The Naked Monk

Archive for the ‘The Power of Doubt’ Category

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.

I mentioned in my last entry Glenn Wallis, scholar, translator, teacher, author. He set up our Philadelphia trip last week, as a result of which I was able for the first time to sit down with him face-to-face. While there’s always a difference between friends and acquaintances; with Glenn, it was as if we’d been friends for years.

I first met him by email after reading his book, Basic Teachings of the Buddha — the work of an eminently independent mind. In his introduction (which I wish all Buddhists would read, even if they disagree) he describes young Siddhattha — the Buddha — as a “bombastic braggadocio” who claims shortly after his historic awakening to “have no equal” (Ariyapariyesana Sutta). This isn’t to say that he’s down on the Buddha — quite the contrary; it’s just that he’s boldly staking out his personal opinion that the man was, well, just a man who took a while to refine his message. In so doing, Wallis reminds us that all those who claim to be the Buddha’s rightful heirs, as well, are just expressing their own personal opinion, ancient traditions notwithstanding.

The various Buddhist faithfuls, each seemingly innoculated by the weight of its own ancient roots (Theravadin, Tibetan, Japanese, etc.) presume themselves to be pristine — a claim I really can’t imagine the Buddha supporting. As is becoming increasingly apparent in these secular days, monolithic institutions encourage believers to believe what they believe because their elders want them to and most of the people they know go along with the charade. This is a human weakness unworthy of anyone claiming to follow the Buddha. Siddhattha Gotama tirelessly championed the precarious art of thinking and discovering for oneself.

Out of the thousands of Buddhist sutras, Wallis has strategically chosen sixteen, and translated them. These are the core of the book, but not the whole. The introduction is lengthy, innovative  and informative, and his explanatory Guide to Reading the Texts is challenging and thoughtful. In a field where the preeminent approach is conservative guardianship, his creativity is a breath of fresh air and a reminder that the Buddha taught for the sake of living human beings, not to create an indestructable institution. The whole is a slim but intense resource for anyone who’s ever sat back and imagined what it must have been like to walk with the man from Sakya twenty-six hundred years ago.

*       *       *

Until I met him last week, I presumed Glenn to be a product of the religous studies department of Harvard University, where he obtained his PhD. I learned instead that he considers himself primarily a philologist — someone who studies texts, not beliefs. (Before that, incidentally, he was a high-school dropout and touring punk rocker.) While religious Buddhists study the very same texts, it’s exceedingly rare to see them leave their devotional agenda behind. The hands-off attitude of textual analysis leaves more room for discovery, innovation — and inconvenient interpretations — not to mention glimpses of the Buddha’s humanity. For example, the words of the Ariyapariyesana Sutta have been around for millennia, but who in that time has ever made the apparently self-evident observation that the young founder of Buddhism sounded like a “bombastic braggadocio?” To the religious ear, it just won’t do; to the disinterested reader, however, it’s sort of obvious. Wallis goes to some lengths to describe the relationship of the text to the reader and of course, encourages a disinterested reading in the strongest possible way.

Which is where I stand up and applaud. I’m eternally grateful to my old Tibetan teachers, and wouldn’t dream of discouraging young men and women from entering monastic life if they’re so inclined.  I trust the Buddha’s teachings to lead those with little dust in their eyes to a place of dispassionate honesty about what they’re learning and how they’re learning it.  However, the dangers of institutional ‘truths’ are legion; they must be constantly challenged by knowledgeable dissenters and not just by opinionated outsiders.

Don’t just read Basic Teachings of the Buddha; study it. You might hate the translations of what you thought were familiar terms. Fine — disagree strenuously if it’s in your bones, but articulate your disagreement. On the Amazon listing for this book, a reviewer wrote that he preferred another translation. If you can’t read the original Pali or Sanskrit, it’s a mistake to ‘prefer’ one translation over another; serious readers will study several. All those who can, should contribute to any debate that prevents old institutions and automated beliefs from slipping into the numbing slumbers of the sacrosanct.

Diligence is the path to the deathless.
Negligence is the path of death.
The diligent do not die.
Those who are negligent are as the dead.
—The Buddha, Dhammapada 21 [trans. Glenn Wallis]