The Business of Buddhism

One of the things that I have always enjoyed about the Buddhist tradition is that from the time of the Buddha the teachings were always offered freely.

India must have been quite something around 2400 B.C.E. when the Buddha lived. To this day India is a country where spiritual seekers are revered and admired. Even given the tensions between Hindus and Muslims there are still more Muslims living in India than there are in Pakistan. When I was in India I experienced admiration for the fact that I had traveled from the U.S. on a spiritual pilgrimage, despite the fact that there are very few Buddhists in India today. I got the impression that anyone who has a religious path is respected there, even if you are from a different tradition.

At the time of the Buddha there was a kind of religious infrastructure for spiritual seekers. The mainstream religion at the time was Brahmanism, the precursor to Hinduism. The counter to the mainstream religion was a motley group of seekers called samana. They represented a wide variety of views. The Buddha was a samana. The Jains, who still exist, were another. A number of samana groups and teachers are mentioned in the Buddhist canonical literature.

The samana were part of a religious pact with larger Indian society. Outside of each city was a park in which the samana could stay. Each morning after the morning meal the samana went on alms rounds. The samana asked only for this one meal a day – leftovers from the morning meal – a place to sleep, and basic requisites like robes and medicine. In return they dedicated their lives to spiritual seeking. It was a sort of low budget version of the philosophers in Greece. (See note 1.)

Parts of that tradition remain in some Buddhist schools today. In particular the Forest traditions of Thailand still eat only one meal a day, take vows of poverty, and only live on the four requisites: clothing (an allowance of three sets of robes), shelter, food and medicine.

In return for their one free lunch they dedicate their lives to the spiritual life, and when asked, they teach. It is also part of the Buddhist tradition that when asked, no monk or nun may refuse a request to teach. It is a beautiful and simple arrangement that brings honor to both the monastics who live this life and the lay people who support them. (See note 2.)

On one of the very first meditation retreats that I attended I was given a talk on this tradition, on how the teachings have always been freely offered. I’m not sure when it began to dawn on me – it may have been at this retreat – that since I was paying about $800 for the retreat, and then being told that the cost of the retreat only paid for a portion of the actual cost, and further that the teachers were not being paid out of that amount, that somehow this didn’t feel like the teachings were being freely offered. At the end of these retreats you are always given this talk and asked for donations for the teacher and the retreat center.

I have attended most of my retreats at the Insight Meditation Society (IMS) and the Barre Center for Buddhist Studies (BCBS), sister organizations in Barre, Massachusetts. As I write this I believe that the median cost of a retreat is about $95 a day. This does not, as I said, cover the full cost of the retreat and it does not pay for the teachers. In addition, in order to keep costs down you are assigned a work job. I think what IMS and BCBS charge is probably average in the Buddhist industry. All in all I could stay at a Motel 6 and get a veggie sub for less than half the cost per day of going to IMS, and I would get maid service and cable to boot.

The local Zen center here in Vermont charges what amounts to a tithing fee. When you join you are given a form on which you pledge how much you are going to give the center every month. And I can tell you from direct experience that when you miss a payment or two, you will hear about it.

To be sure there are a few places that still operate in the traditional way. The Bhavana Society and Monastery in West Virginia does not charge for retreats and they do not ask for donations when you go there. This is true as well for the Metta Forest Monastery in California and Arrow River Hermitage (See note 3) in Ontario. They exist solely on donations that are freely offered, and they do not do fund raising.

In addition, Western Buddhism in particular has a tradition of dubious merit, and that is of the lay teacher. Lay teachers teach meditation as a way to earn a living. This puts lay teachers in a precarious position. In order to earn a living, they have to attract students. To attract students you need to have a certain entertainment value. Students have to feel as if they are getting their money’s worth.

I have even noticed that meditation students have a peculiar way in which they refer to a “good retreat.” A “good retreat” is often a code word for an entertaining and charismatic teacher, one who is funny, tells good stories, and who has “presence”. It often has little to do with whether the student made good progress on the path, something that – while it can be – is not always fun, entertaining or pleasant.

One of my favorite teachers – who shall remain nameless – is not very charismatic or entertaining. But I have great respect for his practice, his knowledge, and his ability as a teacher. His retreats routinely draw 6 or 8 students where 30 or more is the norm. He apparently does not give very “good retreats”.

The Buddha himself warned people about the problems of being charmed by a religious teacher who is – to use Robert Thurman’s words – “too cute.” Just because someone can give a good speech doesn’t mean they know what they are talking about.

I read an interview years ago with a monastic – I think it was Pema Chodron – who said that when she goes to a conference of lay teachers, their main topic of discussion is how to make money, and when she goes to a conference of monastic teachers the main topic of discussion is how to teach the Dhamma.

Even Joseph Goldstein, who co-founded IMS and BCBS (as well as the equally expensive Forest Refuge) calls this the Upper Middle Way.

This is all very unfortunate. I don’t see anything wrong with people teaching meditation who are not monastics. But it is in my mind disrespectful to the Buddha himself as well as the tradition to be charging for it. If you want to teach the Dhamma, the first thing you should do is figure out how to support yourself. That would be something to respect.

You don’t need private rooms and three meals a day – or even one fancy one – to practice meditation. There are ways to live simply, very, very simply. And perhaps in situations like this, people worry a little less about their food and accommodations and the entertainment value of the retreat, and a little more about their practice.

Note 1. Curiously, as Rupert Gethin points out in his outstanding book “The Foundations of Buddhism”, over time what happened in Buddhism was that the more sincere and austere the monk, the more gifts were offered to them. The monasteries that often became the biggest were the ones where the teachers and the monastics initially lived in the greatest poverty and the poorest conditions. It was the law of reverse effort in affect, where the poorer the monk the more money came their way. Some monasteries acquired a great deal of land and this became a serious problem. Some great monks ended up fleeing the big, affluent monasteries to seek out greater simplicity, only to attract a new legion of admiring lay people who wanted to support them. Perhaps there is a lesson in this for Western meditation teachers.

