The Naked Monk

Author Archive

I’m reading in depth about the ancient philosophers and discovering they had far more in common with the Buddha (and vice-versa) than either my old philosophy professors or my Tibetan teachers would care to admit. In fact, I’ve learned that Siddhattha, who later became the Buddha, was very possibly schooled in Taxila — an outpost of the Greek empire established by Alexander the Great — where he would certainly have encountered Greek thinking.

Among ancient philosophers, Philo of Alexandria is one of the most ignored –  possibly because he was a Jew. He lived from 20 BCE to 50 CE. Curiously, the first people to take notice of him were the early Christians — daring, iconoclastic Jews — who were actually a far cry from present-day church people. Anyway, no belief (or disbelief) needed: here is the human mind at its best.

“Every person – whether Greek or Barbarian – who is in training for wisdom, leading a blameless, irreproachable life, chooses neither to commit injustice nor return it unto others, but to avoid the company of busybodies, and hold in contempt the places where they spend their time – courts, councils, marketplaces, assemblies – in short, every kind of meeting or reunion of thoughtless people. As their goal is a life of peace and serenity, they contemplate nature and everything found within her: they attentively explore the earth, the sea, the air, the sky, and every nature found therein. In thought, they accompany the moon, the sun, and the rotations of the other stars, whether fixed or wandering. Their bodies remain on earth, but they give wings to their souls, so that, rising into the ether, they may observe the powers which dwell there, as is fitting for those who have truly become citizens of the world. Such people consider the whole world as their city, and its citizens are the companions of wisdom; they have received their civic rights from virtue, which has been entrusted with presiding over the universal commonwealth. Thus, filled with every excellence, they are accustomed no longer to take account of physical discomforts or exterior evils, and they train themselves to be indifferent to indifferent things; they are armed against both pleasures and desires, and, in short, they always strive to keep themselves above passions … they do not give in under the blows of fate, because they have calculated its attacks in advance (for foresight makes easier to bear even the most difficult of the things that happen against our will; since then the mind no longer supposes what happens to be strange and novel, but its perception of them is dulled, as if it had to do with old and worn-out things). It is obvious that people such as these, who find their joy in virtue, celebrate a festival their whole life long. To be sure, there is only a small number of such people; they are like embers of wisdom kept smouldering in our cities, so that virtue may not be altogether snuffed out and disappear from our race. But if only people everywhere felt the same way as this small number, and became as nature meant for them to be: blameless, irreproachable, and lovers of wisdom, rejoicing in the beautiful just because it is beautiful, and considering that there is no other good besides it … then our cities would be brimful of happiness. They would know nothing of the things that cause grief and fear, but would be so filled with the causes of joy and well-being that there would be no single moment in which they would not lead a life full of joyful laughter; indeed, the whole cycle of the year would be a festival for them.”

Philo Judaeus, Philo Judaeus of Alexandria, Yedidia or Philo the Jew, was an Hellenistic Jewish Biblical philosopher born in Alexandria. More information here.

Sorry to all my faithful readers for the long delay in new postings to this blog. I simply overestimated by time management skills. Shouldn’t be long ….

Listening to the radio news the other night, I heard for the first time about Jacques Delisle, a Former Quebec Appeal Court justice charged in a Quebec courtroom this week with first-degree murder in the death of his wife.

My first reaction was a sigh. This comes in the same week that a commission of inquiry examines allegations of partisan interference in the selection of Quebec judges. Over the years I’ve heard personal anecdotal stories of judges that I can’t repeat because they’d be libelous, but which I tend to believe. There’s something comforting in the thought that the powerful are probably more corrupt than the rest of us; perhaps it justifies our powerlessness.

Delisle was called to the bar in 1958, named a Superior Court judge in 1983, and promoted to the Quebec Court of Appeal in 1992. He also faces a charge of possessing an illegal firearm.

His wife Marie-Nicole Rainville’s death was originally classified as a suicide, but police reversed the finding following a lengthy investigation into the death of the 71-year-old woman. Details are covered by a publication ban.

The more I listened, the more I sickened to think that someone like this had held judicial power over hundreds of people and participated in the formation of public policy. The feeling merged with my general distrust of public figures, known instances of betrayal by public officials and a growing sense of cynicism about our society, a realisation of powerlessness and, above all, a feeling of us and them.

As the announcer wound down his long report about the caution of the police and courts in pursuit of this arrest, I was filled with disgust. Almost as an afterthought, he closed his report with the statement that “Delisle’s wife had been seriously ill for some time.”

My judgements came tumbling down around my ears. Suddenly there was no more ‘us and them;’ I was in this man’s shoes, respecting the possibility that he might have done the unthinkable to end her suffering. My wife Caroline has made it clear in no uncertain terms that should her MS ever bring her to a state of total disability, she wouldn’t want to be kept hanging on. Of course, I respect her wishes. Given a legitimate choice I’d perhaps make the right decision. But what if I weren’t given that choice, and was left to watch her suffer without respite? Would my commitment to those wishes override all other considerations?

If this story actually turns out to be one of compassion, and not of conjugal violence as I’d cynically assumed, Judge Delisle may lose his liberty—and gain my respect.

We talk of ‘the media’ as if it’s an entity in its own right, but in the end it’s just people under pressure putting stories together. Even when those stories are factually accurate, they still have to pass through the filter of our prejudices and emotional needs before they settle in our consciousness. Unfortunately, we’re not answerable to anyone for our judgements until we express them. More often than not they’re half-baked, flimsy and based on habitual thinking; if we do express them it’s usually to enable the cynicism of others and believe ourselves smugly right because they agree. It’s comforting to know that we’re not alone in our prejudices. Is this how our society has grown so cynical?

