Dissemination of Theravada Buddhism in the 21st Century:

Keynote Address

Professor Richard Gombrich

(Slightly shortened version for delivery)

I am truly grateful to the Ven. Anil Sakya (Sugandho) for having done me the honour of
inviting me to give this keynote address. I sincerely hope that I do not give him cause to
regret his kindness.
Some years ago two American sociologists of religion, Glock and Stark, wrote a well-
regarded book on Christianity and contemporary America, and called it “To Comfort or to
Challenge”. To sell their religion, the Christian churches in the United States had to focus on
what people wanted from a religion and decide to what extent they were prepared to give it to
them. What people want most is comfort. Life is hard, the world often seems unfair, and
death is a terrifying prospect unless one is convinced that it is the gateway to something
better than life on earth. Just as small children believe that their parents have the power to
give them what they want and wipe away their sorrows, people want to believe, and so are
very easy to persuade, that the universe works in the same way: that there is someone in
charge who basically looks after us and makes sure that it all comes right in the end.
All the world religions except Buddhism offer this comforting picture, and there are even
major forms of Buddhism, like Jodo Shinshu (Pure Land Buddhism), which do so too.
Religions differ in how much good behaviour the Great Parent in the Sky demands in return
for the comfort and consolation he can give. (I say “he”, because the Great Parent is more
commonly imagined as a father than as a mother; but I am speaking of a parent of either sex.)
In some religions all that is demanded of the little children – that is, mankind – is that they
trust in the Great Parent and ask for his help; if they will only recognise his omnipotence, he
is prepared to forgive them anything. In other religions, if the children are naughty the Parent
will first see to it that they are punished before he shows his mercy. In such cases, the worst
punishment is often reserved for those who don’t believe in the Great Parent and so do not
deserve to experience his goodness.
Established religious institutions, then, mainly deal in comfort and consolation, and their
personnel see offering this service as their primary duty. But if we think of the founders of
religion and the great reformers, they have mostly felt the need to challenge their audiences,
to criticise the status quo and to demand that people improve their own lives and the lives of
those around them. Jesus, for instance, preached forgiveness, but he could be savage about
sin; and the Sermon on the Mount shows how he opposed the values by which this world is
governed, and promised that in future “the last shall be first and the first last”. For most of us,
this is not a comfortable message, and it was not meant to be.
Religions thus face the problem that by and large the very reason why they came into
existence is in stark contrast to what most people want of them. Their founders and most of
their saints had fire in their bellies: they wanted people to wake up and see that they must
become aware of how smug and self-satisfied they had become, how indifferent to evil and
how lazy about doing good, that morally most of them had lost all sensitivity and become
little better than buffaloes slumbering in the mud.

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 Carrying such a message is often dangerous. In most countries and at most times in history,
those who castigate the people in power have run the risk of serious punishment, even of
being put to death. Their followers then call them martyrs, “witnesses” to the truth. I count
myself lucky that whether or not you, my audience, like the challenges that I am about to put
to you today, I am unlikely to be made a martyr. It therefore requires only a little courage for
me to tell you what I see as unpleasant truths. And however much I offend you, I think you
will at least have to credit me with sincerity, for I speak out of a passionate conviction. At the
beginning of my recent book “What the Buddha Thought” I have written that in my view the
Buddha’s ideas “should form part of the education of every child, the world over, and that
this would help to make the world a more civilised place, both gentler and more intelligent.” I
am, I then say, perpetually horrified by the failure of the Buddhist establishment to
understand the Buddha’s message, to teach it and to act upon it. That failure, that tragic and
culpable failure, must set the agenda for this overdue conference.
In his write-up explaining the background to the conference, the Ven Anil Sakya
(Sugandho) has asked why the dissemination of Theravada Buddhism is no longer as
successful as it used to be. After all, Theravada Buddhism is the guardian of the oldest and
purest tradition of the Buddha’s message; and I believe that most of us here today consider
the moral value and intellectual brilliance of that message among the very finest in the whole
of human history. So if we have such a good product, why can’t we sell it?