Note 2. It is also worth noting that when Buddhism got to China, which did not have same religious support system as in India, Buddhist monks adopted the credo “A day without work is a day without food.” Monks and nuns there were expected to earn their keep. The monasteries supported themselves.

Note 3. When Arrow River first opened they supported the center by building furniture. Unfortunately their wood shop burned down. Nonetheless this is a good example of how to support a center, more on the Chinese model.

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Putting Your Story To Rest

Everybody has a movie, starring me, directed by me, produced by me, written by me… it’s all about me –

Larry Rosenberg, Cambridge Insight Meditation Center

Everybody has a story and we like to spend our time and energy telling and adding to that story. But ultimately, Buddhist practice is about doing an end run around the story. The story goes from being in the foreground to being in the background, what one Zen teacher called “the scenery of your life.”

I went to a retreat some years ago with Larry Rosenberg. About halfway through the retreat he said that in the personal interviews half the people reported that they were in relationships and wanted to be out of them, and the other half of the people were out of relationships and wanted to be in one. (I always tell that to people who are suffering from relationship angst.)

He went on to tell this story. Jack Kornfield was running a retreat, and in one of his talks he said something like, “All of you have a story. But I can tell you that everyone one of us who teaches this stuff (meditation), we don’t care.”

This, of course, elicited a laugh, but it is a point worth making.

Meditation is often used as a way to make our story better, or at least more comfortable. We have a job we don’t like, a bad marriage, trouble with our kids or parents, whatever it might be. That’s the story. And we don’t want to feel quite so stressed out about it. That’s understandable. So we take up meditation.

This makes meditation a form of psychotherapy. As has been noted many times, the purpose of therapy is to take people who are dys-functionally neurotic and make them functionally neurotic. Now there is nothing wrong with that. If you are not functioning, becoming functionally neurotic probably looks pretty good.

But the purpose of the Buddhist path is to become free from suffering altogether. In that sense it does an end run around the story. And by “end run” I don’t mean avoiding the story. The story is where you start, and everything in your story has to be at ease. That is the main intention of the precepts, to get your moral house in order. But in meditation ultimately you are not trying to make a better story; you are trying to end it.

It is like an old house that has a crooked roof and sagging walls. You can straighten out the roof and the walls after a fashion, but the real problem is in the foundation. What you really need to do is jack up the house, straighten out the foundation, and then put the house back down. You don’t have to straighten out the walls; that will happen on its own.

Now a lot of people – and I am one of them – start out in practice just trying to find a little more peace in their lives. There is certainly nothing wrong with that. The Buddha himself used to give advice to people in all walks of life to help them find a little more peace and happiness. He had advice for kings, merchants, husbands and wives, and it was all to help them lead happier, more skillful lives.

However, it is very helpful if at a certain point you can leave that motivation behind and set your sight on a new prize. Even before you feel you can do that, it is helpful to keep in mind that there is something much better than learning how to create more frequent instances of conditioned happiness. The end game in the Buddhist path is unconditioned happiness.

The story, of course, does get better along the way, but not because you are trying to make it better. It happens because that is a side affect of straightening the foundation.

I know of at least one very prominent Buddhist teacher who says that in the West Buddhism has found its voice (my words, not his) in psychotherapy. In his view the obvious path for Buddhism to take in the West is by forming an alliance with Western psychotherapy.

I think that would be unfortunate. It is certainly fine if therapists find some useful tools in Buddhist meditation. But there is a much greater path out there. It is the path of complete freedom.

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The Buddha Wasn’t Kidding – Really

When I first started to meditate it was in a Zen practice. We were told mainly to “just sit.” If any question or problem came up, the instruction was the same, to “just keep sitting”. To this day the words “resume zazen” pop into my head, and that was 20 years ago.

After 5 years of not really getting anywhere, I started the switch to what is commonly called “Vipassana” or “insight” meditation. (Note 1.) Here I was given instructions to follow the breath and to try not to move for the duration of the sitting, which was typically 45 minutes. This is very hard for an inexperienced meditator, at least it was for me. Mainly I remember a lot of knee pain. If you had asked my honest definition of meditation at that point it would have been “knee pain”.

To be sure, and to be fair, I was given lots and lots (and lots and lots and lots) of instruction on how to handle this and other situations when they arose. But it is like that old line about draining the swamp:

“The objective of all dedicated [meditators] is to thoroughly analyze all situations, anticipate all problems prior to their occurrence, have answers for these problems, and move swiftly to solve these problems when called upon. However, when you are up to your ass in alligators, it is difficult to remember that your initial objective was to drain the swamp [a.k.a. follow the breath].”

It was actually worse than that. I was in many group interviews when someone would describe – finally! – attaining some peace and calm and tranquility, and inevitably they would be sternly warned “not to get stuck there.” Certainly no one was ever encouraged to explore and cultivate that territory. Not ever. Not once.

By the time I started reading the Majjhima Nikaya – the Middle Length Discourses of the Buddha – I had been practicing about 7 years as I recall. I got quite a different picture of Buddhist practice and the Buddhist path than what I had been taught. For one thing, I kept reading over and over about “jhana”. In all my years of practice I had never even heard the word.

The word “jhana” means “absorption.” (Note 2.) It is a calm or tranquility practice. In the original texts the word jhana applied only to what later became known as the “four material jhanas”. The jhanas are simply numbered 1 through 4. Each jhana has “jhana factors” that defined it. For example, the first jhana has five factors: applied thought, examination, one pointedness, rapture and happiness.

