What Theravada Can Teach Us

Introduction

As I sit under the Bodhi tree during the Dzongsar Monlam, while most people are reciting the King of Aspirations, my mind can’t help but wander to the events that transpired earlier today. Bodhgaya really has a way of making magic happen. As someone who was (and secretly still is) a fan of fantasy franchises, I feel it appropriate to use this word, magic. Of course, everything that happens is because of karma, but isn’t the ability to speed karma up or align causes and conditions just perfectly a kind of “magic”?

Due to a series of causes and conditions today I found myself offering dāna to some high senior Theravādin monks from different countries inside the Sri Lankan monastery called Mahabodhi Society. I had been invited to this monastery on several occasions during the Monlam to have alms food and to receive dāna myself, so it was a nice change to be on the giving end. It so happened that on this very day a high monk from Sri Lanka was visiting and joined the dāna. He had just arrived the night before and would be leaving the next day. Generally he is not in Bodhgaya, so the chances of meeting him—let alone during the one time when I’m the one giving dāna—were very low indeed. And what followed is something I mostly only get to experience when in Bodhgaya.

Right after dāna, this senior monk took me in like he would a long-lost son. I felt slightly undeserving of his generosity and kindness, something I rarely receive from monks in the Tibetan tradition, at least in this way. In fact, I only recall receiving this type of warm caring treatment from one other Tibetan Lama, and it happened—unsurprisingly—in Bodhgaya. So today, in just a few moments after the dāna, I had been invited to an all-expenses-paid pilgrimage in Sri Lanka with the monks from his monastery and their sponsors! And this is not the first time Theravādins have surprised me in this way. Earlier this year I made friends with a Thai Forest monk in Dharamshala, and soon after this encounter I found myself in a Forest Monastery in the middle of Mae Hong Son province in Northern Thailand!

A Pattern of Reception

It’s quite curious that Theravādin monks seem happy and enthusiastic when they come to know I am a westerner who has taken full ordination. Whereas with my tradition the reception has been mixed, sometimes met with surprise. It’s almost as if, given that I’m a westerner, I’m expected to be a sponsor rather than a monastic or a practitioner. Sometimes it also feels like I’m expected to develop myself into an interpreter for some Tibetan Lama rather than seek my own realisation of the Dharma. In fact, I have received far more insistence on learning the Tibetan language than I have on practising meditation—which is the true gateway to enlightenment.

Now, while my own teachers have also insisted that I learn Tibetan, I have full confidence that it is because they want me to unlock the knowledge that was passed down to the Tibetans in order to deepen my practice. How else are we going to access the ancient Nalanda tradition if not through the Tibetan tradition, which preserved it? However, there are still those who sometimes create an impression—perhaps unintentionally—that true study and practice of Buddhism can only happen in Tibetan, overlooking that meditation practice, not linguistic ability, opens the door to realisation.

This reliance on language as a measure of value is something I have not yet encountered in the Theravāda world. In their circles, many western monastics hold respected positions earned through sustained meditation practice. Some don’t even know the Pali language. This reflects something systematic: in the Theravāda world, monastics, regardless of nationality, are seen primarily as practitioners—people who have genuinely renounced householder life to dedicate themselves to the path. This shapes how they’re received, supported, and valued.

Two Types of Wealth

Despite the views of a few, there are far more benefits than challenges in our tradition, otherwise I would probably be reconsidering who I choose as my monastic community, or who I want as my teachers. After all, I am absolutely thrilled to be following the Nalanda tradition and it so happens that our Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya is the most complete out of all the surviving monastic lineages. It was upheld by the great masters of Nalanda, who wrote many scriptures on it, and was passed on by the many practitioners that walked the lands of northern India, including Bodhgaya.

So as I sit under the Bodhi tree my mind wanders to memories of Thailand and of the Sri Lankan monastery, of how much generosity and kindness I received from them. The culture and practice of dāna is quite beautiful and necessary for the survival of Buddhist monasticism. And then I came to realise something: what the Theravādins have to offer is worldly support and benefit. In the Theravāda tradition a monastic will probably always have shelter, food and basic necessities. They’ve built sustainable infrastructure that works, especially in the West where they’ve already established thriving monastic communities.

