the new mandala by rev. john lundin
TRANSCRIPT
THE NEW MANDALA
Eastern Wisdom for Western Living
by Rev. John Lundin
with His Holiness the Dalai Lama
HelixPublishing.com
Copyright© 2001 by John W. Lundin All rights reserved. This manuscript, or parts thereof, may not
be reproduced in any form without permission.
THE NEW MANDALA
Eastern Wisdom for Western Living
by Rev. John Lundin
with His Holiness the Dalai Lama
The New Mandala , Eastern Wisdom for Western Living, is a journey toward spiritual awakening and rediscovery. On one level it is an engaging and entertaining journal of a Christian clergyman’s quest for enlightenment. On another level it is a road map for the reader’s own spiritual journey.
Written in collaboration with His Holiness the Dalai Lama, The New Mandala is a guide for all who are on the journey of life, and who desire a movement away from the constructed boundaries in their lives toward the divine energy of their center. It is an invitation to the readers to explore the wisdom and practice of an ancient new tradition, while at the same time illuminating and reclaiming the inherited faith of their formation.
The author, an American Protestant minister, speaks to all who are walking the same path he is on - the path toward a deeper spirituality. With his feet firmly planted in the Christianity of his faith tradition, Rev. John Lundin enters into the world of Tibetan Buddhism in search of a new spirituality. The quest takes him - and the reader - on a journey to Dharamsala in north India, the home of His Holiness the Dalai Lama of Tibet. In private dialogues with His Holiness, the author discovers the empowering affinity between Buddhism and Christianity. Reverend Lundin weaves the personal experiences of his own pilgrimage with the wisdom and teaching of the Dalai Lama himself.
This simple, easy-to-read glimpse at the heart of Buddhism offers seekers from the West a structure and a practical guide to meditation and spiritual practice that can become an integral part of their own faith. The Middle Way that the Buddha taught, and which Reverend Lundin and the Dalai Lama present to the reader in a clear and accessible manner, can become the way for anyone - Christian, Jew, even the non-believer - to grow spiritually.
The New Mandala is an opportunity for discovery and a valuable guide for everyone who wishes to travel from here to there, for anyone who wishes to make the ultimate pilgrimage toward becoming fully human.
The New Mandala has been written in twelve brief chapters that allow the reader
to explore each new topic and then to reflect upon it before moving to the next. Each chapter begins with an issue drawn from the author's spiritual questioning, then expands on the topic with illustrations drawn from his Dharamsala experiences, and ends with a challenge to the reader to relate the teaching to his or her own personal life experience. The entire book is intended to be experiential, and includes a practical guide to meditation and daily spiritual practice. The New Mandala is an engaging and entertaining sharing of the author’s journey of discovery that becomes, in the end, the reader’s journey - an invitation to enter into the metaphorical spiritual path of the Mandala.
Rev. John Lundin with His Holiness the Dalai Lama
Dharamsala, India – August 2000
The Author
Rev. John Lundin earned his Master of Divinity degree from Chicago Theological
Seminary at the University of Chicago and was ordained by the United Church of Christ.
(U.C.C.) He served as a parish minister, hospital chaplain and pastoral counselor on the
south side of Chicago before making his journey to Dharamsala. Rev. Lundin is retired
from the ministry and is now an environmental activist and clean energy advocate. He
also teaches classes and workshops and leads retreats focusing on world religions, cross-
cultural spirituality and meditation. He currently lives in the Lake Tahoe area of the
Sierra Nevada.
Acknowledgments A special thank you is offered to Tenzin Gyatso, His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama of
Tibet, without whose support this book would not have been possible, and to the Office
of His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Tenzin Geyche Tethong, Secretary to Hs Holiness,
who facilitated the Dalai Lama’s participation. Additional thanks to the Library of
Tibetan Works and Archives for transcripts of His Holiness’ teachings, some of which
are included in this book and used with permission. The author also gratefully
acknowledges the assistance and support of the Dalai Lama’s sister, Ama Jetsun Pema
and the staff of the Tibetan Children’s Village, as well as the entire Central Tibetan
Administration, in particular Tempa Tsering, Secretary of the Department of Information
and International Relations and Tenzin Topgyal, Deputy Secretary of Religion and
Culture.
THE NEW MANDALA
Eastern Wisdom for Western Living
by Rev. John Lundin
with His Holiness the Dalai Lama
CONTENTS
1. The New Mandala 1
2. Who Are You and Where Are You Going? 12
3. Venturing Forth 30
4. The Four Noble Truths 46
5. The Middle Way 59
6. The Illusions of Emptiness 73
7. The Reality of God 88
8. Resurrection and Rebirth 109
9. Meditation and Contemplation 122
10. Taming Your Monkey Mind 144
11. Cultivating Compassion 163
12. Spiritual Exercises 179
1
Chapter 1
The New Mandala
I, an ordinary monk in the lineage of Buddha Shakyamuni, humbly urge you to make efforts in spiritual practice. Examine the nature of your mind and cultivate its development. Take into account your welfare in this and future existences, and develop competence in the methods that produce happiness here and hereafter. Our lives are impermanent and so are the holy teachings. We should cultivate our practice carefully.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama “This is the path to the domain of the Deity.”
The smiling monk speaks even as he concentrates on the Mandala, gently tapping
the narrow silver flute to add a few more grains of colored sand to the lotus-blossom
border that is taking shape around the geometric design.
“But the path exists only in the mind. Each time a new spiritual journey is
initiated the path must be constructed anew - one grain of sand at a time. And the path is
never the same as the last one - always new, always changing, always impermanent.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. Each grain of sand falls into its place, exactly as the monk’s
mind’s eye recalls the intricate pattern.
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“Once the journey is initiated, the path is dissolved, returned to the stream from
which it came, to flow back into the sea from which we all come. There it rests,
indistinguishable from all other sand that is the earth, until one day it is reborn again as a
new path, for a new journey about to be initiated.”
Tenzin shifts position and adjusts his burgundy robe. Cross-legged on his saffron
cushion he leans forward and peers intently into the Mandala. “It is like the kingdom of
the Deity - with chambers and hallways, places to discover, places to get lost - but it is
only represented in the sand. In reality, it is only ever discovered in the mind.”
I had often appreciated the sand Mandala as a beautiful and intriguing expression
of Tibetan art and culture, but now I was entering into it at a deeper level. The oddly
intersecting patterns constructed in the colored sand were beginning to resonate with the
seemingly coincidental intersections of events in my own life. Even as the various paths
and spaces in the Mandala all eventually lead to the center, so, too, were the various paths
and spaces in my life becoming more integrated and drawing me toward my own center.
Whether constructed as a path of sand within this Buddhist temple of the Dalai Lama, or
illuminated in the rose window of Chartres Cathedral in France, or inscribed as a
labyrinth on the floor of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, the Mandala circle has
historically been an archetype of wholeness, a sacred space and form that transcends
religion and touches the spirit in a manner that calls one into the calm depths of the soul.
Tenzin turned toward me and smiled. “John-la, this is your path. This particular
Mandala is a representation of the domain of Yamantaka, protector deity of wisdom who
personifies the triumph of wisdom over ignorance, suffering and death. But it also
represents the interconnectedness of all things, the entire universe, what you would call
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creation. And finally, John-la, it’s a way of understanding your journey, a map of your
self, a path leading inward, away from the borders you have imposed upon yourself and
toward the energy of your own center.”
He handed me the silver flute. “It’s your turn. Tap it gently and add your part to
the whole. Be careful not to disturb the rest of the sand. Go ahead, give it a try.”
The sand Mandala had been painstakingly constructed over ten days so far, and
was the most detailed I had ever seen. I was in awe and visibly nervous as I leaned over
the magnificent creation and ever so gently tapped a few grains of colored sand into a
small chocolate-chip shaped mound next to a hundred other mounds like it. The final
border was being completed, and now my small effort was a part of it. Tenzin was right,
I felt connected to the whole. I knew I had been blessed and honored with this
opportunity to participate, and I returned the flute of sand to Tenzin with a broad smile of
my own. Then I sat on the cushion and gazed silently into this path of life with wonder.
I pictured myself as any one of the solitary grains of colored sand in the pattern
before me. Where was I in my life’s journey? Was I in that bright orange high point
over there, or in the dark blue box of walls to the right? Was I on the twisting, turning
path that led toward the center, or was I wandering among the lotus blossoms at the
fringe? And I couldn’t help reflecting on the maze of twists and turns, peaks and valleys,
dead ends and new beginnings that had brought me to this unique place and time. Here I
am in Dharamsala, perched on a promontory of the Himalayas with all of India spread
below me, sitting crossed-legged before this new Mandala in the temple of the Dalai
Lama, a Christian minister entering into the meditation of the Buddhist monks and
contemplating my life’s journey.
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And life is a journey. Allowing myself to enter into the Mandala, I am reminded
that the real journey of life - the real twists and turns, peaks and valleys, dead ends and
new beginnings - is an inward journey, or, in Tenzin’s words, “a path leading inward,
away from the borders you have imposed upon yourself and toward the energy of your
own center.” I recall the words of Thomas Merton, the Christian monk who wrote in his
journal while visiting this same holy ground some twenty-five years earlier: “Our real
journey in life is interior: it is a matter of growth, deepening, and of an ever greater
surrender to the action of love and grace in our hearts.” I am on that journey. Thomas
Merton was on that journey. You are on that journey.
As my mind’s eye wanders the colorful maze of the sand Mandala, I am
fascinated by the intersections that have colored my spiritual journey. I am reminded that
I am a pilgrim on a long and broad path, a path that has intersected that of Thomas
Merton, of His Holiness the Dalai Lama of Tibet, and even the path that you are on. You
and I are sharing this path with everyone who has ever questioned the meaning of life and
pondered his or her place in the great scheme of things. This new Mandala, this path to
the domain of the Deity, this collection of myriad grains of sand has become for me a
poignant meditation on connectedness. I am orienting myself in relation to all those who
have ever traveled the path before me, those who will travel the path after me, and
perhaps most importantly, those who are on the journey of life alongside me this day.
For me, spirituality has become a matter of relationships: my relationship with my
self, with others, with the Divine, and with the divine creation. To grow in one’s
spirituality is to grow and become more mature in each of these four relationships.
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Examining the myriad patterns in the Mandala, I am meditating upon my place in relation
to my center, my interconnectedness, and my boundaries.
This book is my meditation, and it has been written for you. You are my traveling
companion on the journey to the domain of the divine. I know you. You may be my son
or daughter, my mother or father, my wife or my ex-wife. You may be the checker in the
grocery store I shopped at yesterday, or you may be the parishioner I greeted in church on
Sunday. Perhaps I visited you in the hospital or in prison, or you may have visited me in
my office for counseling. You may have been a student in one of my classes. More
probably you are someone I have never encountered in person on my journey, but
nonetheless - I know you. We share the same long and broad path on the Mandala of life.
We have the same hopes and fears; we have shared many of the same joys and concerns.
And, most important, we are seeking answers to many of the same questions.
I rise from my cushion and bow with my palms together in a gesture of
thanksgiving toward my host and teacher, the venerable Tenzin. As I step out into the
morning light I face the Dalai Lama’s residence across the square and again recall a
journal entry of Thomas Merton. He noted that all of Dharamsala, with its stupas and
shrines, its residences of monks and rinpoches, its collection of monasteries and temples,
and its meandering paths reminded him of the Mandala itself, with the Dalai Lama in a
sort of center, a “central presence...a fully awake Buddha.” I share that feeling in this
moment.
The sun is just rising above the peaks of the Himalayas as I walk the path that
rings His Holiness’ compound, joining the faithful who daily circumambulate this living
shrine counting their mantras with their prayer beads. This has become my daily prayer
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6
walk as well. At the south end of the circuit is an elaborate stupa adorned with thousands
of brightly-colored prayer flags, offering their prayers of the people to the Buddhas with
every breath of the wind. As I look out over the vista of India far below from this finger
of land that is Dharamsala, I am approached by a young lady whose British accent
intones, “Excuse me...aren’t you the priest who’s also a Buddhist?”
I smile, having heard numerous variations of this introduction in Dharamsala
before. “I am a Protestant minister, and also sort of a Buddhist, yes.”
“Hi, I’m Christine...and I was raised Catholic...but I was sort of turned off by the
Church...but I think of myself as a very spiritual person...and I like what I’ve learned
about Buddhism. But my Mum would disown me if I ever became a Buddhist!” With a
smile she continues, “Do you suppose we could talk sometime?”
I have heard this same spirit of inquiry and incredulity often during the course of
conversations with seekers in Dharamsala and among students in my classes in
California. How can one be both a Christian and a Buddhist? Perhaps her thoughts are
your thoughts. Over lunches and dinners of noodles and rice, I have responded to similar
inquiries many times, and on each occasion I have moved deeper into my own Mandala,
examining the path that has brought me to this place and time. By articulating what I
have experienced and learned I have come to a greater personal awareness of the affinity
that exists between Buddhism and Christianity, between Buddhism and the Truth of all
the world’s great religions. I have discovered, as did Merton, that the real journey of life
is taking place in my soul, not under my feet. And I have experienced how the wisdom
and practice of the Buddha can actually provide a framework for personal growth within
the faith of my formation, my inherited Christianity.
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Out of my conversations with Christine and others has come this book, and I
intend it to be a sharing of my spiritual journey in a dialogue with you. We will be joined
by a wise teacher, His Holiness, the Dalai Lama of Tibet. I will share with you his
teachings and his private conversations with me as we look for ways that Eastern wisdom
can illuminate our Western living. We will look at the new Mandala each of us is
constructing as we embark on another stage of our respective spiritual journeys.
Together we are about to discover how the wisdom of the East - the enlightened teaching
of the Buddha - shares an affinity with the faith we have each inherited, and how it can be
borrowed by those of us in the West and made a valuable part of our spiritual quest and
our daily spiritual practice. We will have some of our questions answered by the Dalai
Lama, and still others by the historical Buddha, whose universal teachings are older than
those of the Christ. We are going to explore a discipline and a structure that can guide us
toward unlocking the wisdom of our own faith. We are going to walk the labyrinth. We
are going to create a new Mandala. And we are going to start with a journey to
Dharamsala.
Where exactly is this Dharamsala and why the journey there? As with the
Mandala, the answer is found on more than one level. Dharamsala is a real place. The
village of Dharamsala, in the region of Himachal Pradesh, at the base of the foothills of
the Himalayas in northern India, is a former “hill station” of the colonial British who
occupied India until 1947. The officers of the Royal Army would escape to the cool, dry
elevation of Dharamsala for rest and relaxation. Then came Partition and independence,
and Dharamsala returned to being a quiet, sleepy, largely forgotten dot on the map. In
1959, the religious and temporal leader of the nation of Tibet was forced to flee the
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8
mounting oppression, torture and killing of his people by the invading communist
Chinese government. The Dalai Lama, and several thousand of his followers, crossed the
rugged Himalayas to find sanctuary in neighboring India. Soon, residents of Dharamsala
invited the Tibetans to make their village the home of the government-in-exile.
Today, Dharamsala is still the seat of the Tibetan government which is continuing
its struggle for recognition by the world community and for the eventual return of the
Tibetan people to their rightful homeland. It is also the home of the recipient of the
Nobel Peace Prize, the fourteenth reincarnation of the Dalai Lama. This simple monk, as
he describes himself, has become a living saint. For many, his voice is now the spiritual
conscience of the world. Pilgrims and the curious alike journey here each year to be a
part of this unique community of monks, nuns and ordinary Tibetans, and perhaps to see
and hear the Dalai Lama. Surrounded by India and Indians, this Buddhist refugee
community coexists with Hindus, Sikhs and Moslems while also welcoming the Jews,
Christians and others who come here from all over the world seeking some form of
enlightenment.
I have made the journey to this Dharamsala. I was invited and encouraged by a
family friend, the Reverend Doctor Rafael Bastianni, a kindly, self-effacing French
Catholic priest and medical doctor who has given half of each of the past thirty years
providing rehabilitation services to orphaned refugees in a small dispensary in the
Tibetan Children’s Village. I have made my own pilgrimage of discovery to Dharamsala.
I have lived with the ever-smiling Tibetans. I have worked with them, shared tea with
them, shared my faith with them and learned from them. Buddhist monks have invited
me into their monasteries and the Dalai Lama has challenged me in dialogue. The gentle
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9
wisdom of the Buddha has been a gift, shared with me by fellow travelers on the Path.
Paradoxically, I have been strengthened in my Christian faith. Though I am an ordained
Protestant minister, I, like you, struggle with questions that my inherited faith does not
always seem complete enough to answer. My time in Dharamsala has been an inner
journey of spiritual growth. In the pages that follow, I hope to share that journey of
growth with you. I invite and encourage you to initiate the creation of your own new
Mandala by joining me in this journey to Dharamsala.
But this is not the only dharamsala we will visit. In fact, this tiny Tibetan village
is not our true destination, though much of what I will share with you on this journey has
been gleaned from my time there. In India a dharamsala is any simple, temporary shelter
that is made available to religious pilgrims for a brief stay while journeying. India was
home to the original Buddha, Gautama Siddhartha, though Buddhism migrated and
flourished outside of India. India is also home to several other religions, most notably
Hinduism. Each of these faith traditions honors its respective shrines and holy sites.
Pilgrims of all faiths traverse India to pay homage to the sacred people and places of their
faith. Along the way, they are welcomed into the hospitality of the local dharamsala, a
sort of hostel for the often weary sojourner.
So the dharamsala we will share is a stop along the way, a place of communion
for the one who is at the same time both faithful and seeking, both believing and
questioning. It is a place of shelter for the one who is reclaiming his or her past, while
also asking today’s questions of fellow travelers. It is a place to get one’s bearings, to
orient oneself, to reflect on where one has been and to seek direction for the next portion
of the journey. It is here that we will create a new map for ourselves, a new Mandala. It
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is to this refuge that we journey, and it is in its inviting shelter that we can encounter the
love and hospitality of fellow travelers and experience what Thomas Merton experienced:
that our real journey of life is interior, that it is a matter of growth, of deepening, and of
an ever greater surrender to the creative action of love and grace in our hearts.
Dharamsala will therefore be for us not so much a place as an experience.
But an experience must be experienced. I will share with you my experiences, my
search, my discoveries, but if this journey is to be your journey, then the pages that
follow must become an invitation to a path that we walk together. With the road map, the
new Mandala, that has been shared with me by my Tibetan friends I can lead the way, but
the sights and sounds, the trees and flowers, the birds and the monkeys that are constantly
to the left and the right of the path will have to be your sights and sounds, your trees and
flowers, your birds and monkeys. The memories evoked by the stories we hear will have
to be your memories. The responses to the wisdom we encounter will have to be your
responses. The answers we find will have to arise from your questions. In other words,
just as you can’t curl up in a corner easy chair and “read” a road map, you can’t simply
“read” this book if you want to allow it to spark that real journey - the inner journey.
For that you will have to put this book down every once in a while and just reflect
upon it. Let my stories resonate with your stories. Stop where you are and put the map
away, then just absorb the presence of where you are before continuing on. Remember,
life is a journey and we will spend a lifetime taking our place on the great Mandala as it
passes through our brief moment in time. Our destination is our center, and we can only
get there by turning inward. So let’s be open to just that. Let’s pause. Close this little
book and reflect on the Mandala. Consider your journey of life. Where are you? Where
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are you going? How are you going to get there? Then consider your deepest questions:
Does life make sense? Does it have meaning for you? Does your faith tradition help you
in your meaning-making?
If you ask yourself these questions, as I have done, and then, just as I also have
done, still find yourself asking more difficult questions, still searching for meaning, still
trying to make an historical faith relevant to your life today, then you have begun your
meditation. You have entered into your journey and are already applying the grains of
sand to your own new Mandala. You are ready to begin exercising your mind and
strengthening your spiritual foundation.
12
Chapter 2
Who Are You and Where Are You Going?
No matter how much faith we have, if we do not constantly maintain an inquisitive and critical attitude our practice will always remain somewhat foolish.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama
I am often asked how it is that this Protestant minister wound up in the company
of the Dalai Lama, and is now a Christian preacher and teacher of Buddhist wisdom and
practice. I generally respond by noting that I was never one to “color within the lines.”
So the story of my spiritual journey - my Mandala, if you will - has its own unique
pattern with a lot of fuzzy margins.
The bend in the road, the turning point in my spiritual journey occurred as a direct
result of an auspicious conjunction of anxiety, curiosity and opportunity.
In the classic story of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Dorothy is lost, disoriented,
confused, even frightened when she first encounters the Scarecrow who greets her with
the words, “Who are you and where are you going?” It’s a metaphysical question that
confronts us all at some point as we find ourselves stumbling along the yellow brick
paths of our lives. Her reply, “I’m Dorothy, and I’m going to Oz - to see if the Wizard
can help me get home,” is her way of responding for all of us: I am what I have named
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myself, and I’m exploring, seeking a wise guide who can help me return to my roots, the
ground of my being, my center.
In the summer of 1993 the Scarecrow’s questions were often being asked in the
silence of my mind. One particular evening that summer I found myself asking the
questions out loud: “Who are you? Where are you going? How are you going to get
there?” I was leading a discussion among the members of my parish, and my questions
were addressed to this suburban Chicago congregation of ordinary people who were
struggling with the direction of their church in a time of change. Their children were all
grown now and lived somewhere else, earning their living doing something other than
fabricating steel as their fathers had done, most likely some high-tech job their parents
didn’t really understand. Most of the old neighbors had left, too, either by choice or by
death, replaced by people whose culture they also didn’t really understand. A post-war
community of European immigrants seeking a better life was rapidly being replaced by a
community of immigrants from the ravaged inner city, also looking for a better life.
White was being replaced with yellow, with brown and with black. The churches that
had nurtured them, and which had once been filled every Sunday with the sounds of
families recalling Dutch and German hymns, were now filled only on weekdays, serving
as daycare centers nurturing the children of working mothers, children who now danced
to seemingly strange African and Mexican rhythms.
My parishioners knew who they had been, but they were less certain about who
they had become. And the reality was they didn’t want to “go” anywhere - not
physically, not emotionally. They wanted things to remain as they used to be. They
knew about change, all right, but they wanted their church to be their one sanctuary from
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it, the one unchanging monument to the way things once were, the anchor in a disquieting
sea of change.
I had been called as their interim pastor, one who would bridge the gap between
the old and the new and guide them during their “in-between” time. I was expected to be
a little like the Prophets whom I once heard described as “the ones who point the way,
but who never get there themselves.” I was not merely a caretaker minister, charged only
with keeping the pulpit warm until a real minister was chosen. No, in my denomination
an Interim Minister is a special calling, and is acknowledged as such by appointment and
training. An experienced saint of the faith once explained the interim time in the life of a
congregation with this image: the covered bridge. Those picturesque clapboard-sided
wooden bridges that colored the New England and Midwestern landscape provided more
than inspiration for painters and photographers. They were built in a time when the path
from this side of the stream to the other side needed to offer some degree of protection
for the journey or else the flock would balk, afraid to make the crossing. The shingled
roofs kept the rain and snow from accumulating along the span. The barn-red planks that
formed the sides of the bridge obscured any frightening view of the dizzying height and
the dangerous currents below. With the security of a protected pathway leading toward a
shining view at the end of the tunnel, even the most timid sheep would venture forth and
arrive safely on the other side.
We all have interim times in our lives - in our solitary lives and in our
congregational lives - when we need a covered bridge. For the tribes of Israel, the
wilderness experience of the desert required a Moses and even a parting of the waters.