There were also four “immaterial states” that came to be known as the “immaterial jhanas”, and were numbered 5 through 8. In the immaterial jhanas, the meditator loses the sense of a body. Jhana 5 is the “base of boundless space”, jhana 6 is the “base of boundless consciousness” and so forth.

The Buddha really emphasized jhanas 1-4 as being the important ones for becoming enlightened. But all of the jhanas were well known and practiced by the Buddha’s followers. This is quite clear from reading the texts.

So having read the Majjhima Nikaya I became interested in jhana. It certainly seemed to me that attaining liberation was done through first mastering the jhanas. I went looking for any books I could find and at that time I could only find one. It was Bhante Gunuratana’s book The Path of Serenity and Insight. Even though it was in English, the only publisher was in India. I ordered a copy and two weeks later a rather battered volume showed up in a bubble wrap package with lots of stamps on it.

I couldn’t really make much sense of it. To be sure, it has been quite a while since I read it, and the problem is probably mine and not the book’s. I was in a little over my head at the time, jhanically speaking.

Years passed and it started to dawn on me that jhana was sort of the Buddhist equivalent of gay marriage. Teachers who knew the jhanas were actually afraid to teach them. Ayya Khema, in the 1980’s, would only teach them if her students stumbled across them. One of the Buddhist magazines (I think it was Buddhadharma) devoted a whole issue to jhana, and I can remember thinking, “Uh, oh.” Sure enough, in the next issue the letters to the editor were full if vitriolic letters warning everyone about the dangers of practicing jhana. It was like listening to Fox News describe Democrats.

But I knew what I had read, and I knew this was an important teaching. Fortunately over the years teaching jhana started to come out of the closet somewhat. A few more books were published, a few more articles in magazines were published (and subsequently hammered), and occasionally you could even find a retreat at which jhana was taught.

Unfortunately this was not the norm. There is a tradition – I think it comes from Burma – that teaches “dry insight”. “Dry insight” is enlightenment without jhana. There is an obscure rationale for dry insight that has to do with a particular reading of a sutta by Ananda in the Anguttara Nikaya. But even that interpretation has been largely disputed. It seems rather clear that to the Buddha the path to enlightenment went through the jhanas.

I started trying to do the practice on my own, using what I had read, talks I found on the Internet, and so forth. Unfortunately the way jhana is taught varies widely, and many teachers teach an approach that is attainable by very few people and requires months on retreat. This didn’t quite jive with what I had read either.

Nonetheless, I started to see some of the benefits of the concentration practice. While I didn’t (or didn’t think I did) attain jhana, I was much calmer, more tranquil, happier. I enjoyed sitting more, much more. And further I came to believe that the distinction between concentration practice and insight practice was somewhat arbitrary. In fact, I now know that on some occasions I was attaining jhana, but I did it through doing what are nominally insight practices. Conversely, I found that when I was very concentrated, insights would arise.

Finally I went to a jhana retreat where I was able to learn how to enter and recognize most of the jhanas. I also found a small handful of other meditators who were doing jhana. To a person they all agree that the boogey-man status of jhana is unwarranted. In fact, I don’t think I have ever heard someone who does jhana practice who made any of the criticism of it that people who have never done it do.

In fact, this is a very beautiful practice. The Buddha made a distinction between sense pleasure, which he said gets us into all kinds of trouble, and “pleasure born of seclusion.” This was the pleasure he allowed himself. It is very beautiful and very beneficial. The first time that I experienced true equanimity it was in jhana. The first time that I experienced true metta (boundless love for all beings), it was due to jhana. The first time that I got a true sense of what dukkha is and what liberation is was in jhana.

Further, I began to read from teachers who know this practice that the only people they know who are enlightened got there by doing jhana.

For me personally this was quite a sense of relief. After well over a decade of chasing the ideas that I had read about, I was beginning to see it show up, nipping at the edges of mainstream Western Buddhism. I didn’t feel stuck on an island quite as much.

Just this past February Thanissaro Bhikkhu published a book called “With Each and Every Breath”. This book, better than any other, describes the path as I understand it was meant to be. I highly recommend it. It is available for free as an eBook (http://www.dhammatalks.org/ebook_index.html) or you can write the monastery and they will send you a free copy of it. And jhana is certainly one of the centerpieces of what he teaches.

I also recommend Thanissaro’s article One Tool Among Many (http://www.accesstoinsight.org/lib/authors/thanissaro/onetool.html). The (first big) paragraph always makes me laugh because it is such a perfect summary of what I was taught for so many years. Thanissaro goes on to make the case for jhana much better than I can.

It is time for jhana to come out of the closet. You know, when the Buddha taught something, he wasn’t kidding. I know that sounds funny, but I am amazed at how many intelligent, educated, “qualified” people read something the Buddha said, and simply blow right past it. When he said something, he meant it, and he was a pretty wise person.

1.) As Thanissaro Bhikkhu points out, the Buddha never taught anything called “Vipassana” or “insight” meditation. He used the terms samatha and vipassana as two qualities of the mind to be developed together.

2.) Thanissaro Bhikku gives a particularly poetic description of the word “jhana.”

The word [the Buddha] uses for going to meditate is “to go do jhana”—jhayati is the verb in Pali. It’s a homonym with a verb for burning, as when a flame burns steadily. They have lots of different words for burning in Pali—words for raging fires, words for smoldering fires—but the verb for a steady burn, as in the flame of an oil lamp, is jhayati. And the same verb is used for doing jhana. As you practice concentration, you try to make the mind burn steadily, with a clean, clear flame.

http://www.dhammatalks.org/Archive/Writings/CrossIndexed/Published/Meditations2/040717%20M2%20Go,%20Do%20Jhana.pdf

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The Buddha and His Son

sariputta.and.rahula

There is a quite endearing discourse by the Buddha in the Majjhima Nikaya called Advice to Rahula at Ambalatthka (Ambalatthaka means “Mango Grove”). What makes it endearing isn’t so much the content as the context. Rahula was the Buddha’s son.

