Maybe this topic has been discussed, debated, and deconstructed more than any other in Buddhism – who knows? But I feel compelled to add my own thoughts.

The Hindu idea of reincarnation and the Buddhist idea of rebirth are different. What’s more, the various Buddhist schools seem to disagree on what it’s all about, which adds to the confusion.

Reincarnation, as I understand it, is the transmigration of a soul (Sanskrit: atman) from one lifetime to another as it inhabits a different body each time. Over and over and over – the same “person” ends up in a different body and life circumstance according to deeds performed in the prior lifetime. An analogy is where a person passes through an infinitely long series of dressing rooms, changing from one costume to another. Same person, different costume.

Rebirth, as I understand it (from the Theravada position, anyway), is that at the moment of death one’s actions (i.e., thoughts) propel a particular kind of consciousness forward in a continuum of cause and effect called samsara, and a new being comes into existence. This consciousness is not one’s soul – there is none, according to the doctrine of anatta (Sanskrit: anatman): no-self, not-self, no-soul. So there is this perennial question: If there is no soul, then what goes from one life to the next?

This is a good point to suggest a mind-game. I present here a scenario, but only to stimulate your own imagination. As you may see, the possibilities are endless.

You are in a hospital room. You’ve had surgery to correct a progressive illness. But something went wrong, and you and your family have been informed you have only a day or two to live. Your family has gathered around – spouse, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. Your mind is flooded with thoughts and conflicted emotions. One of your older grandchildren comes to the bedside with a fat photo album. And there is your life before you. The birthdays, graduations, weddings, and dozens of other joyful events.

There is the picture of your first child at age three, playing in the backyard with the puppy. And your heart breaks again as you remember the day a year later when the dog returned but the child did not. The grief, the sorrow, the blame and self-recrimination, and arguments about who left the gate open.

Your wedding pictures show the two of you so obviously happy and in love, and now you can feel in your brittle bones that longing, that craving you had for one another. Especially the craving that seemed you couldn’t satisfy. Farther and farther back you turn the pages, viewing scenes from your own childhood. Your parents’ wedding picture. Isn’t it striking how much you look like them? You wonder about your father and why he left when you were seven. You wonder how your life would be different had he not slammed out of the house that night, leaving your mother crying in despair on the kitchen floor.

Your grandparents, too, are pictured in the album. You don’t remember much about them, but you know their lives were difficult. Again you are struck by how much you resemble them. And, as you look around the room, you see how much your children and grandchildren resemble them too.

It feels as though you can run your fingers over that coiled thread of DNA that links them with you and with your parents and grandparents and great grandparents – back and back. You see how that thread will go on and on into the future – without you. You understand how the specific actions of your forebears helped bring you to this very place. And you understand with frightening clarity how your own actions contributed to the lives of these people you love.

As you scan the faces around you can feel the quiet suffering. You know the lives of  your children are marked by one trial or another – divorce, debt, illness, trouble with the law, and of course your own imminent death. You wish there is something you can do to ease their pain. But you feel helpless.

And now something comes to mind and you realize you are not helpless. There is much you can do and there is plenty of time to do it. You open your heart to everyone gathered around you and tell them through quiet example that the secret to living well is knowing how to die well, without clinging, without remorse. And that’s just what you do.

Do I believe in rebirth? Do I believe in an afterlife? Does it matter? Try this statement on for size and see how it feels: “I don’t believe in DNA.” Of course you don’t have to believe in DNA for an aspect of your life to go on and on with infinite moments of joy and suffering. Belief in rebirth is not required either. That’s one of the interesting things about Buddhism. You don’t have to believe anything. There is no Creed and no judge to condemn you for not believing.

But there is the law of cause and effect, the law of kamma. Good actions bring good results, bad actions bring bad results. It’s inescapable. With a true understanding of the law of kamma and skillful action you can have a positive effect on the future – even if your not around to see it.

NOAA photo courtesy WikiCommons

On Saturday, just a couple of days ago now, I was in a bad mood. Not my occasionally cranky self, but the worst mood I’d been in for perhaps 15 years. It had been building all week, like a storm on the horizon.

