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.

In a previous post I wrote about The Island: An Anthology of the Buddha’s Teachings on Nibbana, by Ajanhs Pasanno and Amaro. Nibbana/nirvana is a state of being that is often described as the deathless or the unconditioned. It is a state where there is no more suffering of any kind. It is the cessation of becoming.

As I understand it, the Buddha woke up to Nibbana, making a transition between one state to another just as a person transitions between sleep and wakefulness each day. The Buddha, however, remained in Nibbana until his death, and he was not born again into the cycle of life and death known as samsara. The Buddha’s awakening took six years of focused preparation (not to mention many lifetimes of perfecting the virtues necessary to making the transition from a bodhisatta to a buddha). The conventional expression of the Buddha’s experience is “enlightenment.”

There are two kinds of enlightenment: spiritual and intellectual. Spiritual enlightenment is what happened to the Buddha on the night of his awakening. Intellectual, or secular, enlightenment is what The Age of Enlightenment was all about. Ajahn Punnadhammo, abbot of Arrow River Hermitage, writes about the difference here.

Patrick Kearney, in his essay “Still Crazy after all these Years: Why Meditation Isn’t Psychotherapy,”* suggests that were it not for The Enlightenment, we would not be using “enlightenment” to describe the Buddha’s awakening.

“I have never been able to find any Pali or Sanskrit word which corresponds to the English word “enlightenment.” This word was selected some time late last [19th] century by English translators as a label for the goal of Buddhist practice because of its resonance with the 18th century ideal of the Enlightenment. The European Enlightenment was a movement which idealised progress, science and reason – the “light” in “Enlightenment” refers to the light of reason. In Victorian Britain, sympathetic English scholars wanted to present Buddhism in as favourable a light as possible, and they did so by portraying the Buddha as the perfect Victorian gentleman. He was presented as rejecting the priestly mumbo-jumbo of the brahmins (who for the Victorian English corresponded to the Roman Catholic clergy) in favour of a religion of reason and morality (Almond: 70-4**). The only thing that spoiled this picture was undeniable evidence in the Buddhist texts that the Buddha taught and practiced some kind of bizarre self-hypnosis or cultivation of trance states – what we today call meditation. The word “enlightenment” referred to a state of enlightened reason attained by the Buddha which, however, existed only in the imagination of Victorian scholars. Unfortunately the word has stuck, and with it the confusion.”

Assuming it’s true that the use of the word “enlightenment” grew from a desire to make Buddhism more palatable to the Western mind, it presents three problems. First, it shows how easily words can be used to manipulate public opinion. This is nothing new, of course. It happens every day in advertising, politics, and religion.

Second, it shows how words evolve and how, over time, they can come to mean something other than what they meant initially.

Third, it suggests that Buddhism is changeable, something that can be molded to fit the circumstances of its surroundings.

A teacher I know has said many times that Buddhism changes every culture it touches, and Buddhism is changed by every culture that touches it. This is undeniably true on the surface, but it’s not a justification for the manufacturing of a new kind of Buddhism, a “Western” Buddhism – which is what the teacher was endorsing.

Certainly there are cultural differences in the ways Buddhism is practiced in, say, Sri Lanka and Japan, because each of these forms developed in different cultures separated by space and time. So to assume there is just one kind of Buddhism is a mistake. To assume there is just one kind of Japanese Buddhism also is a mistake. “Zen” and “Buddhist” are not synonymous.

Even though people have found many different ways to practice Buddhism, there remain four inescapable truths regarding this human world we all are a part of. Without each one of these truths, Buddhism is meaningless. The fourth truth – a very precise path of practice – is not something that can be changed to fit our varied lifestyles and beliefs.

If it’s a mistake to assume there is only one kind of Buddhism, it’s also a mistake to assume there are many different means to realizing the goal.

As Ajahn Pasanno writes in The Island:

“There are many ways of practice but some of them may, in actuality, not accord with the teachings or the true Way. They may be popular or comfortable, but yet not be Dhamma [emphasis mine]. For practice to yield results, it must conform to truth or correct principle.” (p. 288)

The eightfold path – the Middle Way – is very specific. You either practice Dhamma or you don’t. The law of conditionality can’t be skirted. Living in a cloud of delusion has a major drawback: delusion. It’s not easy to discern what’s skillful, especially when people – teachers and students alike – tinker with meanings and practices to suit themselves.

