(Originally on Nippapañca )
As a rule, human beings have what in Buddhism is called “self view,” and identify themselves with something or other. Even Buddhists who intellectually accept and endorse the doctrine of No Self tend nevertheless reflexively or instinctively to identify themselves with something. Many people regard their “self” to be primarily a complex of emotional feelings; many others are identified with their physical body; and quite a few identify, at least to some degree, with such artifacts as career, social status, social movements, worldly accomplishments, or even, especially in the West, with a bank account and objects bought with money. One may derive a sense of self from any or all of these things. But there are very many people in this world, the majority of them evidently being men, who are strongly identified with their thinking mind, or more specifically with their intellect. Such people tend to downplay and disregard the emotional or irrational factors of their own psychological constitution, and attempt to rationalize their own behavior. This is somewhat unfortunate, as all behavior, physical and mental, is ultimately not rational. Emotional factors and illogic are running the show for all of us.
From the biological point of view human beings are a kind of deluxe ape; and whatever faculty of reason we possess has evolved not for the purpose of enabling us to understand Ultimate Reality, but to help us in our irrational drives for survival and reproduction. The sense organs and thinking mind do not perceive the world as it really is, but rather generate symbolic, apparent forms of things and establish practical relations between these forms. This generation of a symbolic virtual reality has been adequate thus far to promote our survival and reproduction, and it may be that a much more perfect awareness of the world would be detrimental to the accomplishment of these two instinctively derived goals. Nevertheless, most scientists and intellectual types—in fact, virtually everybody—regard it as axiomatic that it is at least possible for symbolic rational thought somehow to accurately represent Ultimate Reality; but even if we allow this proposition, which is problematic at best, the fact remains that all human behavior, physical and mental, including the most logical of mental operations, is at root motivated by irrational, illogical urges. The reason is this: There is no logical necessity for our doing anything at all. It may be that if we do not think or act in a certain way we will die; but there is no real logical necessity for survival being preferable to extinction. Likewise, there is no logical necessity for pleasure being preferable to pain, gain being preferable to loss, or knowledge being preferable to ignorance. All such preferences are logically arbitrary value judgements taken for granted as axiomatic. So, why do we bother to think or do anything? We think and act as the result of a kind of animal instinct combined with a chronic dissatisfied restlessness of mind. All volition or motivation is fundamentally affective, a matter of attractive or aversive feelings. As the philosopher David Hume declared in his Treatise of Human Nature, “Reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.” A purely rational being would be, if anything, a mindless robot incapable of acting upon its own initiative—in fact, incapable of having its own initiative, initiative being an affective, logically arbitrary force. Again in the words of Hume, “…reason alone can never produce any action or give rise to volition.” It cannot even give rise to further reason, as reasoning itself is a volitional activity. The logical validity of any integrated ideational system, or “point of view,” is entirely internal to itself, and does not apply to the very existence of the system as a whole, or even to the premises upon which the system is based.
Consequent to all this, those who are strongly identified with their intellect and endeavor to rationalize their behavior tend to ignore their own fundamental irrationality; and thus the true motives of their own behavior, along with emotionality in general, become largely subconscious. This obliviousness to one’s own true motives leads to what in psychology is known as cognitive dissonance, and in more extreme cases to full-blown neurotic hysteria. (Hence the stereotypical neurotic intellectual.) This of course may be quite a problem; but for practicing Buddhists identification with the thinking mind leads to what in the long run may be an even more serious problem—namely, an excessive emphasis on thinking and reasoning in an understanding of Dhamma, which results in a gross misunderstanding of it.
Social systems, cultural systems, belief systems change with time, but the nature of the human being has remained practically the same since the beginning of civilization. So an insistence upon an intellectual emphasis in the interpretation of Dhamma has some very ancient precedents, one of the most glaring examples of which being the Abhidhamma philosophy, which, western scholars maintain, arose within a few hundred years after the decease of Gotama Buddha. As early Buddhism grew and spread, and became prosperous and even opulent, it became less a system involving renunciation of society and more a social movement in its own right. The animating spirit of Buddhism tended to move away from forest solitude and into large school monasteries. Concomitant with this trend was an influx of new recruits into the Buddhist Sangha who were not as keen as their predecessors on detachment from the world, including the world of ideas, and who, although intelligent, were somewhat lacking in inspiration and insight. Such people are generally not much inclined to disidentify with the thinking mind, despite repeated exhortations to do so in the ancient Dhamma texts, and in fact find such a disidentification deeply incomprehensible, as they try to comprehend it intellectually and thereby run in circles. Thus early Buddhist scholars contented themselves with formulating new theories on Buddhism, or studying pre-established ones, and with teaching and debating these theories. As G.C. Pande stated in his great Studies in the Origins of Buddhism,1
The growth of monastic learning and of philosophical analysis and controversy led to increased complexity, subtlety and system in the realm of ideas, till the message of Buddha was converted into a stupendous scholastic philosophy. At the same time the spread of Buddhism among the people led it to imbibe many elements of popular religion and helped the apotheosis of Buddha. Pari passu with this orientation in doctrinal change there was a corresponding change in the style of expression which tended to lose simplicity and spontaneity and poetic vigour in favour of dry-as-dust abstract scholastic formulae. Linguistically, too, the change may be seen in the use of new technical terms and in the development of new technical senses for old words.
This confusion of Dhamma with dogma began almost immediately and continues to the present day, assuming its most exaggerated forms in the Buddhist universities of the East and in the Buddhist Studies departments of the secular universities of the West. This is not to say that the academic discipline of Buddhist Studies is bad or wrong—after all, human beings, including Buddhist human beings, are endowed with a faculty of reason and naturally will continue to exercise it. The trouble lies in confusing theories about Dhamma with Dhamma itself, or in clinging to these theories, or in believing that these theories are necessarily of any real value whatsoever.