For some of us a two-week vacation is that bridge, for others the safety of a
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psychologist’s guidance is the path from here to there. For the congregation in Chicago,
on this day and in this place, the interim was now and the shepherd guiding the anxious
flock across the bridge was me.
“Who are you? Where are you going? How are you going to get there?” These
were the questions I had been called to ask. These were the questions I was expected to
help them answer.
And, more and more frequently I was discovering, these were the same questions
that were troubling me.
Who are you, I was asking myself. This has been the question posed by the
Greeks and by the philosophers and by the psychologists, even by both the disciples and
the enemies of Christ. I had no simple answer for myself. Perhaps I knew better who I
wanted to be than who I was. I wanted to be more spiritual, I knew that. And I wanted to
be more religious, but in the authentic sense. I was already religious in the superficial
sense. I was, after all, a man of the cloth, a leader of the Church. But I longed to wrap
myself in the essential garments of a religion that would transform me, that would help
me answer the questions of my soul, that would give voice to my calling and put passion
into my response.
As I spoke to this meeting of the mothers and fathers, the widows and widowers,
the sons and the daughters of this anxious worshiping community of faith, I feared that I
might not be adequately equipped to lead them on their journey. Even as I challenged
this band of weary pilgrims to question what was right and good within their church, to
reclaim the faith of their formation, and to use that strength in the building of a bridge to
their church’s future, my troubled heart was silently challenging me with its own soul-
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searching questions. As I faced the next bridge in my own spiritual journey, I found
myself unsure that it was capable of carrying me safely toward my destination. Over and
over, I now more frequently felt the timbers under my feet creaking and the voice in my
heart asking, “What’s wrong with my religion?”
I have often noticed that it is the coincidence of simple events which marks the
turning points in life. I have come to view these not as coincidence at all, but rather as
significant “co-incidents.” As I was dealing with my anxiety and questioning the faith of
my formation within the sanctuary of my Midwestern church, I was invited to participate
in the global Parliament of the World’s Religions. Representatives of the world’s
religions had come together this summer, exactly one hundred years after the first
Parliament of the World’s Religions was held on the same ground as part of the Chicago
World’s Colombian Exposition in 1893. Today they had transformed the lawn of Grant
Park into a colorful bazaar of the dress and the music and the dance and the prayers of the
world’s peoples. Today I would again be confronted with the question of what’s wrong
with my religion. And today I would hear the teachings of the Dalai Lama for the first
time.
“No matter how much faith we have, if we do not constantly maintain an
inquisitive and critical attitude our practice will always remain somewhat foolish.” These
words of the Dalai Lama rang true since curiosity has always seemed a natural part of life
to me. Nonetheless, as a minister of the Christian Church, I have frequently encountered
some who openly wondered why I would be looking for Truth outside my own religion.
Even as I sat with my thoughts among this diverse assembly, protesters surrounding the
park were proclaiming the position of the evangelical and fundamental Christian
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perspective that what was taking place at this ecumenical Parliament was a heresy.
Sadly, years of conditioning had quelled their sense of curiosity and taught them to be
suspicious of inquiry.
And it’s no wonder. History is rife with examples that have given us the message
that inquiry is always suspect and often dangerous. It is a sad commentary on the
religions of our world, not singling out Christianity alone, that most protests against
inquiry come from the faith traditions that portray themselves as the bearers of Truth,
while history reminds us that our religions have constantly endeavored to set up
roadblocks and detours on the path toward the discovery of any new revelation of that
Truth. Religious leaders in the past who have dared to suggest that inquiry, even when it
conflicted with the current and accepted teachings, might be the appropriate path to Truth
were typically silenced. Jesus was a devout Jew who called the faithful to move beyond
the confining legalism of his inherited religion toward a spirituality that would replace
tired old doctrine with love and compassion. He was neither the first nor the last to be
crucified for questioning the status quo, and no single religious tradition can be awarded
all the blame.
This suspicion of inquiry seems to be related to issues of vulnerability. When we
embark upon a journey we inevitably discover things, whether that journey is to the
Grand Canyon or an interior journey to the heart of what we believe. Journeys are never
passive; they always lead to discovery. Such discovery may open us to a new vision that
brings our old view into question. We may even find we have to abandon the old in favor
of the new. This is the vulnerability we fear. It’s hard to let go, and going forward
always involves letting go.
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No one feels more vulnerable than someone who is standing upon the weak
foundation of an unsupported idea. This was the vulnerability felt by the leaders of the
dominant religion of the Western world in the early sixteenth century. Ever since
Aristotle, three hundred years before Christ, the politically correct idea was that the
whole universe revolved around the Earth. This was a neat bit of thinking since it
complemented the more insidious notion of the day that Man was actually the center of
the universe, and it just so happened that Earth was Man’s home. This was a particularly
attractive arrangement of things for those men who were in positions of authority and
privilege in the Church.
Along comes Nicholas Copernicus who argues that his observations have
convinced him that the Earth and the other planets revolve around the sun. The Earth is
not the center of the universe, nor, for that matter, is Man and his Church. Unfortunately
for Copernicus, his ideas predated the printing business, and his discovery was not widely
circulated, and even less widely accepted. By the year 1600 there were only about ten
known advocates of his ideas alive in the world. One of those was Galileo.
Galileo was a true seeker, a master of curious thinking. His curiosity led him to
develop the modern compass and the telescope. By simply keeping his eyes wide open,
by not limiting his vision to that of his predecessors, by using the tools he had, Galileo
journeyed into the heavens and discovered that the nearly forgotten Copernicus had been
right. The Earth did, in fact, revolve around the sun. However, following the publication
of what was quickly labeled heresy, Galileo was summoned to Rome by the Inquisition
and ordered to renounce his findings and was sentenced to life imprisonment. His
published discovery was ordered to be burned, and the sentence against him was read
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publicly in every university. This was not a promising step by Western religion toward
the advancement of the cause of curious thinking!
With respect to perhaps the greatest search for knowledge imaginable - the
inquiry into the origins of the universe and the mysteries of our own origin - curious
thinking is, today, fighting for its life with every new revelation. The poetic Jewish myth
that traditionally explained our human relationship to the divine creation has seemed by
many to be somehow threatened by curious thinking. The Genesis account of the
creation story is reduced by many in the West to mere details of archeological history,
when the reality is this beautiful myth seeks to display a cosmic wonder of relationships
that is much greater than mere facts. The amazing mysteries that science is daily
unfolding regarding the origins of the cosmos and the baffling adaptability of the human
and other species should be expanding our curiosity into the wonders of the Divine.
Instead, the scientific journey of inquiry is continually the object of religious scorn.
Roadblocks are constantly thrown up to thwart our curious thinking.
Charles Darwin had also been guilty of curious thinking. Traveling the world in a
little boat, he had wondered how animals were so wondrously adaptable, and he had
speculated on what implications this might have for us, the human animal. The rest of
the world had been conditioned to accept the old answers and attempted to suppress his
theories, afraid and unwilling to let go, feeling too vulnerable on their weak religious
foundation to accept the possibility that serious inquiry might result in the need to
assimilate new Truth.
I put forward this brief history lesson because these historical seekers remind me
of a consciousness that is alive within each of us, and which was a flame burning within
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me that day in Chicago. It is this flame of consciousness that fuels the natural spirit of
inquiry. Galileo, Copernicus and Darwin were each discovering the structure of the
universe and the place of their world within it; humankind has always been searching for
the origins of the universe and of itself. It is the mind’s calling to be about the unraveling
of the great cosmic Mandala. It is the need we have to resolve these questions of our
place in the great scheme of things that is basic to our every wandering. It is our thirst for
meaning in the seemingly chaotic that causes us to journey from the less-than-satisfying
here to the inviting but unknown there. Life is movement, from where we are now
toward somewhere new. To be alive is to be searching, to be inquiring. To be alive is to
be filled with curious thinking. The reverse implication, then, is that to be static, to be
content with where we are, to have ended the journey - this is to be dead.
But our religions and our Western culture have often failed to nurture our inborn
spirituality and our natural tendency to question, to seek the difficult answers. Not only
have Western cultures and religions unwittingly advanced the “God is dead” mentality,
they have managed to effectively dampen the human spirit of curious thinking.
Acceptance and conformity have become the hallmark of both religious and secular
education, hence, the hallmark of Western lives that have ceased exploring. You and I
are the products of Western religion, culture and education that have systematically
attempted to extinguish the burning inquisitiveness we were born with. You and I were
taught in public schools and in Sunday school to memorize and regurgitate without
question.
The true prophets of the world’s great religions would have had none of all this.
Curious thinking was their hallmark. The Jewish and Christian sages and saints, the
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historical forerunners of my inherited faith, were always questioning that which was
currently accepted. The prophets, from Moses to Isaiah to Jesus, all exhorted the faithful
to question the conventional wisdom and to discard the false, following only the revealed
Truth. On this day I was among the faithful in that Parliament of the world’s diversity
who believed that knowledge and practice which proves to be false should be discarded,
and that which is discovered to be in harmony with reason, inquiry and experience should
be appropriated as new Truth by the discoverer.
I continue to believe that. Seizing upon Galileo as an example, I don’t want to be
satisfied with answers I have so far been given regarding my place in the universe. Like
Darwin, I should continually be striving to know why I have evolved into the person I am
today. Like the child I used to be, I should be asking why, why, why. My growth toward
full human adulthood can only come with questioning the adolescence I find myself in at
any given moment. I will never be mentally and spiritually mature if I accept where I
have been as my final destination in life. Living and growing requires an ever-expanding
vision which comes from eyes that are inquisitive and curious. When I don’t understand
why life is handing me a raw deal, I should be asking why. When I am fortunate enough
to have all I ever thought I wanted, and then am not really satisfied, I should be asking
why. When I see others suffering due to political or economic injustice, I should be
asking why. When politicians offer simple answers to immensely complicated problems,
I should be asking why. When I am feeling depressed or when the relationships in my
life seem shallow and meaningless, I should be asking why. When I am laboring day
after day in endeavors that don’t challenge my talents and gifts, I should be asking why.
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When God seems absent in my day to day living, I should be asking why. When God
suddenly and mysteriously acts in my life, I should certainly be asking why.
And so it was that my curious nature and my insatiable spirit had brought me to
the historic Parliament of the World’s Religions. All the truths of the world’s religions
are contained in the stories they tell. So it was no surprise that this Parliament of the
World’s Religions became a time for sharing of each other’s stories. One of the stories I
heard was especially poignant as I explored the smorgasbord of religions that was shared
during this ecumenical event, while also struggling with questions about my own
inherited faith.
As we sat on the lawn, awaiting the arrival of the keynote speaker, His Holiness
the Dalai Lama, an American student of Buddhism shared the story of an earlier public
teaching offered by the Dalai Lama in the south of India. He described a huge open-air
arena where monks and nuns from throughout Asia, together with thousands of lay
Buddhists, had gathered on the lawn. To their side sat another crowd: a fairly large group
of Americans and Europeans who had converted to the Buddhist faith and who were now
monks and nuns themselves. Heads shaved and clothed in the saffron and crimson robes
of the Tibetan monastic, they too eagerly awaited the arrival of His Holiness, the most
venerated figure in all Buddhism.
When the Dalai Lama entered that Indian arena, an awesome silence swept over
the crowd. There was not a sound to be heard as his incense-carrying attendants led him
to the platform where his raised throne had been prepared. The air was filled with a
gentle, fragrant smoke and a deep spirit of reverence.
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His Holiness stood facing the throng of Buddhist faithful. He then surprised
everyone by walking over to the monks and nuns and greeting them, some with a
handshake, most with a smile or a disarming wink of his eye. Then he offered the same
informal greeting to the lay men and women who had crowded in. Finally he took a few
steps toward the Westerners.
The American and European monks and nuns, some of whom had traveled
thousands of miles to be in this place at this exact moment, each straightened his or her
spine, sitting perfectly erect, legs crossed and hands positioned in a prayerful gesture of
respect. Each was secretly hoping to be recognized by His Holiness as the epitome of
Buddhist correctness.
The Dalai Lama greeted them all right, but not in the manner they were expecting.
As their idol surveyed this collection of former Jews, Catholics, Protestants and atheists,
he began to speak.
“Why are you wearing those silly robes?”
There was not a sound from the crowd as he continued, “We Tibetan Buddhists
wear these robes only because of an accident of geography and birth. It’s our historical
custom. We inherited the tradition. We are supposed to dress like this, but you - you
look silly!” He chuckled with his inimitable childlike laugh.
Then he asked the most incredible question: “What’s wrong with your religion?”
Again his question was greeted with stunned silence. He continued, “Would you
all like to be good Buddhists? Yes? Then why don’t you do this: go back to your
country, get a job and practice being compassionate. Your own faith has plenty of
teachings that can help you with compassion. Do that, and you will be good Buddhists.”
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One can only imagine the interior reaction of that stunned group of westerners. A
once-in-a-lifetime encounter with the world’s foremost spiritual leader, and he pulls the
rug out from under them.
While I was not a part of that Indian crowd of western mendicants in the story,
His Holiness’ piercing question hit home that afternoon in Chicago. What is wrong with
my religion? It’s a rhetorical question, of course, and it implies that perhaps there is
nothing wrong with your and my Western religion. The Dalai Lama was in fact
suggesting that his listeners would do well to return to their faith, that their tradition
already held all the answers. Yet here in this little story, and on the lawn here at the
Parliament of the World’s Religions as well, were converts from some Western religion
which, for now at least, seemed to be wrong for them. Somehow their religious
inheritance had been insufficient, unable to answer the questions they were wrestling
with at the moment.
The Dalai Lama was not suggesting that westerners were not invited to become
Buddhists. Quite the contrary is the reality. Many truly spiritual westerners have found
in Buddhism the religious answers they were seeking, and have joined Tibetan
monasteries and nunneries. Some of the most helpful Buddhist teaching I would later
receive in Dharamsala would come from the compassionate western Buddhist monks and
nuns I came to know there.
The Dalai Lama was suggesting, however, that I don’t have to become a
Buddhist, or even a Christian, Jew, Hindu or Moslem. I don’t have to become a member
of any organized religious group; I don’t need any labels, new or old. What I do need to
become is fully human. What I need to become is liberated from all that is holding me
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back from being fully human. What I need is to live my life in accordance with the
wisdom of all the world’s great religions, Buddhism included. This was the Dalai
Lama’s argument that day in India. This had been the Buddha’s teaching two thousand
years earlier.
Has our religion failed us? As a minister of the Church, my response may
surprise you. Yes! Yes, institutional religion in the West has failed many of us. That’s
part of the reason some of us find ourselves on a quest for something more.
I am troubled by the institutions of religion that seem more concerned with their
self-preservation than with the spiritual needs of real people. Men and women have
burning questions about the purpose of life and death, about the pain and suffering that
are constant companions to them; they want to know why a loving God seems at times
too distant; in a troubled world they wonder if their life can make a difference. As an
ordained leader within the institutional Church, I struggle with the same concerns, and
then feel embarrassed when the Church responds by creating a new committee,
establishing another social service program, or remodeling the church kitchen and hosting
more potluck dinners.
Like many others I have encountered in my ministry, I want to grow in my
spirituality and humanity. We are asking heartfelt questions and all too often are being
told to attend worship on Sunday and serve on the church council - become involved. I
want to feel that I am part of a spiritual community that, like me, is asking questions of
itself, not merely reacting to a rapidly changing world with the litany, “We’ve always
done it this way.” As a vehicle for the transformation I seek, my religion has all too often
left me wanting.
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For many of us, the religion we received from our parents has been insufficient,
but has it been wrong? Is there something wrong with our religion? Ah, now that’s
another question, and here I offer a qualified “No.” If we mean by that question is there
something inherently wrong with the historical teaching of our faith, the answer is no.
The wisdom and Truth are there. But if, on the other hand, we are asking about the
priestly function of organized religions, which is to interpret the teachings and to pass
them on, then yes, organized religion has all too often been a failure in the West. There
is something wrong. Western religion is our culture’s repository of wisdom and Truth,
but all too often the gatekeepers of our traditions have kept their treasure hidden away
like a miser’s hoard. My discovery and my quandary has been that the religions of the
West have repeatedly been guilty of providing time-honored - but not timely - answers to
questions that today’s seekers were not, in fact, asking, then rebuking those who were
asking for more.
Those were among my concerns on this final afternoon of the Parliament, which
was to be a celebration of all that had happened during one whirlwind week of
interreligious and inter-cultural sharing. On this warm late summer’s day, the Parliament
was culminating with a joyous and prayerful celebration, with the Nobel Peace Prize
laureate, His Holiness the Dalai Lama of Tibet, delivering the keynote homily. Blankets
and picnic baskets had been laid out on the lawn of Grant Park and thousands were
gathering in a sort of religious Woodstock to hear Arlo Guthrie sing songs of a bygone
era, and to bask in the warmth that had been created by the coming together of such a
vast collection of spiritual folk from every walk of life throughout the world. The
divisions between souls, which religion has often been guilty of creating, had somehow
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been suspended for one incredible week, and this was the time to mark that with prayer
and alleluias and a ritual of true communion.
Waiting in the summer sun for the ceremonies to begin, my wife and I had spread
out our blanket and enjoyed a picnic lunch. As the crowd grew, one couldn’t help
noticing the peace and joy that pervaded this makeshift holy place. Among those arriving
were a busload of Tibetan refugees, expatriates living in Madison, Wisconsin, under the
auspices of the Tibetan Resettlement Program. This initiative of the American
government had allowed one thousand Tibetan refugees to enter the United States as
immigrants and to live and work here. One day soon their families would be allowed to
join them as well. Each Tibetan was assisted by host sponsors in selected cities across
America. This particular group had journeyed from Madison with their sponsors to hear
their revered spiritual leader address the followers of all the world’s religions and to catch
a glimpse of the Dalai Lama himself.
A small group of these excited Tibetans spotted our only partially occupied
blanket and asked - mostly with gestures - if they might share our space. We were
pleased to have them join us. What better way to listen to His Holiness than in the
company of eager Tibetans.
That day I was struck by the smiles. The Tibetans never stopped smiling. These
righteous people, these people who for no reason had been stripped of their land and
possessions, forced to trek over the Himalayas to shelter and who now found themselves
displaced in America, these folks never stopped laughing or at least smiling. In an
instant, we felt as though we were among friends, our new Tibetan friends, our laughing,
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smiling, Tibetan friends. And when the Dalai Lama arrived at the pulpit, he was smiling,
he was laughing. There was joy on every wide-eyed, cherubic Tibetan face that day.
There was also a sacramental electricity in the air as His Holiness stepped to the
podium and began to speak with a gentle smile in his heart.
“Nowadays the world is becoming increasingly materialistic, driven by an
insatiable desire for power and possessions. Yet in this vain striving, we wander ever
farther from inward peace and mental happiness. Despite our pleasant material
surroundings many of us today experience mental dissatisfaction, fear, anxiety, and a
sense of insecurity. There is some kind of vacuum within the human mind. What I think
we lack is a proper sense of spirituality.”
I knew I wanted to cultivate a greater sense of spirituality. I listened with my new
Tibetan friends as he continued, “The purpose of religion is not merely to build beautiful
places of worship, but to cultivate positive human qualities of tolerance, generosity, and
love. Whenever we pursue noble goals, obstacles and difficulties are bound to occur. As
human beings, we may lose hope. But there is nothing to be gained from
discouragement; our determination must be very firm. According to my meager
experience, we can change. We can transform ourselves. Therefore, if we all were to
spend a few minutes every day, thinking about these things and trying to develop
compassion, eventually compassion will become part of our lives. Generally speaking,
religion in the real sense has to do with a positive mind. A positive mind is what
ultimately brings us benefit or happiness. The essence of religion is therefore the means
by which these things are generated.”
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In the company of strangers who had become friends, in the sanctuary of that time
and place, in the hearing of this simple monk’s teaching, I resolved to experience more of
this clear and gentle wisdom. And as fate would have it, the anxiety I was experiencing
over my inherited faith and my place in it, and the curiosity that led me to this hearing of
the words of the Dalai Lama, would soon be conjoined with a unique opportunity to enter
a rich new path on my spiritual journey.
30
Chapter 3
Venturing Forth
When we compare two ancient spiritual traditions like Buddhism and Christianity, what we see is a striking similarity between the narratives of the founding masters . . . In both the lives of Jesus Christ and the Buddha, it is only through hardship, dedication, and commitment and by standing firm on one’s principles that one can grow spiritually and attain liberation.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama
At any given point in the Mandala that is our life’s story, we are where we have
been, and we are becoming where we are going. We are at once the I Am of our past and
the I Am of our future. There is little distinction between our good-byes and our hellos;
between our letting go and our venturing forth.
“You must go,” Father Bastianni was telling me now, “not to discover
Buddhism...but to discover your own spirituality.”
For a few years now, it had become my custom to escape the cold of the Chicago
winter and retreat to the south of France just after the Christmas holidays each year to
join my wife’s family for vacation. This year, one of my first destinations was a return
visit to the medieval church and parish home of the Reverend Doctor Raphael Sanzio
Bastianni. During each of my previous visits this aging Catholic priest and long-time
friend of my wife’s family had been gently but persuasively urging me to make a
pilgrimage to Dharamsala. It was in this same country church - with its ancient walls
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displaying figures of the Buddha alongside images of Christ, its stone fireplace hung with
garlic braids and dented copper skillets, and its windows open to a view of the golden
sunflower fields in the farming valley below - that I first heard the stories of Father
Bastianni’s “other ministry” with the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan refugee community.
He had been a medical doctor many years ago, before following his call to the
priesthood. In the nineteen-sixties, he had traveled to Dharamsala, then the new home of
the Dalai Lama who had recently fled to north India to escape the onslaught of the
Chinese communist army into his native Tibet. Father Raphael had asked His Holiness if
he might conduct research among the monks into the long-term effects of meditation on
the hypothalamus of the brain. After a year of conducting his research among the Tibetan
monastics, Father Raphael spoke with His Holiness and asked what he might be able to
do for the Tibetan community to repay their warm hospitality during his stay. The Dalai
Lama did not hesitate, and suggested that the new Tibetan Children’s Village, a home and
school for orphaned Tibetan children, was in need of a medical clinic. Reverend Doctor
Bastianni returned to France, raised the funds and recruited the personnel, then returned
to Dharamsala the following year to establish the clinic. The kindly priest-doctor
continued to return to Dharamsala for a major portion of each year thereafter to staff the
clinic himself. Over the years this pious Catholic cleric had become enamored with the
wisdom and practice of his Buddhist hosts, and had discovered the empowering affinity
between Buddhism and Christianity. It was this discovery that he was encouraging me to
experience for myself.
I had been yearning to make this pilgrimage, particularly since that day in
Chicago when I first heard the Dalai Lama speak, but I felt somehow inadequate. I
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reminded the good doctor that I had no medical skills to offer the refugees, and that in
Hindu India these Tibetan Buddhists probably had no need of a Christian preacher! He
replied simply, “They will find ways for you to help...and they will share their homes and
their wisdom with you.” In the past, I had been able to claim other commitments and
responsibilities that kept me from responding to this ever-clearer call to embark on my
journey of discovery. This time, however, there were no excuses. My interim
responsibilities with my Chicago parish were concluding, and I had accepted no new
church assignment. Seemingly before I could make the decision myself, Father Raphael
had contacted the office of His Holiness and the abbots of the monasteries of
Dharamsala, and they were warmly indicating their readiness to welcome me.
Each new beginning starts with farewell. It was with a mix of sadness and
trepidation that I was bidding farewell to the comfort and security of the familiar to
venture forth toward the unknown. As pastor of a local church, my role provided a fairly
clear definition of identity and purpose. Even though I questioned the spiritual vigor of
the contemporary church and its capacity to lift me to another level in my spiritual
growth, the uncertainty of the change that lay ahead was disquieting
Nonetheless, it was with more anticipation than apprehension that I said my good-
byes and packed my bags.