“Enlightened” was used to (incompletely) describe the Buddha to Victorian England as one who behaved with reason, logic, and morality. But the Age of Enlightenment is no longer part of our social psyche. We – as a culture – are as far removed from reason, logic, and morality as social guides as those enlightened 18th century Europeans were from the Dark Ages of the 15th century. Instead, we use “enlightened” to refer to (among many other things) all manner of blissed-out states that incorporate – in the spirit of diversity – anything and everything spiritual.

And now, from the entertainment realm, we have the new sit-com, “Enlightened”. The situation evoking the comedy is where “a self-destructive woman…who has a spiritual awakening and resolves to live an enlightened life – which causes chaos at home and at work – after suffering a serious meltdown.” Entertaining, maybe, but hardly enlightening.

I avoid using “enlightenment” as the goal of spiritual practice (my spiritual practice, anyway) because it connotes gaining something magical and mystical (something so Zen) instead of achieving the simple end of suffering. This is my goal. I’ve had enough suffering. I am willing to work for it – I do work for it – but my effort is toward getting rid of rather than gaining something. Unless that “something” is understanding what’s really going on.

Coming to the understanding of reality, however, takes more than reason and logic, says Ajahn Pasanno. It “is direct and intuitive, rather than intellectual or rational, learned from books, memorized from others, or arrived at through speculative thinking.” (p. 296)

It’s not so simple as turning on a light.

*As its title suggests, this lengthy paper attempts to sever any imposed connection between Buddhism and psychotherapy. I don’t recommend it to anyone enamored with the idea of  a Western Buddhism. Kearney isn’t kind to a few high-profile teachers who seem to embody the idea.

**Almond, Philip. The British discovery of Buddhism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988.

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.

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.

Photo: Wikimedia Commons

Something that intrigues me about religion and spiritual practice is the tension between two points of view. On the one hand there is the “one and only way” view of salvation. On the other hand we have the “many ways to the top of the mountain” approach.

The one-and-only-way position seems dogmatic and intolerant and, from the outside, alarming (you’re either with us or with the enemy). The many-ways school is by definition tolerant of the choices others make regarding their spirituality. We’re one big happy family even if we don’t agree. What’s more, this diversity is worthy of celebration.

The intriguing part comes when I examine Buddhism in the light of both these extremes. Gentle acceptance of, kindness toward, and compassion for everyone equally and with a loving heart are fundamental to Buddhist practice. But nowhere in the Pali Canon (that I know of) does the Buddha say that his Middle Way is one of many ways to reach the goal. Rather, he says, cultivation of the Middle Way is the only way leading to the release from suffering.

It seems to me this would rankle members of both the aforementioned schools of thought. Buddhism does not fit with either model. One reason it doesn’t fit with the one-way school is Buddhism’s rejection of the idea of a supreme being with no beginning or end and who initiated a first cause (a beginning of something made out of nothing). So the way in itself (Buddhism) is wrong. It doesn’t fit with the many-ways school for the obvious reason: There is only one way, not many.

The loaded word in the first paragraph is “salvation.” There is an assumption that it means the same to everyone, but it doesn’t. Salvation to a Christian won’t mean quite the same as it does to a Muslim, Jew, or Hindu. And adherents to each viewpoint will have their own idea of how to get there, that is, their own one and only way.

Although I’ve heard “salvation” used within a Buddhist context, it really doesn’t fit. The Judeo-Christian view states one is saved by an external agent, namely Jesus or God. Buddhism doesn’t hold to an external agent, however. Instead, one brings about “liberation” from suffering through one’s own effort to understand the nature and causes of suffering and to stop doing all the things that bring suffering about. Cause and effect at work.

Of course those of the Judeo-Christian faiths could make the same argument: Rejection of God is the cause of all suffering in the world. Conversely, salvation is possible only through absolute faith in God. Again, cause and effect at work.