It is apparent that intellectualism receives very little support from the most ancient Buddhist texts, which are emphatically more practical than rationalistic in tone. However, one seeming exception to this rule is the subtle and profound doctrine generally referred to as Paṭiccasamuppāda, or “Dependent Co-arising,” which presumably has been a central tenet of Buddhist philosophy from the very beginning. It is essentially the Buddhist explanation for everything in the phenomenal universe, and traditionally has been considered so important that a realization of this principle is deemed to have been integral to Gotama Buddha’s enlightenment, and some ancient discourses identify Dependent Co-arising with Dhamma itself. The problem is that although the idea of Dependent Co-arising is not particularly complicated it is so subtle and profound that almost nobody can understand it; and most Buddhists have failed really to comprehend it even from the earliest times. (In fact legend has it that the Buddha after his enlightenment was hesitant to begin teaching Dhamma because he suspected that nobody would understand Paṭiccasamuppāda.) consequently, the theory of Dependent Co-arising quickly ossified into an obscure stock formula which was memorized by rote and variously interpreted by the various schools of ancient and medieval Indian Buddhism. One reason why it is so difficult to understand is that it requires one to step outside of the world, so to speak, and regard it with detachment—thus, it requires disidentification with one’s own worldly subjective “self,” including the thinking mind itself. The situation is similar to the realization that any rationalistic system of thought, no matter how logically perfect it appears to be internally, is, taken as a whole, quite irrational, as it is created by an arbitrary animal restlessness of mind, with no logically compelling need for its creation in the first place. A true understanding of the world requires more meditative or intuitive insight than intellectual force, more a detachment from symbols than the manipulation of them. Another, much more easily perceived example of logical reasoning in very early Buddhist philosophy is the fact that the second and third Noble Truths can be interpreted as a kind of simple syllogism: If there is dukkha (suffering, unhappiness, unease) it is because there is taṇhā (craving, appetition); therefore, if taṇhā ceases dukkha also must cease. Truly, the primary focus of the Four Noble Truths, which are practically the backbone of theoretical Dhamma, is none other than dukkha and the cessation of dukkha. In the justifiably renowned Alagaddūpama Sutta (M22) the Buddha is said to have said, “Formerly, Monks, and now also I make known just unease and the cessation of unease.” (pubbe cāhaṁ bhikkhave etarahi ca dukkhaṁ ceva paññāpemi dukkhassa ca nirodhaṁ). Yet regardless of whatever logical form the theory may assume, the fact is that unhappiness is an irrational, affective animal state—there is no such thing as an unhappy vegetable or mineral—and even the preference of the cessation of suffering to its continuation is an irrational, affective animal instinct which presumably encouraged our ancestors to survive and reproduce, and which we presumably inherited from them—again adopting the biological point of view. Thus we may say that the foundation of Dhamma is irrational, which however is certainly not the same as saying that it is wrong. So, to recapitulate a bit, what is generally considered to be the main problem in Buddhism is essentially irrational, and the inspiration to solve that problem is equally irrational. Moreover, as has already been suggested, the earliest texts emphasize practice as the best means of solving the problem, and, as has already been suggested, pure reason can never motivate practice, or for that matter anything else. It may be replied that a primary goal of Dhamma practice is understanding (paññā) or knowledge (ñāṇa), and that a lack of it (avijjā) is sometimes considered to be the main problem itself; but, again as has already been suggested, this knowledge is more intuitive than intellectual, and the more enlightening it becomes the less intellectual or even perceptual it becomes. It is evident that rationality is more a part of the fundamental malady than of the cure, as it integrates and reinforces a very artificial symbolic system which distracts from the immediate reality that it supposedly represents. It has nothing to do with Nibbāna. In Buddhist terminology it is a purely samsaric phenomenon. Most of the earliest Buddhist discourses appear to concede a certain limited usefulness to reason; but some texts and passages within texts, which apparently are of great antiquity, follow a somewhat paradoxical anti-intellectual tack. One notable example is the statement repeated three times in the Sakkapañha Sutta (D21) that not thinking is better, or “more excellent,” than thinking (tattha yaṁ ce savitakkaṁ savicāraṁ, yaṁ ce avitakkaṁ avicāraṁ, ye avitakke avicāre, te paṇītatare). This statement is not referring specifically to jhanic contemplation, and applies to unhappy states of mind as well as to states that are otherwise. Another notable example of scriptural anti-intellectualism is a discourse to the philosopher Dīghanakha in the Majjhima Nikāya (M74) which is said to have caused the enlightenment of the Buddha’s chief disciple Sāriputta. In it the Buddha advises Dīghanakha that even to accept the notion that no notion is acceptable is to accept one too many notions. But the example par excellence of early Buddhist anti-rationality is the Aṭṭhakavagga of the Sutta Nipāta. One of the main themes of this collection of discourses may be summed up in the following stanza:
If by view purity is for a man,
Or by knowledge he abandons unease, Then he who is (already) encumbered is purified by something extra; Indeed, the view betrays him claiming in that way. (-Suddhaṭṭhaka Sutta v.2)
This may represent one of the first cases in recorded history of logical reasoning refuting the positive value of logical reasoning (a practice later made much of by the Mādhyamika Buddhists, not to mention the ancient Greek Skeptics). In the Aṭṭhakavagga intellect, as well as all other modes of perceptual knowledge, is considered to be something extraneous (añña) and an encumbrance (upadhi), which in the quest for enlightenment is irrelevant at best. Many examples could be given of the Aṭṭhakavagga’s disdain for learning and knowledge, but a few will suffice to convey the general idea:
Whosever philosophies are contrived, determined, And set before them are not immaculate; Whatever advantage he sees for himself, He is dependent upon a peace that is conditioned by instability. (-Duṭṭhaṭṭhaka Sutta v.5)
Having abandoned what was acquired, not taking up anything, He would not be in dependence even upon knowledge; He truly is not a partisan among the schoolmen; He does not rely on any view at all. (-Paramaṭṭhaka Sutta v.5)
By him, here, in the seen, the heard, or the felt, There is not contrived even the slightest perception; That holy man not adopting a view– By what here in the world would one judge him? (–Paramaṭṭhaka Sutta v.7)
Indeed, there are not many, different, perennial truths In the world, except by means of perception; So having contrived a theory from among the views They speak of a duality of “truth” and “falsehood.” (–Cūḷaviyūha Sutta v.9)
Naturally, the later Pali commentarial tradition, deeply rooted in a dogmatic scholasticism which is practically the antithesis of teachings like these in the Aṭṭhakavagga, interprets verses like the ones presented above to mean, essentially, that one should harbor no false views, and have no wrong perceptions—thereby leaving the door open to belief in Orthodox Doctrine. But this is clearly not what the verses literally say, and would render the message so blandly obvious as to be virtually pointless.