The first stop was Paris, then non-stop to New Delhi. Our flight plan took us
toward Switzerland, then over the northern edge of Italy and past Sarajevo (where I
imagined someone was shooting at his neighbor down there), over Bulgaria to Turkey.
Most of the flight was above clouds, but at Istanbul we could clearly see the Bosporus
Straight, just as I had drawn on a map in some long-ago geography class. From there it
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was over Iraq and across Iran (where I was briefly wondering if someone might be
shooting at us), into Afghanistan and Pakistan toward north India. I had left Paris in the
early morning and would arrive in New Delhi in the dark of night.
Since clouds obscured most of the view out the window, I used the time to begin
my inquiry into Buddhism. I had made a conscious decision early on not to read too
much about Buddhism before arriving in Dharamsala, as I wanted to experience it, not
study it in the academic sense. But I was well aware that any understanding of Buddhism
must begin with an introduction to the life of the Buddha, and, since his life pre-dated
that of Christ, and I would only be able to experience him through second-hand sources
anyway, I opened the first of several books that would guide my exploration and
discovery of Buddhism. I will share with you that elementary introduction to Gautama
Siddhartha, since it colored my initial experience of India, even as I stepped off the jet-
way into the smells, the noise, the heat and humidity, and the people - all the people - of
this amazing land.
It was Joseph Campbell, in his Power of Myth, who had initially led me to
examine the life of the Buddha. He wrote, “Read myths. Read other people’s myths, not
those of your own religion, because you tend to interpret your own religion in terms of
facts - but if you read the other ones, you begin to get the message. Myth helps you to
put your mind in touch with the experience of being alive.” He was saying, in effect, that
we don’t study Buddhism to learn about Buddhism, per se; we study Buddhism to learn
about ourselves. As my magic carpet winged its way toward India, I was beginning my
inner journey toward a deeper understanding of myself, and I was doing so by looking at
this person we call the Buddha in an effort to discover how his life might also be my life.
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I opened Thomas Merton’s Asian Journal, and read his entry, written years earlier
in the airplane that was taking him to the East, where he wrote, “I am going home, to the
home where I have never been in this body.” It was his Journal that had suggested I read
Christmas Humphrey’s Buddhism, among others, as an introduction to the life of the
Buddha.
Knowledge of the facts of the Buddha’s life are sketchy, at best, and like the
Gospel accounts of Jesus’ life or the scriptural record of Moses and others in the Jewish
texts, the legends have become larger than life. The received tradition of the lives of the
saints, of Jesus, Moses and the Buddha has entered the realm of myth. But the myths of
our world are the basis for our structuring of our lives, so they are of monumental
importance. Each of us has already incorporated guiding myths - stories from our culture
and stories from our own experience - into a framework by which we live. As I glanced
out the window toward Asia to the East, I knew intuitively there was room to add another
myth to my life’s mosaic: the myth that is the story of Gautama Siddhartha, the Buddha.
His life is a story; a story with birth, happiness and pain, old age, and finally
death; a story like many that preceded and that have followed. Everyone has a story. In
fact, it is largely our stories that define who we are. When someone says, “Tell me about
yourself,” we can’t really describe our self, so we tell a part of our story, a part of who we
are. When we look at the wisdom of the world’s great thinkers, it is always best to start
with a look at their life story. The philosophers, the movers and shakers, the sages of our
culture have all pondered and written from the depths of their own personal stories. Who
they really are is revealed not only in their writings and thoughts, but in their stories.
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Among the stories contained in the traditions of the world’s great religions, that of
the Buddha is particularly intriguing. Gautama Siddhartha is perhaps the only founder of
a religion, if we can rightly call him a founder, who is not portrayed by his followers as a
God-figure. The Buddha was just an ordinary human being, like you and like me. In
Judaism, Moses and the prophets spoke on behalf of God. In Christianity, Jesus was God
incarnate. Buddha, on the other hand, was just an ordinary seeker, troubled with
questions and finally discovering some answers. His journey of birth, adolescence,
questioning, seeking and discovery is one that begins to look surprisingly similar to my
own.
When we were taught the story of Adam and Eve or of Noah and the Ark in
Sunday school or synagogue, it was not because these were merely fun stories that our
ancestors wanted to share with us. These stories of the faith were mytho-poetic
explanations of our relationship with the creator God and with everyone around us in that
creation. These stories, and all others in scripture, were templates for living, examples
that allowed us to participate alongside all who have come before us in the journey of
life. Moses’ story of being called, of hesitating, of journeying in the wilderness - this is
my story, your story. The disciples’ stories of simple lives being transformed by their
encounter with God incarnate - these are our stories. When Cain and Able live out their
sibling rivalry, we find their story in our own family history. When Job struggles with
the seeming unfairness of life’s troubles, we struggle with him, because his quandary is
our quandary. His story is our story. When Jesus is finally crucified for his beliefs, we
are hanging in there with him because we, too, have found ourselves being crucified for
our differences with others around us. And when Christ rises to new life, we are given
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hope that we, too, will have a new tomorrow following some of the deaths we face in life,
because we realize at some deep spiritual level that his story is our story.
Stories don’t have to be from scripture in order to become guiding myths for us.
The stories of our grandparents, the ones who came to a new land in search of something
better, can be driving forces in our lives. Even a favorite sports figure or the hero in a
classic novel can become for us a pattern for life when we discover ourselves in their
story. C. S. Lewis, the Christian writer, is quoted as having said, “We read to know we
are not alone.” By reading he meant reading other’s stories, and he knew the importance
of discovering from our reading that we are not alone in our birth and life, in our pain and
joy, and in our old age and death. C. S. Lewis knew that the journey of life is both easier
and richer once we discover that we are on a road that has been traveled, and is being
traveled even today, by fellow pilgrims, companions on the way who share with us the
same questions and struggles, the same joys and concerns we have. When we are truly
fortunate we discover that some of our traveling companions have found answers,
answers to the same questions we are asking, answers that help us find direction in our
own journey. That was my hope as the 747 brought me closer to the footpaths of
Dharamsala.
The Buddha has walked these paths before us. If we look at his story in the same
way we might have first looked at Moses’ story, or hear it in the same way we first heard
our grandparent’s story, we may find a little of ourselves in it. If we do, then some of the
Buddha’s answers may become answers for our lives. As the proud monks and eager
teachers of Dharamsala would soon share with me their legends of the Buddha, I would
come to discover that my story was not at all unlike that of the young Siddhartha: an
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ordinary person who doesn’t have all the answers to questions about the meaning of life
and his place in the great scheme of things. I still don’t have all the answers, I’m still just
an ordinary seeker, but I can tell a story. Sit with me as I try to piece together the myth,
the legend, the story, if you will, that is both universal and at the same time specifically
that of the Buddha.
As we look at this story, keep in mind that the term “Buddha” is an honorary title
given to a real person, Gautama Siddhartha. The title was known to the people of India
long before Siddhartha was born. The term “Buddha” literally means “enlightened” or
“mentally awakened.” This title has come to be synonymous with Gautama Siddhartha,
the Buddha, so to speak, but actually anyone who achieves enlightenment becomes a
Buddha, and each of us can develop our own Buddha nature according to the Buddha’s
teaching. This honorary title is not unlike the title of Christ, which means “anointed” or
“sent by God,” and which was given to the person, Jesus of Nazareth. The same
honorary name changing occurs often in the Jewish scripture, for example when Jacob
was given the name “Israel.” When Simon Peter proclaims in the Gospel of Matthew,
“You are the Christ,” he is echoing the first of Gautama’s disciples who proclaimed
Siddhartha to be enlightened, to be the Buddha.
The term Buddha also points us toward our first understanding of this eastern
philosophy. In the teachings of the Buddha, enlightenment is of paramount importance.
The Buddha attains enlightenment as he passes from this life. Enlightenment is his
“liberation.” It is the Buddhist view of perfection, of liberating Truth, that one starts with
humanity in ignorance and progresses toward full humanity enlightened. That is
liberation. In the Jewish and Christian approaches, however, perfection starts with
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humanity and progresses toward God. Perfection, according to both the Jewish and
Christian traditions, comes with a right relationship with God. I would learn that the
humanity-centered approach of Buddhism is only the first of several ways in which the
philosophy of the Buddha differs from the teachings of the western faiths, and it is an
important difference which I shall examine on my journey.
A look at the life story of Gautama Siddhartha may help us to understand, from
the outset, the reason for this different approach to the ordering of things. In a country
that historically had worshiped myriad Gods, Buddha finds his answers in other sources.
The Gods of his forefathers and mothers no longer sufficed as his own Gods. Why?
What was there about Siddhartha’s family life, about his early attempts at living life
according to the norm, about his successes and failures, about his questioning that
ultimately led him to new answers? These are the questions I tried to keep in mind as I
looked at the life, at the story, of the Buddha. How is the Buddha nature in him? How is
the Buddha’s nature in you and in me?
The birth legends of the Buddha are filled with mythic embellishments, just as are
the birth narratives of Moses and Jesus. Gautama Siddhartha was born while his mother
was on a journey. She was traveling from Kapilavatsu to her parental home in Devadaha.
(I couldn’t fail to notice the parallel with each went to be registered, everyone to his own
city, out of the city of Nazareth into Judea, to the city of David.) In India it is common
for a woman to go to her mother’s home for the delivery of her first child. According to a
virgin-birth legend, Gautama came into the world from the side of his mother, without
causing her any pain, while she was holding a branch of the sal tree under which she lay.
This was in the park of Lumbini, in what is now Nepal, and which is today an important
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pilgrimage destination for the Buddhist faithful. Gautama’s mother, the princess
Mahamaya, died seven days later, and Siddhartha was raised by his mother’s sister.
His father was a chief, or king in some traditions, and Gautama was raised and
educated as a nobleman. He was Prince of the Shakyas, hence his reference in Tibetan
Buddhism as Buddha Shakyamuni. As is the custom in India, he entered into an arranged
marriage - to another princess - at the age of sixteen, and she bore a son.
Gautama’s father had lofty plans for his first-born son: he wanted the young
Siddhartha to have a glamorous political career, not unlike his dad’s. To encourage his
development on the right track, his father was what we would today label “over-
protective.” He tried to provide his son with all the luxuries of life and to take special
precautions to keep the miseries of life from his son’s inquiring eyes. But, as the Buddha
would later teach, reality can never escape the person who is mindful and alert.
The story tells us that, in spite of his father’s efforts to keep all knowledge of
worldly woes from his eyes, the young prince, venturing forth from the palace one day,
saw an old man, and then a sick man, and then a dead man being carried to his funeral
pyre. At the sight of each he asked his charioteer the meaning of what he saw. “This
comes to all men,” said the charioteer, and the Prince’s mind was troubled that such
would be the effect of birth. Then he saw a recluse, a monk with shaven head and a
tattered saffron robe. “What man is this?” he asked, and was told it was one who had
gone forth into the homeless life of an ascetic. Gautama was struck by the calm and
serene face of this mendicant holy man. For the Buddha, these visions were of three
facets of the sorrowfulness of humanity, and the other a vision of release from that
sorrow.
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This startling discovery of the impermanent nature of life, and the subsequent
folly of being attracted by transitory values, led Gautama to renounce the world and
become an ascetic himself. He was twenty-nine years of age when he left behind his wife
and son.
A western Christian or Jewish reader of twenty-nine might well be shocked at the
idea of a married person leaving his wife and child behind to enter the monastic life. I
could relate a little with this as I had entered seminary at the age of thirty-nine, and
coincidentally ended my first marriage shortly thereafter, but it still struck me as radical
for a prince to walk out on his family to join a monastery. I would soon learn, however,
that leaving home for the practice of asceticism, after a period of marriage, was an
approved form of behavior in Hindu society. According to the Hindu ideal, a person
aspiring to perfection had to organize his life in a certain gradation. He first had to be a
celibate student (a vanishing breed in the West!), then a married man, and finally either
an ascetic or a hermit. According to that commonly accepted tradition, Gautama’s
behavior was not at all abnormal.
Actually, Gautama did not at first join a monastery or become a Hindu ascetic.
He first placed himself under the guidance of two well-known yogi teachers of the time
and trained in yoga and meditation. While meditation would later become a very
important part of the Buddhist life, Gautama at this time was soon disillusioned with
meditative trances that seemed to be entered into only for the sake of meditation itself.
For Gautama, the right type of meditation had to lead an individual not just to an
ephemeral experience but to an insight into the deeper realities of life.
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So he abandoned yoga and joined an ashram as a true ascetic, practicing the
strictest forms of self-mortification and self-torture and fasting. It was not long before he
realized the utter futility of such mortification to achieve the liberation he was seeking.
He soon saw that what is required for self-liberation is not self-mortification but self-
discipline or self-mastery. As soon as he discovered that pure asceticism could not give
the deeper form of mental liberation he sought, he left the ashram and began to pursue
his search by himself.
Gautama’s rejection of rigorous asceticism led him to advocate a “middle path,”
somewhere in-between the harmful extremes of penitential torture and material self-
indulgence.
Well known in the legend is the story that Gautama then reflected in solitude
under the shade of the Bodhi tree and meditated on his past life and on the sorrowful state
of the lives of others. He sought in his mind the reasons that kept men and women in an
unliberated state and there he discovered the real nature of human suffering, the cause of
it, the possibility of escape from it, and the path for such an escape. It is this discovery -
or awakening - that is referred to as enlightenment, which for the Buddha meant seeing
the reality of human suffering and the possibility of human joy in a way that he had never
seen before. We Christians would express this experience in language familiar to us as
revelation, but for Gautama it was something that arose in him by itself as a direct result
of his own concentration.
I was awakened from my own concentration by an announcement from the cabin
speakers that we were beginning our approach into New Delhi, and a glance out the
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window revealed the snow-capped Himalayan range bathed in the light of the nearly full
moon. My journey toward some form of enlightenment was nearly at hand.
As soon as I stepped off the plane and into the terminal it was clear I was in
another world. As I alluded to earlier, the faces and clothing of the crowds of people, the
intense smells, the babble of a hundred languages, the heat and the thick humidity strike
you as soon as you leave the modern jet-way and immediately plunge into ancient India.
As my senses were bombarded by the sights and sounds and colors and smells and heat, I
thought to myself, “This is the land and the culture that has given birth to the Buddha,
that has seen the change brought about by Gandhi, and that is now going to give birth to
change in me.”
Outside the airport I was mobbed by cabbies and negotiated with the most
aggressive one for a ride to the central bus station, then squeezed my over-weight bags
into the little taxi. It was about two in the morning, yet even in the darkness the sights of
crowded Delhi were amazing as the driver weaved his way through left-hand traffic like a
madman, avoiding bicycles, mopeds, and cattle along the route.
In the bus station I had my first taste of the real India: lepers hobbling alongside
me on their stumps of limbs, begging for a few rupees; all manner of food cooking in
open-air stalls; sacred cows walking freely in and out, and every vendor and bus
conductor yelling over the other. I still don’t know exactly how I found the right bus
after waiting for several hours in this amazing bazaar. At 6:00 a.m. I boarded a bus that
looked like something straight out of a National Geographic photo, and watched in fear
as a porter loaded my bags onto the roof of the bus, carrying them on his head! I died a
thousand deaths as my computer and other worldly possessions tottered precariously up
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the ladder to the top of the rickety “Greyhound.” The bus ride lasted fourteen hours,
from before sunrise ‘til after sunset. I saw a lifetime of sights in just that one journey
alone. Birds of every description: egrets, herons, turkey vultures, hawks and eagles, even
flocks of green and red parrots. There were water buffalo and oxen; carts filled with
cargo larger than seemed possible pulled by horses, mules and oxen, all vying for the
same space on the narrow road as our bouncing bus. Taxis, rickshaws, livestock, wildly
decorated busses and cargo trucks all managed to turn a two-lane road into a ballet of one
passing the other, every moment punctuated with the sounds of horns honking.
The flat expanse of India seems to extend forever. We passed by rice paddies and
tea plantations and through small cities and villages with cow dung drying in front of
huts. Garbage and flowering crops were seemingly strewn together along the roadside.
The smell of India is nearly overpowering for the newly arrived. Sewage and jasmine,
incense and perfume, rotting garbage and decaying bodies, exhaust and curry - all of
these at one time takes some getting used to.
And then there are the people - everywhere, people. People in the streets, people
on top of buildings, people sleeping along the road, people working in the fields. You
can’t look for a moment in any direction without seeing people in the picture, people in
places where my western eyes said they didn’t belong. Suddenly I felt a little like the
young Siddhartha, away from my overly protective home for the first time. While I knew
of disease, old age and death, of course, and I had traveled outside the U. S. before, I was
struck with the poverty and the sprawling humanity that spread out before my eyes. As I
gazed out the dusty window of my dilapidated chariot, I watched an elderly weather-worn
Indian woman struggling with a wooden plow as it turned over the parched soil behind a
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weak old ox whose ribs were clearly visible through his meager flesh. I silently heard
Gautama’s charioteer whisper in my ear, “This comes to all men,” and I realized that
what I was seeing before me was the norm in the world. With more than half the world’s
humanity living in China, India, Africa, this is what comes to most men and women, and
today I was venturing out of the sugar-coated protection provided by the princes of
America with whom I had been living as one of the privileged few in the industrial West.
As I pondered the suffering in the world that I was seeing illustrated on those dry,
flat river beds of India, the landscape and foliage began to change rapidly as we climbed
gently from the plains to the lower plateau, and even more dramatically as we approached
the foothills of the Himalayas. Soon we were surrounded by forests of evergreen and
rhododendron trees as the winding road up the hills caused some in the crowded bus to
suffer the discomfort of motion sickness. Not I, fortunately, even in spite of the spicy,
intriguing food I ate during lunch stops at amazingly primitive roadside eateries along the
way: rice, dal, curry and masala, and the ubiquitous flat bread chapatti.
It was dark when I arrived in Dharamsala at about eight, and again Sherpa porters
toted my bags on their heads, this time up a steep hill to the first cheap hotel I could find.
Collapsing onto the hard bed, I quickly fell asleep.
The brilliant sun awakened me early the next morning, and I stepped out onto a
small balcony overlooking the already bustling marketplace. I was immediately
confronted by a magnificent view of the Himalayas, a sheer wall of the most incredible
snow-covered mountains I have ever seen, appearing to be thrusting themselves still
higher into the deep blue sky. It was breathtaking. Then I was startled by the chatter of
some company on the terrace. Monkeys! They were apparently hoping to share a little
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breakfast with me. From my hillside perch I surveyed this exotic village that would
become my new home, vaguely aware of the deep throbbing of temple horns across the
valley calling the monks to prayer. I had left behind the walls of my isolated kingdom,
and I silently wondered what I would discover as I explored the colorful sands of the new
Mandala I had entered.
Perhaps you, too, find yourself looking out over the landscape that is your future
and pondering which questions and whose answers may ultimately chart the turning
points of your own Mandala journey. In the pages that follow, I will share with you my
discoveries of the affinity between Buddhist wisdom and the truths of my inherited faith
tradition, and how a new Eastern understanding has illuminated my Western spiritual
path. With the help of the words of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, the grains of sand
which form the collage of Buddhist teachings will be gently placed alongside each other
until a new and possibly liberating Mandala begins to take form.
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Chapter 4
The Four Noble Truths
The teachings on the Four Noble Truths clearly distinguish two sets of causes and effects: those causes which produce suffering, and those which produce happiness. By showing us how to distinguish these in our own lives, the teachings aim at nothing less than to enable us to fulfill our deepest aspiration - to be happy and to overcome suffering.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama
“Emptiness. Learn all you can about emptiness.”
I had asked the Dalai Lama a simple question: As a Christian, seeking to
understand Buddhist wisdom and practice, where should I start? What would be the most
important concepts to grasp in order to comprehend Buddhism? His answer had been
equally simple: Emptiness. Learn all you can about emptiness.
Father Bastianni had graciously arranged for me to have the honor of an audience
with His Holiness shortly after my arrival in Dharamsala. I was led into his office by
Tenzin Geyche Tethong, his personal Secretary, and was immediately overwhelmed as I
was greeted with a radiant, gentle smile by this living saint. My initial nervousness at
meeting such a renowned spiritual leader was quickly assuaged by his self-effacing,
almost casual manner, and by the genuine interest with which he approached our wide-
ranging conversation. Little did I know then that this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity
would, in fact, be the beginning of a lasting friendship, and that I would be blessed with
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several wonderful opportunities to share intriguing conversation with His Holiness again.
And I would have more than one occasion to remind him of his challenge to pursue an
understanding of emptiness, a challenge I accepted that spring day in a meeting which
often seems so long ago, but which has had such a lasting impact on my life that it is
fondly remembered as though it were yesterday.
During the intervening years, I have attempted to follow His Holiness’ advice,
and have discovered the depth of the ironic humor of this fourteenth reincarnation of the
Dalai Lama. In suggesting I learn everything I could about emptiness, His Holiness knew
all along that in so doing I would have to plumb the depth and breadth of Buddhist
wisdom and practice itself. His answer had been more like a trick question than any real
answer at all. It was similar to many Buddhist stories that are told of a student asking the
master a weighty question only to receive a puzzling challenge in response. The
knowledge of emptiness, I would discover, is not the starting point for the journey, but in
fact the destination. In seeking this center of Buddhist understanding, one must enter the
maze of the Mandala from the gates at the perimeter. One must begin by grasping the
outer petals of the lotus before they can be peeled away to expose the bare core that is the
life-giving heart of the flower.
I will share with you my journey of discovery, beginning with the beginning.
The path to the heart of the Buddha’s teaching has as its road map the Four Noble
Truths. Just as one can get to the heart of Christ’s message by examining his first public
teaching – Jesus’ beautiful Sermon on the Mount - one can find the framework of all
Buddhist wisdom and teaching in Siddhartha’s first public discourse, his First Sermon.
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I have read the First Sermon, and I have heard it taught by monks and high lamas,
and I have even taught it to students myself. I can no longer recall exactly how and when
I first heard the deceptively simple logic of these profound Truths, but I know they have
remained for me the starting point and the outline for all my subsequent discovery of
Buddhist wisdom and practice.
Simply stated, the Four Noble Truths are the truth of suffering, the truth of the
origin of suffering, the truth of the cessation of suffering, and the truth of the path leading
to the cessation of suffering. Even more simply one can say that we are all suffering, our
suffering has causes, the causes can be eliminated, and there is a path of living that can
enable us to achieve that perfect liberation.
In public teachings, the Dalai Lama says, “The Four Noble Truths are the very
foundation of the Buddhist teaching, and that is why they are so important. Therefore I
am always very happy to have the opportunity to explain them.” For many, His Holiness
is the embodiment of Buddhist compassion and loving kindness, and the voice of
Buddhist wisdom, so I will allow his teaching to illuminate an understanding of this
important foundation of my new Mandala journey:
“The first of the Four Noble Truths is the Truth of Suffering, or duhkha.”
Actually, Gautama Buddha said “life is duhkha,” but the English language
doesn’t provide us with a neat, simple, one-word equivalent for the Pali word duhkha.
The suffering to which Gautama was referring is our internal suffering, the sorrow that
arises from real or imagined loss, such as the loss of a loved one or the unfulfillment of a
wish or desire. This sorrow is a constant companion to all of us on the journey of life,
Buddha argued. Life is sorrow-full.
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His Holiness continues: “What is duhkha? What is suffering? Buddhism
describes three levels or types of suffering. The first is called ‘the suffering of suffering,’
the second, ‘the suffering of change,’ and the third is, ‘the suffering of conditioning.’