I propose to offer answers to that question, in as much detail as I have time for. And at least
you will have to agree, I think, that if there is nothing wrong with the message, there
presumably may be something wrong with the messengers.
To start with, let me revert to comfort and challenge. As the Ven Anil Sakya (Sugandho)
has written in the conference document, Theravadin missionaries obviously prefer comforting
to challenging. Rather than teaching Buddhism to the indigenous people of their host
countries, they mainly run cultural centres for the Buddhist immigrants from their countries
of origin, centres which indeed operate largely in Sinhalese, Burmese, Thai, etc., not in the
language of the country where the missions operate. To run such a centre is not in itself an
unworthy thing to do: in the modern world most countries regard providing cultural attachés
and consular services as part of their diplomatic mission. But if this is the main and central
activity of the mission, it points to an extremely serious underlying weakness in the
Theravada Buddhism we find in the world today: its parochial nationalism. It is outrageous
that the vast majority of Theravada Buddhists, whether monastics or laity, consider only
Buddhists of their own nationality to be true Buddhists; and whatever they may say in public,
that is indeed what most of them think.
It is perfectly natural and unobjectionable for people to feel warmly towards their own
family, and beyond that towards those for whom they feel an affinity because of shared
language, customs and experiences. But there is not a word in the teachings of the Lord
Buddha – or for that matter of either Jesus Christ or the Prophet Mohammed – which can
justify treating anyone less well than one could simply on the grounds that they differ from us
or are in some way a stranger to us. Buddhism, Christianity and Islam are called the universal
religions precisely because they are for everyone, equally. The great religious traditions all
teach that people should love each other, be kind and compassionate. By this, they mean that
one should love everybody, not just those whom it is easy to love. Loving someone who is
always kind to you is no more than most animals do by instinct. Love becomes an ethical
accomplishment when it is directed to our enemies, or others whom it is hard to love.
But how do Theravada Buddhist actually behave? Let me begin with a notorious and
indisputable example: their attitude to Mahayana Buddhists. (I know that things may be no

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better the other way round, but that is not my concern: I am talking here to Theravadins.) I
have done extensive fieldwork among Sinhalese Buddhists, and especially among members
of the Sinhalese Sangha, from the highest to the lowest. I can say with confidence that almost
all Sinhalese Buddhists consider that Mahayanist monks and nuns are not true Buddhists,
because they do not prohibit taking solid food after midday.
Since they receive no proper guidance from the Sangha, the laity may be forgiven their
prejudice. But at least the Sangha should know that the need for universal love goes beyond
teaching how to do mettā bhāvanā. They should also know that the Buddha declared, in his
wisdom, that there are three fetters (in Pali: tīni samyojanāni) which bind us to saħsāra and
are basic obstacles to spiritual progress; and the second of these is adherence to ritualism. In
Pali this is called sīlabbata-parāmāso. To give an adequate sermon on this vitally important
topic would take me too long, but the point is so crucial to my argument that I must expand
on it.
The Buddha declared that ethical value lies in intention alone. The individual is
autonomous and the final authority is his conscience. Reciting words, even such words as the
five precepts, is useless and pointless unless one is consciously subscribing to their meaning.
By contrast, the point of ritual lies in doing, not in intending. Therefore ritual can have no
moral or spiritual value. Please keep this in mind.
The Buddha often gave new meanings to old words. He took the brahmin word for ritual,
karman in Sanskrit, and used it to denote ethical intention. This single move overturned
caste-bound ethics; for the intention of a brahmin cannot plausibly be claimed to be ethically
of a completely different quality from the intention of an outcaste: intention can only be
virtuous or wicked.