The Buddha left home on his spiritual quest when he was 26. His father – Suddhodana (soo-DOH-dah-nah) – was the raja, the leader, of the Indian republic of Shakya. Suddhodana wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, but there are indications that from the very beginning that Siddhartha – the future Buddha – was pretty unhappy about being coerced in this way. There is further speculation that Siddhartha made a deal with his father that he – Siddhartha – could leave on his spiritual journey after producing an heir.

Siddhartha was married to an attractive young woman named “Yasodhara” (yah-SHO-dah-rah). They had been married for some time without having any children. Finally Yasodhara got pregnant, gave birth to a son, and to much weeping and wailing – according to canonical sources – Siddhartha left the palace, donning the robes of samana – a renunciate. He didn’t exactly leave as the umbilical cord was being cut, but there wasn’t much lag time, either.

Siddhartha became enlightened after a 6-year effort, and after his enlightenment he eventually made his way back to Shakya. It must have been some scene. Siddhartha was now the Buddha, wearing the robes of a beggar, returning to the place where he was once on a par with royalty. His parents probably had a hard time knowing what to make of their son. Yasodhara was – not surprisingly – not all that happy with her husband. She rather testily told Rahula to go to the Buddha to “collect his inheritance.” The Buddha, of course, having taken a vow of poverty, didn’t have a material inheritance. However, Rahula became a monk, and that turned out to be a pretty good proxy.

So to set the scene for this discourse, Rahula is now seven years old. According to the sutta, the Buddha “arose from his seclusion in the late afternoon”, and sought out his son.

This is pretty unusual to begin with. The Buddha hardly ever sought out anyone to give them a teaching. He had plenty of people who came to him, and for the most part this is how he operated. But on this occasion he sought out Rahula.

Next, according to the discourse, Rahula, seeing his father coming, “set out a seat and water for washing his feet.” When the Buddha sat down, Rahula washed his father’s feet, and then sat down to his side, which was a way of showing respect.

This is really quite a scene. Rahula, of course, had not seen his father for the first six years of his life. He probably barely knew him at this point. And for crying out loud has dad returns and he’s the Buddha. That is pretty powerful stuff. So now this little boy is going to get a teaching from his Buddha-dad.

What follows is very typical of the Indian philosophical tradition. Discourses were given in a rather exhaustive way. All of the cases are broken down and itemized. Many of the Buddha’s discourses – rather famously – are lists, but many go one step further and are matrices. This discourse is like that.

The Buddha is giving a teaching about how to know if your conduct is proper. In Buddhist thinking, there are three kinds of actions: actions of the body, actions of speech, and actions of the mind. The latter can be a little hard to understand at first. It helps, I think, to remember that in the Buddha’s understanding, actions have karmic results. Take something simple, like speaking harshly to someone. You might feel guilty about that later. That is an example of a karmic result. An unskillful act of speech had a harmful karmic result. You felt bad about it.

Actions of the mind can also be that way. If you feel a lot of hatred, it doesn’t make you happy. It’s a negative feeling. Likewise, if you remember someone fondly it makes you happy. There is a positive result from a positive mental “action.”

So one side of the matrix is complete. We have a list of types of actions: body, speech and mind.

The other dimension of the matrix is whether the action a) has not yet happened, b) is currently happening, or c) has already happened. Thus there are bodily actions about to happen, that are currently happening, and that have already happened, etc. The Buddha walks through each one of these in turn. Here is his first case:

“Whenever you want to do a bodily action, you should reflect on it: ‘This bodily action I want to do — would it lead to self-affliction, to the affliction of others, or to both? Would it be an unskillful bodily action, with painful consequences, painful results?’ If, on reflection, you know that it would lead to self-affliction, to the affliction of others, or to both; it would be an unskillful bodily action with painful consequences, painful results, then any bodily action of that sort is absolutely unfit for you to do. But if on reflection you know that it would not cause affliction… it would be a skillful bodily action with pleasant consequences, pleasant results, then any bodily action of that sort is fit for you to do.”

Like many of the Buddha’s teachings, this one is remarkably simple. It’s pretty practical and it certainly isn’t rocket science. Don’t do something that will cause harm; do things that will be of benefit. Here is the after case:

“Having done a bodily action, you should reflect on it: ‘This bodily action I have done — did it lead to self-affliction, to the affliction of others, or to both? Was it an unskillful bodily action, with painful consequences, painful results?’ If, on reflection, you know that it led to self-affliction, to the affliction of others, or to both; it was an unskillful bodily action with painful consequences, painful results, then you should confess it, reveal it, lay it open to the Teacher or to a knowledgeable companion in the holy life. Having confessed it… you should exercise restraint in the future. But if on reflection you know that it did not lead to affliction… it was a skillful bodily action with pleasant consequences, pleasant results, then you should stay mentally refreshed & joyful, training day & night in skillful mental qualities.”

Simple to understand, but like so much of the Buddhadhama, not necessarily so easy to do.

The Buddha walks through all nine cases in turn. You can probably figure them out. The full sutta is at http://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/mn/mn.061.than.html.

Sometimes the Buddha’s teachings can feel quite complicated and overwhelming. However, there are plenty of cases – and this is one of them – where he teaches something in such a simple way. It is very beautiful, and not that hard to remember, and sometimes in the midst of confusion on how to act, a very simple teaching like this can be a lot easier to remember than the intricacies of the law of karma or dependent origination. And all the while we can enjoy the fact that this discourse is so lovely and simple because the Buddha was trying to explain his teachings to his very own son, who was just a little boy at the time.

(As a postscript, Rahula eventually became enlightened. Yosodhara and the Buddha’s step-mother – Mahapajapati – lobbied the Buddha to ordain women, thus beginning the first order of nuns in the world. They, too, both became enlightened, as did the Buddha’s father Suddhodana.)