“When we talk about the first type, the suffering of suffering, we are talking in
very conventional terms of experiences which we would all identify as suffering. These
experiences are painful. In Buddhism there are four main experiences of this type of
suffering which are considered to be fundamental to life: the sufferings of birth, sickness,
aging and death. The significance of recognizing these states as forms of suffering, and
the importance of this recognition as a catalyst of the spiritual quest, is very strongly
demonstrated in the Buddha’s own life story. According to the story, when he was the
young Prince Siddhartha, the Buddha is said to have caught sight of a sick person, an old
person, and a dead person being carried away. The impact of seeing this suffering
apparently led him to the realization that so long as he was not free of the infinite process
of birth, he would always be subject to these other three sufferings. Later, the sight of a
spiritual aspirant is supposed to have made the Buddha fully aware that there is a
possibility of freedom from this cycle of suffering.
“So in Buddhism there is an understanding that so long as we are subject to the
process of rebirth, all other forms of suffering are natural consequences of that initial
starting point. We could characterize our life as being within the cycle of birth and death,
and sandwiched in between these two, as it were, are the various sufferings related to
illness and aging.
“The second level of suffering, the suffering of change, refers to experiences we
ordinarily identify as pleasurable. However, in reality, as long as we are in an
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unenlightened state, all of our joyful experiences are tainted and ultimately bring
suffering.
“Why does Buddhism claim that experiences which are apparently pleasurable are
ultimately states of suffering? The point is that we perceive them as states of pleasure or
joy only because, in comparison to painful experiences, they appear as a form of relief.
Their pleasurable status is only relative. If they were truly joyful states in themselves,
then just as painful experiences increase the more we indulge in the causes that lead to
pain, likewise, the more we engage in the causes that give rise to pleasurable experience,
our pleasure or joy should intensify; but this is not the case.
“On an everyday level, for example, when you have good food, nice clothes,
attractive jewelry and so on, for a short time you feel really marvelous. Not only do you
enjoy a feeling of satisfaction, but when you show your things to others, they share in it
too. But one day passes, one week passes, one month passes, and the very same object
that once gave you such pleasure might simply cause you frustration. That is the nature
of things - they change. The same applies also to fame. At the beginning you might
think to yourself, ‘Oh! I’m so happy! Now I have a good name, I’m famous!’ But after
some time, it could be that all you feel is frustration and dissatisfaction. The same sort of
change can happen in friendships and in sexual relationships. At the beginning you
almost go mad with passion, but later that very passion can turn to hatred and aggression,
and, in the worst cases, even lead to murder. So that is the nature of things. If you look
carefully, everything beautiful and good, everything that we consider desirable, brings us
suffering in the end.
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“Finally, we come to the third type of suffering, the suffering of conditioning.
This addresses the main question: why is this the nature of things? The answer is,
because everything that happens in samsara (the cycle of existence between life and
death) is due to ignorance. Under the influence or control of ignorance, there is no
possibility of a permanent state of happiness. Some kind of trouble, some kind of
problem, always arises. So long as we remain under the power of ignorance, that is, our
fundamental misapprehension or confusion about the nature of things, then sufferings
come one after another, like ripples on water.”
Here His Holiness is introducing three very important concepts in Buddhist
thought - ignorance, impermanence, and karma, or cause and effect. We ignorant human
beings don’t understand the true nature of reality, we don’t grasp fully the total
impermanence of every thing and every phenomenon, and we are subject to causes and
conditions from the past that affect us now and will affect us in the future. And this
“condition of things” is the root of our suffering, of our unhappiness, of our less than
satisfying existence.
Is life suffering? Is life really suffering and sorrow? This is a new way of asking
the same question every theologian has pondered at some time or another: What is the
human condition? For Buddha, the human condition is one of sorrowfulness. For
Christians and Jews the human condition has been, ever since Adam and Eve, our fall
from God’s grace due to our sinfulness. Adam and Eve grasped at the fruit of knowledge
of good and evil and, from that time on, humanity has been banished from the idyllic
Garden of Eden, suffering, if you will, from the wrath of God. Suffering. God says in
Genesis, “Because you have done this, cursed are you among all animals and among all
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wild creatures: upon your belly you shall go, and dust you shall eat all the days of your
life.” This was the Hebrew’s explanation for the suffering of the human life. It appears
they agreed with the Buddha. Humanity is cursed. All the days of our lives will be filled
with suffering. The author of Ecclesiastes put it this way: “For what has man for all his
labor, and for the striving of his heart with which he has toiled under the sun? For all his
days are sorrowful...”
For Buddhists, the “condition of things” is the less-than-satisfactory nature of life,
and it is our ignorance of the impermanent nature of reality, and the consequence of our
actions borne out of that ignorance that lead to our sorrow-full existence. The Dalai
Lama elaborates on this subtle level of the transient, impermanent nature of reality:
“There are two levels of meaning here. One can understand impermanence in
terms of how something arises, stays for a while, and then disappears. This level of
impermanence can be understood quite easily. However, there is a second, more subtle
understanding of transience. From this more subtle perspective, the obvious process of
change I have just described is merely the effect of deeper change. At the deeper level,
everything is changing from moment to moment, constantly. This process of momentary
change is not due to a secondary condition that arises to destroy something, but rather the
very cause that led a thing to arise is also the cause of its destruction. In other words,
within the cause of its origin lies the cause of its cessation.
“Momentariness should thus be understood in two ways. First, in terms of the
three moments of existence of any entity - in the first instant, it arises; in the second
instant, it stays; in the third instant, it dissolves. Second, in terms of each instant itself.
An instant is not static; as soon as it arises, it moves towards its own cessation.”
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His Holiness is speaking of the Mandala of all existence. It is born with the
painstaking application of the first and the second and the third grains of sand. It exists
long enough to contemplate and to assume a sense of identity, and then it is dissolved.
Inherent in the construction and in the contemplation is the knowledge of its eventual
destruction. The very act of creating sets in motion the process of change and ultimately
of loss. Our inability to understand this fully - our ignorance, if you will - sets the stage
for our inevitable suffering.
His Holiness says, “It is very important to understand the context of the Buddhist
emphasis on recognizing that we are in a state of suffering, otherwise there is a danger we
could misunderstand the Buddhist outlook, and think that it involves a rather morbid
thinking, a basic pessimism and almost an obsessiveness about the reality of suffering.
The reason why Buddha laid so much emphasis on developing insight into the nature of
suffering is because there is an alternative - there is a way out, it is actually possible to
free oneself from it. This is why it is so crucial to realize the nature of suffering, because
the stronger and deeper your insight into suffering is, the stronger your aspiration to gain
freedom from it becomes.”
The Dalai Lama often explains this with the analogy of a sick person: “In order
for a sick person to get well, the first step is that he or she must know that he is ill,
otherwise the desire to be cured will not arise. Once you have acknowledged that you are
sick, then naturally you will try to find out what led to it and what makes your condition
even worse. When you have identified these, you will gain an understanding of whether
or not the illness can be cured, and a wish to be free from the illness will arise in you. In
fact this is not just a mere wish, because once you have recognized the conditions that led
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to your illness, your desire to be free of it will be much stronger since that knowledge
will give you a confidence and conviction that you can overcome the illness. With that
conviction, you will want to take all the medications and remedies necessary.
“In the same way, unless you know that you are suffering, your desire to be free
from suffering will not arise in the first place. So the first step we must take is to
recognize our present state as dukkha or suffering, frustration and unsatisfactoriness.
Only then will we wish to look into the causes and conditions that give rise to suffering.
“Once you have developed this kind of recognition of the duhkha nature of life,
you already have some understanding that at the root of our suffering lays a fundamental
ignorance. This of course, leads us to the Second Noble Truth which is the Truth of the
Origin of Suffering.”
So the Second Noble Truth is that our suffering has causes.
In His Holiness’ words, “we all desire happiness and wish to overcome
suffering.” Yet, despite this natural aspiration, “we tend to create the conditions for more
suffering because we do not know the way to create the causes for happiness.” He
continues, “at the root of this situation lies a fundamental confusion, or, in Buddhist
terminology, a fundamental ignorance.”
Life is suffering, sorrow-full, unsatisfactory...and this suffering has a cause. The
cause is our ignorance - our ignorance of the way things really are.
His Holiness again: “This ignorance, this confusion applies not only to the way
things are, but also to the way causes and effects relate to each other. Therefore, in
Buddhism we talk about two types of ignorance: ignorance of the laws of causality,
specifically the laws of karma...and ignorance of the ultimate nature of reality.”
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The Dalai Lama is repeating the teaching of the Buddha himself when he
simplifies for us the two basic causes of our suffering: one is our misunderstanding, or
ignorance, about the ways things really are, and the other is our ignorance about how our
actions in the past inevitably affect our situation in the present moment.
“So together, delusions and karmic actions are the origins of our suffering.”
Let’s look at the second cause first - karma. For a westerner first encountering the
teachings and practices of Buddhism, karma seems to be one of those strange beliefs of
another religion. But in reality, the concept of karma is nothing more than an
understanding of the observable phenomena that every action has some effect. The
Buddha simply observed this, just as everything he taught arose from his enlightened
observation of the world around him. Our every action affects something somewhere
somehow. And at some time or another our actions will have an impact on our lives. To
some subtle degree perhaps, our actions will either become a source of our suffering or
will contribute to a release from our suffering. And for Buddhists who view this
temporal lifetime as merely one of many each of us has had and will have, the karmic
effects of our actions may not be realized until another lifetime. But, ultimately - even if
it takes multiple lifetimes to be revealed - every action will cause some effect. And it
probably doesn’t take a rocket scientist to sort out the logic in that thinking.
His Holiness says, “Experience shows that certain actions we do in the morning,
for example, will have a continuing effect even in the evening. The action will have
created a certain state of mind. It will have had an impact upon our emotion and our
sense of being so even though it was committed in the morning as an event that is
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finished, its effect still lingers on in our mind...the same principle operates with karma
and its effects, even in the case of long-term karmic effects.”
So simple. What we do has consequences. And yet, the Buddha argued, we
ignore this simple principle of cause and effect every day as we seek the illusive
happiness we desire while continuing with actions that are in fact the very causes of our
suffering.
Why? Because we are ignorant - ignorant of reality, ignorant of the way things
really are. After karma, or cause and effect, the other principle cause of our suffering is
our fundamental ignorance. Not an academic ignorance, not a lack of “book-learning”
facts, but an ignorance that stems from our not being “awake,” not being enlightened;
being, as it were, asleep or numb to the reality that is observable all around us. We
continue to make foolish choices in our lives - choices that cause us suffering - because
we have not awakened ourselves to the real way things are. It’s interesting that Jesus
made the same argument. Basically, we have our thinking upside down and backwards,
he argued. It’s not the rich and those of high rank who find happiness, it is the meek and
lowly. It is those who serve, not those in positions of privilege, who in truth obtain
happiness. And you can discover these truths through simple observation. Wake up and
see.
His Holiness restates the profoundly simple in this way: “The teachings on the
Four Noble Truths clearly distinguish two sets of causes and effects: those which produce
suffering and those which produce happiness. By showing us how to distinguish these in
our own lives, the teachings aim at nothing less than to enable us to fulfill our deepest
aspiration - to be happy and to overcome suffering.”
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When the Dalai Lama admonished me to grow in my understanding of emptiness
- a term which refers to the fact that everything is “empty” of any permanent, inherent
existence as we conventionally perceive it to have - he was pointing me toward a new
understanding of reality, a move away from the conventional patterns of understanding
that are rooted in ignorance. His Holiness also says that “the origin of suffering lies both
in karma and ignorance, but actually ignorance is the principal origin.” Our ignorance
gets in the way of our distinguishing which choices and actions ultimately produce
suffering, and which choices and actions ultimately produce happiness. Life is suffering
and our suffering has causes. The causes are our actions and their effect on our life, and
our actions are choices made by us in ignorance - our ignorance of the truth of reality.
So now we are ready for the good news of the Buddha’s teaching, namely that we
can eliminate these causes of our suffering. Just as Jesus preached the Good News of the
Gospels, Buddha preached the good news of the Third Noble Truth, and that is the Truth
of the Cessation of Suffering, or the truth that the causes of our suffering can be removed
from our lives. We can overcome our ignorance and we can engage in actions which
generate good karma.
This third truth, then, points us directly to the Fourth Noble Truth taught by the
Buddha - the Truth of the Path that leads to the cessation of suffering. It is the Noble
Eightfold Path, or the Middle Way. Just as Jesus spoke of “The Way” to a life centered
within the reign of the Truth that is God, so the Buddha calls us to follow the middle way
between unhealthy asceticism and decadent hedonism. It is through the discipline of an
ordered path through our journey of life that we can replace ignorance with
enlightenment, illusion with an understanding of reality, and foolish choices with actions
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that have a beneficial effect on our lives and the lives of others. This is the Noble
Eightfold Path. It shares an inner affinity with the way of Jesus the Christ and with the
truths taught by all the world’s great religions. It can help us shape the relationships
which define our spiritual maturity. In harmony with the guidance offered by the faiths
of our formation, it can point us toward our personal new Mandala path.
Now, before I continue to share with you my quest for that elusive understanding
of emptiness, and before stepping onto the all-important Noble Eightfold Path, take a
moment to ponder these four profound Truths. As the Buddha instructed his disciples,
and as my Buddhist teachers have admonished me, meditate upon their logic in light of
your own observation and personal experience. Examine each Truth for yourself as
though you were a goldsmith seeking the essence of refined gold. Is life full of
experiences of suffering and sorrow that seemingly get in the way of our search for true
happiness? Does it make sense that our actions and choices might actually be the cause
of our sufferings? And is it possible that we may be able to transform our thinking and
radically modify our ways of doing things to such a degree that we could actually
eliminate the causes of unhappiness in our life? Examine the patterns of your own
Mandala for a time before we examine the Buddha’s call to walk a new path - the Noble
Eightfold Path toward our own spiritual awakening.
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Chapter 5
The Middle Way
All religions agree upon the necessity to control the undisciplined mind that harbors selfishness and other roots of trouble. And each, in its own way, teaches a path . . . a path leading to a spiritual state that is peaceful, disciplined, ethical and wise.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama
“All beings seek happiness.” The Dalai Lama is teaching. “But most of them,
lacking knowledge of how to gain it, find themselves continually immersed in frustration
and pain. What we need is an effective approach.”
The larger-than-life questions about who we really are and where we truly are
going in life are the questions that shape our life’s journey. Ultimately they are spiritual
questions. They are questions about relationships, our most meaningful relationships: our
relationship with our self, with so-called others, with the Divine, and with all of the
natural creation. The seeking of answers to our spiritual questions of relationships is, in
fact, the entry into our own sacred path.
Listen again to the Dalai Lama: “Our repeated experience of frustration,
dissatisfaction and misery does not have external conditions as its root cause. The
problem is mainly our lack of spiritual development. As a result of this handicap, the
mind is controlled principally by afflicted emotions and illusions. Attachment, aversion
and ignorance rather than a free spirit, love and wisdom are the guiding forces.
Recognizing this simple truth is the beginning of the spiritual path.”
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The fourth Noble Truth is the truth of the path – the path that will lead to the
cessation of the causes of our suffering, and which will therefore lead to our liberation
from suffering - to our true happiness. This sacred path is one of right intentions, right
actions, right thoughts and right effort, each of which depends upon and supports the
others in a manner that gives orientation and meaning to our life-defining spiritual
relationships.
The Buddha observed that life is full of suffering, that suffering has causes, and
that those causes can be eliminated. He then taught the Fourth Noble Truth, the Path to
the cessation of the causes of our suffering: what has come to be called the Noble
Eightfold Path. It is also known as the “Middle Way,” because it avoids the two
extremes of hedonistic pleasure-seeking and self-mortifying asceticism. Having tried
these two extremes himself, Gautama Buddha found that the futile search for happiness
through the pleasures of the senses was “low, common, unprofitable and the way of
ordinary people,” and that the search for happiness through self-mortification and various
forms of extreme ascetic deprivation was “painful, unworthy and unprofitable.” The
Buddha discovered through personal experience the Middle Path “which gives vision and
knowledge, which leads to calm, insight, enlightenment, Nirvana.”
This Middle Way, or Noble Eightfold Path consists of :
1. Right Understanding
2. Right Thought
3. Right Speech
4. Right Action
5. Right Livelihood
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6. Right Effort
7. Right Mindfulness
8. Right Concentration
Practically the whole teaching of the Buddha, to which he devoted himself for
more than forty years, deals in some way or other with this Path. He explained it in
different ways and in differing words to different people, according to the stage of their
spiritual development and their capacity to understand and follow him.
Tibetan Buddhists also believe that the Buddha’s teaching of the Path has been
further revealed through their historical prophets and saints, most notably Atisha, who
elaborated on the Path and the stages of spiritual development called lam-rim;
Tsongkhapa who reformed Tibetan Buddhism and emphasized the practical aspects of the
path with lo jong, (“mind training” or “thought transformation”): and Shantideva whose
poetic Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of Life established the contemporary Tibetan ideal
of selfless spiritual development.
The eight categories or divisions of the Path are not individual stages to be
completed one after the other nor is there any hierarchy of importance to the eight
divisions. It should not be thought that the elements of the Path should be followed and
practiced one after the other in the numerical order as given in the usual list above, but
they are to be developed more or less simultaneously as far as possible. They are all
linked together like the spokes of a wheel and each helps in the cultivation of the others.
Says the Dalai Lama, “They all share the fundamental aim of leading sentient beings
from darkness to light, evil to goodness, ignorance to clarity.”
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For purposes of understanding the elements of the Path, however, it is helpful to
group them according to the three essentials of Buddhist training and development,
namely Ethical Conduct (Sila), Mental Discipline (Samadi) and Wisdom (Panna).
His Holiness speaks in these terms: “The most important practice is that of the
three higher trainings: the training in morality (Sila), concentration or meditation
(Samadi), and wisdom or insight (Panna).
“In a sense, the most important of these is wisdom – the wisdom of emptiness.
For when we understand the empty, non-inherent nature of the self and phenomena, the
endless forms of delusion that arise from grasping at transient existence are directly
eliminated. However, in order for the training in wisdom to mature and become strong,
one must first develop meditative concentration; and in order to develop and support
concentration one should cultivate the training in ethical conduct and self-discipline,
which calms the mind and provides an atmosphere conducive to meditation.”
Ethical conduct (Sila) is grounded in the notions of love and compassion, and
includes Right Speech, Right Action and Right Livelihood (factors 3, 4, and 5 on the
Path). The Buddha’s teachings are built on the vast conception of universal love and
compassion for all living things. The Buddha gave his teaching “for the good of the
many, for the happiness of the many, out of compassion for the world.” The Dalai Lama
echoes that teaching: “The main idea in the practice of ethics is to restrain concern only
for oneself and to live more fully for the benefit of others.”
According to Buddhist teaching, for a person to be perfect there are two qualities
that should be developed equally: compassion on one side, and wisdom on the other.
Here compassion represents love, charity, kindness, tolerance and such noble qualities on
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the emotional side, or qualities of the heart. Wisdom, on the other hand, would stand for
the intellectual side or qualities of the mind. If one were to develop only the emotional
while neglecting the intellectual, one might become a good-hearted fool. Developing
only the intellectual side while neglecting the emotional may turn one into a heard-
hearted intellect without feeling or compassion for others. Therefore, to be perfect – in
fact to realize perfect happiness – one has to develop both sides equally. This is the aim
of the Buddhist way of life. In it wisdom and compassion are inseparably linked
together.
His Holiness says, “The emphasis in one’s life should be on cultivating the mental
and spiritual causes of happiness.”
Elaborating in the Dalai Lama’s words, “These two capacities themselves will
only develop successfully if our single-pointedness of mind is based on an ethically
sound life, in which we apply discipline both to our attitude and to our way of life. In
this tradition, you find intelligence cooperating with the heart, the emotional side. When
faith and compassion – which are more in the nature of emotional states – are backed by
a powerful conviction arrived at through reflection and investigation, then they are very
firm indeed, whereas a faith or compassion that is not based on such powerful reasoning,
but is more affective and instinctual, is not very firm. It is prone to being undermined
and shaken when you meet certain situations and circumstances. There is even a Tibetan
expression that states, ‘Someone whose faith is not grounded in reason is like a stream of
water that can be led anywhere.’”
The Ethical Conduct (Sila) facet of the Path, based on the ideals of love and
compassion includes Right Speech, Right Action and Right Livelihood and is not unlike
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the Hebrew Ten Commandments. The foundation of any spiritual path is basic moral and
ethical conduct grounded in love of others. In the Dalai Lama’s words, “Good conduct is
the way in which life becomes more meaningful, more constructive and more peaceful.”
Right speech for the Buddhist means abstaining from telling lies; abstaining from
slanderous talk that may bring about hatred, enmity, disunity and disharmony among
individuals or groups of people; abstaining from harsh, rude, impolite, malicious and
abusive language; and abstaining from idle, useless and foolish gossip and babble. When
one avoids these wrong and harmful forms of speech one naturally speaks the truth, uses
words that are friendly and benevolent, pleasant and gentle as well as meaningful and
useful. In our relationships with the others around us, we are, to a very real extent, what
we speak. Spiritual development begins with abstaining from speech which is harmful
and the cultivating of Right Speech which benefits both ourselves and those around us.
Right Action aims at promoting moral, honorable and peaceful conduct. The
Buddha taught that we should refrain from destroying life, from stealing, from dishonest
dealings, from inappropriate sexual conduct, and that we should endeavor to set a high
moral example for others to follow.
Right Livelihood means one should avoid making one’s living through a
profession that brings harm to others, such as trading in arms and lethal weapons, killing
animals, engaging in fraudulent business schemes. To be spiritually integrated and whole
requires that the significant time we spend each day engaged in our livelihood should
honorable, blameless and free of any harm to others. Intuitively we understand that it
would be impossible to attain the enlightenment of spiritual maturity while spending the
better part of one’s every day pursuing a career that brought harm or ill-fortune to others.
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These three elements of the Eightfold Path – Right Speech, Right Action and
Right Livelihood – constitute Ethical Conduct or Sila. Buddhists understand that all
human beings live in relationship, in a web of connectedness, and that moral conduct
promotes a happy and harmonious life for both the individual and all of society. His
Holiness tells us that, “For somebody who has an interest in the spiritual life it is
important to understand that it is necessary to have concern for the welfare of society and
a strong relationship with society.”
While no one step nor any group of steps on the Path comes “before” or “after”
the others, moral conduct is considered to be the indispensable foundation for all higher
spiritual attainments. No spiritual development is possible without this moral base.
Next comes Mental Discipline (Samadi), which includes the last three elements of
the Path: Right Effort, Right Mindfulness (or Attentiveness) and Right Concentration.
These factors contribute to the development of the wisdom aspect of the spiritual life.
Right Effort is the application of energy and will to preventing evil and
unwholesome states from arising; to the elimination of such evil and unwholesome
thoughts that have already arisen within; to the production and causing to arise the good
and wholesome states of mind not yet arisen; and to the development and bringing to
perfection the good and wholesome states of mind already present within.
Simply put, true wisdom does not arise without dedication and effort. Good
intentions are not sufficient to produce progress on the spiritual path.
In the Dalai Lama’s words, “Every religious practitioner needs effort. By effort
we mean an enthusiasm for the practice of virtue. On the positive side, this means to pay
attention to what needs to be achieved. On the negative side, it means to overcome the
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forces opposing such effort, that is the various types of laziness. One type of laziness is
attachment to the meaningless activities of worldly life. Another is the laziness of
thinking, ‘I could not possibly do this!’ This is really a matter of having low self-esteem.