In contrast I had spent the previous weekend – Thursday evening through Monday morning – at Abhayagiri Monastery. It was not a retreat, per se, but an annual gathering called Upasika Renewal. It’s where individuals can formally renew their commitment to the Three Refuges and the Five Precepts. It was a positive experience with lots of meditation time as well as time for some physical labor, relaxation, and discussion.

I dreaded leaving for Abhayagiri, though, because of my work load. I’d spent the week prior trying to get as much accomplished as possible, but I never felt satisfied that I was actually ready to go. I dreaded coming home, too, because what awaited me were three full days packed with immediate day-long activities and responsibilities. I had no time for reintegration or to catch up on what I was unable to accomplish during the five days away.

It wasn’t until Friday that I had a chance to sit back and sort through the paperwork, as it were, and to begin to get caught up on what was actually eight days of “missed work,” so to speak. But there were a few things from the various compartments of my life that had been vexing me since my return – something someone said, a look someone gave. Just a few small things, but you know how the mind likes to jumble things up and slap on layers and then tug and pull and churn.

On Saturday, the first if the month, I did what I usually do: bookkeeping. Reconciling checking accounts and deciding which bills I can pay and which I can put aside until later have never been activities that lead to calm. Then throw in a software problem…

Frustration gathered into clouds of despair and hopelessness. I’d thought I’d left these story emotions long behind in the distant past, but here they were, ready to unleash a deluge.

Fortunately, I had a couple of hours to myself Saturday evening. Fortunately, too, I decided to give meditation one more chance. I focused on the first noble truth of suffering. Yep, this is it, all right. This is dukkha. And the cause. Yes, there is a cause, that pesky second noble truth: clinging. It was my inability to let go of the attachment to that which bothered me. “Letting go.” Such a trite phrase. Easy for you to say. You don’t have my grip of steel.

Suddenly, my mind went back to Abhayagiri. We had been treated to two documentaries about Ajahn Chah. I’d heard the virtues of Ajahn Chah extolled many times, but only then at the monastery did I get an idea of why he was – and still is – revered by those who spent any time with him.

Ajahn Pasanno, co-abbot (and soon to be sole abbot) of Abhayagiri, was one of Ajahn Chah’s long-time students and attendants. In his introductory remarks to the 1977 documentary “The Mindful Way,” he said Ajahn Chah had lots of doubt. I’ve heard too he’d had lots of anger and other mental trials as well. But, Ajahn Pasanno said, he had determined that he would live each day of his life as though it would be his last and each day he would practice Dhamma with every ounce of effort. As I understand it, for Ajahn Chah practicing Dhamma meant “letting go.” There must be something to this. Ajahn Amaro, the other co-abbot of Abhayagiri (and soon to be abbot of Amaravati in England) said that what he saw in Ajahn Chah those long years ago in Thailand was “the happiest man in the world,” and he wanted to be like that too.

I got up from my cushion and searched for the documentary on YouTube, where I found it in three parts. After watching it again, I went back to the cushion for 30 more minutes. The slight parting of the clouds was palpable, and I sensed of the possibility of sunshine – not immediately, but soon. Sunday was a good day. And I’m also getting of sense of ease at getting back into my routine.

This is standard practice, I’m told. First establish brand loyalty through the use of expensive, high-quality ingredients, then gradually pull back on the quality to reduce costs. Most users won’t notice. Some users may discern a difference and try something else, but to those loyal to the brand it’s still the same great product they’ve always used. Quite likely their children will use it too.

I’m not concerned here about deception in the soap-making business or brand loyalty, but about change, truth, and discernment. Discernment – also knows as wisdom – is one of the ten perfections.