It depends, really, on the goal. When there are many goals, there are as many ways to reach them. The story of the “Three Little Pigs” is an example. If what you want is shade, a house of sticks or straw will suffice. But when protection from the wolf is necessary, bricks are the better choice of building materials.

There are many ways for one to lead a spiritual life because, as a goal, the “spiritual life” is vague and not well defined. But when we start defining and refining the goal, the choices on how to achieve it grow slim. The Pali Canon makes this point: Before his awakening, the Buddha-to-be mastered the practices of two teachers to the extent that each one offered him a place of leadership. He turned them both down because what he had mastered was not what he sought: liberation from the endless cycle of pain and suffering. On the night of his awakening, however,  he saw the whole of the problem and its solution unfold. He became the Buddha not only because he saw and understood the factors of the Eightfold Path, he fully developed them. When that happened realized that “Birth is ended, the holy life fulfilled, the task done. There is nothing further for this world.”*

*The Buddha makes this statement many times in the Pali Canon to describe one who realizes the goal. For various references, see Access to Insight.

Thinking of the body as a bag goes back at least to the Buddha, who sometimes described it as a double-ended sack made of skin and filled with all manner of things, not just bones. He compared the body to an ordinary bag with two ends filled with various grains and beans. Pouring out the contents, a knowledgeable person would be able to distinguish this  grain from that bean. In the same way, a contemplative person would recognize his or her own body as being a collection of things, useful to the whole but undesirable in and of themselves. The Buddha instructed his followers to be mindful that the body was nothing special, just a collection of parts. The parts of the body – 32 of them – become objects of meditation.

Furthermore, the monk reflects on this very body from the soles of the feet on up, from the crown of the head on down, surrounded by skin and full of various kinds of unclean things: ‘In this body there are head hairs, body hairs, nails, teeth, skin, flesh, tendons, bones, bone marrow, kidneys, heart, liver, pleura, spleen, lungs, large intestines, small intestines, gorge, feces, bile, phlegm, pus, blood, sweat, fat, tears, skin-oil, saliva, mucus, fluid in the joints, urine.’ Just as if a sack with openings at both ends were full of various kinds of grain — wheat, rice, mung beans, kidney beans, sesame seeds, husked rice — and a man with good eyesight, pouring it out, were to reflect, ‘This is wheat. This is rice. These are mung beans. These are kidney beans. These are sesame seeds. This is husked rice’; in the same way, the monk reflects on this very body from the soles of the feet on up, from the crown of the head on down, surrounded by skin and full of various kinds of unclean things…

MN 119, Kayagata-sati Sutta

The first five parts of the body – head hair, body hair, nails, teeth, and skin – are the bag and its accessories. The outer parts are what we present to the world. We identify with these parts because they are how we identify ourselves to others. We spend much time and money on these parts, and not always out of necessity. We strive to make ourselves more appealing to others and at the same time distinguish ourselves from them. There are other psycho-social reasons, too, but but I don’t want to wander further into the realm of psychology.

The next 12 parts of the body comprise the solid matter within our double-ended bag of skin. They are seen rarely by anyone except those who would  repair a wound or address an illness. We don’t think too much about these parts unless we are ill or broken. The exception is muscle (flesh), because well-toned muscle enhances the overall appearance of the bag of skin that surrounds it. We give a lot of attention to muscle.

The remaining parts (with the exception of the brain) are produced by the other parts. Most of these parts we take great care to conceal. Sometimes they  come out at unexpected times, often to our great embarrassment.

Note: If you are here for the first time, please take a moment to read the Introduction to the 32-Parts Project in the sidebar for background information.

]]> http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2009/03/13/parts-1-5-the-double-ended-bag/feed/ 0 http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2008/12/11/what-is-a-buddhist-and-am-i-one/ http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2008/12/11/what-is-a-buddhist-and-am-i-one/#comments Thu, 11 Dec 2008 17:20:18 +0000 Paul http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/?p=395 During a conversation among a group of us prior to a formal meditation session several years ago someone said, “I’m not a Buddhist. I just practice the Dharma.” It sounded pompous to me, but I understand where she was coming from. Identifying with being Buddhist is no different from identifying with the body and mind, which is – according to Buddhist doctrine – cause for suffering. The speaker was trying not to identify with Buddhism as a religion. But for what purpose? Why avoid such a common convention?

