One day not too long ago I picked up on
my short-wave radio an interview with an American futurist whose name I didn't
catch. A futurist, as the word implies, is one whose job it is to predict the
future. By collating a vast amount of information about developments presently
taking place in various fields, he discovers the most prominent trends at work
beneath the surface of events, and by projecting from these trends he
constructs a picture of the future over increasingly longer time frames
Ý over the coming decade, century, and millennium.
Naturally, as temporal distance from the present increases, the picture he
paints becomes proportionally more liable to error; but though an element of
conjecture is unavoidable in all long-range forecasts, what the futurist holds
is that his projections are based squarely on the trajectory along which we are
travelling today.
The questions the interviewer posed drew
out from the futurist an astonishing picture of things to come. In his cheery view,
the great perennial springs of human suffering are about to yield to the
insistent pressure of our ingenuity and determination to create a better world.
The next century will usher in an era of unprecedented progress, prosperity,
and justice, with radical changes taking place even on the most primordial
frontiers of biology. Couples who want children will no longer be dependent on
natural processes vulnerable to chance and tragedy: they will be able to
specify the precise features they would like their children to have and they'll
get exactly what they want. Medical science will find cures for cancer, AIDS,
and other dreaded illnesses, while virtually every vital organ will be
replaceable by a synthetic counterpart. Biologists will discover how to halt
the process of ageing, enabling us to preserve our youthfulness and vitality
well into our twilight years. By the end of the next century our life span
itself will be extended to 140 years. And before the next millennium draws to a
close, science will have found the key to immortality:
ßThat's a hundred percent certain,û he
assured us.
While I listened to this intelligent,
articulate man ramble on with such optimistic verve, I felt a sense of
uneasiness gnawing away in my gut.
ßWhat's wrong with this picture?û I kept on
asking myself.
ßWhat's missing? What's so
troubling?û Here he was, depicting a
world in which humanity would triumph over every ancient nemesis, perhaps even
over death itself; and yet I felt that I just couldn't buy it, that I would
prefer this wretched, fragile, vulnerable existence nature has conferred on us
by birth. Why?
For one thing, it seemed to me that his
glowing picture of the future depended on some pretty big assumptions
Þ assumptions which could only work by conveniently
turning a blind eye to other present trends which are very far from comforting.
He was presupposing that advances in technology will bring only benefits
without entailing new problems just as formidable as those that taunt us today;
that by sheer cleverness we will be able to rectify old blunders without having
to curb the greed that caused those blunders in the first place; that people
will spontaneously place the common good above the promptings of naked avarice;
that the spread of material affluence will suffice to eliminate the suspicion,
hatred, and cruelty that have bred so much misery throughout history.
But, as I continued to reflect, I
realised that this was not all that was troubling me about the futurist's picture; I felt
there was something still deeper scratching at the back of my mind. At its
root, I came to see, my disquietude revolved around the issue of orientation.
The picture he presented showed a future in which human beings are completely
immersed in temporal concerns, absorbed in the battle against natural
limitations, oriented entirely to the conditioned world. What was conspicuously
absent from his picture was what might be called
ßthe dimension of transcendence.û There was no hint that human existence is not a self-enclosed circle,
that it unfolds in a wider spiritual context from which it gains its meaning,
that the quest for true fulfilment requires reference to a domain beyond
everything finite and temporal.
By deleting all mention of a
ßdimension of transcendenceû the futurist could portray a humanity pledged to the
idea that the ultimate good is to be realised by gaining mastery over the
external world rather than mastery over ourselves. Given that life involves
suffering, and that suffering arises from the clash between our desires and the
nature of the world, we can deal with suffering either by changing the world so
that it conforms to our desires or by changing ourselves so that our desires
harmonise with the world. The picture drawn by the futurist showed a future in
which the first alternative prevailed; but the Buddha, and all humanity's other
great spiritual teachers as well, unanimously recommend the second route. For
them our task is not so much to manipulate the outer conditions responsible for
our discontent as it is to overcome the subjective roots of discontent, to
vanquish our own selfishness, craving, and ignorance.
In preferring the more ancient approach
I don't mean to suggest that we must passively submit to all the frailties to
which human life is prone. Stoic resignation is certainly not the answer. We
must strive to eliminate debilitating diseases, to promote economic and social
justice, to fashion a world in which the basic amenities of health and
happiness are as widely distributed as possible. But when the driving engine of
civilisation becomes sheer innovation in techniques we risk venturing into
dangerous areas. To struggle with Promethean audacity to bend nature to our
will so that all the objective causes of our suffering will be obliterated
seems an exercise in hubris
Ý in arrogance and presumption
Ý and, as we know from Greek tragedy, hubris inevitably provokes the
wrath of the gods. Even if our reckless tinkering with the natural order does
not unleash a cosmic cataclysm, we still risk a gradual descent into the
trivialisation and mechanisation of human life. For by making technological
ingenuity the criterion of progress we lose sight of the moral depth and
elevation of character which have always been the classical hallmarks of human
greatness. We flatten out the vertical dimensions of our being, reducing
ourselves to a purely horizontal plane in which all that matters is technical
expertise and organisational efficiency. Thereby we veer closer to the
situation described by T.S. Eliot,
ßThe world ends not with a bang but a whimper."