That the Buddha replaced ritual action by ethical intention is the very foundation, the very
bedrock, of his teaching as a system of ideas. It is no less the foundation of Buddhism’s
historical success. Since intention is the same in all human beings, Buddhist ethics apply in
an identical way in all societies. For example, the third precept, not to engage in sexual
misconduct, is universal, but its application varies, because the customs of societies differ:
for instance, some societies admit polygamy, some polyandry, and some neither. Differences
in local custom were thus no obstacle to the spread of Buddhism. As I have written: “Since
Buddhism was attached neither to community nor to locality, neither to shrine nor to hearth,
but resided in the hearts of its adherents, it was readily transportable.” So Buddhism could go
wherever men went, and take root wherever they resided. But what can spread is the
Buddhism, the Buddha’s Buddhism, which cares only for moral good and evil and measures
that by intention. The Buddhism which measures action by ritual and custom can never
spread anywhere: it is just like the brahminism which the Buddha set out to criticise, which
has never been and never will be adopted by any other society than the one where it started.
My venerable friends, this is the very heart and gist of my message today. I am begging you
to give up obsession with ritual and custom, to follow the Buddha’s teaching about ethical
intention, and thus bring his message to the world.
I was mentioning that hardly any Sinhalese Buddhists are prepared to regard Mahayana
Buddhists as fellow-religionists, on the grounds that the Mahayana Sangha allows food to be
consumed after midday. Of course, the Mahayana Sangha ordained in the Chinese tradition
are equally contemptuous of their Theravadin brethren because they consider it obligatory for
a true Buddhist to be a vegetarian; but few Sinhalese know that. In any case, I am not
concerned with tit for tat arguments of this kind, but with the real and massive damage that
such attitudes do to Buddhism. The Sinhalese Buddhist establishment is so little prepared to

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recognise the validity of Mahayana Buddhism that in the late 1950s, when the Chinese
invaded Tibet, killed many monks and ransacked many monasteries, and the Dalai Lama had
to flee, the government of Sri Lanka refused to join the worldwide chorus of condemnation.
That ostentatiously “Buddhist” government still refuses to recognise the Dalai Lama as a
great spiritual leader and he has never been invited to visit the country. What can an outsider
who is trying to assess the value of Buddhism think of such disgraceful treatment of the
person whom the world regards as the greatest living Buddhist?
But let us concede, just for the sake of argument, that Mahayana Buddhism is not real
Buddhism and we don’t want anything to do with monks or nuns who, whatever their
personal morality or spirituality, are so vile that they are prepared to eat after midday. So let
us direct our gaze away from Sri Lanka to another home of the Theravada tradition,
Myanmar. I doubt that there is a person in this hall who cannot guess what I am about to say.
Within the last few years the whole world, despite all the Myanmar government’s frenzied
attempts to exercise censorship, has been able to witness on television how monks peacefully
expressing their disagreement with the cruelty and inhumanity of government policy have
been murdered and tortured. Of course, we have only been able to see a tiny part of the
atrocities committed, but even the little we have seen must have been enough to convince any
sincere Buddhist of the utterly ruthless disregard that the government shows both for human
rights in general and for the living representatives of Buddhism in particular. And what have
other governments which claim to support Theravada Buddhism done about it? Nothing: not
even a diplomatic protest. All right; they are politicians, you may say, and we don’t expect
much ethical conduct from them. But what about the leaders of the Sangha? There have been
a few brave individuals, I know, who have quietly exerted themselves to relieve a little of the
suffering caused by the Myanmar government. A few Buddhist organizations in Thailand
have publicly expressed disapproval of torturing and murdering monks. But in every
Theravada Buddhist country, unless I am most grievously mistaken, the hierarchy has turned
a blind eye, and shown no more concern than if the Myanmar government were merely
squashing a few mosquitoes.
