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September 21, 2005
Hello everyone,
One of the chief values in studying the beliefs of other cultures is to see our own belief in new relief: to learn from their way of life so that our own is improved accordingly. Yet not everyone sees the study of other cultures and beliefs in this way. Allan Bloom reminds us in the introduction to his Closing of the American Mind of an error we so commonly see in the world of academia: an error we do well to highlight in sharp relief before we utter another word:
It is important to emphasize that the lessons students are drawing from their studies is simply untrue. History and the study of cultures do not teach or prove that values or cultures are relative. All to the contrary, that is the philosophical premise that we now bring to our study of them. This premise is unproven and dogmatically asserted for what are largely political reasons. History and culture are interpreted in the light of it, and then are said to prove the premise. Yet the fact that there have been different opinions about good and bad in different times and places in no way proves that none is true or superior to others. To say that it does so prove is as absurd as to say that the diversity of points of view expressed in a college bull session proves there is no truth. On the face of it, the differences of opinion would seem to raise the question as to which is true or right rather than to banish it. The natural reaction is to try to resolve the difference, to examine the claims and reasons for each opinion. (39)
He goes on to suggest that no man and no nation holds an opinion for no reason and testing those reasons should be the most important responsibility of the social scientist and historian. Bloom, of all persons, understands, I am certain—or at least understood before his death in 1992 as he lay in the hospital with a bleeding peptic ulcer complicated by liver failure—that among the reasons modern universities are so squeamish about pronouncing anything right or wrong is that they want to have broad appeal in an increasingly pluralistic world. Beyond that, it takes courage to take a stand and as Solzhenitsyn would have it in his Harvard Commencement address, that is one virtue that the modern Western world in general—and the United States of America in particular—is lacking. No, Bloom had read one too many of those pesky classics to buy that line of cultural relativism, believing that—at the least—there really were such things as better and worse ideas, and part of the goal of a person’s education was to learn how best to find them. He advocated studying the classics where all students in the classroom came together over the ancient writings, and, regardless the number of things that might separate them outside the classroom, within it the text itself united them in a common pursuit.
Thus, we do well to repeat for the sake of emphasis, “One of the chief values in studying the beliefs of other cultures is to see our own belief in new relief: to learn from their way of life so that our own is improved accordingly.” What is true on the broader scale of culture is also true on the narrower range of religion. There are many benefits to studying other religions.
It was none other than our old friend C.S. Lewis who posed the poignant observation:
What light is really thrown on the truth or falsehood of Christian Theology by the occurrence of similar ideas in Pagan religion? I think the answer was very well given a fortnight ago by Mr. Brown. Supposing, for purposes of argument, that Christianity is true, then it could avoid all coincidence with other religions only on the supposition that all other religions are one hundred per cent erroneous. To which, you remember, Professor Price replied by agreeing with Mr. Brown and saying: “Yes. From these resemblances you may conclude not ‘so much the worse for the Christians’ but ‘so much the better for the Pagans.’” The truth is that the resemblances tell nothing either for or against the truth of Christian Theology. If you start from the assumption that the Theology is false, the resemblances are quite consistent with that assumption. One would expect creatures of the same sort, faced with the same universe, to make the same false guess more than once. But if you start with the assumption that the Theology is true, the resemblances fit in equally well. Theology, while saying that a special illumination has been vouchsafed to Christians and (earlier) to Jews, also says that there is some reason. The picture so often painted of Christians huddling together on an ever narrower strip of beach while the incoming tide of “Science” mounts higher and higher, corresponds to nothing in my own experience. (C.S. Lewis on Evolution—from “Is Theology Poetry” available in The Weight of Glory and Other Addresses—emphasis my own.)