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Zen and (the sad art of) Sex Abuse

When I went to the New York Times web site on February 11, 2013, the lead article was Zen Groups Distressed by Accusations Against Teacher. It isn’t often that the Times lead article is about something Buddhist, and sadly the topic was sex abuse. The article describes a Zen community founded by Joshu Sazaki who has been “groping and sexually harassing female students for decades”. Sazaki even tried to break up the marriage of one of his students, and encouraged him to have an affair.

This is not the first time something like this has happened, and it is an occurrence that seems particularly prone to happening in Zen communities. The San Francisco Zen Center, one of the first and most prominent Zen centers in the U.S. (started by the famous author of “Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind”, Shunryu Suzuki), had a similar scandal when Suzuki’s successor, Richard Baker, forced female students to have sex with him, and coerced his students into turning over all their money to the Zen center. While Baker lived in luxury, his students were relegated to a life of poverty and manipulation.

These incidents all have three things in common:

  1. The trust in and reliance on a “guru”, who is given almost complete, unquestioned authority.
  2. The closed and somewhat secretive nature of these communities.
  3. A misunderstanding of some of the more subtle teachings of the Buddha.
  4. A disregard for the Buddha’s foundational teachings on morality.

Those Pesky Gurus

The Buddha famously did not appoint a successor before he died. He was very wary of unchallenged, religious authority. It is one reason why his monastics were forced to gather alms on a daily basis. Misbehaving monks and nuns could then be held in check by the lay community on whom they were dependent. Even during the Buddha’s life badly behaving monks were held in order by lay communities that were disgusted by their poor behavior.

When a monk or nun was ordained – in a practice that continues in some lineages to this day – the monastic was assigned a “preceptor” to help them learn the nuts and bolts of how to behave in the monastic “Sangha” (community), and a meditation instructor. Neither of these people were gurus, and neither one of them were given unquestioned authority. In fact, questioning is a vital part of the tradition. Even on his deathbed the Buddha asked several times if anyone there had any questions for him. He even went so far as to say that if anyone had a question but was too shy to ask, they should have someone ask it for them. He tried in every way he knew how to encourage them. The Buddha himself never asked for unquestioned authority.

Even today in many traditions it is considered bad form for a teacher to give a Dharma talk and then not answer questions. It is actually considered something of a failure if students don’t have anything to ask. The second factor of enlightenment is “taking an interest”, probing into a topic or issue.

There is a Pali term that is used in “Southern Buddhism”, and that is “kalyana mitta”. It means something like “spiritual friend.” Your preceptor and meditation instructor are to guide, point the way, provide encouragement, answer questions, and to help you along the way. But it was never the idea to give over unquestioned authority to a “guru”. This is something that came much later – during the 1st millennium – and is an example of what I call “creeping Hinduism”. And while it is true that guruism is more a mark of the Mahayana traditions – like Zen and Tibetan Buddhism – to be fair many teachers in both of those traditions teach more like kalyana mittas than gurus.

The Buddha created a decentralized community, and when he died he told his monks and nuns to rely on the Dharma and the Vinaya (the monastic code) as their guides. So his final advice was not to follow a person or persons, but to trust in the path – the Vinaya – and the “reality of the way things are” – the Dharma:

And the Lord said to Ānanda: ‘Ānanda, it may be that you will think: “The Teacher’s instruction has ceased, now we have no teacher!” It should not be seen like this, Ānanda, for what I have taught and explained to you as Dhamma and discipline will, at my passing, be your teacher. [Mahaparinibbana Sutta, DN 16]

Larry Rosenberg, a co-founder of the Cambridge Insight Meditation Society, says that he is always amazed to see how otherwise intelligent, educated, successful people check their common sense at the door when it comes to their spiritual practice.

Misunderstanding the Dharma

Of course, certain aspects of Buddhism add to this problem. There are some very subtle teachings. This is a mystical tradition, and unfortunately the subtlety and counter-intuitive nature of some of the teachings can be used to manipulate students. If you don’t understand something, the implication is just that you are not spiritually advanced enough. (It’s sort of how the computer industry makes people feel like it is the user’s fault if they can’t make something work. The idea that maybe it’s bad engineering never occurs to most people.)

A prime example is those elusive notions of emptiness, nothingness, and non-self.

I have heard some very prominent teachers make the following statements:

There is a difference between conventional reality and ultimate reality.

Ultimately, nothing exists.

I challenge anyone to show me where the Buddha said either of these things. You can throw non-duality into the mix as well. Then there is that slippery issue of non-self.

The first statement does not make any sense. How can there be more than one reality? Things either are as they are or they aren’t. The word Dharma itself can be translated as reality. The Buddha did not teach Dharmas, he taught Dharma (or, more precisely, Buddhadharma).

Because I am typing on a keyboard that is made up of ever-changing quarks doesn’t mean there are two realities. It is still the same reality. I am typing on a keyboard that exists, and the causes and conditions that cause it to be are based on probabilities that make those quarks form into a keyboard. It is the way things are. The fact that quantum physics gives me a more sophisticated way of understanding the universe doesn’t mean there is more than one reality. It just means that I have a deeper understanding of that reality.

And to say that nothing ultimately exists is equally foolish. Now to say that ultimately nothing exists in the way in which we normally perceive it, that is quite a different thing. The keyboard exists, but not – as the Buddha famously said – in any permanent way. That is true for beings as well, and our minds. We exist as an ever-changing process, one that is different moment-to-moment. There is no soul or permanent essence. But that doesn’t mean that we don’t exist, it simply means that we don’t exist in any permanent unchanging way. Those are two very different things.

Take some conventional realities: rocks and the weather. A rock is pretty solid. It doesn’t change much. But a weather system changes every moment. But no one would say that the weather doesn’t exist. If you believe that I invite you to shovel the non-existing snow the next time we have a storm here in Vermont.