I am sorry to have to say it, but one of the main things that attracts people to a religion is
when it produces figures who are prepared to speak out against cruelty and injustice. Where
are the Theravadin leaders comparable to the Dalai Lama and Thich Nhat Hanh? True
religious leaders are not frightened to be controversial. As I have said, they must offer
challenge. Aiming the leaders of the Theravada Sangha of today, even debate, let alone
challenge, appears to be tabu. They prefer the comfort of endless self-congratulation; they
prefer to lead the world in vapid rhetoric, framing resolutions about world peace which have
never got a single soldier to lower a gun or persuaded a single politician to love his
neighbour.
I know that some people are likely to have an answer ready to my objection that Buddhists
hierarchies have raised no protest against the persecution of Buddhism, even the murder of
monks, by foreign governments. That answer is that the Sangha should not concern itself
with politics. Let us consider this view.
I agree that the Sangha and politicians have quite different parts to play. From the very
beginning it has been essential to Buddhism that the Sangha and the laity have roles that are
complementary. Those who take the Buddha’s message seriously are to renounce the world,
giving up both the burdens and the pleasures of lay life, and devote themselves to Buddhist
principles. It is the role of the Sangha to keep the Buddha’s message alive, and that means to
preserve Buddhist values and ethical principles. The Sangha are moral leaders, or they are
nothing. Many matters, from economics to sexology, they are to leave to the laity. Monks and

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nuns are no more expected to get into the rough and tumble of political detail than they are
expected to carry arms and fight. But I put it to you that it is their duty to advise political
leaders on the moral principles which must guide how they govern, and even how they make
war, if that cannot be avoided. Why should Buddhist principles, under that name, be kept out
of government and politics? Buddhism is not some kind of frivolous game or pastime: it is
there to be applied to the whole of life.
Such crimes as torture and murder are not a matter of politics, but fundamental to morality.
Anyone who acquiesces in them on the grounds that the torturers and murderers are powerful
people who rule over us does not deserve to be called a Buddhist, or for that matter a member
of any religion. Of course, people who achieve prominence in public institutions do
sometimes find themselves in uncomfortable positions when the state does something
obviously wrong; but surely that is the price they have to pay for their eminence. At the end
of the Falklands war, the Archbishop of Canterbury presided over a service in St. Paul’s
Cathedral. He led the congregation in prayers for the dead on both sides in the conflict, not
just for the British victors. It was known that Mrs Thatcher was angry about this, but that is
the difference between a mere politician and a religious leader: the Archbishop was doing no
more than his duty in following Christian values. Since Britain is a democracy, he ran no
great personal risk. Church leaders in Germany and Italy under Hitler and Mussolini were in
a much more difficult position. It is common knowledge that the Pope at the time, Pius XII,
did not behave well, whereas some members of the Christian clergy, both Catholic and
Protestant, had the courage and sincerity to protest and even became martyrs, to their
everlasting glory. (Though I am not a Christian, such Christian language is surely appropriate
in this case.)
If an individual, whether monk, nun or layman of either sex, has decided to opt out of
society and to lead a secluded life, we cannot demand that they make pronouncements on
public affairs – pronouncements to which in any case few people would listen. But if they
have willingly assumed leadership roles in religious institutions like the Sangha, they surely
have thereby undertaken to play those roles with moral sensitivity, and not just to give silent
acquiescence to every atrocity perpetrated before their eyes.
If the leaders of the Theravadin Sangha fail to raise a finger to help or a voice to protest
against the maltreatment of their brethren in other countries, I believe that this has to do not
just with cowardice and moral indifference, but also with nationalism. It turns out in the
modern world that most people feel a stronger bond with those of the same nationality than
they do with those of the same religion. If I draw my next two examples from Sinhalese
Buddhism, please understand that this is not because I wish to single out the Sinhalese for
criticism: I simply happen to know more about them.