While I reflected on the futurist's
predictions, there came to my mind a series of verses from the Dhammapada which
offer a strikingly different picture of the challenge facing us in our lives.
The verses occur in the
ßChapter of the Thousands,û vv.110Ý15. The first four stanzas tell us that it is not how long we live that really counts, but
how we live, the qualities we embody
in our being:
ßBetter than to live a
hundred years immoral and unconcentrated is it to live a single day virtuous
and meditative. Better than to live a hundred years foolish and unconcentrated
is it to live a single day wise and meditative. Better than to live a hundred
years lazy and dissipated is it to live a single day with energy firmly
aroused. Better than to live a hundred years without seeing the rise and fall
of things is it to live a single day seeing the rise and fall of things.û
In these verses the Buddha tells us that
our primary task, the task to which all others should be subordinate, is to
master ourselves. The challenge he throws at us is not to remove all the thorns
strewn over the earth, but to put on sandals, to vanquish the desires
responsible for our suffering in the very place where they arise: in our own
minds. As long as our lives are ruled by desire, there will never be an end to
discontent, for the elimination of one obstacle will only give rise to a new
one in a self-replicating cycle. What is essential is not to prolong life by readjusting biological
processes so that they fulfil our wildest dreams, but to ennoble life by sober mental training within the humble limits of
our natural condition. And this is achieved, as the Buddha repeatedly stresses,
by the triple discipline of moral restraint, meditation, and deep insight into
the impermanence of all conditioned things.
The last two verses in this series
introduce the end towards which this training points, which is also the goal
towards which our lives should be steered:
ßBetter than to live a hundred years without seeing the Deathless is it
to live a single day seeing the Deathless. Better than to live a hundred years
without seeing the Supreme Truth is it to live a single day seeing the Supreme
Truth.û If human progress is not to
be reduced to a mere pageant of technological stunts pushing back our natural
limits, we require some polestar towards which to steer our lives, something
which enables us to transcend the limits of both life and death. For Buddhism
that is Nibbàna, the Deathless, the Supreme Truth, the state beyond all limiting
conditions. Without this transcendent element we might explore the distant
galaxies and play cards with the genetic code, but our lives will remain vain
and hollow. Fullness of meaning can come only from the source of meaning, from
that which is transcendent and unconditioned. To strive for this goal is to
find a depth of value and a peak of excellence that can never be equalled by
brazen technological audacity. To realise this goal is to reach the end of
suffering: to find deathlessness here and now, even in the midst of this
imperfect world still subject, as always, to old age, illness, and death.
Bhikkhu Bodhi
A Return to Innocence: Philosophical Guidance in an Age of Cynicism.
Jeffrey M. Schwartz, M.D., with Annie Gottlieb and
Patrick Buckley.
In traditional societies the
transmission of ethical values across the generations has usually been a
special prerogative of the family, which takes upon itself the task of
providing for the moral instruction and character formation of the young. In
the modern West, however, this responsibility is being subtly undermined by the
new ideology of secular materialism, with its exaltation of the individual and
its denial of any objective basis for ethics. The consequences of this trend,
visible on many fronts, include high divorce rates, broken homes, and the
spread of the one-parent family. Today many young people grow up with little
exposure to the virtues of respect, honour, love, and self-sacrifice nurtured
by a stable home environment. Thrust prematurely into adulthood by peer
pressure, pop music, and the clamour of TV, these youngsters drift aimlessly
towards the future in a deep moral limbo. Under such conditions it is hardly
surprising that in
Return to Innocence is a courageous,
clear-minded, and compassionate attempt to tackle this problem at the very root
and to offer a programme of recovery drawn largely from the teachings of the
Buddha. The author, Jeffrey Schwartz, is an American psychiatrist and
neuroscientist at the UCLA School of Medicine, highly respected for his work on
obsessive-compulsive disorders. Religiously, he describes himself as
ßa Jew who practices Buddhist mindfulness meditation
and studies Buddhist and Christian philosophy from their original sourcesû (p.13). But though he occasionally refers to Moses
and Jesus in the pages of his book, throughout it is the wisdom of the Buddha
that shapes his thinking and inspires his words.