As to non-duality, as Bhikkhu Bodhi points out (http://www.accesstoinsight.org/lib/authors/bodhi/bps-essay_27.html), the Buddha never taught a non-dual universe. First of all, how can you become one with everything (something else he never taught and another example of creeping Hinduism), if in the first place you claim that nothing ultimately exists? But more importantly, this notion that Samsara (conventional reality) and Nirvana is the same is specifically not a teaching of the Buddha’s. The Buddha was quite clear that Samsara is Samsara and Nirvana is outside of Samsara. When the mind, free from clinging, becomes unbound, when the body dies, the stream of consciousness is free from the Samsaric world.

So what does this have to do with sex abuse? Well, if you believe that people don’t really exist, and you believe that nothing ultimately exists, then morally you have given yourself a way to justify anything. The Samurai famously gravitated towards Zen because of this – misunderstanding – that no one really exists. You could kill someone, for example, but since that person didn’t exist to begin with, it was a moral loophole of sorts.

(The issue of whether the Buddha understood a self to exist is also a little thornier to me than is often taught. The Buddha was clear that the khandas – the body, feelings, perceptions, mental formations and consciousness – are not self. But in the Ananda Sutta [SN 44.10] the Buddha famously refuses to answer the direct question of whether there is a self. To me this leaves open the question of whether there is some other way of thinking about a “self” that perhaps is beyond the scope of conventional thinking, like the proverbial problem of explaining what an elephant is like to a blind person.)

If you believe that our suffering comes from attachment to an ego – a very Western word, by the way – then you can do whatever you want to someone, because it is their attachment to ego that is the problem, not the fact that you are inappropriately groping their breasts or trying to ruin their marriage. The fact that you are causing suffering is their problem, not yours. You are just trying to free them from their attachment.

The Buddha did not teach nihilism. He taught causality (sometimes called phenomenology in modern terms). A set of causes and conditions gives rise to a set of results, which then become the causes and conditions for the next set of results, and so on. This is true in the physical world, and it is true in the psychological world, the world of the mind. Unskillful acts precipitated by unskillful intentions cause suffering. If I am acting out of anger, hatred, greed, fear, etc,. I have already lost the karmic battle.

Causality is quite a different thing from nothing. Causality describes a universe – and a mind and a consciousness – in constant motion. It’s a universe of verbs, not nouns. But that is not to say that it doesn’t exist. It is to say that it is not static in the way that it – conventionally – appears to us, and in fact our attempts to make it static are one of the main reasons that we suffer.

(At the risk of getting too obtuse, those familiar with the meditative absorptions – a.k.a. the jhanas – know that the 7th Jhana is the base of nothingness, which might make the case for nothing ultimately exists. The word nothingness is also sometimes translated as no-thingness, meaning that there are no permanently existing things. Many people who practice the jhanas experience the 7th jhana as a sense of motion. That, I believe, argues more for the case of the universe as fluidity, rather than nothing.)

Morality and Ethics

This brings us to the issue of sila, the Buddha’s teachings on morality. And now that I have seemingly pointed the finger at the Zen community, let me say that one of the very best teachers on this topic is a Zen teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh.

Around the world the vast majority of Buddhists do not meditate, but they do practice sila. If Buddhism were a pyramid, the ground would be generosity, and the first layer of stone would be sila. This is a teaching that goes back to the time of the Buddha.

There are four fundamental precepts, and a somewhat elusive fifth one that changes a little from sutra to sutra. These are:

  1. Do not kill – harm – living beings.
  2. Do not take that which has not been freely offered.
  3. Refrain from sexual misconduct.
  4. Refrain from false speech, which has four aspects: do not deceive, do not speak abusively, do not “cause discord in the community” (i.e., talk behind people’s backs”, and refrain from idle speech (gossip).

The fifth one usually shows up as refraining from the use of intoxicants. (In another sutra the fifth precept is about killing rice seeds and plants, but that was to a community of “wanderers”, or “recluses”, who presumably would not be using intoxicants.) The understanding is that the use of intoxicants is not, in itself “immoral”, but that it tends to make one more susceptible to unskillful behavior, a.k.a, causing suffering.

Since the topic at hand is mainly sex abuse, precept three has particular relevance.

Sharon Salzberg explains the precept in this way. She says that it is about “not using your sexual energy in a way that does harm to yourself or others.” I think it is particularly interesting to note the cases where sexual intercourse may harm you but not someone else. I think that some – probably most – prostitution falls into this category. It doesn’t hurt the customer, but may be harmful to the prostitute even though the sex may be consensual. That kind of sex may be quite humiliating.

The Buddha was quite aware of the power of sexual energy. In the Vinaya there are a number of rules to prevent even the appearance of sexual impropriety. A monk was never allowed to be in the company of a woman without at least one other person present. Monks were never allowed to touch or be touched by a woman. Even if the woman was the monk’s sister or mother, touching is not allowed. One of the purposes of the Vinaya is to earn and keep the respect of the lay community, and there are a number of rules in place to make sure that what may seem like innocent acts are not misinterpreted.

You can already see what a far cry the Buddha’s instructions on sexual misconduct are from a Buddhist teacher having sex with his students. It is about as far away as you can get. Likewise, with the second and fourth precepts in the case of Richard Baker. He used “false speech” to deceive students into giving up their wealth which was not – certainly – freely given. The Vinaya also has a number of rules in place to prevent even the most subtle suggestion that something be given to a monk or a nun. Monastics are not allowed in any way to indicate that they want anything. (I believe the one exception is water, for which they are allowed to ask.)