Imagine someone saying, “I’m not a Christian. I just follow the teachings of Jesus Christ.” Doesn’t that by definition make one a Christian? OK, maybe that’s not a good example, because, first, one has to be baptized to be a Christian. Second, not all Christians follow the teachings of Jesus, so that doesn’t seem to be a prerequisite.

Unlike Christianity, one doesn’t become a Buddhist through the performance of any rite or ritual. One becomes a Buddhist by taking refuge in the Buddha (the teacher), the Dharma (the teachings), and the Sangha (the community of monks and nuns who practice the teachings) – collectively known as the the Three Jewels or Triple Gem. But what does taking refuge mean? 

Historically, common people sought the protection of those who had the capacity to protect them. It was a matter of physical survival. Also, in matters of spiritual survival, people would take refuge in spiritual leaders. Very simple, really. Taking refuge, then as now, is a matter of putting one’s faith in a protector. In this case, the Three Jewels. 

The Buddha teaches the end of suffering. One needs faith that practicing what the Buddha teaches will lead to that end. The only effect of a lack of faith (which implies a lack of skillful practice) is more suffering. It’s not punishment, but a logical consequence.

The teachings of the Buddha are divided into eight categories that instruct on living skillfully, so skillfully that when all these skills are sharpened to perfection, ultimate happiness is realized. In other words, the effect of skillful living is happiness, the effect of unskilful living is unhappiness. The eight categories are known as the Eightfold Path of Right View, Right Thought, Right Speech, Right Action, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Mindfulness, and Right Concentration.

Following the Eightfold Path to the best of one’s ability is practicing the Dharma. Practicing the Dharma is applying the teachings of the Buddha to one’s life. This seems to me a good description of Buddhist. Why not just say so? If that’s what I do – skillfully or not – that’s what I am.

I remember – when Lyndon Johnson ran against Barry Goldwater in 1964 – my father worrying over “the lesser of two evils.” The prospect of nuclear war and a fall to communism were as real then as are the rain and leaves falling into my yard today.

Nixon and Watergate and the CREEP. Carter and Tehran and a suspiciously coincidental release of hostages just as Reagan raises his right hand on the steps of the Capitol. Bush the First and Willie Horton. Clinton’s “that woman” and his definition of “is” leading to Gore’s hanging chads plucked clean by a conservative Supreme Court. Kerry torpedoed by swift-boating veterans for propaganda. Aren’t all elections contentious?

They are. And maybe this current one isn’t any worse than some of the others in US history I’m not immediately familiar with. Still, I think this election may be the most divisive. One thing is sure, there is a lot of anger and hatred out there in “real America.” Ah, yes, divisiveness. Who gets to define “real America,” and why they (we) are angry?

Something else is sure come November 4th. Many millions of people will be relieved and elated. A reciprocal number will be in despair and likely much angrier. One’s mental state on that day will depend not only on the actions of millions of others, but on the actions within one’s own mind.

This campaign has given me a lot to think about regarding equanimity. I confess I haven’t acted with dispassion about some of the things I’ve heard and read about the candidates and their campaigns, but I appreciate the role equanimity plays in keeping my mind from going over the edge into anger or righteousness.

Equanimity has two meanings. The first is what one would expect: evenness of temper, calm, not reactive. The other meaning, specific, I think, to Buddhism, is being equally accepting of everyone and every situation.

Equanimity is one of the four sublime mental states. The others are loving kindness and compassion, both directed toward everyone equally, and an appreciation of the accomplishments of everyone, also spread equally.

Imagine seeing John McCain and Barack Obama as just two people who want the same thing. An equanimous mind would understand not only their suffering, but how it is fueled by their desire to win. An equanimous mind would accept the candidates for who they are – human beings no different in their humanness from each of us.

