. The people I associated with at that time were those who helped Goenkaji from the earliest days, many of whom later dedicated their lives to assisting him in his mission. Many are my lifelong friends. These are now the senior and most respected teachers in the organization.
At one time, I considered whether I should also devote myself to supporting Goenkaji in his mission. But I do not fit well into such organizations. I do not like how organizations often bring out the worst in people. Some compete for positions within the organization; many become invested in their status, and work hard to protect and enhance that status; some come to feel that it is more important to protect the organization than to promote its mission; and there always seem to be people pushing their way to the teacher’s side or grabbing the prime location. Many develop inflated egos and forget that the purpose of our practice is to serve others while eradicating our ego. Something like this happens in many organizations, of course, but I find it hard to accept this in an organization dedicated to the practice of Dhamma.
However, there is also another, more important reason why I have kept my distance. People naturally tend to become very attached to their teacher, to the organization, and to the technique they practice. Sensible ideas such as “my teacher is wonderful” or “this technique has made my life so much better” tend to become “my teacher is right in all things; my teacher is fully enlightened;” or “my technique is the correct one, and others are wrong.” People tend to forget that the Buddha was famous for upāya-kosalla, in English “skillful means;” namely the ability to modify and adapt his teaching depending on the capacities and level of understanding of the recipient. To one person, he taught one practice, and to another, he taught another. There is no such thing—nor was there ever such a thing—as a one-size-fits-all method of teaching or practicing Dhamma! The technique Goenkaji taught us, vedanānupassanā, has proven to work very well for many people; it is a wonderful practice, but it is not the only way to tread the Buddha’s path.
In the natural course of things, sadly, many people tend to become devotees, and often blind devotees. As a result, there develops this insistence that there is just one way to do vipassanā, and it is our way. People tend to regard U Ba Khin—and then Goenkaji, who followed him—as enlightened beings whose every word is truth incarnate and must not be questioned. So when they have questions, they go to their teacher, not to the Buddha. Perhaps this attitude reassures students that they are on the “right” path and motivates them to work harder, but to me this attitude is not compatible with the Buddha’s path. The Buddha taught a path of inquiry, not a path of devotion. And so I have kept my distance.
However, the organization provides opportunities for meditation across a very wide range of locations to a huge number of people; introducing new people to the Dhamma, and helping older practitioners meditate in ideal conditions. That is wonderful. And surely, this can only be maintained with a strong insistence on conformity. Everything is carefully scripted and laid out, and people follow the instructions. It seems to me that this is necessary to make it work; but there is a cost, and that cost is strong pressure to conform. Perhaps one cannot have the one without the other. The problem with conformity, though, is that it tends to undermine the spirit of inquiry, which lies at the heart of the Buddha’s path. As we progress, we learn more; as we learn more, we practice better; and as we practice better, we progress further.
So, to be clear, I have never taught meditation to anyone. When I talk about how meditation is taught in Goenkaji’s system, I am speaking from a student’s perspective, as an outsider looking in. Although the organization is far from perfect, it does a great deal of good in this world, and many find it a wonderful vehicle for leading a life of morality and service. So even though I personally find many aspects uncomfortable, I am fully supportive of the organization, deeply committed to its mission, and hopeful for its continued success over the centuries to come. I regard the people who run the organization as colleagues in Dhamma, and when I refer to “my peers” in this context, I am referring to this group of long-term meditators, many of whom now hold senior positions in Goenkaji’s organization.
I have explained my feelings about Goenkaji and the organization he created because, when it comes to the topic of how I think long retreats should be conducted and how we should practice, I have some things to say and some suggestions to make.
Guidance on Long Retreats
Firstly, I should say something that seems obvious to me but may not be obvious to others. Based on my own experience and on conversations with my peers, it seems clear to me that we are teaching techniques we do not fully understand. I followed the instructions given to me by my teachers—those from two generations: not only Goenkaji himself as well as other teachers from his generation, but also teachers from the next generation whom they appointed. They all gave me essentially the same instructions. The result was that I encountered powerful states of altered consciousness that I did not understand—states of mind that I had been told explicitly could not arise if I practiced as instructed. I had no idea how to deal with these states, no support, and no possibility of receiving the guidance I felt I needed. To me, this indicates a need for a little humility among both teachers and students alike.