Here is my first example. The first Theravada Buddhist vihara, wat, or whatever you like to
call it, was set up in London in 1926 by the Sinhalese Buddhist reformer Anagarika
Dharmapala as an arm of the Maha Bodhi Society. To this day, that monastery, now called
the London Buddhist Vihara, is controlled by members of Dharmapala’s family, who live in
Sri Lanka. This means that the Vihara cannot be registered as a charity in Britain, which in
turn means that it has serious financial difficulties. Most of its supporters are Sinhalese and
most of its activities are aimed at them. Not long ago I received an invitation from Colombo
to become head of the lay branch of the British Maha Bodhi Society with a mission to revive
it, but when I found that all major decisions, including the appointment of the monastery’s
incumbent (who is always Sinhalese), would still rest with the Board in Colombo, I saw that
this could lead nowhere. As some of you will know, the Maha Bodhi Society, dominated by
Sinhalese, maintains a similar stranglehold on its establishments in India.

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 This is not a terribly serious matter: compared with failing to criticise the murder of monks
it is indeed trivial. But since this conference intends to discuss the problem of disseminating
Theravada Buddhism to the rest of the world, it seems to me highly relevant.
On much the same topic, think of the history of Sinhalese Buddhist missionising over the
last century. Sri Lanka prides itself on being the Island of Buddhism, the Dhammadīpa, and
thus a suitable base from which to bring Buddhism to the world. It also contains, however, a
sizeable minority of non-Buddhist Tamils; and it happens to lie just off the coast of
Tamilnadu. Despite this, there have been pitifully few attempts since Independence to bring
Buddhism even to Sri Lanka’s Tamils, let alone to those on the Indian mainland, because
missions to the West seem so much more glamorous. How many Tamils have been ordained
into the Sangha since 1947? I do not believe that anyone knows the precise answer to this
question, but I believe all would agree that it is a mere handful.
I repeat that I have no wish to single out the Sinhalese for criticism. Similar stories can be
told about the other Buddhist nationalities, and not only the Theravadins. But what would the
Buddha have made of this? It is worth pausing for a moment to compare Buddhism with
Christianity and Islam in this regard. Of course, nations states and the terrible emotions they
can arouse are a part of the modern world, and nationalism crops up in religions which
fervently preach the brotherhood of man. But on the whole Christian and Muslim religious
leaders, and even their followers when the context is religious, do not fail to respect or co-
operate with fellow-religionists on the ground of nationality.
Back, then, to our question: why do so few people in the wider world find Theravada
Buddhism worthy of their serious consideration? Well, mankind has two great moral
problems: let me label them sex and violence. I shall now speak about each in turn; and since
I have already mentioned murder and nationalism, I shall first say some more about violence.
Buddhism proclaims itself the religion of non-violence, ahimsā. It is therefore only natural
that people ask how it measures up to this claim. My own experience is that they ask whether
the recent history of Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Thailand, Laos and Kampuchea, the five
Theravada countries, shows a better record in this respect than that of other countries. The
answer, as we all know, is embarrassing. Sri Lanka has recently brought to an end a civil war
which lasted for more than 25 years, a whole generation, and the new government is showing
alarming authoritarian tendencies. In Myanmar the central government, which has no
democratic legitimacy at all, has been fighting minority populations for even longer than that,
and millions of people have fled the country. Thailand of course has a far better record, but
here too there has been serious civil conflict, sometimes violent, for much of the last two
years; in May this year people seeking refuge in a monastery in the heart of Bangkok were
killed by what some call the forces of law and order; the last military coup d’état was only 4
years ago; the far south of the country is not at peace; and there has been sabre rattling in a
border dispute with a Theravadin neighbour, Kampuchea. Laos (which I know little about)
has not been exactly peaceful, while poor Kampuchea under Pol Pot suffered something close
to auto-genocide.
Let me immediately add that this summary is, I know, very inexact. In some cases it is not
the Buddhist population or Buddhist government who are primarily to blame for the violence.
All I am saying at this point is that unfortunately it is not possible for those who want to
persuade others that Theravada Buddhism leads the world in non-violence to demonstrate
that theory is at all matched by practice.