Beyond the candidates, an equanimous mind would understand how the desire to be on the winning team and the fear of being on the losing team cause stress and suffering for everyone who is part of the drama.

A equanimous mind would accept the outcome of the election for what it is. I’m not suggesting apathy and resignation. Rather, whatever happens, one can respond with dispassion based in wisdom instead of reacting with glee or anger based in delusion. Every day America changes – regardless of who sits behind the big desk.

Equanimity and the other sublime mental states require a mind that is alert to the dangers of destructive mind states. There is a Bush-era bumper sticker that reads: “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.” A Buddha-era bumper sticker may read a bit diffently: “If you’re outraged, you’re not paying attention.” It all depends on your point of view.

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/2008/09/14/right-speech-and-the-politics-of-delusion/ http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/2008/09/14/right-speech-and-the-politics-of-delusion/#comments Mon, 15 Sep 2008 01:39:55 +0000 Paul http://paulgerhards.com/blog_thisisthatis/?p=201 The Middle Way of the Buddha is known as the Eightfold Path. As the name suggests, there are eight factors. These factors are grouped into three categories or aspects: Wisdom, Morality, and Concentration. These aspects interact with and reinforce one another. They are dynamic, and virtuous behavior is at the core like the nucleus of an atom.

Imagine a world where everyone practiced impeccable morality and good virtue. Imagine a place where no one would harm another being in any way. No one would assault, take advantage of, or kill another. No one would steal from another. No one would lie to, insult, or diminish another. People were always kind and generous. However unlikely this scenario, it would be a place of absolute safety. To a Buddhist, this is the purpose of morality – to provide safety to oneself and to others.

The aspect of morality contains three factors: right speech, right action, and right livelihood. How we speak to others (and to ourselves!), how we act, and how we support ourselves in the world are fundamental to a Buddhist way of life. Without morality (indeed, without any of the aspects) the practice cannot be Buddhist.

The Buddha gives four criteria that will ensure one’s speech is in accord with that which promotes goodness rather than harm. Right speech is:

• Truthful
• Harmonious
• Pleasant
• Meaningful

One’s speech is “right” when it embodies these four qualities. It is right because it fosters real safety and tends to shed light upon the darkness of delusion, which is part of the human condition.

If right speech fosters safety, what can be said of “wrong” speech? Wrong speech reinforces and perpetuates doubt and delusion. Wrong speech injures.

Delusion may not be a very nice word to some. It may conjure images of stupid or crazy. What delusion means – from a Buddhist perspective – becomes clearer when you think in terms of its opposite: wisdom. A person who possesses wisdom does necessarily possess a high IQ or an utterly sane mind – both of which are relative states.

Think of wisdom and delusion as reciprocal states. The more wise a person becomes, the less deluded.

Consider how you would answer these two questions: Are you wise? Are you deluded? Most people, I think, would deny both, for a wise person would not likely brag about it. A deluded person would not likely have the wisdom to know it, so would react with indignation.

With this as background, I turn to the current election and the role speech plays in the campaigns.

When voters like and believe in what they hear from a candidate, they “jump on the bandwagon.” To keep voters on the bandwagon – and more importantly to keep them from jumping to the other guy’s – candidates try to ensure that the other guy’s party is not where voters want to be. Sometimes the tactics used to gain and keep voters are less than honest, designed more to delude and confuse rather than to shed light on important issues. At some point truth becomes irrelevant to both the ticket and the electorate who would vote for it.

Where in all of this is right speech? Is what the candidates (and their supporters) say truthful, harmonious, pleasant, and meaningful? Does what they say foster clarity and insight, or induce doubt and perpetuate delusion?

When a candidate is less than honest with voters – intentionally less than honest – in a campaign, can that candidate, once elected, be expected to be honest with the United States citizenry during the normal course of business? Or would such an executive continue a pattern of deluding the public?

And what of the voters who would ignore evidence of deception and vote merely on emotion? Are they wise? Are they deluded? Are they capable of knowing the difference?

Can there be anything right about speech that is intended to divide, confuse, mislead, and further delude the electorate in an effort to inspire disdain – if not hatred – for the opposition? Is such speech wise? Is it moral?

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