The later Buddhist philosophical movements of Prajñāpāramitā and Madhyamaka were largely reactions to dogmatic scholasticism in general and the Abhidhamma philosophies in particular, and were an attempt to return to a more primordial and less intellect-oriented attitude toward Dhamma (although they resorted to some questionable methods in doing so—the former concocting a whole slew of apocryphal discourses of the Buddha, and the latter indulging in some dialectical sophistry, reminiscent of Zeno’s paradoxes and Plato’s Parmenides, in order to make important philosophical points—but even the earlier schools, including Theravāda, are not entirely innocent of these tactics). It is worthy of note that one of the earliest Mahayanist Madhyamaka texts, the Mahāprajñāpāramitā-Śastra, which according to A.K. Warder2 was written by a disciple of the Nāgārjuna who reputedly founded the Madhyamaka school, quotes directly from the Arthavargīya Sūtras, a Sanskrit version of what in Pali is the Aṭṭhakavagga. But probably the most extreme and well-known anti-intellectual movement in post-primordial Buddhism is what has come to be known as Zen. The following case from the Blue Cliff Record (Case 32) may serve as a very brief presentation of the school:
Jō Jōza asked Rinzai, “What is the essence of Buddhism?” Rinzai, getting up from his seat, seized him, slapped him, and pushed him away. Jō Jōza stood still. A monk standing by said, “Jō Jōza, why don’t you bow?” When Jō Jōza bowed, he suddenly became enlightened.
In this story Jō Jōza was apparently entrenched in conceptual thinking and in all seriousness expected a conceptually oriented answer from Rinzai. However, Rinzai simply stepped forth and slapped him right out of the trench. When Jō Jōza stood still he did so psychologically as well as physically, and this bafflement-induced state of mental quiescence allowed the enlightening realization to occur. (The question of why it occurred while he was bowing is a part of the riddle that will not be answered here. That is the real koan of this case.) Of course, not all Zen teachings are as philosophically elegant as Rinzai’s beatings. The following narrative, extracted from the Record of Jōshū, is a case in point:
A monk asked Jōshū, “What is the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming to China?” Jōshū said, “The oak tree in the garden.” “Don’t answer me with the things of the external world,” said the monk. “No, I do not,” answered Jōshū. “What is the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming to China?” “The oak tree in the garden.“3
Although the three movements of Prajñāpāramitā, Madhyamaka, and Zen incorporated innovations, such as the Mahayanist bodhisattva doctrine and the Mādhyamika dialectic, which presumably did not originate with the historical Gotama Buddha, their emphasis on a non-intellectual understanding of Truth was a continuation and elaboration of a much earlier tradition, evidently endorsed by the Buddha himself, and to which we shall now return.
There is a simile in the Pali texts, described several times and in varying contexts, of a hen incubating a clutch of eggs. In one version of it in the Majjhima Nikāya (M16) a monk whose yogic practice incorporates a list of 15 factors is compared to an embryonic chick in one of the hen’s eggs; in another version in the same Nikāya (M53) a practicing monk endowed with a somewhat different group of factors and experiencing the Three Knowledges is apparently, and rather confusedly, compared to the hen and to at least one of the chicks. But the version of the simile which is most detailed and most consistently applicable to its surrounding context is found in both the Saṁyutta and Aṅguttara Nikāyas (S22.101 and A7.67) with reference to the 37 principles conducive to awakening (bodhipakkhiyā dhammā):
Monks, it is like a hen that has eight or ten or twelve eggs, but they are not rightly sat upon, not rightly warmed, not rightly incubated by that hen. Even though the desire (icchā) might arise in that hen thus, “Oh that my baby chicks with their claws or beak would break the eggshell and hatch safely,” even so, those baby chicks would be unable with their claws or beak to break the eggshell and hatch safely. What is the reason for this? Monks, it is just that the hen’s eight or ten or twelve eggs were not rightly sat upon, not rightly warmed, not rightly incubated by that hen. Just so, monks, to a monk living undedicated to cultivation (bhāvanā), even though the desire might arise thus, “Oh that my mind would be liberated from encumbering influences through non-uptake” (aho vata me anupādāya āsavehi cittaṁ vimucceyya), even so, his mind is not liberated from encumbering influences through non-uptake. What is the reason for this? One should say it is “uncultivatedness” (abhāvitatta). Uncultivatedness of what? Uncultivatedness of the four applications of mindfulness, uncultivatedness of the four right exertions, uncultivatedness of the four bases of accomplishment, uncultivatedness of the five faculties, uncultivatedness of the five powers, uncultivatedness of the seven factors of awakening, uncultivatedness of the noble eightfold path….