Whereas with my tradition these things don’t come easily, and sometimes not even at all, even to fully ordained monastics. Especially in the West. However, the Tibetan tradition offers something much more valuable than this worldly support: the supramundane, the transcendental, the actual path to complete Buddhahood, rather than individual liberation.

While I may not get spontaneously invited by a Rinpoche to travel with all expenses paid, the same Rinpoche will bestow priceless transmissions that can swiftly lead me to full awakening. Some of these transmissions used to be so rare and precious a few centuries ago that people would sell their entire land and possessions to have enough to offer to a guru in the hopes of receiving them. Some, like the Tibetan king who went looking for Atiśa to invite him to Tibet with a huge chest of gold, never even managed to meet the guru in person.

Both types of wealth matter. I’m not suggesting we abandon our profound transmissions—they are irreplaceable. But we need to acknowledge a practical reality: receiving transmissions doesn’t pay rent.

The Structural Problem

Many western monastics from my tradition have already had to disrobe due to a lack of support. It is widely estimated that around 85% of western monastics disrobe. In my own circle, I know three western friends who ordained with genuine aspiration but couldn’t sustain monastic life without basic material security. At first glance, this seems like a symptom of our weak dāna system regarding monastics. But the problem runs deeper than that.

These days most Tibetan monasteries function because devotees give dāna, not to the monks themselves, but to the Lama or Rinpoche who represents or heads the monastery. For instance, the Gelukpa monasteries in India have thousands of monks, because the funds to support them are funnelled down from H.H. the Dalai Lama’s office and other high Gelukpa masters. My own monastery, Dzongsar Institute, functions because of Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche and the late Khenchen Kunga Wangchuk. I mention this not to criticise these great masters—their systems work well within their contexts—but to illustrate how even the largest schools depend on a handful of key figures rather than the collective reputation of ordinary monastics.

This is not a new pattern. The great Indian monasteries—Nalanda, Vikramaśīla, Odantapurī—depended heavily on royal patronage. Nalanda thrived for centuries under the Pāla dynasty, but when that political support collapsed amid Muslim invasions in the early 13th century, the entire monastic ecosystem collapsed with it. No amount of philosophical brilliance could compensate for the structural vulnerability of depending on a few powerful patrons. The Tibetan tradition inherited the Nalanda curriculum—its Madhyamaka, its Yogācāra, its Tantras, its Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya—but it also inherited this structural model of top-down patronage. And when the tradition moved to the West, where there are no Buddhist kings and no established institutions, the vulnerability was inherited too.

In fact, this top-down structure may have contributed to the development of the Tulku system as we know it today. When the great master upon whom a monastery depends for funding passes away, the monastery risks losing its patronage if no suitable successor emerges naturally. The solution that developed was to identify the reincarnation of that master, allowing the sponsorship relationship to continue. While the recognition of tulkus certainly serves important spiritual functions and may be authentic, it’s worth noting that this system is unique to Tibetan Buddhism—neither the ancient Indian monasteries nor other Buddhist traditions developed similar institutions. Today, nearly every Tibetan monastery has a Rinpoche or Tulku who represents it, and when this figure passes away, the search for their reincarnation becomes tied to the monastery’s continued viability.

The limitations of this model are obvious. It works in Tibetan culture where these institutions exist and where people have faith that the children who are found are genuinely the reincarnation of their beloved master. But it largely fails western converts who don’t have access to these established structures or who come from a vastly different culture. It also creates dependency on a handful of figures and can inadvertently lead to a relaxation of monastic conduct. Given that sponsors mainly focus on the activity of the master who represents the monastery, the monastics themselves are mostly out of the spotlight and feel less inclined to uphold their conduct and represent their monastery. This situation can enable those without genuine practice commitment to remain in the monastery indefinitely—monks who stay novices their whole lives, neither advancing in practice nor taking full ordination, who don’t engage in meditation or follow their monastic conduct properly, treating monasticism as a comfortable refuge rather than a spiritual path.

The Theravāda Model

When we look at Theravādin monasteries, their model is different, with more emphasis placed on the monastics themselves and having them represent their monastery, not just a single person. It is because of the monks’ good conduct and good practice that the monasteries function. This also leads to Theravādin monasteries maintaining smaller communities with stricter accountability. The high standards naturally discourage those without serious commitment from joining or remaining, resulting in fewer monks overall but a higher proportion of dedicated practitioners.