The book takes the form of a series of
letters that Schwartz wrote to a 16-year-old student named Patrick Buckley, the
son of a single-mother who was anxious for her son to receive guidance from a
successful adult male. In his correspondence, Schwartz assumed the role of
Patrick's
ßphilosophical guardian,û
intent on steering him clear of the pitfalls of cynicism and moral recklessness
that claim so many unwary young people today. The goal towards which he points
his young friend is what he calls
ßInnocence.û While
in past epochs innocence was always considered an inviolable asset of youth,
for many young people today the very idea of innocence is spurned in favour of
a slick facade of
ßcoolû sophistication. Schwartz sees this as a serious
symptom of our own moral failings. He points out that the word
ßinnocenceû literally means not harming, so that a search for innocence is the
quest for a way of life which protects one from harming oneself and others. In
the author's view, true innocence, far from being a synonym for naivet‚, is actually
ßthe highest of human accomplishments the defining mark of those
who have achieved genuine victory in facing life's innumerable challengesû (p.81).
Schwartz's letters are consistently
lively and articulate, set out in a text illustrated by some fifty magnificent
drawings mostly by Gustav Dor‚ and William Blake. The letters cover a period of
about eight months (dates are not given) and offer a wide-ranging course of
instruction in how to recover innocence, which Schwartz sees as both the source
of ethical intuition and the goal of the spiritual journey. The theme that ties
the different aspects of Schwartz's proposals together is the thesis that ideas
have consequences: that wrong ideas about human nature and the means to
happiness bring personal and social disaster, while right ideas open the door
to inner freedom, personal fulfilment, and communal harmony. The place to seek
right ideas regarding the conduct of life, Schwartz holds, is in the teachings
of humanity's great spiritual teachers, which have proved so durable because
they are
ßthe operating instructions
for human natureû rooted in a profound
understanding whose validity still stands.
The wrong idea that Schwartz sees as
particularly culpable in causing so much damage in peoples' lives, especially
in relation to the family, is the view that we are not really responsible for
our behaviour, that we can blithely follow our impulses wherever they lead us
and then pin the blame on our biology and past conditioning. Schwartz counters
this by appealing to the Buddha's teaching on karma and its fruit, which holds
that in each present moment we have the freedom to choose our actions and thus
must be willing to face their consequences. Mental force, he insists, is a
power in its own right which can even change the circuitry of the brain. To
prove this he gives us a brief introduction to brain physiology and to the
discoveries he and his colleagues have made in their treatment of
obsessive-compulsive patients.
Each group of letters takes off from the
problems Patrick faces in his daily life, and in addressing them Schwartz deals
admirably with such topics as the need for mental discipline, the power of
right speech, the importance of shame and moral dread (hiri and ottappa), the
law of karma, the value of sobriety, the wholesome and unwholesome roots, the
ten armies of Màra, and much else. When Patrick begins to take driving lessons,
Schwartz introduces him to the techniques of Buddhist meditation
Ý the way to drive his personal vehicle
Ý emphasising mindfulness and wise attention as tools
not only for self-understanding but for gaining self-control amidst the
temptations and challenges of student life. When Patrick's wobbly high-school
romance falls apart, Schwartz explains the difference between infatuation and
real love, concluding with words of wise advice:
ßtrue love waits for a true friendû
Ý and true friendship calls
for trust, openness, honesty, and respect (pp.257Ý59). The book ends with an outline of the Mahàmaïgala Sutta,
ßthe road map and traveller's blessing I want to leave
you withû (pp.275Ý80).
My admiration for this book is not
unqualified. For one thing, when discussing meditation in relation to
neuroscience, the author habitually lapses into language suggestive of
materialist assumptions: e.g.,
ßwise attention can tame an unruly brain an unruly brain
necessarily leaves behind it a trail of destructionû (p.145). At times, too, when explaining the practice
of mindfulness he seems to adopt a mind-matter dualism in which mind is
construed as a substantial self (a touch of sakkàya-di~n~nhi?), and mental
acts are subjected to materialist reduction: e.g., in speaking of the
ßImpartial Spectatorû as the part of the mind that can recognise
ßthe difference between `me' (the watcher/observer) and
`my brain' (the thought or feeling)û (p.122). He
also depicts the struggle for self-mastery as a battle between the spirit and
the animal brain, as if moral evil were to be traced entirely to our biological
heritage.
These, however, are minor lapses and
hardly detract from the rare moral vigour and compelling power of this book,
which bursts with deep insights and ripples with hope and humour. Schwartz says
here many things that have needed to be said for a long time, and he says them
very well indeed; the Buddhist community in particular should lend him a close
ear. I should stress that while this book would make a superb guide for any
sensitive and intelligent youngster, it is not intended principally for
adolescents. Its real audience is the reflective adult dismayed by the moral
turpitude so widespread in modern life. Through the medium of letters to a
young friend, and by drawing freely on the teachings of the Buddha, the author
offers us a lucid diagnosis of our plight and a candid prescription of the
medicine we need to regain our spiritual health.