This gap between theory and practice is particularly glaring when we look at law
enforcement, and in particular at capital punishment. While one has to be extremely careful

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in assigning blame for the general political record which I have just summarised, the same is
not true in this area. What part does Buddhism, which professes non-violence and love for
all, play in public life? We need look no further than the first precept: not to take life. More
than half the countries in the world have abolished capital punishment, which means that the
state does not take life. Yet in the list of those which have no capital punishment figure only
two Buddhist states, Bhutan and Cambodia. This despite the fact that there have been
numerous studies of whether capital punishment lowers the crime rate by acting as a
deterrent, all of which have concluded that it does not. So there is not even a pragmatic
argument for retaining capital punishment: it is there only to satisfy the desire for revenge.
Capital punishment usually follows a terrible crime such as murder, and such crimes are
certainly detestable. That is why treating those criminals humanely really puts to the test
whether we are sincere about our principles of love and non-violence. Of course, if someone
murders a person dear to me, it is too much to expect me ever to love that murderer. That is
why we have a judicial system, rather than allowing everyone to take the law into their own
hands. But if I am a sincere Buddhist, how can I ask the state to kill on my behalf? And there
is a further point. Buddhism says that anyone who has done an evil deed will have to suffer
for it: that is the law of karma and retribution. If we sincerely believe in that fundamental
Buddhist tenet, how can we justify multiplying the violence by making judge and executioner
too commit murders?
Make no mistake: the state that uses the death penalty is to that extent corrupting its citizens
and going against the Buddha’s teaching. I was present at a huge international Wesak
conference here in Bangkok, when at a panel session a Norwegian proposed from the floor
that the death penalty was incompatible with Buddhist principles and should be abolished. I
was shocked by the panel’s glib response: that this was a difficult question to resolve,
because many people in Thailand favour the death penalty. So is it the duty of the Sangha to
lead on moral issues, or to follow the crowd?
Again, I do not intend to single out one country. After all, the Norwegian spoke against the
death penalty in front of Sangha members from every Theravada country, and not one of
them spoke up to support him. So much for the religion of universal compassion.
I turn to sex, and the treatment of women. Women make up half the human race: how does
the religion of universal compassion treat them these days?
Women’s place in the world has changed, and I believe that unless we take account of that
change we are doomed to global insignificance. To use the crude but relevant language of
economics, women have always, so far as we can tell, predominated among the consumers of
religion – perhaps because the world has given them a harder time than men, so that they
need more comforting? – and I think they will continue to be the majority of our customers;
but with new attitudes and expectations. Leadership roles in the world religions have in the
past largely been denied to women, as throughout public life. The economy has led the way
in changing the roles of women in society as the importance of muscle power has declined
and that of brain power correspondingly increased. In advanced economies, service industries
have become more important than agriculture and manufacturing, and in service industries,
except only in the short periods when they have babies, women are at no inherent
disadvantage. On the other hand, an economy needs all the brain power it can get, so societies
in which many women are employed only in the largely unskilled role of housewife are
literally thereby impoverished. With each generation women are acquiring more money and
more power, and though they still lag far behind men, they are closing the gap. Above all,
their self-esteem is rising, and they are not merely fed up with being bossed around by men
but increasingly willing to say so and to do something about it.

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 All the world religions have traditionally given women subordinate roles, but in order to
survive they are having to mend their ways. In Christianity Protestants have led the way with
women ministers, and now the Church of England even has to contemplate female bishops.
The Roman Catholic church has huge numbers and a very efficient and highly centralised
organisation, but it seems to be losing adherents with increasing speed. A few days ago I
heard the BBC News announce that a poll of Catholic women in Britain showed that almost
two thirds said they were dissatisfied with the Church’s position on women. I don’t know
about the Muslims, of whom relatively few live in advanced economies, but the voice of
female protest is certainly heard among them too.