The other form of laziness is procrastination. Since these are problems faced by all
religious practitioners, the practices of effort are also for everyone.”
Right Mindfulness or Attentiveness is to be diligently aware, to be mindful and
attentive with regard to the activities of the body; to sensations or feelings or emotions; to
the activities of the mind; and to thoughts, ideas, concepts and things.
The practice of concentration on breathing, which we will discuss in depth in later
chapters, is one of the well-known exercises connected with the body that are used for
mental development. Other modes of meditation and contemplative practice are designed
to awaken and tune our ability to remain mindful and attentive.
With regard to sensations, feelings and emotions, one should be clearly aware of
all forms of feelings, emotions and sensations – pleasant, unpleasant and neutral – and of
how they arise and pass away within oneself.
Concerning the activities of mind, one should be aware whether one’s mind is
lustful or not, given to hatred or not, deluded or not, distracted or concentrated. In this
way one should be aware of all movements of mind – how they, too, arise and pass away.
Regarding ideas, thoughts, concepts and things, one should know their nature –
how they appear and disappear, how they are developed, how they are suppressed, how
they are destroyed.
The third and last of the Mental Discipline factors is Right Concentration. This in
large measure refers to meditation and contemplation. The first stage of Right
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Concentration is the discarding of passionate desires and unwholesome thoughts such as
sensuous lust, ill-will, worry, restlessness and skeptical doubt, while feelings of joy and
happiness are maintained. In the second stage, all intellectual activities are suspended,
tranquility or “single-pointedness of mind,” (as the Dalai Lama often mentions) is
developed, and the feelings of joy and happiness are still retained. In the third stage, the
feeling of joy, which is an active sensation, also disappears, while happiness, which is
less active and more a state of mind, remains and there emerges the beginning of a
blissful equanimity. The final stage is pure equanimity and awareness, with all
sensations, even of happiness or unhappiness, joy and sorrow, passing away. “You must
maintain an alertness and gradually stop the fluctuations of thought and sensory
experience within your mind. Then it is possible to have a glimpse of the nature of the
mind.”
This Right Concentration is, again simply put, the opposite of “wrong
concentration,” the abandonment of unhealthy attachments and desires and emotions and
the development of a single-pointed, enlightened and aware state of being in the world.
“Generally speaking,” says His Holiness, “there is nothing uniquely Buddhist
regarding the meditative practice of single-pointedness and the various techniques that
are used to develop this ability. They are common to all the major spiritual traditions in
India, both Buddhist and non-Buddhist. What is unique about the application of this
faculty of single-pointedness is that it enables and assists the spiritual practitioner to
channel his or her mind onto a chosen object without distraction. By applying meditative
techniques, and cultivating and enhancing this single-pointedness within you, you may
develop not only profound stability in the mind – thus freeing you from the normal state
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of distraction in which the whole of your mental energy is dissipated and dispersed – but
a profound alertness as well. Hence, these techniques allow you to channel your mental
energies and develop both stability and clarity.”
The ultimate goal of the Path is embodied in the first two elements in the list:
Right Thought and Right Understanding. Together these constitute Wisdom (Panna).
These two facets of Wisdom, combined with the other six spokes of the wheel of the
Eightfold path, bring the stages of the Path together in an unending circle of Wisdom and
Compassion that orients the mature and enlightened spiritual life.
Right Thought refers to thoughts of selfless renunciation or detachment, thoughts
of love and thoughts of non-violence which are extended to all living beings. For the
Buddha, selfless detachment, noble love and non-violence emanate from Right Thought
and are an integral part of Wisdom. True wisdom is endowed with these qualities of the
heart, and thoughts of selfish desire, ill will, hatred and violence are the result of a lack of
Wisdom – or “wrong thought,” if you will.
Right Understanding is the understanding of things as they are, and it is the Four
Noble Truths that explain things as they really are. Right Understanding therefore is
ultimately reduced to the understanding of the Four Noble Truths. In the Dalai Lama’s
words, “There is conventional knowledge that relates to the everyday world of
experience, and then there is the ultimate knowledge that pertains to deeper aspects of
reality. In the Buddhist context, ‘ultimate truth’ refers to the ultimate nature of reality.”
This understanding is the highest wisdom that sees – even experiences – the Ultimate
Reality.
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According to the Buddha’s teaching there are two sorts of understanding. What
we generally call understanding is knowledge, an accumulated memory, an intellectual
grasping of a subject according to a certain given data. This is called “knowing
accordingly.” It is not very deep. Real deep understanding is called “penetration,”
seeing a thing in its true nature, without name or label. This penetration is possible only
when the mind is free from impure thought and preconceived notions and is fully
developed through meditation and contemplation.
From this brief explanation of the Eightfold Path, you can quickly see it is a way
of life to be followed and practiced by each individual who seeks spiritual growth and
enlightenment. It is structure and self-discipline for body, mind and spirit, for self-
development and spiritual growth. It has nothing to do with dogma, belief, worship or
ceremony. In that sense it has nothing to do with what many would label “religious.” It
is a Path leading to the realization of Ultimate Reality, to complete liberation, happiness
and peace through moral, spiritual and intellectual perfection.
In Tibet and other Buddhist cultures there are simple and beautiful customs of
prayer and ceremonies on religious occasions. They have little to do with the real Path.
But they do have their value in satisfying very real human religious emotions and the
needs of those who are making their way gradually along the Path. Says the Dalai Lama,
“When through rituals and formalities you create that spiritual space or atmosphere that
you are seeking, then the process will have a powerful effect on your experience. When
you lack that inner dimension, that spiritual experience that you are aspiring to, then the
rituals become mere formalities, external elaborations.”
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With regard to the Four Noble Truths, it is not ceremony, ritual or dogma that we
are called to. We have four callings:
The First Noble Truth is Dukkha, the human condition, nature of life, its
suffering, its sorrows and joys, its imperfection and unsatisfactoriness, its impermanence
and insubstantiality. With regard to this, our first calling is to understand it as a fact,
clearly and completely.
The Second Noble Truth is the Origin of Dukkha, which is desire, “thirst”
accompanied by all other passions, defilements and impurities. A mere understanding of
this fact is not sufficient. Here it is our calling to discard it, to eliminate it, to destroy and
eradicate it.
The Third Noble Truth is the Cessation of Dukkha, and the realization of Nirvana,
of the Ultimate Truth, the Ultimate Reality. Here our calling is to realize it.
The Fourth Noble Truth is the Path leading to the realization of Nirvana, of
Ultimate Truth and the Ultimate Reality. A mere knowledge of the Path, however
academically complete, will not do. In this case, our calling is clearly to follow the Path
and keep to it.
Let me paraphrase a famous parable of the Buddha that speaks to the purpose and
value of a religious path. The story goes like this: A man is on a journey. He comes to a
vast stretch of water. On this shore the shore is dangerous, but on the other it is safe and
without danger. No boat goes to the other shore which is safe and without danger, nor is
there any bridge for crossing over. He says to himself, “This sea of water is vast, and the
shore on this side is full of danger; but on the other shore it is safe and without danger.
No boat goes to the other side, nor is there a bridge for crossing over. It would be good
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therefore if I would gather grass, wood, branches and leaves to make a raft, and with the
help of my raft cross over safely to the other side, exerting myself with my hands and
feet.” Then that man gathers grass, wood, branches and leaves and makes a raft, and with
the help of that raft crosses over safely to the other side, exerting himself with his hands
and his feet. Having crossed over and got to the other side, he thinks: “This raft was of
great help to me. With its aid I have crossed safely over to this side, exerting myself with
my hands and my feet. It would be good if I carry this raft on my head or on my back
wherever I go.” The Buddha continues his lesson by asking us if this man acted properly,
then answers his own question by suggesting that it would have been better if the man
had said: “This raft was a great help to me. With its aid I have crossed safely over to this
side, exerting myself with my hands and feet. It would be good if I beached this raft on
the shore, or moored it and left it afloat, and then went on my way wherever it may be.”
The Buddha concludes by saying that his teaching is like a raft - it is for crossing over,
and not for carrying.
All the world’s major religions teach a path. For the Hebrews, the Law and
adherence to it was the path to God and salvation. Jesus, preaching to a Hebrew
audience, taught the Way as being an embodiment of the law and a path to the kingdom
of God that was within. Neither the Jewish prophets nor Jesus Christ taught that religious
labels were the Path itself, however. The Path or the Way is the raft meant for facilitating
the crossing, not for carrying on our back like a sandwich board that advertises which
narrow world-view we have chosen to the exclusion of all others. A careful reading of
the Hebrew scriptures or the Christian Gospels will find a confirmation of the Truth of
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the path that was revealed to the Buddha and an invitation to walk it grounded firmly in
one’s traditional faith.
The Dalai Lama has said, “Many spiritual traditions still thrive throughout the
world. The great lack is not in the teachings but in our not having the inclination to study
and practice them. There are many masters alive today who can show us the paths and
practices, but we do not take up training under them. Who can we blame but ourselves if
in this way we generate no spiritual experience?”
The Path which the Buddha taught was born from observation. Gautama
Siddhartha engaged in Right Thought and Right Concentration, enlisting the whole of his
compassion and wisdom in contemplative meditation until the Path to an enlightened way
of living became abundantly clear to him. It was a realization of Truth, an experience of
Ultimate Reality that was beyond labels. It was not the Buddha’s truth, it was just the
Truth - an authentic understanding of the path to the domain of the divine that could be
lived by everyone. It needs no religious name and is in conflict with no religion’s
teaching. It is the Path toward wisdom and compassion to which all the world’s religions
aspire. It is a Path available to anyone wishing to find his or her way toward spiritual
growth and enlightenment.
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Chapter 6
The Illusions of Emptiness
The more we deepen our understanding of emptiness, and the greater the power of our insight becomes, the more we see through the deceptions of emotions, and the weaker those emotions become.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama
“Emptiness. Learn all you can about emptiness.”
This simple admonition from His Holiness was never far from my thoughts as I
sought to understand Buddhist wisdom. And it was never far from the teachings he
would later share with me in dialogue, and which I would hear from many other monks
and Rinpoches during my time in Dharamsala.
The Dalai Lama’s directive to me during our first visit together was not unlike the
Zen Buddhist koans – puzzling stories that one has to unravel to find the hidden truth.
An example: the student asks the master, “What is the nature of a lotus flower as it grows
in the muddy water.” “A blossom,” replies the master. Then the student asks, “And what
is the nature of the lotus when it has been picked from the water.” “Leaves,” concludes
the master.
There’s meaning hidden in that. Find it!
I had asked the Master what I should study in order to begin to grasp the breadth
of Buddhist wisdom and method, and His Holiness had replied, “emptiness.” It was
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almost as if I had asked, “With what should I fill myself?” and had been told, “Nothing.
Fill yourself with emptiness.”
Since that day, I have been seeking to discern the Path of the Buddha’s teachings,
and I have peeled away several layers of leaves from the hidden blossom of the notion of
emptiness. I am discovering that emptiness is so simple and so complex, so obvious and
yet so hidden from our true understanding, and always so central to our letting go of the
pervasive attachments that get in the way of our spiritual growth and happiness.
The Dalai Lama has said to me of emptiness, “The reason why it is so important
to understand this subtle point is because of its implications for interpreting our own
experiences of life.”
How do we begin to understand this concept of “emptiness?” Does it mean that
nothing is real? No, not really. Listen again to His Holiness: “What does it mean then?
It is the emptiness of real or absolute existence.”
Over time I have learned from His Holiness that another word is just as important
as “emptiness,” and that word is the little preposition “of.” Nothing is inherently
“empty,” but everything is empty of inherent existence. Every thing, every phenomenon
is empty of the real or absolute existence we generally ascribe to it.
Let me explain.
If I say, “You are holding a book,” you can easily observe that the book you are
now holding is real. It does exist, that is true. Even a Buddhist would not argue with
that. But the thing we call a book is actually just a collection of pages and covers, and if
we look further it is cardboard, paper, stitching and glue. And further still it is ink
impressions and wood pulp. Finally, if we look still deeper, it is a mass of molecules and
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atoms all grouped together into a collection we have almost arbitrarily labeled “a book.”
This “book” is empty of any inherent existence as “a book.” This collection of stuff only
has existence as “a book” because we have labeled the paper and ink, the molecules and
atoms as a book. No matter how hard we try, we cannot locate anything in this collection
of stuff that is intrinsically “a book.” Everything we do find can be broken down into its
parts, the sum of which we have chosen to see as a book.
The same is true of your self. If I say to you, “Take care of yourself,” we both
know what your self is. You are real. But, upon further examination, we would discover
that you are totally unable to put your finger on this intrinsic “self.” Your self is empty of
any inherent existence as “self.” Once again, you are simply a collection of skin and
bones, molecules and atoms that only exist as “self” because we both label the collection
this way.
So what? Is this just an academic exercise in semantics? Does it matter that there
is no true book or no true self, only a collection of stuff? Yes, it matters. It matters
because it has everything to do with reality and illusion; it has everything to do with
wisdom and ignorance: it has everything to do with our happiness and our suffering.
The reality is this: everything is empty of inherent existence. That is reality. All
the labels we use, all the ordinary ways we view things, are illusory. We view the
illusion, and fail to perceive the reality.
And what is more, we react to the illusions. We have emotional reactions to the
illusory impressions of things and persons and events, illusions that we create in our
minds. And then we respond. We make our life-directing decisions based on those
illusions.
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We are living our lives in a fantasy, so to speak. Everyone and everything we
observe we label with a fantasy impression that is something other than its true reality.
Its Ultimate Reality is emptiness – empty of all the fanciful qualities of inherent existence
that we create with our naming.
Yet it is the fantasy that determines our emotional response to the thing or the
person or the phenomenon. We label, then we discriminate, then we react.
Example: I see a shiny red sports car in the showroom window. I instantly label
the collection of wheels, metal and chrome as a sports car. Then I call it “good,”
meaning I discriminate and place it in the category of “good things.” Then I react. I
instantly develop desire – desire for something I don’t now own, but wish I did.
I have come to desire something that doesn’t actually exist – at least not in the
ordinary sense in which I have perceived it. First, it has no inherent existence as a sports
car, and second it certainly is empty of all the abstract qualities I also ascribe to it: it is
“sexy,” I have decided. It will make me “feel good” if I own it, I have decided. Just
driving it about town will validate my success and cause others to think more highly of
me, I have decided. These are my fantasies, my illusions, the un-reality. But they are
real enough to me and to thousands of others who create this illusory reality in their mind
as they gaze at the same red sports car. This illusion is real enough to give birth to all
sorts of emotional responses such as craving and desire, and to direct important life
decisions of many a would-be automobile purchaser.
In fact, not only is my imaginative impression of this car a mere illusion, so is the
very notion of “ownership.” I believe I can somehow “own” this collection of stuff I
have chosen to call a car, and furthermore I believe that this “ownership” will confer
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upon me some special aura, of sorts. The truth is, neither I nor you can actually “own”
anything. Ownership is an artificial relationship, one that we make up in our minds and
support with meaningless bits of paper. Just walk outside to the parking lot and find your
cute red sports car is no longer where you parked it, discover that it has been stolen, and
you will know very quickly how illusory the notion of ownership is! That car is always
going to be empty of any inherent quality of “being owned,” by you or by anyone else for
that matter.
Once again, is all of this abstract logic just some sort of intellectual game? Or
does it have some relevance to the Four Nobel Truths of our life’s condition and the Path
we may be able to walk to experience spiritual growth and happiness? Let’s listen again
to the Dalai Lama, who, fortunately it seems to me, is very far removed from any
concerns with sexy red sports cars: “Once we appreciate that fundamental disparity
between appearance and reality, we gain insight into the way our emotions work, and
how we react to events and objects.
“Underlying the strong emotional responses we have to situations (and objects),
we see that there is an assumption that some kind of independently existing reality exists
out there. In this way, we develop an insight into the various functions of the mind and
the different levels of consciousness within us. We also grow to understand that although
certain types of mental states seem so real, and although objects appear to be so vivid, in
reality they are mere illusions. They do not really exist in the way we think they do.
“It is through this type of reflection and analysis that we will be able to gain an
insight into what in technical Buddhist language is called ‘the origin of suffering,’ in
other words, those emotional experiences that lead to confusion, and which afflict the
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mind. When this is combined with an understanding of the interdependent nature of
reality at the subtlest level, then we also gain insight into what we call ‘the empty nature
of reality,’ by which we mean the way every object and event arises only as a
combination of many factors, and has no autonomous existence.
“Our insight into emptiness will, of course, help us to understand that any ideas
that are based on the contrary view, that things exist intrinsically and independently, are
misapprehensions. They are misunderstandings of the nature of reality. We realize that
they have no valid grounding either in reality or in our own valid experience, whereas the
empty nature of reality has a valid grounding both in logical reasoning and in our
experience. Gradually, we come to appreciate that it is possible to arrive at a state of
knowledge where such misapprehension is eliminated completely; that is cessation.”
His Holiness is pointing to the fact that our misunderstandings of the nature of
things and events is the genesis of our suffering, and that a right understanding will lead
to a cessation of the cravings and grasping and desires that arise from those
misunderstandings, and ultimately to a cessation of the very suffering itself. That is how
important an experiential understanding of emptiness is!
Now, in order to fully experience an understanding of emptiness, to go beyond
simply reading and understanding a definition of it, we have to also understand two
additional very important concepts in Buddhist thought: impermanence and dependent
arising.
In a nutshell these concepts teach us that all things arise and pass away. Every
event, every object, every phenomenon arises from something and then passes away into
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something else or some other state. Nothing comes from nothing, and nothing lasts
forever.
Remember when we looked at the Noble Eightfold Path we learned that Right
Concentration and Right Effort contribute to Right Understanding and finally to
liberating wisdom? Well, now is the time to put that into practice. Here is the Dalai
Lama’s teaching on “dependent origination,” and its relevance to an understanding of
emptiness. You may want to read and reread it a couple of times.
“The principle of dependent origination, which is also understood as
interdependent origination or causal dependence, can be explained on three levels of
meaning. Firstly, this principle means that all conditioned things and events in the
universe come into being only as a result of the interaction of various causes and
conditions. This is significant because it precludes the possibility that things can arise
from nowhere, with no causes and conditions.
“Secondly, we can understand the principle of dependent origination in terms of
parts and whole. All material objects can be understood in terms of how the parts
compose the whole, and how the very idea of ‘whole’ depends upon the existence of
parts. Such dependence clearly exists in the physical world. Similarly, non-physical
entities, like consciousness, can be considered in terms of their temporal sequences: the
idea of their wholeness is based upon the successive sequences that compose a
continuum. So when we consider the universe in these terms, not only do we see each
conditioned thing as independently originated, we also understand that the entire
phenomenal world arises according to the principle of dependent origination.
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“There is a third dimension to the meaning of dependent origination, which is that
all things and events – everything, in fact – arise solely as a result of the mere coming
together of the many factors which make them up. When you analyze things by mentally
breaking them down into their constitutive parts, you come to the understanding that it is
simply in dependence upon other factors that anything comes into being. Therefore there
is nothing that has any independent or intrinsic identity of its own. Whatever identity we
give things is contingent on the interaction between our perception and reality itself.
However, this is not to say that things do not exist. Buddhism is not nihilistic. Things do
exist, but they do not have an independent, autonomous reality.
“By developing a deep understanding of the interdependent nature of reality in
terms of causal dependence, we are able to appreciate the workings of what we call
“karma,” that is, the karmic law of cause and effect which governs human actions. This
law explains how experiences of suffering arise as a result of negative actions, thoughts
and behavior, and how desirable experiences such as joy arise as a result of the causes
which correspond to that result – positive actions, emotions and thoughts.
“Developing a deep understanding of dependent origination in terms of causal
dependence gives you a fundamental insight into the nature of reality.
“When you realize that everything we experience arises as a result of the
interaction and coming together of causes and conditions, your whole view changes.
Your perspective on your own inner experiences, and the world at large, shifts as you
begin to see everything in terms of the causal principle. Once you have developed that
kind of outlook, you will be able to situate your understanding of karma within that
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framework, since karmic laws are a particular instance of this overall general causal
principle.
“Similarly, when you have a deep understanding of the other two dimensions of
dependent origination – the dependence of parts and whole, and the interdependence
between perception and existence – your view will deepen, and you will appreciate that
there is a disparity between the way things appear to you and the way they actually are.
What appears as some kind of autonomous, objective reality out there does not really fit
with the actual nature of reality.”
And the nature of reality is…emptiness. Everything and every event is empty of
any inherent, independent existence. Everything exists as a result of the coming together
of other things which bring it into existence, and even that temporary existence is
conditioned by our own perception.
And all this complicated dissecting of our distorted view of reality brings the
Dalai Lama to his point: an understanding of reality is the key to the true happiness that is
the goal of the Path, and our misunderstanding of reality is at the core of the ignorance
that is the root cause of our suffering and unhappiness.
He elaborates: “In examining the Four Noble Truths we looked at the fact that we
all desire happiness and wish to overcome suffering, and how, despite this natural
aspiration, we tend to create the conditions for more suffering because we do not know
the way to create the causes for happiness. We found that at the root of this situation lies
a fundamental confusion or, in Buddhist terminology, a fundamental ignorance. This
confusion applies not only to the way things are but also to the way causes and effects
relate to each other. In Buddhism we talk about two levels of ignorance: ignorance of the
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laws of causality, specifically of the laws of karma, and ignorance of the ultimate nature
of reality, namely emptiness.”
Now His Holiness is moving toward making simple sense of this complicated
logic. We are ignorant of what causes things and events to come into existence, and we
are ignorant of their true nature or reality. And this ignorance causes us suffering and
unhappiness. And if we could only replace our fundamental ignorance with Right
Thinking, we could be free of our suffering and unhappiness.
There is a final point to be developed with regard to the causes and reality of
events and things, and that is their impermanence. Everything arises and passes away.
That is a fundamental axiom of existence. Every thing and every event comes from
something else, from some other intersection of causes and effects, and then that transient
event or thing begins to pass away, or at least to change form into another reality, a new
intersection of causes and effects.
Not only is every phenomenon empty of any inherent existence, it is empty of any
permanent existence. Everything that arises as a causal collection of stuff is, at the same
time, changing into a new collection of stuff. Every event that arises from a chain of
interdependent earlier events is, at the same time, changing into another link in the chain
and becoming still another new event. Everything is at the same time both arising and
passing away. Everything is impermanent. Everything is empty and impermanent. That
is reality.
Our unhappiness, our suffering, is a direct result of our ignorance of this reality.
We misunderstand and misinterpret reality, then we make bad decisions and unfortunate
choices based on our false assumptions.
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Just as things and events arise and pass away, so, too, do our emotional responses
to them. A thing or event arises and we label it – based on our incorrect view of its
reality – as “good” or “bad.” Then we develop either desire or aversion in response.
From that aversion or desire comes the suffering of wanting what we don’t have, or the
suffering of having what we wish we did not have! If we could only understand –
understand at a deeply experiential level – that everything is empty of the nature we think
it has and is also passing away as soon as it is arising. Then we might be able to let go of
our clinging, grasping desires or avoid our painful fears, prejudices, hatreds and other
aversions and begin to experience a blissful glimpse of simple happiness.