If my recent post came across as parochial, it wasn’t my intention. Although I do have my preferences, I have no interest in promoting one form of Buddhism over another. There are many schools and sects and points of view of how the Buddha’s teachings should be interpreted and how Buddhism should be practiced. How else could it be? Buddhism spread slowly through many disparate lands and cultures. Commentaries and other new texts were composed, rulers made edicts, and cultural influences and traditions pushed here and pulled there. Throughout the Northern and Southern Transmissions, Buddhism evolved here independently of how it evolved there. And Buddhism continues to be the object of pressures from without (e.g, China’s affect on Tibetan Buddhism) and within (e.g., the recent bhikkhuni ordination in Perth and the Thai Sangha’s reaction to it).

In the beginning, though, there was the Buddha. He taught one thing: suffering and the end of suffering. He discovered the four noble truths and laid out the eightfold path, which he declared to be the Middle Way to the end of suffering. The eightfold path begins with right view. There is a way to see and understand the world. If there is one right view that is a factor of the path, there must also be wrong views that are not. And the Buddha doesn’t hold back on what those are. If a person doesn’t accept right view, then the rest of the eightfold path has no meaning. If a person does not accept the four noble truths, then why bother with Buddhism at all?

I came to Buddhism because I had lost faith the religion I grew up with. I was spiritually bereft, but I didn’t seek out Buddhism. I wasn’t seeking enlightenment or any secret teachings of the mysterious Orient. Rather, I stumbled onto it. I tried meditation with the hope that it could help me get control over depression. Ignorantly, I didn’t see back then the significant link between meditation and Buddhism. It was only later that I discovered, first, how Buddhist philosophy would affect my thinking and, second, how Buddhist practice would affect my life.

What’s important – to me anyway – is the essence of the Buddha’s teaching about suffering and the end of suffering. My goal is not to have some mystical experience, but to experience the end of suffering.

With Buddhism there is no judge to determine whether people have been good or bad during their lives, no benefactor to grant rewards, no warden to mete out punishment. Rather, the results of one’s actions simply follow along. Good actions bring good results. Bad actions bring bad results. It’s the law of cause and effect. This is true for anyone, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, whatever. Being a Buddhist and being a good person are not mutually exclusive. Anyone will reap the benefits of acting in accord with what is right and true. So it doesn’t matter what Buddhist school or sect one follows. It’s a personal choice and, fortunately, one that no being, supreme or otherwise, will judge as right or wrong. Whatever the school, the Dharma is common to each of them, and the law of cause and effect works as efficiently as the law of gravity.

Discerning what is right and true, now that’s a challenge. Every religion stakes its claim on truth. Yet not everyone can be right. What’s necessary, for me anyway, is to take a look at not only what I believe but how I have come to believe it. There are five ways in which people come to believe the things they do and take them for truth. I may believe something is true because I have faith that it is, because it’s agreeable to me, because of tradition (brand loyalty?), because reason and logic tell me it’s true, and by accepting something as true after reflecting on it. In each case, there are only two possibilities about my beliefs: I am right or I am wrong, because none of these five ways leading to belief is a guaranty of truth. (Majjhima Nikaya #95, the Canki Sutta. Read my comments on this sutta and how truth can be discerned here.)

I adopted Buddhism for all but one of these reasons. Not having grown up in a Buddhist culture, I was no more influenced by Buddhist traditions than than I was by Maori or Eskimo traditions. But I have come to accept certain things as true. I could be wrong about all of it. Yet I have faith I’m not wrong. It’s faith that the Buddha knew what he was talking about, faith in the practice, and the example of others who share that faith that keeps me striving on.

I need something to believe in. Don’t we all? But this practice I’ve adopted is not just some other means to fill the time, some other way to keep me engaged with others, some other trendy “path” that leads to the same mysterious yet desirable destination called enlightenment or salvation or whatever. In the course of it all I have to determine for myself what I believe and why. And along the way I must strive to discern what is in accord with the teachings and what is not. The law of cause and effect is the only determining factor.

But “there” is a bit misleading. Nibbana is not a place nor is it a thing to be acquired. The Buddha himself describes it this way:

There is an island, an island which you cannot go beyond. It is a place of nothingness, a place of non-possession and of non-attachment. It is the total end of death and decay, and this is why I call it Nibbana.