Enough said. Surely it is plain that if a religion today is to increase it popularity, it will have
to appeal to women as least as much as to men. So how does Theravada Buddhism stand?
If one goes by the scriptures and ancient traditions it should be in a very strong position
indeed to appeal to women. But it has thrown away its advantages, and this to such an extent
that I think it cannot possibly advance in countries where women have achieved social
equality.
Let me make three points, all of which I regard as of vast importance both practically and
morally.
First: menstruation. While they are fertile, adult women bleed for a couple or a few days
every month. In some pre-modern societies this has been regarded as dirty or impure; some
have myths that it is the result of an ancient curse. In brahminical tradition strict orthodoxy
demands that at that time of the month women be secluded and kept away from sacred
objects and observances. This is of course a ritual, not a moral, prohibition. In accordance
with his principle, already discussed, that attachment to ritual is a great obstacle to spiritual
progress, the Buddha ignored menstruation as irrelevant to his teaching. In Sri Lanka, where
the most archaic form of Buddhism is preserved, the concept of menstrual impurity is well
known (the Sinhala word for it is killa), but it is equally well known that it has no application
in a Buddhist context. A woman who is of an age when she might be menstruating is not
debarred from any Buddhist activity, from contact with any Buddhist person or object. In a
word, for Buddhism, female impurity does not exist – as it did not for the Buddha.
I don’t know how Thai and Burmese Buddhism came to import the notion of female
impurity, but in following it they are going against the Buddha, befuddling themselves with
superstition, and in the process insulting women. Of course, most women born into those
societies have been brought up to take female impurity for granted and so do not feel
insulted; but women who come from abroad, and have for example learnt their Buddhism in
Sri Lanka, do feel insulted and repelled.
But secondly, things are even worse than this. In Thailand the Vinaya has been changed in
a grotesque manner, so that monks may not only not touch a woman, but may not receive
anything directly from a woman’s hand. This innovation applies not only to menstruating
women, or to women who are of an age when they might be menstruating, but to all females
from babies to centenarians. We are therefore dealing not just with a misguided ritual
obsession but with true misogyny, a horror and dread of women, a fear that the slightest
contact with a female is seductive and may inspire lust. When this is applied even to babies
and young children, the necessary implication is so disgusting that I cannot even name it.
Those who created such a rule and those who follow them need to be re-educated and to learn
that women and girls are people, not objects.
My third point is much more often talked about. Can Theravada restart the Bhikkhunī
Sangha, the Order of Nuns, after the break in the ordination tradition? The fact that no two

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Vinaya traditions wholly agree about how nuns are to be ordained, and that we thus cannot be
sure that the Theravadin version goes back to the Buddha, or is even the oldest, gives
historians a lot to argue about. But when it comes to preserving Theravada Buddhism, let
alone allowing it to flourish, all that is entirely beside the point. If there are women who want
to restart a Sangha, why should they be stopped? Should we not thank and congratulate
them? What does it matter that the continuity of the ordination ritual has been interrupted?
What is that but a ritual? Must we all live in a world of obsessive neurotics? Let people who
only care about ritual fuss away to their hearts’ content, and let those who care for the spirit,
not the letter, and for living according to the Buddha’s teaching and principles, welcome the
one development which, I believe, has the power to preserve Theravada Buddhism for many
future generations.
How, then, can Theravada Buddhism be disseminated? How can it even be saved? I find
the answer obvious. We have to return to the Buddha’s teaching. Our leaders must fearlessly
stand up and tell the world that Buddhism is meant to apply to the whole of life, public and
private. We have to understand, and act accordingly, that ritual has no intrinsic value and
must be jettisoned if it gets in the way of living the Dhamma. We must acknowledge that
Buddhism is for all, including foreigners and women: all must be the objects of our love and
compassion, just as all are equally responsible moral agents. Yes; we have to take the Buddha
seriously!