Remember that sexy red sports car? It has arisen from the labor of assembling
plastic, rubber and steel into an attractive, enticing package of stuff. I develop desire for
this package, a desire to possess this package of stuff, perceiving it to possess a lot of
qualities it is actually very empty of. Then my suffering starts. Either I want it and
cannot have it, so I suffer; or I acquire it and soon begin to wish I did not – namely I now
have to fuel it, insure it, make the monthly payments, worry about damaging it or having
it stolen, and then washing it every weekend, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera! And that
doesn’t even take into account my future disappointment at the car having not brought me
all the personal esteem and happiness I was sure it was going to bring me, or its
inevitable depreciation into a relatively worthless and undesirable used car.
My ignorance of the true reality of this “thing” and its fleeting impermanence
have led in turn to desire, then attachment and finally to aversion – all emotions which
have arisen and passed away relative to a collection of stuff that has been empty of any
inherent existence all along!
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All of this gets us back to an earlier point about relationships. What the Dalai
Lama is telling us to consider is our fundamental relationship with the people, things and
events in our lives. A spiritually mature person has developed mature relationships with
money, with possessions and with other persons that are based on a mature understanding
of their reality. The enlightened being understands that his or her perception of people,
things and events is conditioned by biases and a limited perspective and do not represent
an inherent reality. And further, the spiritually enlightened being knows intuitively that
whatever the reality of persons, things and events may be now, it is transient and will
soon pass away. This enlightened view of the universal nature of all phenomena leads
the wise and tranquil one along a path of life that is relatively free of destructive desires
and unhealthy aversions, and eminently full of happiness and satisfaction.
Let me move beyond sports cars and into the realm of the celestial beauty of truth.
I was at Tushita monastery, in the hills above Dharamsala village, when I had my
epiphany experience of the nature of emptiness and impermanence. I was looking at the
brilliant pink and red clouds against the azure sky and watching the orange sphere of the
sun as it seemed to set below the horizon beyond the broad plains of India. And then,
almost like the “green flash” that is purportedly visible over the Pacific horizon at the
instant of final sunset, I had a flash of insight and clear light, as the Buddhists like to call
it. I suddenly perceived dependent arising, emptiness and impermanence with an
understanding that comes after knowledge, with a knowing that comes only through
internalized experience.
It was one of those “ah-ha” experiences, when you realize something that you
actually knew all along but never fully understood so clearly as at this moment.
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I turned to a surprised monk and blurted out at him, “The sunset is empty! It has
no existence!” I’m sure this poor Tibetan had no idea what I was saying, but he smiled in
approval. I continued to speak to the monk and to the setting sun. And to myself. The
so-called sunset is beautiful and does exist, of that there is no doubt. But it has no
inherent existence. What I am at this moment observing as a sunset is being observed
somewhere to the west as a morning sunrise, and still somewhere else as the heat of the
noonday sun. What I label as “a sunset” is actually a momentary conjunction of
intersecting phenomenon that have come together to “cause” my so-called sunset. I am
not viewing any “thing” or even any single definable event, per se. It’s only a
coincidental converging of clouds, a random star we call the sun, the rotation of the earth,
and a distant horizon of this planet earth. In fact, their convergence as “a sunset” is
largely an accident of my own placement in time and geography, and an illusion of my
own mental fabrication.
This sunset has arisen from the convergence of external causes, it is empty of any
inherent existence, and it is obviously fleeting and impermanent. And that makes it no
different from every other phenomenon. Like every other person, thing or event in life, it
has arisen from external causes, it has no independent, absolute existence, and it will
change and then pass away. I had always known this to be true of sunsets, I had just
never thought about it. But now, for the first time, I was understanding it about all the
other stuff of life.
And I was getting the point. Since I intuitively know – and have always known –
that sunsets have no real existence, it has never occurred to me to desire to possess or
own one! As beautiful as the perfect summer’s sunset may be on any given afternoon, I
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would never think of reaching for my wallet and pulling out my American Express card
and trying to buy it! And why not? Because I know - with a knowing beyond mere
knowledge, an intuitive understanding that runs so deep it’s part of the fabric of my being
– the reality of sunsets, that they are just illusion, that you can’t own one, and that – in
the end – none of that matters. I can still enjoy the beauty – the incredible God-given
beauty – of a sunset, without ever clinging to it or crying as I lose it when, like
everything, it inevitably passes away.
Tibetans often use an image of the moon rather than the fleeting phenomenon of
the sunset to help with an understanding of emptiness. They say that every phenomenon
is like the reflection of the full moon on the surface of a still lake. If we try to grasp, hold
on to, or possess the reflection of the moon, we will only disturb the water, and the object
of our grasping will disappear from our view. The reflection is empty of any real
existence as the moon or even as a tangible image of the moon. It is an illusion. Yet we
order our whole life around our grasping and possessing and protecting of just such
illusions.
That sunset in India has been with me in all of my meditation since that day. It
represents for me what meditation is, in fact, all about. It is taking the time to watch the
sunrises and sunsets in life, and to reflect on their illusions and their realities. It’s
observing the arising and passing away of things, and checking my emotional responses
to their coming and going, becoming aware of my grasping and my letting go. It is the
focusing of Right Effort and Right Concentration on the business of calming my mind
and clarifying its perception. It is making time and creating space that allows for a brief
glimpse of the clear light that is an experience of Ultimate Reality. To the enlightened
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mind, all of life can be understood in the radiant and fleeting beauty of an ephemeral
sunset.
88
Chapter 7
The Reality of God
One must admit that, at the theoretical level, the conceptions of God and Creation are a point of departure between Buddhists and Christians. However, I believe that some aspects of the reasoning that leads one to such a belief are common to both Buddhists and Christians. One could say that the Creator is the “ultimate” and the creation is the “relative,” the ephemeral. In that sense, the Creator is absolute and ultimate truth.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama
India may or may not be “God’s Country” in the popular western sense, but it is
without question the country of many gods.
In Hinduism there are several gods, and devout followers choose which of the
many they will worship and serve. Siddhartha the Buddha rebelled against this multi-
faceted theism and argued against a logical conclusion that even one god existed, and
particularly eschewed the notion of a Creator God in the Western sense.
I, on the other hand, come from an upbringing and education in the Christian
theology that believes in one creator God. For many who would find wisdom in both the
teachings of Jesus and the wisdom of Buddha, this question of “God” is a central - and
seemingly irreconcilable - point of departure between the two religions.
These theological issues were playing in my head as I entered the main gompa of
the Norbulinka temple that summer’s day. The thoughts were momentarily abandoned as
my eyes caught sight of the captivating figure towering majestically before us.
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Completely dominating the temple’s sacred space was the largest figure of a Buddha I
had ever seen. Even though his arms and legs were as yet unfinished and scattered
around the floor like Jurassic body parts, the chiseled features of Siddhartha returned our
gaze with a radiant peace. His eyes were at once both vacant and piercing. It was clear
that this would be one of the most magnificent Tibetan Buddhas outside of Tibet.
My host for this peek at a treasure in progress was Tenzin Topgyal, the Minister
of Religion and Culture for the Dalai Lama’s government-in-exile. As a cabinet member
and religious emissary of His Holiness, Tenzin has traveled extensively in the West and
is a recognized leader in ecumenical dialogue. He is a scholarly monk with an impressive
command of the English language and a solid understanding of the religions of the West.
Tenzin had invited me to tour the Norbulingka that was rising like a Phoenix on
the plains below Dharamsala. The original Norbulingka in Lhasa had been for centuries
the summer residence of the Dalai Lamas before the current Dalai Lama fled its sanctuary
as the violence of the Communist revolution closed in around him in nineteen fifty-nine.
This new Norbulingka would also serve as a retreat for the Dalai Lama, but its
primary mission was to be a living showcase for Tibetan culture in exile and a learning
center for students of Buddhism throughout the world. It was to be a monumental effort
to preserve the Tibetan religion and culture that was being threatened with extinction by
the Chinese to the North, and by dispersion and assimilation to the South and West.
As we watched, craftsmen who had smuggled their ancient skills over the
Himalayas to an uncertain freedom were now lovingly hammering copper plates onto one
limb of the Buddha and meticulously applying gold leaf to another. It’s silly, of course,
but I had just assumed that all the great representations of Siddhartha must each be
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hundreds of years old. Yet here and now a modern icon of Lord Buddha was being
raised, piece by piece, upon its throne of glory to be honored as a deity by a new
generation of Tibetans.
As I marveled at the wood and copper and gold that were being pieced together
into a God of the Buddhas, I couldn’t help recalling the passage from Exodus that had
been read just this past Sunday in the Anglican chapel of Dharamsala: “I am the lord your
God, who brought you out of the land of slavery; you shall have no other Gods before
me. You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in
heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath…” It had been read in church by a western
Christian who was making a statement that he was appalled by the proliferation of “idols”
he had discovered to be at the center of Tibetan worship.
I didn’t share his concerns as I had already learned that Buddhists are not idol-
worshippers any more than the Eastern Orthodox Church with its ornate icons or the
Western Church with its stained-glass images and statues of the Virgin Mary. Like their
Christian counterparts, Buddhists use visual representations to help them imagine the
many facets of the divine mystery. Buddhists don’t worship figures of the Buddha; they
present themselves as a prayerful offering to the truth the Buddha represents.
Nonetheless, I also know that Buddhists do not believe in a God, at least not the
creator God of Christians and Jews, and their non-belief is reason enough for some to
label them “non-religious.”
I believe in God. My belief is an almost inevitable byproduct of my upbringing in
a nominally Christian family and community. While I have over the years questioned my
image of God, I’ve never really questioned my belief. Belief in God is, in fact, actually
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central to my religion. The very statement of my faith, a statement that is something of a
Christian mantra, begins with “I believe in God, Father Almighty, maker of heaven and
earth…” In the same manner the Jewish believer declares, “The Lord our God is one god
…” As a westerner, it is sometimes difficult for me to imagine religion without God.
So, surrounded by various body parts of this magnificent non-idol of a non-
believing Buddha, I asked Tenzin to help me understand the Buddha’s teachings about
God.
His smile revealed an anticipation of just such a question. “O.K. That’s easy.
Lord Buddha was silent on the concept of God. And yet his attitude toward the idea of
God is very clear. Any concept of a supreme God, or worship of God in any ritualistic
form, is for him totally unnecessary for liberation from the suffering that engulfs us.
Gautama’s Eightfold Path, unlike its Judeo-Christian parallel, the Ten Commandments,
contains no mention whatsoever of the worship of God.”
Tenzin pointed out, however, that although the concept of God was excluded from
Gautama’s path to liberation, he never argued against it. Buddha at times condemned the
folly of blindly adhering to ritualistic practices, but hardly anywhere in his sermons can
one find a direct attack on the concept of God. Gautama was not a true anti-theist in his
native India which prayed to myriad Gods. He just felt that exponents of diverse forms
of worship of God tragically failed to focus on the liberation urgently needed by
humankind.
“Buddha’s own disciples asked him why he didn’t care to give a specific reply to
questions about the nature of God. Gautama explained that such concerns did not come
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within the sphere of his primary preoccupation. His concern was limited to humanity’s
more urgent need.”
Then Tenzin told a famous parable the Buddha often used to explain his position.
Imagine that a man is on a journey through a jungle. Halfway through the jungle he is
shot with a poisoned arrow. If the poisoned arrow remains in his body, he will surely die.
Rather than attending to the certain fatality of his condition, however, the man proclaims,
“I will not pull out this poisoned arrow until I discover who shot it, until I know whether
he is tall or short, fat or lean, young or old, whether he is from a high caste or a low
caste.” Buddha tells his students that this man will surely die before he knows the
identity of the one who launched the arrow.
Gautama’s question is not about whether God exists or not or what He looks like,
but whether belief in God has any relevance to the immediate problems of men and
women who are suffering. For Gautama, the problem of internal human sorrow was too
concrete and too urgent to permit him to luxuriate on purely speculative questions not
immediately relevant to the problem at hand. Gautama viewed human suffering, and the
liberation from it, exactly as modern psychologists would look at mental patients in their
clinics; they are concerned only with the sickness of their patient’s minds, not with their
religious theories.
This made sense to me, but it left me wondering about prayer. Despite the
absence of a wish-fulfilling God, there was constant prayer in the daily life of the Tibetan
Buddhist. Prayer flags were strung from the trees and prayer wheels were turned
constantly, each broadcasting the prayers of the people toward the heavens. Hours of
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ritual were filled with the chanting of prayer. If Buddhists don’t believe in God, who are
they praying to?
Placing his hands together in a gesture of prayer, Tenzin explained, “We don’t
pray in the absence of God, we pray in the absence of a concept of God. You pray to the
creator of the Universe, the one who created and is creating. We pray to that Universe
itself, the creation that is and always was, and to all sentient beings who were, who are,
and who always will be.”
I let that idea sink in for a moment as I marveled at its similarity with what I truly
believe at heart when I pray.
“You say your God is omnipotent, all-powerful; then you pray to him to do this or
that on your behalf. You are actually trying to manipulate this God as though you were
the one in charge. Of course you add, ‘Thy will be done,’ but the truth is it’s the
supremacy of your will you’re actually seeking.”
He was right. I was somewhat embarrassed by his poignant perception.
“We pray for compassion in the world,” he continued, “not because we believe
some God is listening and may grant our wish, but because all humanity is listening and
we believe compassion will arise when it becomes the prayer of all people.”
There was a poetic wisdom here that transcended my mere Christian
understanding of petitionary prayer and yet which at the same time sang in harmony with
it. I recalled what the Dalai Lama had said to me in an earlier conversation. I had asked
him, to whom does the Buddhist pray? His answer had been similar to Tenzin’s:
“Higher Being. Buddha, all the Buddhas, Bodhisattvas … these we can call higher
beings. So, when we appeal to these higher beings, then, from our side, when other
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conditions are right, then there are blessings, forms of blessings, which can influence us.
So we pray.
“One time in France, at an interfaith service, there I told in the meeting that we
Buddhists also pray, pray to a higher being. So there all religions, it seems, have a
common practice. When they identify a higher being, some say ‘Absolute,’ ‘God,’
‘Creator.’ Some say not creator, but still we accept it – there is a higher being. So you
see, we can appeal to this higher being in order to seek inspiration, or blessing.”
There was more than an affinity between my prayer and the Buddhist’s; there was
a profound lesson to be learned about the nature of prayer itself. I smiled in quiet
amazement as I again saw new light through an eastern window.
Tenzin understood and acknowledged my smile. He had explained prayer and the
Buddha’s absence of a belief in God to westerners many times before, and with the love
of a compassionate teacher he smiled into my eyes and encouraged my own reflection:
“This lack of a belief in God is troubling for you Christians, no?”
“It is for many, yes. But I think it’s only troubling if one doesn’t know much
more about Buddhism than that. As I discover the true wisdom and spirituality of
Buddhist thought and prayer - of living, if you will - then I find it not troubling at all, but
rather a challenge to examine my own thoughts and beliefs about the Divine.”
That afternoon, and for many days thereafter, I tried to think through just what I
meant by belief in God, and to reflect upon the teachings of the prophets and of Jesus that
shaped that understanding for me.
I recalled that Jesus, not unlike Buddha, had often pointed out that there is a
wrong form of the worship of God, just as frequently as he had pointed toward a right
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form. Secondly, I realized that belief in God for the Hebrew prophets and Jesus was not
merely a matter of ritual or of external formal worship, but a way of righteous living. We
don’t find them speaking of God with the aim of describing who God is. Rather than
describing the nature of God, they spoke in terms of the noble qualities of the true
believer.
Jesus’ story of the Good Samaritan is a good example. The Samaritans, like the
Buddhists perhaps, were not true believers in the God of Israel. The two characters of the
story who were the “professional” believers in God were the priest and the Levite. When
they met the man who had fallen on the side of the road, this victim of street violence,
they were probably on their way to a ritual worship of God in the temple. But somehow
there was something in an “unbelieving” Samaritan, something of the right form of
worship of God, that was missing from the actions of the priest and the Levite. The
Samaritan stopped to help the traveler who had fallen victim to injustice. It was this
Samaritan, this non-believer, this pagan if you will, that Jesus pointed to as the true
worshiper of God. Judging from the story, Jesus’ definition of the ideal worshiper of
God is simply “the one who cares.”
This same attitude is found in the Hebrew prophets I remembered. None of them
were ever concerned about promoting a conceptual knowledge of God, or of creating in
the minds of the people a clear mental picture of God’s appearance. What they seemed to
promote exclusively was a behavioral acknowledgment of God. True worshipers of God,
according to the gurus of my faith tradition, are recognized not by the acts of formal
worship that they perform or by the Biblical concepts of God they carry in their
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imagination, but rather by the characteristics of their day-to-day behavior, the most
central of these being loving care - compassion for those in need.
The fact that the prophets and Jesus pointed out a wrong worship of God in their
societies and openly affirmed the right worship of so-called non-believers is an
understanding that is of great help in bridging the distance between the theism of the
Judeo-Christian tradition and the apparent non-theism of Buddhism. But it is not enough
to resolve the disparity totally, for no one can deny the fact that, after all, the idea of God
is central - not just peripheral - to Jesus’ thought and to that of all Judaism and
Christianity. It is no coincidence that the first four words of the Hebrew scripture read,
“In the beginning, God…” For many, God is truly the Alpha and Omega of their faith,
the beginning and the end of their religion.
If I was to find in Buddhist thought some wisdom that I could make a part of my
Western faith in some substantive way, I felt I would have to go a step further and look
for the inner reality behind my belief in God. In other words, I wanted to catch sight of
the deep human experience that corresponds to the traditional externalized forms of
divine worship, experience that has given birth to my personal anthropomorphic God.
“I believe in God,” I told Tenzin. “I believe in God because it is part of my
experience. Not just my religious experience, not just the teaching I have been raised
with, but from my life’s experience in general.” I continued, “I have a concept of God, a
vague concept, to be sure, not clearly defined, a spirit notion, one that I try to
conceptualize as infinite, even though my poor mind has its finite limitations. When I
met with His Holiness, I asked him what could help me better understand Buddhist
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wisdom from my western perspective. He said, ‘Work to understand emptiness.’ Is
shedding an image of God part of that understanding of emptiness?”
Tenzin smiled with his wonderful grin that showed recognition of the questioning
that was going on beneath the surface of my simple question.
“Yes, part of emptiness is recognizing what we are full of, in other words what we
are carrying around in our minds that is weighing us down. It’s a little like a wooden
bucket we lower into a well to draw water. The empty bucket is very light and easy to
handle. But when we lower it into the well and fill it with water, we need a winch to pull
the heavy bucket slowly to the surface. Once we empty the water, the bucket is once
again easily carried.
“A concept of God can be a weight that we may need to lighten if we are to serve
a divine reality with the unencumbered action of our living. We Buddhists try to use our
meditation to shed our false notions, to get closer to emptiness of thought, so that we are
open to the understanding of a greater reality.”
Tenzin continued with another illustration. It’s like a student who asked his
master to explain the divine mystery. Without a word, the teacher began refilling the
student’s cup with hot tea. He gently poured from the teapot and continued pouring until
the cup overflowed onto the table, and the student called upon the teacher to stop. The
teacher said to the student, “Your mind is like the full cup. I have more to offer you, but
there is no room.”
“Emptiness is, among other things, clearing the mind to make room for
understanding,” said Tenzin.
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He was telling me that God becomes more real when we let go of our illusions.
Certainly the infinite God I believe in is empty of any of the finite labels we westerners
typically ascribe to him/her. Tenzin went on to help me understand my own
understanding of God: “The first step is to recognize that there are two levels, and not
just one, in which humanity reaches out to divinity. One is the level of concept; the
other, the level of experience.”
As I remembered what I had often taught to my teenaged confirmation class in
church, we Christians need to acknowledge that our concept of God, even when God is
thought of as an infinite spirit, is only a picturization. According to the picture we carry
with us, God is a person, a father and a mother. God is a judge, a rewarder, a punisher,
who speaks to us in revelation, listens to us in prayer, and is offended by us when we sin.
In any meditation on the concept of God, we should try to never forget that our concept
of God is therefore a composition of pictures borrowed from behavioral patterns of
human beings. I used to ask my confirmation students to write down a description of the
God they believed in. Then I would startle them by telling them they were all wrong.
With humor I explained that their anthropomorphic picture of God - like my own - is an
incomplete image that has been assembled from our own experiences of human behavior.
I know God as creator of the Universe and of humankind. I am aware of my
relatedness with all that is in the Universe - the sun, the moon, the stars, trees, animals,
fire, water, air - and my fellow human beings. Like a leaf that is part of the
Rhododendron tree on the Himalayan hillside, in spite of my individual identity I still
realize I am but a part of a whole, an integral part of the universal creation.
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So a concept of God as creator is the Genesis of my image of God, but I have
ascribed other human characteristics to my God as well. Mother and father figures have
been a part of my journey through the crises of life, my successes and failures, and I have
the larger experience that I am related to and nurtured by every human being as my
brother and sister. My experience of the nurturing love of the human family has shaped
my image of that which I call God.
There is also a concept of divine judgment, and the possibility of divine
forgiveness, drawn from my experience of human behavior, that has become inherent in
my image of God. In times of trial and difficulty, the God to whom I address my prayers
seems somehow to restore wholeness and harmony with the Universe. When I look at
my own shortcomings, mistakes and failings, I am able to seek forgiveness and receive
assurance within the human community. I have experienced the human behavior of
sympathetic listening and forgiveness, and I have added those attributes to my construct
of the Divine.
These patterns of human behavior have painted my personal concept of God; they
are the gold and copper pieces that I have attached to my rough wooden image of the
Divine. And they may also point to an important universal truth about belief in God.
They may demonstrate that there can be an acknowledgment of God even where there is
no concrete concept of God. Faith in God can actually refer to a person’s higher mental
attitude toward self, toward life, toward humanity and the Universe. Just as one can
believe in justice, for example, one can seek justice in the world through his or her
actions without wasting much time defining the concept. The picture I carry of God
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doesn’t define my spirituality, my actions do. It is not my “belief in” God that matters,
but my “relationship with” God that counts.
While the concept of a God is a very real fact in the western religious traditions,
and while it is absolutely necessary to conceptualize the divine in order to even think
about God, it is just as important for me to acknowledge the weaker side of my concepts
when used in reference to God. I need to constantly remind myself that the image I have
pieced together is limited and incomplete. Divinity, in its deepest form, can in no way be
visualized; it can only be experienced.
Paradoxically, the non-image of God that my Buddhist teachers were challenging
me with was beginning to point me toward a realization that the only place where I can
truly experience divinity is within my own self. And the paradox that follows upon this
is that we discover our true selves only when we empty ourselves, when we shed our
“selves” to a life of selflessness. Our unselfish response to the love of that which we call
God is our real acknowledgment of that divine reality. It’s not our constructed mental
images of God, but our actions, that make God real.
Tenzin reminded me of wisdom I had begun to hear in differing ways from many
sage teachers in Dharamsala. He said that selflessness may have different modes of
expression, and different modes may be accentuated by different religions. But, whatever
the mode of expression, when the Jewish and Christian ideas of belief in God are taken in
their deepest dimensions, there is not the least doubt that they teach that the most
authentic way of acknowledging God is through the actions of a life of selflessness.
Judaism and Christianity in that sense are, just as in Buddhism, self-emptying forms of
human experience. True belief is embodied in action.
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“With that understanding,” taught Tenzin, “it might be possible to re-frame the
atheism of Gautama Buddha. We might be able to say that Buddhism is a non-God
religion only when viewed in reference to belief in God in its imperfect, conceptualized
sense.”
I have also had opportunities to discuss the reality of a higher being with His
Holiness the Dalai Lama. As this book has already demonstrated, the irony is that His
Holiness has sometimes even “explained” God to me, and he has certainly helped me
clarify for myself exactly what it is I am speaking of when I refer to my God.