Monks, it is like a hen that has eight or ten or twelve eggs, and they are rightly sat upon, rightly warmed, rightly incubated by that hen. Even though the desire might not arise in that hen thus, “Oh that my baby chicks with their claws or beak would break the eggshell and hatch safely,” even so, those baby chicks would be able with their claws or beak to break the eggshell and hatch safely. What is the reason for this? Monks, it is just that the hen’s eight or ten or twelve eggs were rightly sat upon, rightly warmed, rightly incubated by that hen. Just so, monks, to a monk living dedicated to cultivation, even though the desire might not arise thus, “Oh that my mind would be liberated from encumbering influences through non-uptake,” even so, his mind is liberated from encumbering influences through non-uptake. What is the reason for this? One should say it is “cultivatedness” (bhāvitatta). Cultivatedness of what? Cultivatedness of the four applications of mindfulness…(and so on through the list of 37).
This version of the simile is more apposite in that the hen herself represents the monk, thereby accounting for the description of her mental states, and that her success in incubation represents the monk’s success in cultivation or spiritual practice. But the inclusion of the stock list of 37 principles may cause the fit to be somewhat less than perfect, as there would seem to be a rather fine line between “desire” (icchā) on the one hand and some of the principles on the other. For example, the standard description of the four right exertions (as found throughout the Sammappadhāna Saṁyutta (S49), at M77, and elsewhere) involves the generation of chanda, which is often translated into English as “desire” (in fact ven. Bhikkhu Bodhi’s monumental translation of the Saṁyutta Nikāya generally renders both icchā and chanda as “desire”). It would appear that there is not a great difference between desire (icchā) for liberation of mind through non-uptake and desire (chanda) for purification of mind through earnest striving—unless it be that the former is idle while the latter is motivational. Yet in some people the situation may be the other way round, as even an inclination for earnest striving may be idle. So it appears, then, that in a sense desire for enlightenment is not quite relevant, but in another sense, as was mentioned above, all volitional effort and activity, including that directed toward enlightenment, is the result of an essentially affective and irrational motivating urge, or desire.
No doubt many people would favor the opinion that all of the versions of the hen simile found in the Pali texts really were spoken by the Buddha himself, and that maybe he just was not very careful about the aptness of his similes, or that maybe in his great wisdom he could see a perfect aptness that others cannot see; but even so it seems rather likely that most if not all of the versions of the hen simile are cases of a famous older saying adapted to newer contexts. A case in point is a rather aberrant version found at A8.11 and in the preamble to the Vinaya Pārājika, in which the Buddha reportedly compares himself to the first chick hatched to the hen with eight or ten or twelve eggs as a means of demonstrating to a brahmin that he (the Buddha) is the greatest and foremost person in the world. A traditionalist or, ironically, a non-Buddhist might not raise an eyebrow at such grandiose boasting, but a Buddhist with an appreciation for wisdom and a capacity for skeptical thought has little choice but to regard this as probably a manifestation of a later trend toward devotionalistic glorification of the historical Gotama. (This trend was eventually taken to the extreme, especially in Mahāyāna, of turning the man into a kind of God Almighty, almost as though he were a Hebrew carpenter from Galilee.) This adaptation of earlier material to later narratives is arguably quite common in the Pali texts, one pretty obvious example among many being the Baddekaratta Suttas of the Majjhima Nikāya (M131-134). Even the famous Simile of the Raft in the Alagaddūpama Sutta is apparently of this type, being not entirely in harmony with the surrounding context. The series of the 37 principles conducive to awakening listed in our preferred version of the Simile of the Hen itself appears to be a relatively early attempt at a scholastic, intellectual systematization of Dhamma. Whether each of the seven sets or sublists within the system of the bodhipakkhiyā dhammā actually was taught by the historical Gotama Buddha is a moot point; but it is evident that they were not originally intended to be coordinated into a single system, as they are not infrequently found independently of each other in the texts, and as the group taken as a whole displays a great deal of overlap and redundancy and is clearly not systematic. One of the most obvious indications of this latter point is the fact that the list of the five faculties and the list of the five powers are exactly the same list, and are described as exactly the same in the Pali Suttas (see, for example, S48.43 and M77). So it is likely that the 37 principles were cobbled together from older material by early Buddhist pundits, possibly for didactic purposes or possibly from the same love for specious systematology that eventually culminated in the Abhidhamma philosophies of the various schools. In consideration of all this, it appears plausible at least that the Simile of the Hen is a very ancient teaching that was interpolated into somewhat less ancient discourses with more or less applicability, and that it may have been originally independent of all of the contexts in which it is presently found in the Pali Canon. Or, it may be that the account from the Saṁyutta Nikāya (with regard to the 37 principles) quoted above is essentially the original version. At any rate, the symbolic meaning of the Simile of the Hen, taken in isolation, appears to be this: that with regard to Dhamma what really matters is right or skillful practice, and thus desires and motives concerning the purpose of that practice—liberation—are largely irrelevant. So long as the hen incubates her eggs properly, her feelings about the issue are negligible, as the practical result is the same in any case. Presumably even Theravādin