Long retreats are led by old students, experienced meditators using the instructions and recordings provided by Goenkaji. There is considerable demand for such courses, and finding senior meditators with the time to conduct them is a challenge. It is probably true to say that most of those who lead such retreats have never had jhāna experience themselves. A minority will have experienced jhāna, no doubt, but few of those will have worked to develop it and incorporate it into their regular practice. Of course, it is likely that there is a small handful who do use jhāna in their practice, although I have never heard this admitted publicly. Most of those leading these longer courses are therefore not in a position to offer good advice about jhāna.
Hence, there is a serious lack of support for advanced meditators. As I discussed in Chapter One, I know of two cases in which senior teachers from Burma—students of U Ba Khin—refused to discuss the issue when approached by students who had experienced jhāna and were seeking help. One case was my own, mentioned earlier, when I asked for advice from one of the teachers at the International Meditation Center in Burma, U Ba Khin’s center. The other involved an old student who asked Goenkaji himself, who also refused to discuss the issue. At the time I was taking these long courses, I sought advice in private meetings with two of the most senior current teachers, and they had no advice to offer. In fact, both complained that they themselves had been frustrated when they had unsuccessfully sought help on this very issue. Many years later, I sent an early draft of my narrative, describing how jhāna arose unexpectedly, to five teachers who currently lead long retreats, describing my experiences of jhāna. The responses varied, but not one offered any advice or even expressed sympathy for my situation. Their response amounted to little more than an awkward silence.
While the inability to obtain advice was frustrating at the time, no harm was done. I am fairly widely read in the Buddhist literature and had a reasonably good understanding of what was happening. But what of other students who might attain these altered states of consciousness and not understand what was happening, or not know how to deal with them? Some might become confused or fearful. Others might believe they had attained enlightenment, while still others might fear they were losing their minds. I have read accounts of meditators in other religious traditions who experienced jhāna-like states and believed they were communicating with God, or had been visited by the Holy Ghost, or got union with Atman. Who knows? People are capable of imagining all sorts of weird and wonderful things. Leaving people to face such experiences and figure them out for themselves seems to me both irresponsible and unkind, and could potentially lead to disastrous consequences.
There is another reason why we should speak to students about this. When a retreat begins, participants are asked to surrender to the teacher and to the technique. The unspoken message is, “Trust us—we will take care of you. Just follow the instructions, and you will be fine.” This is a promise that should be taken seriously. It is deeply disconcerting and very disorienting to unexpectedly encounter altered states of consciousness—states that participants have been told, either explicitly or implicitly, could not occur. It seems to me that failing to warn them constitutes a breach of trust. When this happened to me, I felt deceived by those I had trusted. They had told me things which I accepted and believed, things on which I had based my practice, which later turned out to be untrue. This left me shocked and bewildered. Feelings of resentment were far stronger and persisted much longer than I care to admit. There is no need to put trusting students through such experiences.
I am making this point strongly because, when I discussed jhāna with one of my peers and suggested that we need to prepare students for its possibility and provide support if it arises, he replied that we do not need to address this at all. “The Dhamma will take care of them,” was essentially what he said. This was a resident teacher at an established meditation center, teaching regular courses. I find this attitude deeply troubling. Students come to our courses to learn the practical application of the Buddha’s teaching. First, we teach them ānāpāna. We then carefully guide them through the process and help them learn how to practice it. Next, we teach them vedanānupassanā, meditation on sensations, again offering explanations, help and support. Later, in the course of their practice, some will enter jhāna and experience a new mode of consciousness. Why do we abandon them at this point and leave them to figure it out for themselves? I simply cannot understand such an attitude.
As noted earlier, the Buddha recommended that all meditators seek what he called a kalyāṇa-mitta, a good friend who can provide support and guidance in meditation. We all need such a good friend. Some basic guidance would have helped me greatly; I would certainly have had a more productive and less stressful experience. Surely this would be true for others as well. On long courses, it seems to me that the organization must assume this role of good friend—helping meditators understand what is happening and guiding them through these experiences.
Silence on this issue is not only potentially disastrous for students; it could also place the entire organization at risk. In the United States, where I live, people are quick to litigate when things go wrong, or when they feel they were mistreated, and settlements can be substantial. Failing to warn students of the possibility of altered states of consciousness could be seen as an irresponsible lack of care, with serious consequences for the organization. There are sound practical and legal reasons to warn those undertaking long retreats that they may encounter such states. After all, these experiences do occur. At the very least, the organization must protect itself from the consequences of things going wrong and from accusations of negligence.