In our conversations together the Dalai Lama is quick to point out that Buddhists
have no concept of a “creator God,” but they share with Christians and Jews an
understanding of a higher reality that is divine, that the human being is not the ultimate
being, and that there is an order to the divine creation that emanates from a power greater
than mere humanity.
The Dalai Lama, in every conversation I have had with him, is quick to point out
the one facet of Judeo-Christian belief that is a point of divergence with the beliefs of
Buddhists. That point is the belief in a one-time creation and a Creator God. Buddhists
believe that the cosmos always was, that it has existed from a past that is infinite. They
believe this because of their understanding of dependent arising – nothing comes from
nothing and nothing ever has. That is what they have observed: everything springs from
causes, from something or things that preceded it.
His Holiness says to me, “An understanding of the principle of interdependent
arising means that all conditioned things and events in the universe come into being only
as a result of the interaction of causes and conditions. This is significant because it
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precludes two possibilities. One is the possibility that things can arise from nowhere,
with no causes and conditions, and the second is that things can arise on account of a
transcendent designer or creator. Both of these possibilities are negated.”
Nothing comes from nothing. Why should the genesis of creation be the only
exception to that observable law of natural phenomena? Not only does it not make sense,
in light of experience, that the whole of the universe was brought about from nothingness
into a completed creation in just one week, it makes no logical sense to Buddhists that
there ever was a nothingness.
When you get right down to it, the real reason Buddhists don’t believe in a
Creator God is, simply put, they don’t believe in the Western idea of “the creation.” It
doesn’t fit with their experience and its logical interpretation.
When the Dalai Lama brings the subject up, it is not to defend the Buddhist
position, but to warn me, it seems, that many westerners, Christians in particular, find this
divergence in ontological understanding to be such a stumbling block to any mutual
dialogue between Christians and Buddhists that viable discussion often comes to an end
on this difference alone.
But for His Holiness and myself, a discussion of the reality of God is always a
point of surprisingly mutual connection. The reason for that is our shared understanding
of the Divine as Ultimate Reality and infinite love. In His Holiness’ words, “When I
speak of God in the sense of ‘infinite love,’ Buddhists also can accept that kind of
interpretation.”
I guess I always perceived my Christian God in this way, but it was only as I
matured and then entered seminary that I clarified my own thought and, at the same time,
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discovered the writings of a Christian theologian who had organized my thinking into his
own profound and eloquent prose. That theologian is Paul Tillich, and it is his
understanding of the reality of God that has shaped not only my own understanding of the
Divine Reality, but my entire world view as well.
Paul Tillich is considered one of the most creative and influential philosopher-
theologians of the twentieth century. Born in Germany (like many of the influential
theologians of this past century), he fled his homeland as the Nazis rose to power and
wound up teaching in the finest Protestant seminaries in the United States, including
Harvard and the University of Chicago Divinity School. His noted works include The
Courage to Be, Theology of Culture, and The Eternal Now. In his writings he fostered a
new confidence in an ultimate, meaningful unity to life.
Tillich’s two central concepts in his theology and cultural analyses are on the one
hand the idea of the “unconditional” – the divine ground or power of being and meaning
– and on the other hand the idea of “ultimate concern.” In his Systematic Theology, he
argues that the holy, sacred, and ultimate ground or source of all life is the direct concern
of religious faith. And in the language of religion, the Ultimate Reality is God.
Tillich writes, “It is as atheistic to affirm the existence of God as it is to deny it.
God does not exist as a being. God is the ground and power of being, and as such is the
answer to the question of being generally. Everything that is has both its origin and its
power to be in God.”
The human being is finite, argues Tillich, and whatever one knows one knows in
terms of finitude. We escape from our finite prison only by the awareness of what Tillich
has called the depth of reason, by our ability to “imagine” the infinite. But we cannot
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describe or have any cognitive relation with the infinite except through that which we
really know, the categories of our limited, finite knowledge.
So can we truly “know” God? Tillich argues that everything we understand or
say about God is necessarily symbolic. Whatever mental construct we carry around
within us to help us understand the meaning of “God” is limited by human finitude and is
only a symbol of the Ultimate Reality to which it points.
To that extent, the representation of the divine Buddha nature that stood in pieces
before me was just as genuine a representation of the Divine Reality as is my own
anthropomorphic Christian symbol that I name “God.”
And beyond an understanding of God as the ground of being and ultimate reality,
Tillich also affirmed the basic understanding of God as Love. “God is love,” writes
Tillich. “And, since God is being itself, one must say that being itself is love.” Love is
the unity of individualization and participation. Love is the longing of the individual for
reunion and participation with the “other.” And since God includes in perfect unity the
polar elements of individualization and participation, God is love.
God as Ultimate Reality and Love is my intuitive understanding of the God I was
raised to believe in. And, interestingly enough, it is the same Divine Reality that His
Holiness the Dalai Lama believes in. It is not at all excluded by the teachings of the
Buddha himself, in fact. An experiential understanding of Ultimate Reality is the aim of
true contemplative endeavor in all the world’s religions, Judaism, Christianity and
Buddhism included.
The Dalai Lama has spoken of this universal understanding of the Divine Reality
in this way: “One of the most difficult concepts involved here, especially for Buddhists,
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is the concept of a divine being, God. Of course, one can approach this concept in terms
of something which is inexpressible, something which is beyond language and
conceptuality. But one must admit that, at the theoretical level, the conceptions of God
and Creation are a point of departure between Buddhists and Christians. However, I
believe that some aspects of the reasoning that leads one to such a belief are common to
both Buddhists and Christians.
“For example, if one examines the nature of all natural occurrences, common
sense tells us that every event must have a cause. There must be certain conditions and
causes that give rise to an event. This is not only true of one’s own individual life and
existence, but also of the entire cosmic universe. To our common sense, to accept
something as uncaused – whether it is the universe or our own individual existence – is
unacceptable. Then here is the question that follows: if this is the case, if one’s own
existence must have a cause – if even the cosmic universe on that scale must have a cause
– where does that cause come from? And if it follows that that cause must also have a
cause, then we have an infinite regress.
“In order to surmount this problem of infinite regress, it is helpful to posit a
beginning, a Creator, and to accept certain truths regarding the nature of the Creator: it is
independent, self-created, all-powerful, and doesn’t require any other cause. Accepting
such a beginning is one way to answer the problem of infinite regress.
“If one posits such a Creator, and then examines the whole process of evolution
starting from the Big Bang and the whole mystery of the universe, one can quite plausibly
accredit the Creator with omnipotence. In addition, if you examine the nature of the
universe, you will see that it does not operate in total chaos or randomness. There seems
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to be an inherent order, and inherent causal principle in operation. Through that, again, it
is possible to accredit the Creator with some sort of omniscience, as if the whole process
or procedure was planned. From that point of view, all creatures are in some sense a
manifestation of this divine force. On could say that the Creator is the ultimate and the
creation is the relative truth.
“Personally, when I look at the idea of Creation and the belief in a divine Creator,
I feel that the main effect of that belief is to give a sense of motivation – a sense of
urgency in the individual practitioner’s commitment to becoming a good human being, an
ethically disciplined person. When you have such a concept or belief, it also gives you a
sense of purpose in your existence. It is very helpful in developing moral principles.”
I maintain an abiding belief in God and continue to carry within myself some
fairly western images of who that God is. I can’t avoid that. Yet I am constantly finding
in the Buddha’s non-belief a challenge and a tool for looking deeper into my belief, for
questioning that which might be false and for worshipping that which is Truth. It is
becoming clearer to me that Buddhism does not so much offer things to believe as things
to do. This implies that religion has as its central aim a complete spiritual transformation,
not mere belief. It implies a spirituality that moves beyond the knowing of God with my
mind and arrives at the worshipping God with my life. It calls for prayer that is directed
toward my relationship with all creation, not on an inadequate image of the creator.
Belief in God has very little to do with what God is like and everything to do with what I
am like.
I reflected upon this and all that I was discovering as I gazed once more upon the
pieces of the God of Buddha. Surrounded by reminders of the deities of Tibetan
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Buddhism, in the company of gilded Buddhas, flowers and trees, brooks and streams, I
felt wonderfully in touch with the Universe. I felt the experience of the Divine in the
harmony of Norbulingka. I began to pray that the whole of my life might be transformed
into a harmony of belief and purpose; that I might know God in my experience of the
Divine, and that I might worship God in the action of my life.
As my prayerful petition drifted toward the heavens, I spotted a Himalayan eagle
soaring freely in the blue sky. It was a common sight in the valleys below Dharamsala,
an impressive black eagle with a white head and white wing tips. I observed this one for
several moments as he caught the updrafts and hovered above the plains with hardly a
flap of his broad wings. He was gliding in the wind currents, nearly mo tionless on the
waves of air that held him suspended above Norbulingka. He pointed into the wind and
hung on the current, then gently dove a little to pick up yet another updraft, then rode it
still higher again. It was as though he was flirting with the invisible air, teasing the
power of the wind. I realized he was too high and too detached from purpose to be
searching for food on the plains far below. He was removed from the world, it seemed,
focused solely on a single breath of air, mindless of all else, conscious only of his
connection to the Universe.
My brother the eagle was meditating. He, too, was lost in prayer, trusting in the
experience of his connectedness to the Divine. I believe in the God who was holding that
eagle in his breath. I believe in the God that directs my Buddhist friends to empty
themselves in compassion to all creatures in the Universe. And I want to find space
among the pieces of my belief to make room for a greater understanding of the God who
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gave me birth and who beckons me to worship His image by simply living more fully the
divine calling of my humanity.
109
Chapter 8
Resurrection and Rebirth
For someone who believes in rebirth, whenever you speak about
death you are also speaking about rebirth. Rebirth can only come into being when death has preceded it.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama
“Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or arrogant or rude. It does not
insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but
rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all
things. Love never ends.”
The apostle Paul wrote these poignant words in a letter to the Christian
community at Corinth, not to describe romantic love, but to put into words the experience
of God’s love in the person of Jesus Christ.
It is also a painting in words of an image of the Resurrection. Not merely the
resurrection of the body or the person of Jesus, but the resurrection of the Church, the
community of Jesus’ disciples, and, in the end, the resurrection of God’s infinite love.
Paul is pointing to the whole sweeping story of humanity that begins with the
Hebrew creation story of Genesis (In the beginning, God created…), and is restated in the
Gospels (In the beginning was the Word…), and which continues with the Revelation:
Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth
had passed away; and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem,
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coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.
And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying: ‘See, the home of God is among
mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself
will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more; for the first things have passed away’
And the one who was seated on the throne said, ‘See, I am making all things new.’
This is Hebrew thought – Jewish thought, if you will – reinterpreted through
Christian experience, writing and teachings. Birth, life, suffering, death. It is universal,
beyond Buddhist, Jewish or Christian labels.
And death is, perhaps, the ultimate concern of those who would label themselves
“religious.” That is why the world’s religions have all ritualized the life passage we call
death. Stunned by tragic bereavement, we mortal human beings would founder
completely if we were thrown on our own and had to think our own way through the
ordeal. That is why death, with its funerals and memorial services, its wakes and sitting
shiva is the most ritualized rite of passage. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” – the words
don’t say whose ashes, for this is everybody; all of us. The deceased takes his or her
place in the company of all humankind, one step in the endless march of life into death
and death into life again, with the continuum stretching both ways toward eternity.
The western understanding of this continuum of life into death into life again has
its roots in the Jewish understanding of history: all of the history of humankind is
reflected in the history of each single human life. The Jewish people have never glossed
over the finality of death by inventing images of a land of milk and honey somewhere
above the clouds where all souls would be reunited, but, at the same time they have never
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ascribed a fatalistic futility to life itself, even while acknowledging that it is lived always
in the shadow of inevitable death. There is in Jewish understanding - an understanding
that finds meaning in everything - a rhythm and an order that is God-given and therefore
inherently “good.” And that rhythm includes the seasons of the year and the seasons of
life and death and new life. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust” is not a resignation to the
finality of death but rather an affirmation of the cyclic nature of life and death that
promises infinite reenactments of creation itself. The loving, compassionate Creator God
of Jewish history would never will the death of the creation, and so the suffering of the
Jewish people and the life-long suffering of humankind – a suffering that includes certain
death – is viewed as an ebbing and flowing, an arising and subsiding that is as natural and
as life-giving as the human breath. It arises and passes away, only to arise and pass away
again.
God is the personification of love and compassion in Jewish experience. An
observation of history provides a revelation of that love and compassion that is
irrefutable. And it is the manifestation of that love and compassion throughout human
history that gives meaning to our finite lives.
Jesus was a pious Jew who felt this love and compassion running through the very
sinews of his being. As a result of a highly contemplative life, he observed – even
experienced – a revelation of Ultimate Reality that he attempted to share with all who
would flock to hear him. His teachings were not new; each can be found in the Hebrew
scriptures. But for his followers it was a new hearing of God’s love and compassion that
was personified in a human being, an incarnation of God’s love that came and walked
among them.
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And he spoke of a kingdom in which God’s will would reign, not mere human
will. And that kingdom, where all was in harmony with God’s good and perfect will, was
within reach – it was “at hand.” All anyone had to do to enter it was to see it – to open
one’s eyes, to remove the scales that were clouding the vision of Ultimate Reality. “Let
those who have eyes, see. Let those who have ears, hear.”
As a personification of God’s love, as the incarnation of God’s compassion,
Jesus’ charisma touched the hearts and souls of the multitudes who were drawn toward
him. He taught a Path, saying “follow me on The Way,” and he lived that path. His
entire life was one of humility, self-giving, and love that sought nothing in return. His
disciples said of him, “he went about doing good.” Ultimately the experience of the love-
became-man would be so pervasive and life-changing for his followers that it would
survive Jesus’ human death.
The way Jesus earthly ministry ended is known well beyond the vast circle of his
contemporary Christian followers. In what has come to be characterized as his final act
of self-emptying love, he allowed himself to be sacrificed on the cross. That could have
been the end of the story. Instead it is the beginning.
No one is sure what happened after the crucifixion. All that is truly known is that
those who were closest to him and who had experienced the reality of God’s love in his
presence were now convinced that death had not extinguished that reality. Beginning on
that first Easter Sunday, Jesus came and stood among them, as real as in life, but in a new
way. His reported resurrection was not a mere bodily resuscitation, but it was a rebirth
into another mode of being. What is clear is that Jesus’ followers began to experience
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him in a new way, namely as having the qualities of God. He could now be known
anywhere, not just in his physical presence.
His physical death gave birth to the Church and to a powerful belief in the
everlasting quality of love and compassion. To grasp the power of that enduring belief
we need to see beyond the disciples’ claim regarding the fate of one good man.
Ultimately their claim extended to one affirming the enduring goodness of all creation.
Jesus’ goodness – a goodness cultivated through a lifetime of walking The Way of
righteousness. – had triumphed over the claim of death. That goodness was alive in the
hearts and minds of all who had experienced it then, and its reality has survived lifetimes
to remain a living reality to this day.
It was this enduring quality of love, exemplified in the Christian resurrection
event, that inspired Paul to conclude, “I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor
angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor
depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of
God…”
Neither Paul nor the Christian saints and theologians who followed him would
argue that we ordinary mortals are destined to experience a rebirth in the physical sense,
neither as an imitation of Christ’s bodily resurrection nor in the manner that Buddhists
believe will occur for each of us. But Christians do proclaim a faith in the life-giving
creative energy of a Divine love that has nurtured the universe from its beginning and
which will sustain “life everlasting.”
And what does the ordinary Christian in church on Sunday morning believe about
death? In his mystical Revelation, the Gospel-writer John presents a dreamlike image of
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death as the perfection of creation, a cosmic reunion with the creator God from which we
mortals have become estranged through our imperfect lifetime of sin. But does the day-
to-day Christian have such a lofty perspective? Not many, I would venture to guess.
For most in the West, questions about death are answered by parent to child with
such images as, “Grandpa has gone to be with God and with Grandma, in Heaven, and
now both of them are happy and together in peace.” Even Jesus had little to say about
what life after death, if there was one, would be like. Shortly before his crucifixion, he
says to his disciples, “Where I am going, you cannot follow me now; but you will follow
afterward…in my father’s house are many dwelling places…I go to prepare a place for
you…” After his death, during his resurrection appearance, he says to Mary, “I am
ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.” Nowhere in the
accounts of his resurrection appearances, or even in his appearances to Paul at a later
time, does Jesus tell us anything about the nature of life after death.
What is clear is that the early Church, in all its councils and proclamations, clearly
rejected any notion of reincarnation or rebirth in the Eastern or Hindu-Buddhist sense.
And this is where the two, often surprisingly parallel, streams of Buddhist and Judeo-
Christian thought begin to clearly diverge.
I have used the following simple analogy with His Holiness in our conversations
and he has enthusiastically embraced it: the teachings of Christianity and Buddhism are
often like two streams of thought that run side by side. At times they are simply parallel,
separated, but by very little. At other times they converge and appear together as the
same stream. Still other times the two streams part, one taking one path, the other
another.
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Just as we have looked at what Jesus said and didn’t say about resurrection and
rebirth, and then what the modern Christian may actually believe, let us look at the
Buddhist understanding. First the historical Buddha: for Gautama Siddhartha, as with
Jesus the Christ, there was very little said. What he did teach flowed from a long-
standing belief in karma and rebirth learned from the Hindu faith into which he was born,
and the observable phenomena of the arising and passing away of everything. The
Buddha was concerned very little about things he could not observe or events about
which he could only speculate. There was an understanding about afterlife and the
continuity of life that demanded both little attention and little explanation on his part.
What concerned the Buddha was the emptiness of any permanent nature in
anything, and its implications for us human beings. For the Buddha that meant that
everyone and everything was constantly changing – forever impermanent. Death was
just one of the manifestations of that impermanence, and a change, if you will, not much
more important than the moment-to-moment change each of us is experiencing every
minute of every day.
When the Buddha does teach of death and rebirth, his primary concern is
regarding our infinite momentary deaths in this lifetime, and our infinite rebirths as
something entirely new. His total understanding of dependent arising and causation
meant, for him, that every moment of every day in each of our lives is the result of the
moments that that proceeded, and at any given moment, we have died to our past and
have been reborn in a new moment as a new being, different in at least miniscule, albeit
important, ways from the person we were just a moment before. It was this
understanding of rebirth that concerned him, not some speculative view of what
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happened to us after our earthly physical existence. Always the Buddha was concerned
with the medicine for the ailment that plagues us – our suffering in this lifetime. And that
meant swallowing the pill of understanding that could make us well. The root cause of
our illness was always our ignorance, and the cure to our ills was always Right Thinking,
born of the other spokes of the Eightfold Path. Right Thought means understanding
reality. And part of the ultimate reality of this universe is the ever-changing,
impermanent nature of all that is real – human beings certainly included.
Death is real, just as life is real, but as such both are part of an always changing,
always impermanent reality.
Most important to an understanding of reality, an understanding that can help set
us free from the clinging attachments and desires that plague us in this life, would be the
intuitive, experiential knowing that everything is impermanent, passing away, of
momentary existence. Anything we wish we had but don’t now have; anything we have
but wish we did not – all these are passing illusion. All is empty of permanent existence
as we know it, dying and passing away, only to be reborn again in an instant as
something different and new.
When we understand this natural process of death and rebirth of everything in
every moment, then we will intuitively let go of our craving and attachments and be
liberated from the sufferings they cause. That was the Buddha’s concern with death and
rebirth. That was his teaching.
The most radical teaching of the Buddha in his day was his repudiation of the
notion of the human soul. For the Hindus, the soul, or Atman, was unchanging, retaining
its unique identity forever. Buddha denied this permanence, just as he denied the
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permanence of any observable phenomenon. Being an authentic Hindu by both birth and
upbringing, he never doubted that reincarnation was in some sense a fact, but he was
openly critical of the way his Hindu contemporaries interpreted the permanence of a
transmigrating soul. He often taught with the image of a flame being passed from candle
to candle. There is no denying the causal relationship between the one flame giving rise
to the other, but there is no valid argument for the second flame being, as it were, the
same flame as the first. And this leads to the logical addition of Buddha’s teaching of
karma: just as the first flame influenced the second, so, too, does our momentary past
influence the changed reality of our rebirth into the present.
That being said, it is true that contemporary Buddhists have an abiding belief in
the true rebirth of the human being after physical death. We have all heard the stories of
avoiding stepping on an ant because it could be an ancestor, even an aunt! And we’ve
smiled at the warnings that our negative actions in this life could lead us to be reborn as a
frog (or worse!) in the next life. Contemporary Westerners also enjoy mocking the
Buddhist notion of rebirth, intentionally or unintentionally, by “recalling” that they were
princes or horse-thieves (more typically the former!) in some “previous life.” A serious
view of death and life is very real to the Tibetan Buddhists among whom I lived, and it is
often the first difference noted between western and eastern religious thinking.
While this concern for the transmigration of life forms from earthly death to a
physical rebirth was not of apparent importance to the Buddha, it is consistent with the
body of his observation and teaching: everything arises, passes away, and arises again in
a new form. Why should life be the only exception to this observable rule? So, from the
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Buddhist point of view, the question of life after death is no big mystery, and a Buddhist
is never particularly worried about this problem.
The Buddha explained the continuity of life, death and rebirth as a continuum of
thought-moments, each of which conditions the one that follows before dying and being
reborn as still another thought-moment.
For the Buddha, what we call life exists only as a combination of physical and
mental energies. They are constantly changing and don’t remain constant even for a
moment. Every moment they die and are reborn anew. In the Buddha’s words, “When
the aggregates arise, decay and die, O bhikkhu, every moment you are born, decay and
die.” If we can understand that in this life we can, and do, continue without a permanent,
unchanging Self, is it so hard to understand that the same forces can continue after the
physical self has ended its earthly existence? This is the simple Buddhist understanding
of death and rebirth.
For the Dalai Lama, the issues of death and rebirth are also primarily concerns
having to do with our understanding of the impermanence of the here and now. “For
someone who believes in rebirth, whenever you speak about death you are also speaking
about rebirth. Rebirth can only come into being when death has preceded it.” And
rebirth – in the here and now – is what religion, specifically Buddhism, is all about for
His Holiness. The value of religion and religious practice is in its ability to facilitate
rebirth, change or transformation. As in the story of the boat being for the crossing to the
other shore, religion is for helping us understand that we are always crossing from this
momentary life into a new and transformed life in the next moment.
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Following on that thought, His Holiness makes meditation on death and rebirth an
important part of his daily practice because of their importance in integrating a deep
understanding of emptiness and impermanence. Like the Buddha, the Dalai Lama
expends little energy trying to “explain” the after-death state and the details of human
rebirth, but is very concerned with understanding the transitory nature of life. That is not
to negate Tibetan religious beliefs about after-death states, which are, in fact, very real,
very important and very detailed in their description. But it is to say that, for His
Holiness, the real value of the Buddhist view of death and rebirth has to do with what it
can teach us about living in the here and now:
“One important aspect of my daily practice is its concern with the idea of
death…I hold that death is rather like changing one’s clothes when they are torn and old.
It is not an end in itself.”
Speaking in response to the question of what wisdom we westerners might glean
from Buddhist teaching and practice, His Holiness says, “It is good to meditate on death.
This helps with an understanding of attachment. It helps reduce unhealthy attachments.
At the time of death, all money, all fame, all power, all influence is of no use…except for
God’s blessing, God’s grace.” (It never fails to amaze me how the Dalai Lama’s
compassion includes explaining Buddhist thought in ways that avoid any conflict with
my inherited theological belief, and involves the unassuming display of a western
understanding of divine love.) “An understanding of impermanence is very helpful to
reduce anger, hatred…and to increase forgiveness, tolerance…and here they have very
much in common with Jesus’ teachings of love and compassion.”