As I was giving dāna with my friends today, the senior monks leading the blessing prayer said: “It is very meritorious to give dāna to the monastics, because they are fully dedicated to the path of enlightenment. They have left their householder life and have become full disciples of the Buddha. Offering to them is also the Dharma practice of letting go, of giving up something, and this practice will lead us to enlightenment.”

This emphasis is rarely articulated so directly in Tibetan contexts, though Vinaya-focused teachers in traditions like the Geluk lineage would certainly affirm it. Tibetans do talk about the benefits of offering to the Three Jewels; however, in Mahāyāna the Sangha jewel consists of awakened bodhisattvas, not ordinary ordained monastics. Yet monastics still exist in the Tibetan tradition, albeit primarily in the role of knowledge and ritual keepers. In some cases they can also occupy the role of practitioner, yet we might find just as many dedicated practitioners in our tradition to be lay people. And in western communities you may not even find a single monastic. In fact, many lay practitioners today are receiving the same training that monastics do, which may have the unfortunate consequence of rendering monastics irrelevant for these roles in the near future.

Conversely, in the Theravāda, monastics mostly play the role of practitioners, whereas the laity play the role of supporting these practitioners. This creates accountability and visibility—the community sustains monastics precisely because they embody renunciation and practice.

Losing the Connection Between Practitioner and Monastic

The unfortunate consequence for our tradition is that monastics may lose their association with being practitioners, and many western communities are already developing and positing ideas such that monasticism is not even needed anymore.

It’s sometimes claimed that tantric practices contributed to the decline of Indian monasticism, and this is occasionally used to argue against monasticism’s relevance. After all, why take ordination if practising these yogas will enlighten you even faster? Nevertheless, in tantric scriptures such as the Chakrasaṃvara and Hevajra Tantras it is said that the best tantric practitioner is a fully ordained monastic. Additionally, in tantric retreat manuals it is encouraged for retreatants to follow monastic vows. This goes to show that ordination is beneficial even on the tantric layer. So why isn’t taking ordination encouraged for those who want to go into a years-long retreat? Or why isn’t it encouraged for those who want to be Tantrikas?

It could be because our tradition generally doesn’t permit temporary ordination as in the Theravāda, or because disrobing is viewed very seriously—and as a result, even fewer people entering retreat or tantric practice consider ordination. If temporary ordination were available, people entering long-term retreat could take ordination for the duration, strengthening the connection between the ideas of practitioner and monastic. This would require careful doctrinal discussion, as the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya tradition treats ordination differently from the Theravāda on this point. But the potential benefit—both to the individual and to the tradition—seems worth exploring.

Even within our tradition, we see the practitioner-monastic association persists in interesting ways. I see some people at this Monlam wearing tantrika robes that look very close to monks’ robes: a maroon skirt and a maroon shawl wrapped around like how a monastic wears their robes. To Buddhists who are not familiar with Tibetan practices they are often confused for monks, which shows that we do somewhat associate a monk-like appearance with someone who is a practitioner.

However, when tantrikas with consorts are mistaken for monastics, this creates genuine confusion about Vinaya standards and damages perceptions of Tibetan monasticism. If we truly value our Vinaya, we need clearer distinctions in appearance, or we risk further corrupting the image of what a monastic represents.

The Foundation We’re Missing

One of the monks at Dzongsar Monastery recently referred to the Śrāvakayāna as primary school, and the Tibetan tradition as university. The Śrāvakayāna—the foundational vehicle that includes the Prātimokṣa and Vinaya practice—teaches very practical things; it’s like a teacher holding your hand. Whereas the Tibetan tradition teaches us higher studies and assumes we are grown up and independent. While many of us are ready to go to university from the start, many do need a good foundation. And it may even be necessary for everyone to have some foundation, as this way we can maintain the practices that ensure the longevity of Buddhism. The Theravāda tradition, as the only surviving purely Śrāvaka Buddhist school, has preserved (or rather re-introduced) this foundational training remarkably well.