The Buddha lived and died in India during a specific time of history. India is more than a physical location, though. It is a culture as well that incorporates thousands of years of Hindu mythology and cosmology that influenced how the people of the day viewed their physical and spiritual worlds.

Nibbana, during the time of the Buddha, was a term that had less to do with a spiritual goal than to explain a common occurrence. It was a matter of fact in those days that fire was bound to its fuel. One of the constituents of wood, for example, was heat. As a piece of wood burned, the two – fire and fuel – were bound together in an agitated state. When the fire went out, both were liberated from the struggle. The extinguishing of fire, which allowed for cooling, was nibbana.

Relative to Buddhism, the fuel that is in a constant state of burning agitation are the five aggregates that make up a human being: the body, feelings, perception, mental formations, and consciousness. The intention of Buddhist practice is to extinguish the bonfire of the aggregates, thus liberating the individual from all the interent pain and suffering.

Another example of the Buddha’s use of analogy regards his teachings on Three Fires. The causes of all suffering are fires of greed, hatred, and delusion (clinging, aversion, and ignorance, or a number of other synonyms). Suffering is ended and liberation realized when the Three Fires are extinguished through the practice and perfection of generosity, kindness, and wisdom.

One of the Ten Fetters that binds a person to samsara – the ongoing cycle suffering – is adherence to rites and rituals as a means to spiritual achievement. As explained in The Island, the ancient Vedic texts dictated that the brahmin householder keep three ritualistic fires burning day and night. The brahmin’s maintenance of the three fires was one of those rites and rituals that prevented spiritual growth. “Put out the the three fires,” the iconoclastic Buddha said. “By keeping them burning, you bind yourselves to infinite lifetimes of suffering.”

To the modern, liberal-minded person the imperative to keep three fires burning to ensure salvation may seem quaint and easily put aside. But the ever-present suffering of life is not so easily dismissed. Snuffing the fires of greed, hatred, and delusion is no easy task.

At my son’s wedding last week, which I wrote about in my previous post, I experienced a degree of restlessness and remorse. Patrick’s mother was there along with her parents and husband. Also there was my second wife, Patrick’s first step-mother.

Maybe you don’t believe in rebirth, but I am in my fourth lifetime – all within the same span of my 58 years. My first life included my childhood and everything through the end of my 21st year. Marriage propelled me into second lifetime. I expected it to last forever. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, right? Through good times and bad, sickness and health, richer or poorer (emphasis on poorer). Well, among other things, I suffered the disillusionment of happily-ever-after. That marriage’s ending was like a long, slow terminal illness with lots of pain and suffering for everyone involved – including our four boys.

Soon, I was reborn into another realm and another marriage. Through the lens of the Buddha’s teachings I can reflect on the origins of suffering and how the three fires of greed, hatred, and delusion slowly burn in the background of what appears on the surface to be a “good thing.” Once again a good thing ended very badly. The end of this life was different from that of the previous one, though. When the time came, I was prepared and eager to depart that world. I leaped into my fourth lifetime – which now begins its seventh year.

Although the details of my past lives have gone without description, I will say that the results of my bad karma are inescapable. It’s difficult to be in the same room with people I’ve caused so much harm to. At the wedding I was in my own territory, so to speak, but just the same there were moments of restlessness (get me outa here!) and subtle but genuine feelings of remorse for my actions.

The actions of my past are mine to keep – they are the only things I really own. The results are mine to bear as well. My intention in this lifetime – with full awareness of its impermanence – is to make good use of what I’ve learned and develop the skills to extinguish the three fires. I am certain my future rests in my actions now. I have a fairly good idea of what to do. And what not to do.

Ajahns Pasanno, Amaro and Jayasaro at Abhayagiri Monastery

My visit to Abhayagiri Monastery last week – and the 13-hour drive to and from – is in the past. So too is the feeling that overcame me shortly after arriving early Friday evening. The Buddha speaks of three kinds of feeling: pleasant, unpleasant and neither pleasant nor unpleasant. What I experienced during the initial hours of my stay was inwardly unpleasant.