This means that we need to talk to students on long courses about the possibility of jhāna arising and provide them with simple instructions about what to do if it does. Teachers leading long courses should prepare some basic guidance in case they are asked about this, as sometimes happens. Not only is this morally and legally necessary, but it is also a kind and considerate thing to do.
Perhaps the best time to prepare students is when the rules and procedures are explained at the start of a retreat. We can warn participants that such states may arise and explain that all a student needs to do is continue practicing as before, following the same instructions. They should be encouraged to take advantage of the strong concentration while remaining equanimous toward pleasant sensations. This need not be a major issue—“just keep calm and carry on” is the appropriate message. We might also remind them that craving for these states is unhelpful, since they arise naturally as concentration deepens. Such public guidance can and should be given to all students attending long retreats, especially those taking their first long retreat. Teachers leading these courses should prepare themselves for this, and reflect on the guidance they would offer to students who raise the topic in private interviews.
In the interest of fairness and accuracy, I should acknowledge that some people believe I am wrong in claiming that the organization fails to provide adequate support regarding jhāna. They suggest that guidance is available in Goenkaji’s discourses. I respectfully disagree, based on my own attempts to use those discourses as a guide. On my first long course, I listened to the twenty-day supportive discourse given by Goenkaji, paying particular attention to any advice on how to deal with jhāna. I heard nothing helpful. On the following course, a thirty-day retreat, I listened attentively to the discourses, again with particular interest in what he had to say about jhāna. Once more, I found nothing helpful.
I must say that Goenkaji’s thirty-day discourses were a great disappointment to me. The first time I heard them, they seemed like a stream of consciousness rather than a carefully structured discourse. He spoke at some length about jhāna, but his presentation appeared closely aligned with the standard Theravāda commentarial tradition. I thought his descriptions were stilted and formulaic. He characterized jhānas as very deep “absorption samādhis,” implying states in which one becomes lost. I thought he spoke as though jhāna were irrelevant to the modern vipassanā students he was addressing, as though it lay far beyond the reach of those sitting before him. What he described in his discourses bore little resemblance to what I was experiencing daily sitting in my cell. More importantly, I heard nothing that amounted to guidance on how a student should respond if jhāna arose: nothing about whether, or how, to integrate it into practice; nothing about its implications, benefits, or dangers; and no reference to what the Buddha himself taught on the subject. There was no help at all.
It seemed clear to me that Goenkaji had no personal experience of jhāna. Of course, I know nothing of his private practice, and this is necessarily speculative. But the only explanation that makes sense to me—given the discrepancy between what he described and what I was experiencing—is that when speaking about jhāna, he was speaking from what he had read or heard, rather than speaking from his own direct experience.
Some may feel that I am being disrespectful or ungrateful in saying this, but I do not believe that is the case. Everyone has limits to their understanding, and Goenkaji was no exception. Acknowledging this does not detract from his great achievements.
When I argue that we have both an ethical and a legal responsibility to address the topic of jhāna and prepare students for its possible occurrence, I am speaking specifically about long retreats, where strong meditators practice intensively for extended periods. Jhāna is quite likely to arise under such conditions. Ten-day courses, however, are very different. They allow much less time for the development of concentration, involve less experienced meditators, and offer less ideal conditions. Of course, jhāna can arise on ten-day courses—especially for well-established meditators, as I know from experience—but it is surely rare among new students. Perhaps assistant teachers should be made aware of this possibility and trained in how to respond if it occurs. Beyond that, however, I see no need to change anything. These courses are carefully designed to introduce laypeople to meditation over a short period, and they work extremely well.
The discourses, in particular, are wonderful. Personally, I think Goenkaji’s ten-day discourses are absolutely brilliant (Goenka, 2024). They provide a comprehensive summary of the Buddha’s teaching in a non-sectarian form accessible to people from any religious background. They align beautifully with the experiences of new students on their first course. They are humorous, easy to listen to, and clearly related to everyday life. Their structure reflects a great deal of thought and careful planning. In addition, Goenkaji was a very charismatic speaker. Everyone loves these discourses. They are a work of genius, inspiring countless people to walk the Buddha’s path. Goenkaji understood how to communicate his message effectively, and he did so with remarkable skill.
Challenging the Taboo
There is another important step we must take apart from preparing meditators on long courses for the possibility of jhāna arising, and offering them guidance. We need to bring the entire topic of jhāna out into the open. This conspiracy of silence—this refusal to discuss the topic, this taboo against open discussion of what the Buddha taught—must end. We need honest and open discussion among the leaders of the vipassanā community.