I read many years ago – I believe in the book “Foundations of Buddhism”, by Rupert Gethin – that Buddhism is interesting in that when it reforms, it reforms back in the direction of orthodoxy. In other words, over time people stray from the original teachings of the Buddha, and then they get into trouble, so they go back to being more like the way the Buddha taught. Usually we think of reform as a process of moving away from an outdated norm into a more progressive one, like the abolition of slavery or gender equality. It is quite a monument to the Buddha that we don’t progress away from his teaching so much as we stray from it, get into trouble, and find our way out of trouble by reverting to his original instructions.

(It is worth noting that some might make the argument that the rather hideous treatment of women in Buddhism is an exception. But there is a considerable amount of debate over whether the treatment of women – particularly the problem of their full ordination – goes back to the Buddha or was added later by societies with extremely sexist norms. Since there is good scholarship arguing for the latter, and the way in which women came to be treated is so inconsistent with the whole of the Buddha’s teachings, I think the latter to be more likely.)

An enlightened human acts naturally in an ethical and moral way. The rest of us need some help. As Thich Nhat Hanh points out, the precepts are our guardians. They help prevent us from causing suffering to ourselves and others until we are enlightened and no longer need them. Further, the Buddha’s training helps to cultivate a mind that is altruistic, kind, generous, loving, compassionate. Further training helps cultivate wisdom, so that we can behave in skillful ways, causing less suffering. This is the cyclical, iterative, holographic nature of the practice, as each aspect in turn strengthens all the other aspects.

(As a side note, I was once told by a Shambala member that it was all right to be having sex with more than one woman because, as he put it, “There are no precepts.” This was his way of justifying behavior that would inevitably create suffering by forcing it through the veil of “nothingness”. It is probably no accident that the first thing the Buddha taught was sila, to prevent just this sort of thing. Get the moral house in order before we start creating all sorts of new kinds of suffering through delusion about the teachings.)

Final Word

When I first started to practice, I was told that the Buddha’s discourses were repetitive and boring, and that I should not bother with them. For years I followed that advice, but eventually I got frustrated at being told what the Buddha said. I really didn’t want to hear about it second hand. One year I bought a copy of the Majjhima Nikaya, the Middle Length Discourses of the Buddha. Life has never been the same since. What I found was that a great deal of what I was being told was wrong, and a great deal was being omitted.

Curiously, I was in a Buddhist Studies program some years ago where a student derisively referred to what he called “Nikaya Buddhists”. I always thought that was a funny term. It is like saying “Bible Christian” or “Torah Jew” or  “Koran Muslim”. I’m still not sure what he was thinking.

I admit that the canonical literature is not exactly a quick read. But I strongly suggest to anyone who is interested in the Buddha’s teachings that they take the time and effort and read it for themselves. It is the closest thing we have to the true words of the Buddha, and whatever its faults the canon has been quite carefully preserved for over 2400 years. And personally I think that any genuine attempt to understand the Buddha’s teachings will help prevent the more egregious acts in the modern Buddhist world. Sometimes you just have to go back to the original source.

Nowhere does the Buddha say that you are to be groped, humiliated, abused, or forced to give all your money away. And if you don’t want to read the Middle Length Discourses, you can just take my word for it.

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The Art of Bus Maintenance, India Style

Bus

March, 2004

We are on a Buddhist pilgrimage in India, traveling by bus on the road from Varanasi (Benares) to Sarnath. The roads in Bihar Province have to be experienced to be believed. The terrain is flat, but you would never know it from the bone-rattling rides that we have been getting. The roads are like washer boards.  Most of us abandon the idea of reading; it is as if the book is mounted on a paint-mixing machine. At one point I ask if a new pair of kidneys is included in the price of the trip.

Fortunately, the Indian countryside is a source of never-ending fascination. The fields are lush and green. Mustard plants with their delicate yellow flowers stretch to the endless horizon. All manner of vehicles crowd the road: pony carts, bicycles, jeeps, motorcycles, three-wheeled mini-vans, white Ambassador sedans – descendents of a long-deceased MG – bicycle rickshaws, pedestrians, brightly-painted trucks, and other buses. Groves of trees dot the landscape, and provide places for roadside lunch stops. At regular intervals we see tiny Indian villages with brick and mud walled houses and thatched roofs. People are busy everywhere, working in the fields, tending the open-air shops, threshing rice, cooking, bathing at water pumps, herding water buffalo, and going about the business of life. Everything in India, good or bad, is in your face. It is life at its most vibrant.

I am busy being mesmerized by the countryside when my dull contemplation is interrupted by a loud crack, like a medium sized explosion. That is quickly followed by a slightly smaller bang. My camera and bags leap into the air. I snag them mid-leap, but don’t have time to appreciate the quick response. After a fashion the bus comes to a halt. I assume that we have blown a tire.

Fortunately the injuries are minor and few, keeping in mind that “minor” is defined as something that happens to someone else. I look around for something constructive to do. The injured people are being cared for, so I start to clean up some broken glass. Perry, one of my fellow pilgrims, gets a little upset about that. He is concerned that I will cut myself. I assure him that this is safety glass, and I show him that it is not sharp, but he is unconvinced. Out of respect for Perry’s state of mind, I stop picking it up.

Once things have settled down a little bit, I go outside. I am startled to see that the entire rear axle is missing. The bus is bowed down in a rearward prostration. There is a slight buckle in the body of the bus about 2/3 of the way back from the front of the bus. We have driven about an hour outside of Varanasi. It is clear that we are going to be here a while, so I take out my mat, my cushion and my book, and settle down on the side of the road. I cannot be of any help, so I may as well stay out of the way. At least the book has stopped vibrating.

After a short time, our charming helper on the bus brings me a cup of Chai. As he hands it to me he says warmly, “Some tea for my friend.” I have long ago learned that the people in India can be so disarmingly charming that it makes no sense to try and give back to them as much as they always seem to be able to give you. A little while later he graciously brings me a banana. Where else can you get care and attention like this?