I and my two traveling companions arrived a few minutes after 5:00. We briefly greeted several others from Portland already there, then pitched our tents in a field – the guest lodgings were full. Then we joined the monks in the shrine room for tea. That’s when the mental nagging began.

There are five hindrances to one’s practice: desire, ill will, restlessness and remorse, sloth and torpor, and doubt. Yes, that’s seven, but two of them are paired. No matter. The hindrance weighing on me was doubt.

Tea time at the monastery is an opportunity for open discussion with the monks. It’s a casual affair, but there are certain formalities that the serious practitioner will follow. I had a strong sense of uncertainty about what to do. But it was more than that. I didn’t trust that I could just be with what was happening without concern about what was to happen next or what I was supposed to do.

When interacting with monastics, reverence and respect are the most important qualities to cultivate. Protocols – which can be learned over time through instruction and careful observation – are of less importance. But this mind of mine had begun to question everything about this visit. All the bowing and deference seemed so pointless. Why was I here? Why are these monks here? What do they get out of it? What’s the point of any of this? Later that night, exhausted after having been up since 3:15, I fell asleep with these questions going through my mind in the form of a doubtful mush.

The next morning I awoke at 6:00 – late by monastic standards. At 6:30 we were assigned light duties, followed by a breakfast of oatmeal at 7:00. Then we gathered in the shrine room where, after chanting and meditation, we were assigned various duties for the morning work session. Much of what needed to be done involved clearing brush and trail maintenance. I volunteered to mend some tools, something I’m suited to do. Besides, it kept me away from any exposure to the ubiquitous poison oak.

Before sending us off to work, Ajahn Pasanno advised us not to get caught up in our chores or in what others were doing. “Just watch your mind,” he said. This is standard Buddhist stuff, and I’ve heard it and done it for years. But this morning, at this very moment, it made more sense than ever before. Of course, this is why I was here. This is why the monks are here.

Monastic life is one of discipline. So too, is any spiritual life. But it’s not discipline for the sake of it. The discipline creates the conditions for training the mind. To train the mind is to watch it carefully and bring it back in before it romps away into the poison oak of ill will, desire, remorse, sluggishness and doubt. Only then can one cultivate the more wholesome qualities of kindness, joy, equanimity and tranquility.

That’s the point.

As I watched them, knowing that one day they too may take full ordination, I knew also they would miss out on many, many, many of the of experiences we worldly people enjoy. They would not have wives. They would not have children or grandchildren or loving pets. They would not have fulfilling occupations, new cars, or well-appointed homes. They would not take delight in music, theater, or dance. In other words, they would have none of the things that bring happiness.

Lucky them.

From a Buddhist view, all those things mentioned above and more – the things that most people consider the sources of happiness – always lead to suffering. That’s because all these things come to an end. They wear out, get lost, die. And when these inevitable things happen, sadness and sorrow and many other afflictive emotions are the result.

On Saturday morning Robin discovered on her dog – a miniature Australian shepherd named Metta – a weeping mass on his shoulder. Most likely, we thought, it was an infection caused by a bee sting or bite from from our other dog, Mollie. The two of them play rough at times. Robin figured some antibiotics would take care of it. This being the Memorial Day holiday weekend, our regular veterinarian’s office was closed. So off they went to the animal hospital.

It’s not so simple as antibiotics. Whereas it could be a puncture wound, a scratch, or something so simple as a single grass seed that worked its way under the skin, the surgeon found abnormal tissue. We’ll have to wait and see. If the infection doesn’t heal on its own, we’ll have a biopsy done on the tissue sample the surgeon took while he was at it. All day Saturday the mood was somber here at home. Robin’s dog may have cancer. Already she’d spent nearly $1,000 of very scarce money. What next?

Seven years ago a furry puppy brought happiness to a family. But what is happiness? The Buddha teaches that happiness cannot be found in people, places, or things. It can be found only in the absence of anything and everything that brings suffering, regardless of form.