traditionalists would be disposed, perhaps with some qualification, to agree with this interpretation. Assuming that the foregoing interpretation is correct, then the implications of the simile may be taken even farther: if what really matters is skillful practice, then the rationalizations for one’s practice are also irrelevant—in fact, they would be more negligible than desires, since desire, as chanda at least, may be motivational and a proximate cause of practice; whereas pure reason, as has already been pointed out, has no direct motivating force whatsoever. Thus one’s theoretical philosophy is practically of no account. The hen may be a Theravāda Buddhist, a Tantric Hindu, or a Roman Catholic Christian, yet if she conducts herself properly her eggs will hatch. Likewise, the hen may be a Subjective Idealist, a Scientific Realist, or a Pyrrhonistic Skeptic, so long as she practices rightly her point of view is irrelevant. As Arthur Schopenhauer once said in approximately the same vein,
…an Indian, a Christian, or a Lamaist saint must each give a very different account of his own conduct; but this is of no importance at all as regards the fact. A saint may be full of the most absurd superstition, or, on the other hand, may be a philosopher; it is all the same.4
There is, however, this stipulation—a vital aspect of right practice is detachment and disidentification from the thinking mind, and thus from all conceptual points of view. And of course, not all religious or philosophical systems are equally conducive to this, those putting undue emphasis on dogmatic faith or abstract theory tending to miss the point, with many if not most systems not even having enlightenment or liberation as their goal. Cogitation is radically different from liberation, and is ultimately irrelevant with regard to it; but even so, the hypothetical enlightened being presumably continues to maintain a faculty of reason and continues naturally to exercise that faculty. Continuing the above passage of Schopenhauer,
His conduct alone is evidence that he is a saint; for, in a moral regard, it springs not from abstract knowledge, but from intuitively apprehended, immediate knowledge of the world and of its inner nature, and is expressed by him through some dogma only for the satisfaction of his faculty of reason.
Traditionalists and other dogmatic types may strenuously disagree with this interpretation of the case, naturally insisting that their own preferred dogmas are the Highest Truth (the standard portrayal of this attitude in the Buddhist Suttas being “Only this is true! Anything else is wrong!”), but this may indicate simply that they have not yet progressed very far in Dhamma, and are still strongly identified with the thinking mind and entrenched in conceptual systems in general. It may be that they are unable to “step out of the system” even temporarily, and consequently cannot comprehend that integrated belief systems are an extraneous encumbrance, virtually a mind-made prison, and a major factor in unenlightenment. On the other hand, if they are detached and disidentified from their strenuous disagreement, then it may be no problem at all.
Much has been said thus far concerning the essentiality of yogic practice in Dhamma, so it would seem appropriate to attempt an explanation of some of the more consequential aspects of this practice. In short, the prime objective of Dhamma (although certainly not of Buddhistic Studies) is “liberation of the mind from encumbering influences through non-uptake,” which is more frequently referred to as awakening, enlightenment, and Nibbāna. At the foundational level of practice one clears and prepares the ground by outward behavior which is conducive to calm simplicity and clarity of the mental processes, traditionally by renunciation and moral conduct. This simplicity and clarity are then refined through the more inward art of mental cultivation (bhavanā), which for the sake of brevity and convenience may be described under the two categories of mindfulness (sati) and contemplation (jhāna). The essential quality of mindfulness as a yogic discipline is uninvolved attentiveness to and awareness of present conscious experience, being simultaneously as fully aware of and as fully detached from the Here and Now as possible, the ultimate purpose of which being to divest perception of all extraneous, artificial significance which burdens and limits the mind. At the more elementary levels of mindfulness practice one generally views objectively one’s own mental states (which include sensory perceptions of one’s own body); for example, when a thought arises one may simply note it as “thinking,” when walking one may note “walking,” and when feeling irritated one may note “irritation.” This kind of practice is conducive to an intuitive experiential insight that one’s customary subjective experiences are not a “self,” as whatever is objectified is not the subject, and it is the subject that is instinctively regarded to be one’s self. Nevertheless, although the yogi has detached and disidentified from the thinking, feeling mind to some degree, he or she is still indulging in a more subtle form of subjective identification, for, as the Zen Buddhists say, “the object is an object for the subject.” Subject and object dependently co-arise, so to speak, and cannot exist in isolation. At more advanced levels of mindfulness practice, as perceptual context becomes more and more rarified, the distinctions between one perception and another, and between subject and object, are dissolved. In this way the mind is expanded to an awareness of the full depth and breadth of conscious experience, as attention is not focused upon one thing in particular, thereby disregarding everything else. The fully mindful mind is clearly presenting yet undiscriminating, like a mirror. Thus is cultivated an incomprehensible state of bright, clear voidness and stillness—a “signless” mind in which all limiting symbolic significance is transcended. At this stage of practice deep insights may easily arise; for example, one clearly sees that when all thought and symbolic perception temporarily cease the mind does not necessarily lapse into unconscious oblivion, but in fact, paradoxically, consciousness is now greatly expanded and enhanced.