In this instance the facts jarred sufficiently for me to question myself, but how often is that not the case? How often do I just jump to convenient conclusions? If I can’t blame things on the powers that be, I can always shift the blame to ‘the media’ for the way they presented ‘the facts.’ Either way I remain, in my own eyes, as pure as the driven snow.

This realisation isn’t very flattering. It reminds me of how much rubbish goes through my head under the pretext of common sense. The price of integrity is the abandonment of beliefs that we hold simply because they’re comfortably familiar. Sometimes we’re our own worst enemies; how often are we willing to admit that?

Unlike most self-employed people, I’m quite content when things slow down. I have half a dozen projects on the go that, since they don’t produce any short-term income, usually take second place. Slow business enables me to work on my blog, my new book or my website makeover.

Sometimes, however, things are too slow. The recession that’s put millions out of work around the world seemed at first to not affect me, but last autumn I noticed that funds were not dribbling into my reserves any more; in fact, they were seeping out.

My first reaction was to assure myself that this was a blip on the radar, and that things would work out; I’d be a financial optimist. I recalled that I’ve always managed to land on my feet; that I don’t live in a war zone or a failed state; that I have resources.

Of course, that’s in the cold light of day. In the middle of the night, when panic sets in, I see money flowing out like a babbling brook down a steep mountainside. Worse, I slip one notch lower and see the universe holding me to account for my true nature: a failed human being, finally exposed for who I am.

Sometimes I have to actually get out of bed to shake off demons like this—I can’t do it in that half-conscious state that’s so susceptible to wild imaginings. It takes a few minutes, but I soon get a grip and realise that failure is just a way of seeing myself — a choice, though a subconscious and automated one.

I remember other times, when in a similar state of semi-slumber I saw the whole universe aligned with my hopes, sending bright rainbows to guide my way and pots of gold to reward me. In those times, I see another true self: this time a happy child of bounty!

It never ceases to amaze me how I get trapped by this nonsense—how on earth can I fall for such one-dimensional claptrap as my ‘true nature?’ My visions of total failure and utter success haven’t the least connection with reality; they’re just ways of seeing myself or, as Buddhists would say, seeing my self.

Notwithstanding the cute language, they’ve got a point. In this case, there’s clearly no such a person as ‘Stephen the total failure’ or ‘Stephen the bounteous boy.’ These aren’t just inaccuracies in need of correction; they’re complete fabrications with no bearing on reality.

Actually, that’s not true, and here lies the tragedy, I know from hard and embarrassing experience that I’ve at times fallen for them hook line and sinker, and they’ve guided my footsteps in very real ways. Visions of heaven and hell are interconnected. The harder I try to maintain the optimistic view, the sooner it collides with reality and leaves me with the pessimistic one. It’s a vicious, self-destructive cycle.

In these moments of lucidity I remember that those who present ‘spirituality’ as a wonderful world of positive thinking are off their rocker. I step into the spiritual life when I realise that the reality before me is workable, not a heaven- or hell-sent scenario; that the best perspective is one without projections of hope and fear. Then I can take stock of my situation, explore my resources and prosper.

Survival isn’t just a way of getting by; it’s a great teacher, a reminder that the spiritual life is material, and the material is spiritual. We can’t wrest one side of our nature from the other; we need both, and we need them integrated.

I’m still a little conflicted in my relationship to Buddhism. I study the Buddhist scriptures with, in anything, more interest than ever, but I stubbornly refuse to call myself a Buddhist. Why? Because I don’t belong (or wish to belong) to any particular tradition. Am I being honest, or ornery?

By conventional standards, I’m not a Buddhist. Just as a Christian must be baptized to enter the Church, an orthodox Buddhist is someone who takes refuge in the Three Jewels—the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha. There’s a ceremony for just that, and most Buddhists recite a prayer of refuge daily. I don’t do that now, although I did many years ago, and reiterated it in my ordinations as a novice, and then as a fully ordained bikkhu. Ostensibly, one is declaring fealty to the Buddha, faith in the words of the scriptures and loyalty to the congregation of fellow refugees. As the word implies, there’s a sense of fleeing something harmful—the undirected, unmindful life; as the explanation implies, there’s something religious and consolatory about the act of refuge.

I have many friends who are avid Buddhists. Much to my surprise Stephen Batchelor, the most notorious of them, opens a 2009 Dutch TV documentary with the statement: “I’m a Buddhist.” Nevertheless, I can’t join them—not in that way, anyhow. I feel amply connected to them through our common humanity, but am rather put off by labels of affiliation. Similarly, although I was born and raised in England, spiritually formed among Tibetans and have lived in Canada longer than anywhere else, I feel no loyalty towards any place more than the planet itself—our poor, overburdened mother Earth.

I take refuge in unorthodox ways that are legitimate for me: in the Buddha, as awakening itself; in the dharma, as the practice of mindful reflection; and in the sangha, as people of like mind. You see my dilemma? Many Jews, Muslims, Christians and atheists fit that mould perfectly well, while many Buddhists don’t. Sorry, no names, though you could always start with the ruling junta of Myanmar.

So there’s the logic of it, aka my rationalization. As for the real reason, it’s emotional of course. Although I’ve spent much of my life in visceral search of belonging, when push comes to shove I never last long. I was a miserable boy scout, a negligent schoolboy, an awful Catholic and an ungrateful Buddhist. I don’t like to be pigeonholed, nor expected to be good by other people’s standards. What gives enthusiastic members a sense of security makes me question my motives. I never quite figured out how to reconcile loyalty and honesty.

Besides, whether I like it or not, I seem to be a square peg.