C.S. Lewis suggests, as we have highlighted above, that if we grant that Christianity is true, the only way other religions would not overlap with it in certain areas is if they were one-hundred percent false. Lewis goes on to suggest that “Christian theology can fit in science, art, morality, and the sub-Christian religions,” but that the reverse is not likewise true, for none of these other things expresses the totality of the Christian faith. He concludes by stating in very Platonic terms: “I believe in Christianity as I believe that the Sun has risen not only because I see it but because by it I see everything else.” Certainly he is correct. Christianity can fit within itself whatever truth may be found in the many and diverse systems of thought in the world at large, for it tells the story not only of time, but of eternity, not only of death, but of life, not only of finite creation but of the infinite Creator who is immanent precisely because He is transcendent. Armed with this awareness, we can now fearlessly plunge in and look today at how certain tenets of Buddhism highlight and draw out our own faith.
Our interest today will be in drawing out a few small points of overlap as highlighted in Experiencing The World’s Religions and World Religions: A Historical Approach. The insights revealed should prove telling. Our desire is for a mature faith, a three-dimensional, panoramic Christianity that lives and moves and breathes and indeed has its very being in God Himself, the God who not only created the world and everything in it but sustains the whole infinitely rich tapestry as well.
Some, however, may think of God creating and sustaining and wonder to themselves over the nature of suffering in the world. We will not propose an extended answer to that question here; we will simply trust that we can believe that God is a good God and that He has some compelling reasons for creating a world that operates as ours now does. As I read recently (though I cannot recall where now), a saint does not so much wonder why there is evil in the world as inquire what he may do to remedy it. He perhaps wonders most at his own lingering propensity for evil and is perplexed that he still seems to do the things he does not want to do. It is important for him to realize that, just as the good habits we call virtues give us freedom and strength to do good, the bad habits we call vices take our freedom from us and incline us toward evil and that Christ can give us victory over the latter if we earnestly pursue the former. Nevertheless, if we are to simply trust that God is a good God and that He has some compelling reasons for creating and sustaining a world in which pain exists—a world in which virtue and vice grow up together as do tares amidst the wheat—should we not at least briefly touch on the answer that Christianity offers before we move on? Indeed we shall.
In the beginning God created Android and Androidette. He gave them no free will and no free choice. They could never be hurt or feel pain in part because they could never decide to be bad or cruel. There was also this thing called love. It was not real love, of course, because real love only happens when there is such a thing as choice—and of course there was no choice, because God was protecting Android and Androidette from potentially devastating consequences. If He would allow them to freely love, that would also mean that He would have to allow them to freely hate as well, something He was not willing to risk. And if He allowed them to freely choose, that would mean that real consequences would have to result from those choices, else it would not really be choosing. But therein was the problem, for if there were real consequences, that would also mean that things would not just automatically morph themselves into politeness and niceness: politeness and niceness would have to be things worked for, not things automatically gained. If Android decided to stab Androidette—and if he were really free to choose to stab Androidette—that would also carry the unpleasant consequence of her blood flowing to the ground and her feeling pain and very likely dying unless Android was able to stanch the bleeding. But thankfully God did not design the world like that, because Android never could decide to stab Androidette and if, by some fluke, he did accidentally stick her with some sharp projectile, nothing would come of it: no wound, no scarring, no pain, no harm of any sort: heck, flowers might even spring up and beautify with their colors and perfume with their smells while celestial harps harmoniously strummed and chubby-cheeked cherubs beamed from wafting clouds of fluffy white.
As our fanciful tale illustrates, the classical Christian conception is that the free ability to choose includes real consequences, hence much of the suffering we see in the world. Most forms of Buddhism, by rate of contrast, do not ask questions about the metaphysical origin of suffering, for they make no comment no comment about a creator God, rather seeing the universe itself as eternal, or, as is the case with many contemporary Buddhists, a world that evolved “scientifically” from an eternal “star stuff.” The Buddha was himself very pragmatic, and, according to Michael Molloy in Experiencing The World’s Religions, “avoided paying too much attention to the ‘unanswerable questions’” (135). He instead was much more concerned with the practical necessities of the here and now. In fact, the four noble truths are the essence of his insights, which include the teaching that (1) to live is to suffer, (2) the cause of suffering is desire, (3) if one eliminates desire, one likewise eliminates suffering, and (4) the elimination of desire is possible by following the noble eight-fold path. The noble eight-fold path of Buddhism amounts to codes dealing with virtuous conduct, conversation, and character including: (1) right understanding, (2) right intention, (3) right speech, (4) right action, (5) right work, (6) right effort, (7) right mediation, and (8) right contemplation.