The yogic discipline of contemplation is essentially a more formal and direct, and hence for most an initially more difficult, means of stilling and clarifying the mind, for the purpose of enabling the yogi to detach, at least temporarily, from the content of perceptual forms, to liberate the mind from an artificial and irrationally generated system of mutually integrating symbols which is the matrix of all suffering and delusion. Unfortunately, since ancient times jhānic contemplation has been confounded with self-induced hypnosis, so that many or even most Theravāda Buddhists, including many who believe themselves to be practitioners of jhāna, consider the highest level of contemplative “illumination” to be a hypnotic trance state of virtually unconscious suspended animation resembling that of a hibernating squirrel. So it is no wonder that many teachers of basic mindfulness practice warn their disciples that jhāna is “dangerous,” and an unnecessary diversion to be taken up by those wishing to attain psychic powers. Yet jhāna, which may be literally rendered into English as “shining” or “illuminating,” was apparently endorsed and taught by the Buddha himself, and presumably with good reason. One contemplative technique which is common to several religious/yogic traditions is carefully to observe the mind and immediately to dismiss or disregard any thought or perception which arises, including any thought of dismissing or disregarding. With such a method discursive thought comes to a stop before one gets very far, and with persistent practice the yogi winds up in the same shining, signless state of consciousness that was just described above. At an advanced stage the two practices of mindfulness and contemplation converge at the same inconceivable emptiness. Hence fourth jhāna, which in the oldest stock descriptions of jhāna in the Pali texts is described as the highest level of contemplation, is further described in these stock descriptions as “painless and pleasureless purity of mindfulness through detached observation” (adukkhamasukkhaṁ upekkhāsatipārisuddhiṁ5). The highest mindfulness and the highest contemplation are seen to be essentially the same—and in either case the practice as well as the resultant state are emphatically not inherently rational.
It may not be necessary to completely master and perfect these two disciplines, much less to abide constantly in fourth jhāna, as even in their perfection they are not the same as enlightenment itself, but are only conducive to its attainment. Purity of mindfulness and contemplation presumably would greatly improve the likelihood of full enlightenment, but the textual and historical evidence suggests that awakening may also occur at less advanced levels of practice. Awakening implies a letting go of all conditioned mental states, so it would appear that the letting go, the enlightenment, cannot itself be a cultivated mental state, or system of states. Nor is it necessarily an absence of mental states, as the hypothetical enlightened being by all accounts continues to behave as though perceiving, feeling, and thinking, perhaps even in apparently unenlightened ways.
He has no perception of perception; he has no perception of non-perception; He is not without perception; he has no perception of “void”; For one who has attained thus form becomes void; For founded in perception is diversification and designation. (-Kalahavivāda Sutta v.13, of the Aṭṭhakavagga, a Pali precursor of the Zen koan)
Mental states are ultimately irrelevant to Nibbāna. This cannot be comprehended intellectually. In fact, the reasoning mind cannot lay a finger on the ultimate goal of spiritual practice. Even such standard conceptual definitions of Nibbāna as “the cessation of suffering and delusion” are invalid and inapplicable expedients. The problem of phenomenal existence is solved by a kind of metasolution which is not itself an integral part of the phenomenal system. Again, the solution requires complete detachment from or transcendence of all points of view, not somehow discovering or devising a “True” one.
A faithful Theravāda Buddhist might reply that, even so, it is only Buddhism (or maybe just Theravāda Buddhism) that equips one with the necessary starting assumptions, motivations, and practices which render likely or even possible the arising of liberating insight and the attainment of Nibbāna; but, as was suggested above by Schopenhauer and the chicken, this may not necessarily be the case. Setting aside with all due respect the various yogic and mystical traditions of the East, along with their respective saints and sages, let us briefly consider the very remarkable example of Roman Catholic Christianity. Although most Roman Catholics are no doubt not very yogically or mystically inclined, and base their spirituality primarily upon dogmatic beliefs which to a non-Christian appear rather superstitious and far-fetched, Catholicism contains many monastic traditions which incorporate a broad range of what are essentially yogic and mystical practices. As in Buddhism, these practices are traditionally based upon a foundation of renunciation and moral conduct; and as in Buddhism, the practices involve mindfulness and contemplation. A practical level of day-to-day mindfulness is generally referred to in Christianity as “recollection”; following is an example of same taken from The Varieties of Religious Experience, by William James:6
Of Saint Catharine of Genoa it is said that “she took cognizance of things, only as they were presented to her in succession, moment by moment.” To her holy soul, “the divine moment was the present moment,…and when the present moment was estimated in itself and in its relations, and when the duty that was involved in it was accomplished, it was permitted to pass away as if it had never been, and to give way to the facts and duties of the moment which came after.” Hinduism, mind-cure, and theosophy all lay great emphasis upon this concentration of the consciousness upon the moment at hand.
Also Buddhism. In The Ascent of Mount Carmel Saint John of the Cross has much to say of the advantages of the “annihilation of the memory” by spiritual seekers—which is of course a means of intensifying awareness of the present moment and eliminating discursive thought. What is called “high contemplation” by the Christians would presumably be at least second jhāna by the Theravādin reckoning, as it is a state of expansive illumination in which all thinking has stopped. Anyone who has read much Catholic mystical literature may be reasonably confident that many Christian monks and nuns of olden times were masters of it. Amazingly, despite such basic Christian attitudes as the idea that all are sinners and none are worthy, and despite the fact that he lived in the same country, time, and religious culture in which the “Holy Inquisition” was torturing and burning heretics and unbelievers, San Juan de la Cruz actually describes a scheme of spiritual progress which approximates the Pali Buddhist system of puthujjana (common person)⟶sekha (partially enlightened “one in training”)⟶asekha or arahant (fully enlightened being). In this Christian scheme one advances from the level of “beginner” to the level of “proficient,” which is also called “spiritual betrothal,” when one leaves behind ordinary meditation methods which involve attending to perceptual objects and gains proficiency in objectless “high contemplation”; and the level of “the perfect,” or “spiritual marriage,” is attained with complete “mortification of self-will,” a mastery of the aforementioned annihilation of memory, and complete detachment from all that is phenomenal, including one’s own perceptions.7 Saint John evidently considered his mentor Saint Teresa of Avila, and himself, to have attained this state. By the Christian theory the perfected soul becomes “God through participation,” a kind of divine puppet, as being without her own volitions she becomes wholly motivated by the will of God, and thus everything she does is perfect (although it may not always seem perfect to imperfect bystanders). This level of being is theoretically analogous to that of the ever mindful Buddhist arahant who generates no saṅkhāras–that is, no karmically active volitional states. But of course a Buddhist would offer a radically different explanation of how an essentially volitionless being continues actively to function in the world. Likewise, a Theravāda Buddhist’s theories of how the solution to the human predicament is not itself a part of the phenomenal system would differ quite a lot from the well known Christian idea of Divine Grace. Yet regardless of the hen’s theories on embryology, if she incubates her eggs properly they will hatch.