This is a delicate matter, especially since many leaders in the vipassanā community will not have experienced jhāna themselves, and among those who have experienced it, some will have deliberately avoided developing it. For some, acknowledging this may be embarrassing, particularly if their ego is invested in their role as meditation teachers. But this is a path of truth, and a measure of humility has never harmed anyone.
Opinions will no doubt differ, but I believe that people within the community of vipassanā meditators should be encouraged to talk about jhāna and ask questions. Somehow, the taboo against discussing jhāna must end. That is the central purpose of my writing. My hope is to place the topic squarely on the table and initiate discussion among vipassanā meditators. Those who have encountered jhāna should be encouraged to speak openly and share their experiences, especially those who experience it regularly and have developed ways of working skillfully with these states. Open discussion can only be beneficial. Meditators can hear different perspectives and make their own informed decisions about how to manage their practice. Over time, a shared understanding is likely to emerge. As collective experience grows, it should become increasingly clear how best to prepare students at the start of long courses.
My own conviction, however, is that we should do far more. I believe we should actively encourage meditators to work diligently to strengthen their concentration and attain jhāna if they can. There are two main reasons for this.
First, we should encourage jhāna because the Buddha himself recommended it. It is explicitly included in the Noble Eightfold Path as sammā-samādhi (right concentration). The Buddha frequently described jhāna as the path to awakening, repeatedly emphasized its benefits, and consistently encouraged its cultivation. We should therefore recommend the practice of jhāna, and explain its value to students, simply because it is an essential element of the path taught by the Buddha.
However, some may feel that this is Goenkaji’s tradition and that we should practice strictly in the manner he taught. Since he did not explicitly teach jhāna, they may argue that we should not cultivate it. I believe this is a fundamental error—and one that runs counter to Goenkaji’s own intentions. He had a very deep devotion to the Buddha. His extensive chanting, which formed a central part of his personal practice, was essentially nothing more than expressing gratitude, devotion and reverence for the Buddha and his path. He believed fervently that the Buddha’s path leads to the end of suffering, and this conviction underpinned his entire life’s work. At the beginning of every course, he insisted that students take refuge in the Buddha, the Noble Eightfold Path, and those who have walked that path. He never asked anyone to take refuge in U Ba Khin, and certainly never in Goenkaji himself. We take refuge in the Buddha. This means that when questions arise about our practice or about the path, the Buddha’s teaching must be our primary reference point. And on this matter, the Buddha is unequivocal: jhāna is an essential step on the path, and vipassanā should be practiced while in jhāna whenever possible.
Second, we should encourage jhāna for the same reason the Buddha recommended jhāna. The mind in jhāna—the refined consciousness of the Fine-Material Sphere that arises with deep concentration—is vastly more powerful than the restless, flickering “monkey mind” that most of us experience at the outset of practice. Consciousness in jhāna supports far deeper and more effective meditation. It also gives practitioners a direct taste of peace and purity, greatly increasing confidence, interest, and commitment to the path. It is a genuinely transformative step on the journey toward liberation. Anyone who doubts this should try it for themselves. Jhāna makes vipassanā far more powerful. If our fundamental aim is to help suffering beings move toward the end of suffering, then encouraging jhāna is not optional—it is essential.
I understand that these ideas may be unsettling for some, particularly those with strong devotion to Goenkaji. But Goenkaji has passed away, just as earlier teachers did, and the responsibility has passed to a new generation, who will in turn pass it on to the next. As we practice, we learn; and as we learn, our understanding deepens. U Ba Khin and Goenkaji provided an extraordinary service, and we should be profoundly grateful to them for bringing Dhamma to the world. Countless people have benefited. Goenkaji, in his wisdom, also established an organizational structure that allows lay practitioners to undertake much longer retreats. It is entirely natural—and necessary—that we adjust our approach to accommodate the new realities that arise from these opportunities.
As more and more meditators undertake longer retreats, it seems inevitable that increasing numbers will naturally attain jhāna. It is reasonable to suppose that if I had not raised this issue, someone else eventually would have. As we gain deeper understanding of the practices we teach, it is only natural that our procedures will evolve in response to new situations. This is not disrespectful to Goenkaji. During his lifetime, he himself adapted how he taught meditation and how he managed his centers. For example, U Chit Tin tells us that on his ten-day courses, U Ba Khin taught ānāpāna for five days before introducing students to vipassanā (U Chit Tin, 1997). Teaching in India, Goenkaji introduced vipassanā on day four. I don’t know why Goenkaji made that change, but no doubt he had a good reason. His successors should be prepared to show the same flexibility in dealing with new situations.