The ultimate goal of Buddhism is to escape the endless series of rebirths (samsara) and achieve enlightenment, which will ultimately lead to nirvana after death. So what does nirvana imply? S.A. Nigosian writes in World Religions: A Historical Approach:
Nirvana is difficult, if not impossible, to define, because it is not an intellectual goal. The term literally means “extinction,” as the flame of a candle is said to be extinguished. Hence, nirvana is the extinction of all tanha [“desire”], is liberated from the cycle of rebirth and, hence, from dukkha [“suffering”]. In the words of Buddha, “There is, O monks, a condition where there is neither earth, nor water, nor fire, nor air, nor the sphere of inifinite consciousness, nor the sphere of the void. . . . That condition, O monks, do I call . . . nirvana.” Nirvana, accordingly, is the end of all transitory states: the final, peaceful bliss, the ultimate goal of each individual. (84)
Perhaps asking a Buddhist to pin down nirvana any more precisely than that would be akin to asking a Christian to pin heaven down: neither can do so with precision (for they have never been there), but both believe that is where they wish to be: both believe that is where the final, desirable destination lies. Buddhism is about the path the Buddha took (or at least about following one very much like it) whereas Christianity centers more on the Person of Jesus Christ. However, it is interesting to note what the Buddhist attempts to do about suffering in the world (aside from alleviating his own, of course). As part of the noble eight-fold path (“right action”), Molloy describes a teaching not unlike the Golden Rule:
For Buddhism, ahimsa [“do no harm”] is fundamental. The ideal holds that to cause suffering to any being is cruel and unnecessary—life is already hard enough for each of us. Ahimsa discourages causing not only physical pain but also psychological hurt or the exploitation of another. Upon reaching a real understanding that every being that feels can suffer, the individual gains wider sympathy. It is then natural and satisfying for the individual to live with gentleness.
Ahimsa is a high ideal and not always easy to achieve. Furthermore, we must recognize that there will always be a gap between the ideal and actual practice in different Buddhist cultures and among individuals. Nevertheless, however murky the definition of the “best action” may be, the ideal is fairly clear. A compassionate person does everything possible to avoid causing suffering “ashamed of roughness, and full of mercy, he dwells compassionate and kind to all creatures that have life.” . . . (Experiencing The World’s Religions 132–133)
As we intimated, within Christianity we find the words of Jesus: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” striking a similar note. Further, as Molloy points out, within Buddhism, the ideal of ahimsa is not always the real. Yet I was struck by the notion that “life is already hard enough for each of us” and that not only humans, but “every being that feels can suffer” (emphasis my own). We can certainly affirm and embrace these aspects of Buddhism and rightly deem them noble, recalling again that “Virtue reflects the character of God; virtue is honorable simply because it is virtuous.” So what other inspiration can we draw from Buddhism that would in turn inform our own faith? How about some lesser considered candidates?
Literally translated, the word tathata means “thatness,” “thusness,” or “suchness.” This is a rich notion that invites each person’s experience and interpretation. Tathata represents a view of experience that says that reality is revealed in each moment, as we savor patterns, relationships, and change. Because no moment is exactly the same, and no object is exactly the same, each can be observed and appreciated as it passes. Thus, simple, everyday events reveal the nature of reality. We may experience “thatness” when two elements come together in an unexpected way—for example, when a small child says something childlike but wise. Sometimes it comes when we notice a moment of change, such as when, after a long string of muggy summer days, we get up to add a blanket to the bed on the first crisp autumn night. Or it might be when we notice random elements coming together—for example, when a bird drinks from a water fountain or a dog joyously sticks its nose out of the window of a passing car. It might be when we recognize the uniqueness of a simple object or event, such as the beauty of a particular apple in the supermarket, or the special way that the shadow of a tree falls on a nearby building at this particular moment. The experience can also come from something funny or sad. Although tathata involves the mundane, it is also a poetic moment that will never return in exactly the same way.