Most people, including probably most Christians, are oblivious to the existence of advanced yogic methods, possibly conducive to complete liberation of mind, within the monastic and mystical traditions of Christianity. But even most Buddhists base their religion mainly upon dogmatic faith; and only a tiny minority within any established religion can really appreciate the fact that adherence to beliefs is itself a part of the problem. Nevertheless, it is clear that not all spiritual traditions are equally conducive to “liberation of the mind from encumbering influences through non-uptake”; and lest I be accused of being a closet Christian on account of my praises of San Juan de la Cruz, I will state here that the meditative traditions of Buddhism are among the very best, due to their more open emphasis on right practice (right incubation) and their somewhat lesser emphasis on conceptual beliefs (theories of embryology), rational or otherwise. Many entrenched Theravāda Buddhists would no doubt insist that Theravāda is the best because it and only it endorses Right View. But, even magnanimously granting this, as the great Thai meditation master venerable Ajahn Chah used to say, Right View becomes Wrong View if one clings to it. And it may be, in a few cases at least, that a shoddy and absurd point of view is easier to detach from than a breathtakingly profound and elegant one. Detachment, “non-uptake,” is the key.
It may be helpful at this point to attempt a coherent synopsis of the foregoing discussion:
The primary problem in Dhamma—that is, dukkha–is an intrinsically irrational affective state. On the other hand, if one prefers to consider delusion (moha) or ignorance (avijjā) to be the main problem, then superficially it may be rational or irrational, but deep down it is by nature inherently irrational. The inspiration or motivation to solve the problem is also irrational, being based upon the logically arbitrary and biologically conditioned value judgement that happiness, or understanding, is better than its opposite. The practical methods employed to solve the problem, being practice as opposed to theory, are not intrinsically intellectual or rational. The theoretical points of view which may guide the practice, as above with delusion, may be superficially and contextually rational or irrational; but with regard to their starting suppositions as well as with regard to their very existence as a whole, they are not logically necessary and are therefore logically invalid. Moreover, if the practitioner is attached to his or her theory, for example holding the stereotypical attitude “Only this is true! Anything else is wrong!” then the theory is actually part of the problem, regardless of its content. Conversely, if one is not attached to a theory, then again its content is irrelevant so long as it helps, or at least does not hinder, getting the job of skillful practice done. Again in the words of Schopenhauer, “A saint may be full of the most absurd superstition, or, on the other hand, may be a philosopher; it is all the same.” The insight or understanding which may arise with skillful practice, especially that which initiates liberation of mind, is direct, intuitive, nonsymbolic, and nonintellectual. The goal of the practice and solution to the problem—Nibbāna—is emphatically neither rational nor not rational as it is not a matter of the content of mental states (nor of the absence of mental states). This point really cannot be understood intellectually.
It would appear that so far as Dhamma is concerned logical reasoning is practically superfluous. So naturally the question arises: What in the world is the use of the faculty of reason to a spiritual seeker? Why not just deaden one’s intellect with vodka and lurch about haphazardly like a sacred cow, or perhaps spend one’s days crouching among tombs shrieking and gashing oneself with sharp rocks? The following discussion will endeavor to address this issue. First of all, it is reasonable to suppose that since the faculty of reason evolved mainly as an aid to survival and reproduction, these are the functions to which it is best suited; and although reproduction may safely be considered extraneous to the Holy Life, survival can definitely come in handy to a spiritual seeker, as it is presumably a good thing not to die of starvation or some other misfortune before one’s mind is liberated. Also, simply managing one’s worldly affairs in an intelligent manner contributes to an untroubled life and an untroubled mind, the latter especially being conducive to deep contemplation and the arising of insight. Even forest-dwelling hermits have worldly affairs sufficient to exercise their faculty of reason. At a more specifically Dhamma-oriented level the faculty of reason may be best employed not so much, perhaps, as a “slave of the passions” as a faithful slave of the intuitions, casuistically cooking up good reasons—it does not really matter what they are—for the skillful cultivation of “non-uptake.” As such, one’s theoretical views supporting practice could be likened to some of the grass, sticks, etc. composing the allegorical raft which one paddles across the flood of Samsara. Just as the raft is a jerry-rigged contraption made of what is essentially rubbish and is to be disposed of as soon as the Far Shore is attained, even so, one’s religious and philosophical views are to be seen as no more than “skillful means” which are ultimately to be let go of. Consequently it may be a good idea at some point for the faithful slave to reason itself into the view that it is a dandy fine thing to detach and disidentify from all views. This is a somewhat paradoxical position and not completely logical, but so be it. Ultimately, there is no completely logical reason why one should practice at all, skillfully or otherwise, or even why one should get out of bed in the morning. Another useful, if rather negative, function of logical reasoning in Dhamma is as a kind of rubbish detector for identifying the invalidity of commonly held assumptions concerning the Holy Life, a good and simple instance of which being the verse from the Suddhaṭṭhaka Sutta quoted towards the start of this discussion. Those with an inclination toward philosophical criticism, plus maybe a hyperactive brain, may take this to the extreme of systematic mystical skepticism, an all-devouring dialectic which undermines the certainty of all other points of view and then turns upon