It’s worth noting that what Tibetans inherited from India was not just the Mahāyāna and Vajrayāna curriculum but also, specifically, the megamonastery model — the large-institution, centrally patronised system of Nalanda, Vikramaśīla and Odantapurī. By the time Tibetans were actively studying at Nalanda during the 8th to 12th centuries, these were vast universities with thousands of monks, sustained by royal endowments. The Tibetans built a fully functioning and sophisticated monastic system modelled on this. But what they did not inherit was the older, more classical model of small, self-sustaining communities where monastics lived in direct relationship with lay supporters through daily alms rounds and personal accountability.

To be fair, it’s not only the Tibetans who moved away from this model — the Theravāda world largely lost it too, as their own monasteries grew into large, settled institutions. It took a deliberate reform movement in the early 20th century, led by Ajahn Mun Bhuridatta in Thailand, to recover the original forest-dwelling, alms-dependent practice that is now the hallmark of the Thai Forest Tradition. So both traditions drifted from the classical model as they scaled up. The difference is that the Theravādins have already done the hard work of recovering it. We haven’t — and that is the primary school we’re missing.

Western communities are built almost entirely out of lay people, and to make them work they have to reinvent community guidelines and processes from scratch. In this way you have communities that may belong to the same Tibetan school but operate completely differently. The Buddha designed monasticism for a good reason: to guide community living. If one wishes to leave the householder’s life behind and practise the Dharma, Buddha gave instructions on how to do so—it’s called the Vinaya. It just so happens that those who followed this path are now called monastics.

Unfortunately, these days many westerners who follow the Tibetan tradition are unaware of this fact. To some, it seems like monastics are some sort of elite group. And to others, monastics are just an archaic vestigial institution that is no longer needed. However, as long as there are communities that wish to practise the Dharma together, the Vinaya remains relevant and necessary. After all, the purpose of the Vinaya is precisely this: to provide tested, reliable structures for communal practice.

Theravāda communities, even when they struggle with their own challenges, have the Vinaya Piṭaka to guide them. They have a living tradition of monastic community that they can reference and adapt. We’re trying to build dharma communities while ignoring the very text the Buddha gave us for exactly this purpose.

What Must Change – Or Rather What Shouldn’t

As I sit under the Bodhi tree, watching the Bodhi leaves flutter and listening to the aspiration prayers, these reflections crystallise into something clear: western Mahāyāna and Vajrayāna practitioners must engage seriously with Theravāda communities and their structural foundations.

This isn’t about abandoning our transmissions—they remain precious and irreplaceable. But we need to learn from those who have successfully maintained the basic infrastructure of monasticism, especially in the West. We possess profound methods for awakening, but we’re failing to provide the basic conditions that allow people to practise them as monastics.

The practical reality is clear: western Tibetan monastics may need to live in established Theravāda communities for survival, at least until we can build our own sustainable structures. This isn’t defeat—it’s wisdom. We’re connecting with fellow practitioners who have preserved what we’ve let slip. The Thai Forest Tradition, for instance, has already demonstrated that the dāna model functions in western societies through direct relationships between monastics and laypeople, requiring no royal treasury and no charismatic figurehead.

We can fill the gaps in our Vinaya practice with theirs. We can learn their dāna systems, their ways of making monastics visible as practitioners, their tested methods for community living. And perhaps, in time, we can build communities that have both: the profound transmissions of the Tibetan tradition and the sustainable, practitioner-centred foundations that the Theravāda has maintained.

The Nalanda model collapsed in India when the political conditions that sustained it shifted. It survived in Tibet because Tibetan kings and aristocrats took up the role of patrons. Now, in the West, that patronage model is faltering for a third time. The magic of Bodhgaya isn’t just in the unlikely meetings and spontaneous invitations. It’s in the clarity that arises when you sit in the place where the Buddha awakened and realise what needs to change—or rather what doesn’t need to change. Our tradition offers the university education, but we’ve forgotten to build the primary school. And without that foundation, fewer and fewer people will make it to graduation.

The aspiration prayers continue around me. I join in, but with a new aspiration forming: that we might preserve both the profound and the practical, the transcendent and the sustainable. That we might learn from our Theravādin brothers and sisters while maintaining the precious transmissions of our lineage. That western monastics might find both spiritual wealth and the basic support to practise.

This is the magic Bodhgaya offers: not just the meeting with the Sri Lankan monk, but the recognition of what we must do to keep the Buddhadharma—and Buddhist monasticism—alive in the West.