The wonder that can be seen in everyday life is what the term tathata suggests. We know we are experiencing the “thatness” of reality when we experience something and say to ourselves, “Yes, that’s it; that is the way things are.” In the moment, we recognize that reality is wondrously beautiful but also that its patterns are fragile and passing. (Experiencing The World’s Religions 149)
Buddhism carries the idea of tathata a bit further than most of us would probably wish to take it: nothing is permanent in the universe of the Buddhist; all is transitory. We, at least, maintain that God is unchanging even if all else is in ceasless motion. (Actually, if you want to get really technical, classical Christian theology claims that God is ipsum esse—“‘to-be’ itself”—and actus purus—“pure act”—a God changeless by His sheer dynamism; we correctly say the living God—but that is the topic of another day: see Chapter 6 of Thomas G. Weinandy’s book Does God Suffer? for an analysis of this subject.) One thing that we will have to admit, however, is that life as we know it is fleeting. We have all heard the expression that we need to stop and smell the roses, but in our crazy, fast-paced world do we ever listen? Or do we wait until we are filled with regret that we have missed so many opportunities? We may not believe in successive rebirths, but we certainly do well understand that making the most of our time is a virtue for which we only have ourselves to blame if we abandon. There is a reason why the word “recreation” is comprised of the prefix re- and noun creation—re-creation: when we take the time to see the little things in life, not only do the big things take on a renewed (re- plus newed: “make new again”) perspective, but we are saner, healthier, happier people because of it. And when we look at the little things, not only do we see the beauty in the “fragile and passing,” but we can learn to see God there as well. In fact, if we do not seek God in the re-creative silence, we probably will not find Him anywhere else either. We will have our text from Genesis to Revelations, but we will not have God. There is a difference.
Finally, one last lesson (of potentially many more) that we can learn from Buddhism is found in the distinctively Zen side of the path and it involves the idea that reality is not the same as words (symbols). Words can and do symbolize reality—I would like to believe, for example, that the words you are reading at this exact moment not only symbolize reality but are actively influencing it by offering you a “re-newed” perspective on life and a deeper intimacy with God—but words are not reality. Further, not only are words not reality, words realized but never acted upon are useless. Thus, Molloy writes:
Manual labor is also essential to Zen training. In a Zen monastery, work in the garden and kitchen and the repair and cleaning of the monastery are techniques to combat the inadequacy of words to describe reality. Zen, influenced here by Taoism, maintains that words are often barriers that keep us from immediate contact with the true nature of things. Silent meditation blended with direct experience of the physical world can take us beyond words and thoughts to experience reality itself. (Experiencing The World’s Religions, 163)
Certainly our own monasteries share similar sentiments: they realize the re-creative nature of silence and recognize that the Spirit of God is found in the depths of the everyday that we so often glibly pass by and take for granted. In fact, silence is re-creative precisely because it is in the silence that we find God. Our religion is based on revealed doctrinal truth and our salvation on the meritorious work of Jesus Christ. Yet I would wonder: do we always make the most of our lives? Can we not profitably look at other faiths around the globe and find motivation for the passionate pursuit of God and the cultivation and appreciation of the truly fine things in life: the things of virtue and grace and beauty? Do we recognize that life is already hard enough for each of us—creatures created in the image of our God—and that every creature that feels can suffer and that many of them in fact are? We who claim to have the ultimate answer can certainly get our priorities rather mixed up in this rat-race world of ours and sometimes looking around at our neighbors can help us set our minds on things higher, ultimately bringing them back around to the God we profess to serve.
God bless,
Eric
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