itself, reducing (or rather expanding) the mind to a state of watchful silence. It may not be necessary to analyze points of view to death one at a time, as in the philosophy of Nāgārjuna; it may be sufficient simply to recognize the severe limitations of all reasoning, especially with regard to Dhamma. This process may be likened to an illustration given in the Vitakkasaṇṭhāna Sutta (“The Discourse on the Settling of Thought,” M20), reminiscent of the Simile of the Raft but found in a rather different context, in which a skillful carpenter uses a small peg to drive out a larger one embedded in a plank—after which procedure he presumably discards both pegs. Again, reason is skillfully used merely as a disposable makeshift of no intrinsic value, or as a way of “fighting fire with fire.” There are some who, quite literally not knowing any better than to cling to discursive thought, may insist that even if right practice is all that really matters as far as true Dhamma is concerned, logical reasoning is still necessary for determining what right practice is, not just what it is not (or worse yet, that logical reasoning is an integral part of right practice); but the empirical evidence as well as reason itself appear to belie such a point of view. As a rule, one’s methods of yogic practice are derived from intuition, trial and error, and/or dogmatic faith, with an admixture of kusalakammavipāka, which is known in vulgar English as “good luck.” Rationality itself plays a relatively insignificant supporting role. This is partly because, as was pointed out earlier on, logical reasoning is inevitably based upon irrationally derived axioms. If one begins with uninspired and worldly-minded premises, as most intellectual types do, then one is bound to arrive at uninspired and worldly-minded conclusions. On the other hand if one begins with deeply inspired premises, then logical deduction may be superfluous; the initial inspiration may be sufficient. As the logicians say, the conclusion is already contained within the premises. Another reason for the relative insignificance of rationality in guiding Dhamma practice is that integrated belief systems cannot lead out of themselves. Their application and validity are purely internal to the system. But the goal of Dhamma, and thus, eventually, also the path leading to that goal, are not internal to the system. What is required is “getting outside of the box” and clearly seeing the box as it really is. Reason, significance, common sense are all integral parts of the samsaric system in which we are entangled. Again and again, “cultivation” implies detachment from the symbolic content of perception; skillful practice is not so much a specific systematic technique as simply relaxing the grip and letting go of the world, including the world of ideas, as much as one is able. It is a business of nonactivity, a development of inward stillness. The goal is liberation from a prison constructed of volitional beliefs, not the elaboration and perfection of that prison.
This is why most people who have studied a lot and become monks never get anywhere. Their knowledge is of a different kind, on a different path….The knowledge of the Buddha is not worldly knowledge, it is supramundane knowledge, a different way altogether….The practice concerns giving up, letting go, uprooting, stopping. You must understand this in order to make the practice work. (—Venerable Ajahn Chah8)
It may seem from the foregoing that I am betraying my own position by attempting to use discursive reasoning to bash the validity of discursive reasoning; but as this essay is directed particularly toward silly Buddhist intellectuals and dogmatic types who fondly cherish the belief that true Dhamma can be conceived rationalistically, it is expedient for me to speak their own language, more or less. Also, at this level the essay may be viewed as a counterfire, or an endeavor to knock out a big peg with a small one (after which both pegs are to be laid aside). Another way of looking at it is that being a human being I am endowed by nature with a faculty of reason yet am nevertheless basically irrational, and just cannot help it but to restlessly exercise my natural faculties and think and write such stuff—or at any rate choose not to help it. But perhaps the most appropriate answer to the question of why one should spout such antirationality is this: The oak tree in the garden.
May all in want of wisdom find it, and may all beings be well and peaceful.
Notes
(Motilal Banarsidass, Dehli 1983)
In Indian Buddhism, published by Motilal Banarsidass, third revised edition, 2004. Warder also points out that none of the works uncontroversially attributed to Nāgārjuna (for example the Mūlamadhyamaka-kārikā) contain any obvious mention of exclusively Mahāyānist literature, or of characteristically Mahāyānist ideas like the bodhisattva doctrine. Whenever he quoted Buddhist scripture in these works it was apparently always from the earlier tradition, most of the quoted texts having their Pali equivalents in the Saṁyutta Nikāya. Ironically, there is no compelling evidence that ven. Nāgārjuna was a Mahāyāna Buddhist, despite the fact that he is generally considered to be a great patriarch of Mahāyāna Buddhism.
Both of the above cases are quoted from Two Zen Classics, translated with commentaries by K. Sekida (Weatherhill, 2000).
In The World as Will and Representation, vol. I, translated by E.F.J. Payne (Dover, 1969).
The term upekkhā, translated here as “detached observation,” is usually rendered “equanimity,” but quite literally it means “looking upon,” that is, merely observing without being involved. The word is occasionally applied to an affectively neutral sensation, but in the context of fourth jhāna it evidently does not refer specifically to the absence of pain and pleasure, as upekkhā is also a factor of third jhāna which is still susceptible to these states.
(Touchstone, Simon and Schuster, 1997)
For an interesting Christian explanation of enlightenment see La Subida del Monte Carmelo, Book 2, Chapter 5; and for further explanation with special emphasis on “annihilation of the memory” see Book 3, Chapter 2. An extended discussion of detachment from all perceptible phenomena may be found passim throughout the whole work.
In Food for the Heart (The Sangha, Wat Pah Nanachat, 1992).
Written by Paññobhāsa Bhikkhu
Wun Bo Wildlife Refuge Monastery
Butalin Township, Upper Burma (Myanmar)
20 March 2007