Meanwhile, the rear axle, it turns out, has landed more or less in tact on the other side of the road, about 75 feet behind the bus. One of the tires is shredded. Whatever was holding it on to the bus – it had to be either welded or clamped on – has given way, and it and the bus have parted ways. Good fortune has prevented the bouncing rear axle assembly from hurting anyone. There is a school across the road, and I am grateful that no one is seriously injured.

BusWheels

From my modest experience in auto mechanics, I guess that this bus is at least 2 weeks away from any useful service. If the frame is bent, it may be a complete loss. Many years ago I had a Volkswagen that broke a rocker arm in Maine. It took a week to get the parts and fix it. This is a relatively simple repair. I can only imagine what must happen to get parts and fix a broken bus in the middle of the poorest province in India. I look around me and think that this might be a good place to start a monastery.

Shantum, our fearless leader, goes off to have an animated conversation with the bus company. He tells them – as any rational person would – that the bus is a complete loss. The bus company insists that it can be fixed. We are firmly dubious. A number of people in our group announce that they will refuse to get on that bus ever again, no matter what. I say nothing. What you will do in any given circumstance depends on the options. As George Schultz, Ronald Reagan’s Secretary of State, once said, “Sometimes you don’t have good options.”

Jagdish

At the same time our helper Jagdish is out doing his magic. You just cannot believe how things happen in India. When something needs to happen, it does. Jagdish goes down the road and finds a guy with a small propane stove and a wok. They also scrounge up some vegetables, and some dough for chapattis, the Indian national bread. Some of the people in our group begin chopping vegetables and making lunch. I’m convinced that there must be a space warp in India so that every time that you need something, the warp opens up and whoever you need just pops through.

Our little group has created quite a stir. Shantum once told us that a bunch of American tourists in India is better than television. We have settled down into one of those roadside groves. Lunch is being prepared, and the rest of us are reading, talking, or just enjoy the typically perfect Indian weather. A crowd begins to gather. At some point a large group of policemen shows up to protect us. The police in India are very intimidating. They dress in combat gear and carry semi-automatic rifles. There are still bandits (bandits?!) in this part of India, and they have been known to stop buses and shake down the tourists. A good tour guide like Santum makes sure that the local police chief gets some financial encouragement for protection. It’s included in the price of the tour.

BusPicnic

The crowd continues to grow and finally a band (a band?!) shows up. They are dressed in red uniforms that look like they are left over from the British colonial era. At this point the police have had enough and start to disperse the crowd, although what they end up doing is simply “crowd reduction”. Once the crowd gets down to a certain size, they slacken their efforts. Apparently there is a maximum allowable crowd size when American tourists are stranded by the side of the road.

Some time later several cars show up and a bunch of men pile out. It is hard to tell who is who, but one of them is the chief mechanic from the bus company. In India it is always hard to tell who – if anyone – is in charge. I suspect that Indians grow up in such close quarters that they learn to communicate with a minimum of words. There is very little discussion among the group. They go across the road to the orphaned rear axle. I don’t see any tools anywhere. Several of the men find pieces of wood along the side of the road and use them as levers to begin moving the axle. I lose interest. I assume that their efforts are futile. I’m not really sure what they think they will accomplish.

BusAndTools

After a while I look up and see that the axle is now on the road, just behind the bus. The back of the bus has been jacked up and placed onto jack stands that are supported by several layers of bricks that have been scavenged from the side of the road. It is the kind of thing that I might have done when I was in college and fought the constant battle to keep my ageing VW on the road.

I am slightly puzzled and amused by what I am seeing. They cannot possibly be thinking about re-attaching the rear axle. First of all, the differential – the joint between the two wheels – is leaking oil. This will have to be fixed. Second, whatever held the axle onto the bus has to be fixed. If that is a weld, they will need a welding machine. No matter what, they will need some parts. You can’t fix something with nothing. Then there is the matter of the shredded tire. I think of my VW in Maine, remember that I am more or less in the middle of nowhere in India, and know that this will never happen.

The Indian mechanics seem – nonetheless – determined to carry out the charade. They move the rear axle assembly into position under the bus. I notice that the differential is no longer leaking. Next to me on the road a can of oil for the differential has magically appeared. I don’t understand how this has happened. No delivery has been made. I still don’t see any tools. Perry laughs that all they have is a screwdriver and a wrench. I’m not sure if he is kidding, but I don’t see any tools anywhere.

Just as the rear axle is properly positioned, an Ambassador drives up and a man pops out. He is carrying 4 u-shaped bolts about as long as your forearm. Parts have arrived. Now I see the old broken and twisted u-bolts on the road. They are the culprits in our mishap. I do a double take and see that the shredded tire has been replaced. I’m not sure how that managed to happen. I smile a little to myself. I can’t believe what I am seeing. I’m still not sure if I will get back on the bus again, but I have a new and deep appreciation for the mechanical miracle that I am witnessing. Other people in my group remain insistent that they will not get on the bus again. I’m not so sure. If the frame isn’t bent – the one remaining concern – the bus may be – gulp! – eminently road-worthy. I finally see an adjustable wrench as the chief mechanic attaches the u-bolts. In the U.S. a mechanic wouldn’t tackle a job like this without a garage with a lift and $10,000 worth of Snap-On tools. I haven’t heard seven words uttered by the mechanics in the 4 hours that they have been here. Like so many things in India, I am witnessing a dance that is a magical piece of choreography. If I had not been watching it for myself, I would not have believed it. I did see it, and I still do not completely believe it.

A van and a couple of Ambassadors arrive to take us on our journey, so I don’t get to see the final chapter in the bus fixing saga. I would have liked to know if the frame was OK, out of professional curiosity. However, bent frame or not, I know that I have witnessed a miracle, the kind of thing that seems to happen routinely in India. Fortunately I know that it’s not real… it’s only a dream.

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