As a householder I have the inevitable and necessary attachments that go with the occupation. And I am happy in the conventional sense because I do have much to be grateful for. Yet I can see – so easily see – how a renunciant’s life is a happy one because of what one doesn’t have, not the other way around.

It all depends on your point of view.

Fear is suffering. If there is suffering, there is a cause of it. Much of the cause has to do with identifying with a particular political party and the views it espouses. Opposite that is my aversion to a particular party and its views.

The goal is to end suffering. The only way to do that is first to recognize suffering for what it is. Without knowing what the problem is, I cannot begin to search for a solution.

The solution is to eradicate the cause. The only way to discover the cause is to search for it and be able to identify it when it presents itself.

Clinging to one view plus having an aversion to another is a formula for dukkha (suffering). No clinging, no aversion, no suffering.

Simple.

When we think of greed it conjures images of taking more and more and more than our share (i.e., what we deserve). There is more to greed and greediness than scooping money into a pile and diving into it. According to the Buddha, any kind of wanting is considered as greed. There is no line of demarkation that identifies one level of wanting as okay and harmless and another level as greed and destructive. It’s all the same. Wanting is wanting. And wanting leads to dissatisfaction. Sometimes dissatisfaction leads to hatred and destruction.

We are supposed to want things, though. It’s considered abnormal to be contented with what we have and easily satisfied with what we are given. We are supposed to strive, to acquire, to succeed. We are supposed to fulfill our desires. Being good consumers (i.e., greedy) makes us good citizens because we contribute to flow of money. It keeps things humming. And when things are humming nicely we are happy. Sort of, for a while, in a deluded sort of way.

Not being ambitious also is considered abnormal. Ambition – wanting to be something – is a form of greed and a cause of suffering. In keeping up with the election (and observing my feelings about it) I’ve noticed just how much unhappiness surrounds the campaigns because of the ambitions of the candidates. Both candidates are driven to win. They are doing their best to conquer the other. Regardless of who wins, there will much anger and despair throughout the country because we are so much identified with our party and attached to winning. To be sure, some of us won’t get what we want. Although it may seem as though the suffering will be limited to the side that doesn’t win, it certainly will extend to both sides and touch every one of us.

The challenge is to recognize truth of suffering for what it is. If wanting and attachment are involved in any way, suffering will follow.

]]> http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2008/10/13/greed-and-its-relationship-to-suffering/feed/ 0 http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2008/09/11/delusion-and-attachment-to-views/ http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2008/09/11/delusion-and-attachment-to-views/#comments Thu, 11 Sep 2008 14:48:13 +0000 Paul http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/?p=193 A few days ago, at 5:30 in the morning, two events happened simultaneously. The radio alarm came on and the phone rang. Robin fumbled for the phone. “Hello? Hello? Hello?” I fumbled for the snooze button on the radio, silencing it so she could focus on the call. When there was no response, we both went back to sleep. Ten minutes later, the radio came on again, and we soon were up, sipping coffee together.

“It must have been a wrong number,” she said.

“Yeah, but it was so confusing when the phone rang at the same time the radio came on,” I said.

“No, the radio didn’t come on until after the phone rang.”

“No, …”

I needn’t go on, because I think you can imagine how the next few lines went and the momentary frustration that ensued.

Each of our worlds is filled with these examples of differing perceptions and recollections of the same event. In psychology it’s known as the Roshomon effect.

We all perceive the world differently, however slightly, and we all insist our view of the world is correct, is real. I am the subject and you – along with everything else – are the object. Each of the 6.721 billion of us would say the same thing.

I do not suggest Robin is deluded (she usually sees things more clearly than I do). But it’s human nature to see things differently and to attach to our view of the world and its events as being reality. This is delusion, because what happens around us – if we perceive it at all – is colored by opinion and other forms of conditioning that have nothing to do with reality.

Attaching to views is one of the key sources of pain and suffering. Consider the current political environment to see what I mean. How will you feel when the other side (other is always relative) wins? Will there be suffering?