Bhikkhu Bodhi
After the Buddha has reprimanded Sàti
for misrepresenting the Dhamma by his insistence that consciousness is a
persistent transmigrating entity, he next sets about to corroborate his own
statement that consciousness is dependently arisen (pa~nicca-samuppannaü). To
describe consciousness thus is to say that consciousness arises in dependence
on conditions, that
ßapart from conditions
there can be no origination of consciousness (a¤¤atra paccayà natthi vi¤¤àõassa sambhavo).û The Buddha first demonstrates this with reference to
the concurrent conditions for conditions, that is, those conditions which exist
along with the act of consciousness. He first introduces a classification
intended to dispel our assumption that when we speak of consciousness we are
referring to a unitary entity. While we ordinarily think of consciousness as a
single uniform whole, for the Buddha consciousness is merely a general term
comprising six types. These six types are distinguished by the sense base
through which they arise: thus we have eye-consciousness, ear-consciousness,
nose-consciousness, tongue-consciousness, body-consciousness, and
mind-consciousness. Consciousness itselfÞtaken in abstraction
from its particular mode of occurrenceÞis knowing, cognising, experiencing, or
awareness. All these terms, however, refer only to a general property
(or better, function) which is never found in the abstract but only as embedded
in concrete occasions of consciousness. In its concreteness, any occasion of
consciousness is always a specific type of awareness, either eye-consciousness
or ear-consciousness, or one of the other types.
Each type of consciousness necessarily
arises in dependence on at least two primary conditions, which are elsewhere
called the internal sense base (ajjhattika-àyatana)
and the external sense base (bàhira-àyatana).
In the Abhidhamma they are called the door (dvàra)
and object (àrammaõa), respectively.
An act of consciousness will occur in dependence on many other conditions as
wellÞfor example, on the group of
coexistent mental factors, or more broadly on the entire complex of
ßname-and-formû (nàma-råpa)Þbut
the two conditions mentioned, the internal base or door and the external base
or object, are the conditions which demonstrate most clearly the dependent
nature of consciousness. The other conditions may be common to various types of
consciousness, but these serve to differentiate consciousness into distinct
types.
Each type of consciousness takes its own
specific internal and external base. Thus eye-consciousness arises in
dependence on the eye as its internal base; never in dependence on the ear,
nose, tongue, body, or mind-base. Again, eye-consciousness arises in dependence
on forms as its external base; never in dependence on sounds, odours, tastes,
tactile objects, or mental phenomena. The function of eye-consciousness is to
see, and in order to see it needs a sense faculty, namely the eye (cakkhu, which might be understood to
comprise not only the physical eye, but the entire physiological basis for
visual cognition including the optic nerve and the visual cortex of the brain);
and it also needs an object, a visible form (råpa). If the eye were severely damaged there would be no faculty
through which eye-consciousness could see; and if no visible object was present
there would be nothing for eye-consciousness to see. Though light is sometimes
said to be an additional condition for eye-consciousness, in a completely dark
room, while one could discern no features of objects, one would still be seeing
darkness, and thus eye-consciousness can arise even in the absence of light.
Each of the other four types of sense
consciousness has its own internal and external bases: respectively, ear and
sounds for ear-consciousness, nose and odours for nose-consciousness, tongue
and tastes for tongue-consciousness, and body and tactile objects for
body-consciousness. In the case of mind-consciousness the situation is more
complicated, since this type of consciousness can arise through the five
physical sense doors and can take the five external sense objects as its own
objects. Thus, when one compares paints of two different shades of blue to
determine which would serve better for painting the bedroom, it is
eye-consciousness which cognises the two shades of blue, but mind-consciousness
which compares their respective merits and selects one rather than the other.
When one listens to somebody speak, it is ear-consciousness which hears the
sounds, but it is mind-consciousness which turns them into meaningful words.
Yet mind-consciousness has additionally a class of objects unique to itself; these
are called simply dhammà, which we
might freely translate
ßmental phenomena.û These mental phenomena include all types of
objects of a non-sensuous nature: concepts, ideas, images, judgements,
relations, etc.
Mind-consciousness is also said to arise
in dependence on its own internal base, called mano or mind. The Suttas themselves do not clearly explain the
difference between mind (as a door) and mind-consciousness (mano-vi¤¤àõa), and thus the different
Buddhist schools have handled this problem in their own ways. In the Theravàda,
the Abhidhamma commentaries identify the
ßmind doorû (manodvàra) with the bhavan#1ga,
the subliminal life-continuum, or sometimes conjointly with the bhavaïga and the
adverting consciousness, the latter being the mental act of adverting to the
object at the moment before mind-consciousness supervenes. Thus
mind-consciousness arises by the interruption of the subliminal flow of the
life-continuum consciousness, and this interruption is effected by a mental act
of
ßadvertingû to the non-sensuous object coming into range of
awareness.
(to be continued)