An Ancient Tradition
Finally, I want to say one more thing. Many meditators believe we are practicing Goenkaji’s technique. However, I believe that it is a profound misconception to think that this is Goenkaji’s technique. Of course, we are practicing a technique he brought to us from Burma, and for that, we are surely very grateful. But what Goenkaji passed on to us was not his own technique, it was taught to him by someone else, namely U Ba Khin; but it wasn’t U Ba Khin’s technique, either. It is an ancient technique called vedanānupassanā. We can trace this same technique back through Ledi Sayadaw, then through the writings of Medawi Sayadaw in the 1700’s, and further back to the time of the Buddha. The instructions for practicing vipassanā given by U Ba Khin, Ledi Sayadaw and Medawi Sayadaw are essentially the same as those given by the Buddha over two thousand years earlier. The only difference is on the issue of jhāna. Medawi challenged the idea that one needs to attain jhāna before practicing vipassanā. He seems to have done this in order to teach vipassanā to the laity, outside the saṅgha, to enable them to get a taste of vipassanā with the limited time they would have available. This suggests to me that at the time Medawi wrote his meditation manuals, within the Burmese saṅgha, vipassanā was taught in the same manner as the Buddha did, as described in the suttas. That is, first attain jhāna, then practice vipassanā, or at the least, use your vipassanā as the vehicle to attain jhāna, and then practice both together.
Of course, we do not know what happened during the two thousand years between the time of the Buddha and the time of Medawi Sayadaw, but somehow the technique of vipassanā was preserved within the Burmese saṅgha. Over this period, perhaps it was preserved in an uninterupted line of teachers; or perhaps it died out, and was re-invented by someone based on the Buddha’s words. We do not know how, but somehow it survived.
In his ten-day discourses, Goenkaji expresses the belief that the practice he teaches has been handed down from teacher to student, in an uninterrupted line, since the Buddha’s teaching was brought to Burma, at the time of Asoka the Great, in the third century BCE. I have also heard this same belief expressed by other students of U Ba Khin, while studying at his meditation center in Rangoon and in England. This suggests to me the likelihood that, along with the practice itself, this idea of the continuity of the tradition since ancient times has been passed down over generations of teachers. For many years, I did not regard this belief as a historical fact, but rather as an expression of devotion, or as a way to encourage students by telling them how special they are as inheritors of this long tradition. However, it now seems obvious to me that there is, indeed, a long line of teachers from ancient times to the modern era.
Whatever the details, we are certainly the inheritors of a 2,500-year-old tradition. And every one of this long line of teachers is deserving of our respect and gratitude in exactly the same manner as Goenkaji, or U Ba Khin. All these teachers kept the basic technique “in its purity” as Goenkaji is want to say. Of course, teachers will surely have modified their presentation to take account of their own particular circumstances, as did all the teacher we know—Ledi Sayadaw, Saya Thetji, Sayaji U Ba Khin, Mother Sayama and Goenkaj himself. And no doubt some had more experience, or a deeper understanding than others. But they all preserved the same essential practice we do today, since what we have now is essentially the same as what the Buddha taught in the suttas. To me, this is nothing short of a miracle. It is difficult for me to think about this without intense feelings of humility and gratitude.
The only significant change we know of seems to be that made by Medawi Sayadaw; namely the teaching that vipassanā can be practiced without first attaining jhāna. Or at least started without first attaining jhāna. Perhaps other teachers, at other times, long ago, may have done the same; we do not know. But it seems reasonable to assume that the vast majority of these historical vipassanā teachers, over the centuries, taught that jhāna is an essential part of vipassanā, and that ideally, vipassanā should be practiced while in jhāna, just as the Buddha taught.
So Goenkaji, in his wisdom, has brought the vipassanā movement back full circle. By establishing longer retreats for lay practitioners, he gave us back the opportunity to attain jhāna, and actually practice vipassanā in the manner the Buddha taught—while in full jhāna. This is simply a return to what the Buddha taught, the same teaching that has been taught by the vast majority of this long line of vipassanā teachers.
Vipassanā in jhāna is what the Buddha recommended, and now that we have the wonderful opportunity provided by Goenkaji, that is what we should practice.
End of Chapter 9
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