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That has been my lesson learned from exploring the Buddhist understanding of
death and rebirth for myself. There is little to be gained from dissecting the differences
between the Christian and Buddhist views on the subject, and much to be gained from an
expanded understanding of both the impermanence and the continuity of life. Life and
death continue to be a divine mystery. Physicists tell us that matter and energy cannot be
destroyed, they can only change form. Certainly this fragile mystery we call “life” is, if
anything, energy, and as such will certainly change form and continue.
Perhaps more than any other subject, I am often asked to explain how I reconcile
my Christian faith with the Buddhist belief in reincarnation. I have a resurrection view of
all of life. I explain as I have learned with experience from my Buddhist teachers: when
we come to know all of life as a continuous process of change and renewal, then we
neither believe nor disbelieve in reincarnation; we simply understand.
For me, there is value in the Buddhist understanding. I cannot know, in a factual
way, what will be my fate after my physical death, and my inherited faith offers no
concrete explanation either. So I make choices regarding what I imagine it to be.
Everyone makes such a choice and, in the end, employs his or her imagining to divine an
acceptable answer. We choose to believe what we choose to believe. I find value in
choosing to incorporate a Buddhist understanding of the infinite continuum of life, death
and rebirth into my own set of beliefs. It has value to me.
First, it gives some meaning to what can appear at times to be a futile life. If one
is simply born biologically and mentally detached from any previous existence, then lives
seventy-five years or so without appreciably changing the world, and then dies to an
equally detached and meaningless death, where is the reason for living? On the other
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hand, a life that is causally related to the one that was lived before, and which represents
a spiritual and biological renewal and affirmation of that life, and then lays a karmic
foundation for another life yet to be lived – this is a life that is meaning-full.
The other value for me is one that aids in the cultivation of compassion.
Buddhists can understand anyone they encounter in life as someone who was at one time
or another, in any one of an infinite number of lifetimes, their mother or their father. This
stranger, or even enemy, was – by any understanding of an infinite regression and
repetition of lifetimes – my parent in at least one other life, a parent who nurtured, fed,
and clothed me, who cared for me unselfishly in some long ago childhood. Viewing the
“others” in our life with such a perspective can be life-transforming. The daily exercise
of such an understanding cannot fail to help me cross to another shore on my journey
toward spiritual growth that is centered in mature relationships.
To that extent, it seems to me, the wisdom of the Buddhist concept of life, death
and rebirth can lead even this skeptical Christian toward a path that can be
transformational, and a life that is centered not in things transitory and impermanent, but
rather in that which is, in the words of the Saints, “from everlasting to everlasting.”
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Chapter 9
Meditation and Contemplation
The practice of meditation becomes important for the
transformation of our mind. And this must also be true for the Christian practitioner. Of course Christians are seeking help or blessings from God. But spiritual transformation must also involve our own effort.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama
Tushita heaven is the final training ground for a “buddha-to-be,” according to the
celestial hierarchy of Tibetan Buddhism.
Tushita monastery is a bit of heaven that rests nearly in the clouds on the highest
hill in the Himalayan foothills above Dharamsala. It is not a mere metaphorical
coincidence that any path in Dharamsala which takes one higher eventually leads to
Tushita.
This peaceful monastery has been my home and my Buddhist training ground
while living in India. Surrounded by the pines and rhododendron trees, in the company
of chattering monkeys and chanting monks, I have learned to calm my mind and to enter
into communion with the oneness of which we are all a part.
The Psalmist wrote, “Be still and know...” This could well have been the
guideline for all of Buddhist meditation and Christian contemplation. In the shelter of
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my Tushita heaven, with the guidance of my gurus in the form of high Lamas and
ordinary seekers, I have practiced my ancient faith with the new insight and clarity of
Buddhist wisdom and method. I have learned how to be still, and I have come to
experience knowing.
Even as all paths upward in Dharamsala eventually lead one to Tushita, so all the
elements of the Noble Eightfold Path ultimately lead one to meditation. While it is true
that there is no “hierarchy” per se in the elements of the Path, the Buddha has taught that
Right View leads to Right Thinking; Right Thinking leads to Right Speech, which leads
to Right Action, which leads to a Right Livelihood, which leads to Right Effort, in turn
leading to Right Mindfulness - with all spokes of the Eightfold wheel directing one
toward Right Concentration.
And Right Concentration is, plain and simple, meditation.
Westerners typically react to the thought of meditation in the same way the first
Episcopalians reacted when a folk mass with guitars and drums was suggested for
Saturday night worship, or when the rabbi’s son expressed his desire for a Christmas tree.
The word meditation evokes more misconceptions and suspicion among Christians and
Jews than probably any other religious practice outside their own faith.
This is a shame, since meditation - as the Buddhists practice it - is, plainly and
simply, concentration. There is nothing hocus-pocus about it. At its best, concentration
is meditation and meditation is prayer.
In Dharamsala, young westerners would arrive daily from Europe, from the
United Sates, from Israel and head for the hills to learn some exotic form of Indian
meditation. Their vague hope, it seemed, was to find a mental way to get “high,” a sort
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of religious experience that would equal something they had while on the latest “in” drug.
Actually, the sweet, acrid smoke that often wafted out of the colorful teahouses indicated
that they were more than willing to combine both meditation and drugs to achieve some
new release from reality.
This is not the goal of Buddhist meditation. Meditation is the means of achieving
Right Concentration. It is, therefore, also the means of focusing Right Mindfulness with
Right Effort in a way that integrates Right Understanding, Right Thought, Right Speech,
Right Action and Right Livelihood. While no single element of the Eightfold Path is
more or less important than the others, Right Concentration, or meditation, is the
exceedingly important cement that binds them all together as one whole. Buddhism is
not, as some westerners mistakenly believe, simply a form of meditative practice.
Meditation is only one of the elements of the Noble Eightfold Path. But it is certainly an
important and necessary one.
Meditation is not foreign to Judaism or Christianity, nor for that matter to almost
any of the world’s religions. The Psalmist who sang the words written above also wrote,
“Give ear to my words, O Lord; consider my meditation,” (Ps. 5:1) and “Let the words of
my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my
strength, and my redeemer.” (Ps. 19:14) You have heard those words before. When the
Hebrew prophets and, later, Jesus “went up onto the mountain to pray,” they were
concentrating, focusing their mindfulness and effort in meditation. When Christ is
tempted during forty days in the wilderness, his struggles with the forces of evil take
place during his meditation, meditation that clarifies for him his relationship with God
and his mission in life.
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In the earliest centuries of Christianity, structured forms of meditation were
common in the Church. The later monastic movement in Catholicism is a direct
outgrowth of people’s need to practice a deeper form of prayer, one devoid of
distractions, prayer that was pure, simple, intense; in a word, concentrated.
Saint Ignatius, the founder of the Jesuits and author of the original Spiritual
Exercises, wrote in the early sixteenth century that, “by the term spiritual exercises we
mean every method of examination of conscience, meditation, contemplation, vocal or
mental prayer, and other spiritual activities...for, just as taking a walk, traveling on foot,
and running are physical exercises, so is the name of spiritual exercises given to any
means of preparing and disposing our soul to rid itself of all its disordered affections and
then, after their removal, of seeking and finding God’s will in the ordering of our life for
the salvation of our soul.”
Saint Theresa of Avila, also writing in the sixteenth century, spoke of the
Mandala of the soul as a castle: “Let us return to our beautiful and delightful castle and
see how we can enter it. For we ourselves are the castle. But you must understand there
are many ways of ‘being’ in a place. Many souls remain in the outer court of the castle;
they are not interested in entering it, and have no idea what there is in that wonderful
place, or who dwells in it. As far as I can understand, the door of entry into this castle is
prayer and meditation. Prayer must be accompanied by meditation.”
For the first fifteen hundred years of Christianity contemplation and meditative
practice were the rule, embodied, in fact, in the monastic Rules of both Saint Benedict
and Saint Francis.
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Our churches and synagogues have lost much of that intense contemplative
practice, but the human need for it still exists. Witness the exploration of mind-
expanding options among today’s new age of spiritual seekers or find yourself in the
crowded waiting rooms of any psychologist’s office. There are ample reminders all
around us that people have a universal and undeniable need to get in touch with
themselves and with the infinite mystery of life. Reciting memorized bedtime prayers, or
listening to the priest or cantor pray for us, doesn’t always satisfy that longing.
Many of us Christians are aware today that we are lacking in method. Certainly
we seem to have had good methods in the past, but they are not active, they’re not alive
for us today. So we can not only learn from our Buddhist friends, but we can actually
avail ourselves of Buddhist methodology to a large extent. One of the early fathers of the
Church said, “If something is true, don’t ask who said it. It’s the Holy Spirit who said
it!” This is all the more true if it is a method that works. It definitely comes from the
Holy Spirit, and we grow in our own spirituality if we avail ourselves of it according to
our own faith orientation.
Can we learn to meditate? Can we raise the level of our prayer life to a point
where we can truly touch our deepest selves and reach out to the farthest cosmic
mysteries? Can we concentrate with all our being in a way that orders our lives and
provides release and liberation? Can we discover reality and meaning in our Mandala
journey through transforming it into one long walking meditation?
Yes, we can! We can do so by being open to the wisdom and method of our
Buddhist sisters and brothers. It is the practice of meditation that enables us to integrate
the wisdom and method of Buddhism with the inherited faith of our formation. And the
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big surprise is that it isn’t so difficult. It requires a little guidance, and a lot of discipline,
to be sure, but it doesn’t require walking on hot coals or even tying our legs up in knots!
When the young westerners I mentioned earlier would arrive in the foothills of the
Himalayas, they would often wind up in one of the many local meditation programs that
were several days of nothing but silent meditation. Very little instruction would proceed
hours after endless hours of sitting, legs crossed and spine erect, on cushions that did
little to soften the hard floor. The students experienced so much lower back pain that
there was very little mindful concentration going on. Most westerners dropped out of the
course after only a few days.
Fortunately, many of these same disillusioned western pilgrims would find their
way to the Tushita monastery and retreat center. Here, gentle and loving monks and nuns
- many of them western converts themselves - would explain the philosophy of the
Buddha, and would guide their western students into a meditation practice which they
could understand and employ. It is in the spirit of their example that the Dalai Lama and
I will offer guidance to you in the teachings which follow.
During my many walks up the path from lower Dharamsala, where the Tibetan
government-in-exile is located, I would pass the main Temple of the Dalai Lama and the
monks of the School of Dialectics. From inside the Temple would come the droning yet
angelic chants of their daily ritual. Circumambulating the Temple were monks and nuns
and local Tibetans, each in a near-trance, repeating the mantra, “Om mani padmi om.” I
would walk past two more monasteries and a nunnery on my way to Tushita. At each of
these sacred places of holy solitude I would hear more ethereal chanting. Outside, nuns
and monks were seated cross-legged on the ground, their concentration painted on their
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faces, eyes half-open, staring into the blankness of the void in front of them. One could
feel the intensity of their meditation and envy their commitment and discipline. It
appeared far beyond the level of prayer I had ever practiced, and, I feared, beyond my
limited western ability.
On my first visit to the pastoral hilltop monastery of Tushita, western meditation
students joined the Buddhist monks and nuns who were all making a giggling fuss over a
gaggle of Tibetan Himalayan puppies that were little more than a week old. The impish
monastics were reduced to mere children in the company of these active and affectionate
pups, licking any face that came near. Soon the happy crowd made their way into the
meditation center, and with some look of bewilderment took a seat on the simple
cushions which had been arranged as the only seating on the floor. This motley group of
westerners, myself included, was a far cry from the solemn mendicants I had seen
meditating in the monasteries below. “Could we really learn the sacred art of
meditation?” I thought as I attempted to intertwine my legs.
A western nun - raised as an atheist in Switzerland - introduced herself as
Venerable Rita and proceeded to provide a simple introduction to the basics of Buddhist
philosophy. She was a delight in her open, outspoken way of delivering the Buddha’s
Truths in a no-nonsense way. When the subject turned to meditation, she was just as
disarming. “Forget the B. S.,” she told us. “There’s no magic to meditation. It’s just
concentration: calming the mind and training it to concentrate. Anyone can do it. It does
take practice and the discipline to work at it daily, but anyone can do it.” She was right.
As I learned from Venerable Rita and from wise Lamas and monks and rinpoches
thereafter, I can do it. You can do it. Those chanting and meditating monks and nuns I
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had earlier encountered on my walk have found no magic that isn’t freely available to
you and to me.
Meditation can and should be learned by anyone. Right Concentration is, in fact,
absolutely necessary to the integration of our spiritual wholeness. Without the eighth
element of the Eightfold Path, the other seven are nothing more than idealistic notions.
The same Apostle Paul who said we need action with our faith also said, “Pray
unceasingly.” He meant meditate! While meditation is not the petitionary type of prayer
many of us are most used to, it is the deepest, most intense type of prayer; and it is the
level of concentrated prayer to which we should be striving.
Why should we meditate? Certainly not for meditation’s sake itself. Meditation
is not an end unto itself but rather a means to an end. We actually have two important
ends in mind when we meditate: the calming of the mind, and the widening of our mind’s
vision of the reality of life. Why do we meditate? It is to find mental peace, and to seek
the release from sorrow that comes from Right Understanding. Why do we meditate? To
get it “right” - right thought, right action, right speech and all the other elements of our
life that we want to get right. Why do we meditate? To know ourselves, to know our
place in the world, to know our relationship with all the others around us, to experience
the Infinite of which we are a part. We meditate because it is the real journey, the inner
journey, the journey of growth, of deepening, and of an ever greater surrender to the
creative action of love and grace in our hearts.
If, as the Buddha has taught, life is sorrow-full; and if, as the Buddha has also
taught, this sorrow has its causes; and if, as the Buddha has still further taught, these
causes can be confronted and eliminated through the Noble Eightfold Path of living, then
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meditation, as the Buddha taught his disciples, is the vehicle by which our liberation can
be realized. Meditation is the Mandala whose center is everywhere and whose
circumference is nowhere, and into which one enters not by traveling but by remaining
still. It is through the interior exploration of this contemplative Mandala that we can
examine our attachments to things transient and begin to let go. It is in the peace of our
meditation that we can confront our anger and greed and replace them with compassion.
It is in the crucible of our meditation that we can test and refine our wisdom and cause it
to grow. It is in the solitude of our meditation that we can be in touch with our
connectedness with all living things and practice reverence for all of life. It is in the
light of our meditation that we can clarify the darkness of our ignorance and replace it
with enlightenment. It is in the prayer of our meditation that we can open ourselves to
the mysteries of the universe and become one with the Infinite.
Jesus’ disciples approached him at one time and begged of him, “Lord, teach us to
pray.” All religious traditions include instruction in prayer and meditation by the masters
of the tradition. All religious masters address themselves to the longing of their disciples
to pray better, to pray unceasingly, to meditate with the Divine.
I am going to share my instruction in meditation from the contemporary masters
of meditation - the high Lamas of Tibet who were my teachers, as well as the Dalai Lama
himself. The instructions and meditations that follow have been selected as ones
appropriate for self-teaching, however they are even better when shared in the
community of partners. While meditation is a personal inner journey, it can be facilitated
by the company of another practitioner.
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I now teach meditation to others, and I am constantly surprised at the number of
students who have received instruction in meditation before, but who have never been
taught a reason for their meditation. While it is appropriate not to have too many
expectations from any one meditation session, it is also very appropriate to understand
why one meditates in the first place. Thomas Merton said, “The reason why meditation
and mental prayer do not serve their true purpose in the lives of so many who practice
them is that their true purpose is not really understood.”
I have learned that Buddhism does not so much offer things to believe as things to
do. Buddhist meditative techniques and practice are aimed at the development of our
untapped spiritual resources. Put in western terms, the ultimate aim of Buddhist practice
- one which we can emulate in our own spiritual practice - seems to be to experience
Truth, and in so doing to re-orient our thoughts and actions. This implies an aim of
complete re-formation of the mind, a radical spiritual transformation. Can we westerners
learn this from the eastern masters?
Let’s begin with a teaching from His Holiness: “Meditation is needed for
developing mental qualities. The mind is definitely something that can be transformed,
and meditation is a means to transform it. Meditation is the activity of familiarizing your
mind, making it acquainted, with a new meaning. Basically it means getting used to the
object (or emotion) on which you are meditating.”
His Holiness meditates daily on compassion, on love of neighbor as well as love
of enemy, and on impermanence and death. He does so to familiarize himself with each
of these, to understand their reality, and to check his thoughts, emotions, attitudes and
actions which daily arise in response to his perception of the world around him. It is a
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practice of Right Effort combined in harmony with Right Concentration to develop
mindfulness, wisdom and Right Thought.
His Holiness continues to teach “the unique Buddhist practice of what is called
meditation or contemplation. I will try to explain,” he says, “something which can be
useful and may be adopted by Christian practitioners. This can be, I think, a way to
enrich one another.
“I am not going to talk about whether there is a Creator or not. This is too
complicated; and anyway I think it is beyond our concepts. In that regard, it is better to
follow one’s own belief. Then you can achieve some kind of satisfactory result.
Otherwise, the issue is too complicated. For centuries there have been great debates in
India between Buddhist logicians and non-Buddhist logicians. The result is that the
argument is still going on! So, it is better to follow according to one’s own belief. The
important thing is to practice, to implement one’s belief sincerely and seriously.”
Once again His Holiness affirms his belief in following the faith of one’s
formation, but does so offering the valuable wisdom and method of the Buddha to any
who would find value within it.
“So now we will deal with Buddhist approaches to meditation. The Tibetan word
for meditation is sgom, which appears in scriptures but is actually part and parcel of
ordinary life. It means familiarizing yourself with certain particular objects or attitudes.
Take for example when we feel emotionally afflicted from seeing an object that makes us
feel unhappy. We use some kind of analytical meditation that includes reasoning. The
more we investigate, the more the afflictive emotion develops. And then, after becoming
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familiar with that object, you will be able to come to a conclusion, or a sort of conviction.
You will realize, ‘Oh, this is something positive!’ or ‘This is something negative.’”
His Holiness is pointing toward the three main types of Tibetan Buddhist
meditation - analytic meditation, mindfulness meditation, and visualization meditation.
Analytic meditation is meditation with a set purpose, with a narrative, with a “program,”
if you will. The second form of Tibetan meditation His Holiness moves to is the clear
mind arising from mindfulness meditation. This is akin to viewing an image in a fogged-
up mirror, and gently clearing away the fog for a clearer view. Our mind is by nature a
clear mirror, and the fog which obscures that clarity can, with effort, be dissolved over
time.
“This conviction of mind is a form of single-pointedness meditation. So, we
always use analytical meditation and single-pointedness meditation in our daily life. The
very purpose of meditation is to familiarize ourselves with any object or attitude we want
to know more about. That is the meaning of meditation as familiarization.
“This practice of meditation becomes important for the transformation of our
mind. And this must also be true for the Christian practitioner. Of course Christians are
seeking help or blessings from God. But spiritual transformation must involve our own
effort. So Christian practitioners also need to practice some kind of personal effort in
spirituality. And it is here that meditation is valuable.”
The Dalai Lama is speaking to the real purpose, in my mind, of religion itself:
religion should be a vehicle for personal transformation, for change.
“I think the most important task of any religious practitioner is to examine oneself
within one’s own mind and try to transform one’s body, speech and mind, and to act
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according to the teachings and the principles of the religious tradition that one is
following. This is very important. Conversely, if one’s faith or practice of religion
remains only at the intellectual level of knowledge, such as being familiar with certain
doctrines without translating them into one’s behavior or conduct, then I think that is a
grave mistake.”
Then he adds this concern: “One thing you should remember is that these mental
transformations take time and are not easy. I think some people from the West, where
technology is so good, think that everything is automatic. You should not expect this
spiritual transformation to take place within a short period; that is impossible. Keep it in
your mind and make a constant effort, then after one year, five years, ten years, fifteen
years you will eventually find some change.”
Jesus said we must all be “born again,” that is be changed into something new.
And that requires effort on our part, as well as proper faith.
“How can you develop faith in the proper way through meditation? Using our
two types of meditation, first you can practice analytical meditation by thinking how
great God is, for example.” (Once again, His Holiness is teaching me how to understand
God!) “After using this analytical meditation some kind of conviction is reached, ‘Now,
yes, definitely this is the case!’ Then, without further investigation, simply settle your
mind in that belief, in that deeper faith. This is single-pointedness meditation. These two
forms of meditation from the Buddhist tradition must go together. So you see, faith is not
just believing in words. Rather it combines one’s own experience and the Gospel to form
a firm conviction. That is very important and even necessary in any religion.
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“There are also two other types of meditation that can be helpful. In the first type,
you focus on a particular object and then meditate on it. In this case, you take an object
of apprehension to the mind. An example of this first type might be when a Christian is
aware of the greatness of God. In that case you have a separate object as the focus of
your meditation. In the second type of meditation, you cultivate your mind in the form of
an attitude of meditation. An example of the second type would be when the Christian
meditates to cultivate faith or love. In that kind of meditation, you cultivate your own
mind in the very nature of faith or love. In Buddhist practice, when we meditate like this
on the attitudes of compassion or loving kindness, our mind transforms into that kind of
mentality.
“Let us now take as an example the Buddhist awareness of impermanence.
Generally speaking, at the beginning this awareness is not through experience but relies
on reasons given in the scriptures or someone else’s words. But then, one meditates on it
using the kinds of analytical and single-pointedness meditations we discussed for
Christians.
“After much thought and reflection, impermanence becomes familiar. Then, at a
certain stage, you realize these reasons and reach a more full conviction concerning
impermanence which you can now prove by these reasons with complete confidence. At
this stage of meditation, the awareness of impermanence is much firmer than your
previous awareness. Of course, you already thought that all things are impermanent,
always momentarily changing. But through reasoning in analytical meditation you
develop a firm and full conviction.
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“Then going further without any more reasoning, there is a spontaneous
realization of impermanence. Whenever you see something, without any effort there is a
spontaneous realization or awareness of impermanence. In this uncontrived state of vivid
realization and developed experience of impermanence, there is a kind of direct
perception in which your mind is merged, as it were, with impermanence. From this
point of view there is no dualistic appearance.
“There are also objects of meditation used in Buddhism for development of
‘special insight’ and for the development of ‘calm abiding.’ The difference between calm
abiding and special insight is not determined by the respective objects of these different
meditative states; rather, the difference is determined by how one is engaging the objects.
One can engage objects of meditation in ways that produce insight or in ways that
produce inner calm. For Buddhists, there is calm abiding that even observes emptiness,
and there is also a special insight that is observing the varieties of phenomena. Christians
too should discover what objects of meditation there are to help them develop insight and
calm abiding both in relation to faith in God and with regard to developing love for
fellow human beings.”
A very important aspect of meditation is that it is not confined merely to our
contemplative sessions. Meditation is a “practice,” a way of practicing new ways of
thinking and responding which we can use in our everyday living. I like to think of
meditation in the same manner that a musician thinks of practicing the scales on the
piano. One doesn’t practice the playing of scales in order to be the best “scale-player,”
one practices the basics in order to implement them automatically when playing a
concerto. It’s the same with our meditative practice. His Holiness explains it this way:
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“One of the basic Buddhist approaches in meditation is somehow to engage in a form of
practice during the meditative session so that it can have a direct impact on one’s post-
meditative period, for example on our behavior, on our interaction with others and so on.
In fact, one could say that the post-meditative periods are the real test of the strength of
your practice. During formal meditation, in a sense you are recharging your batteries, so
that when you come out of the session you are better equipped to deal with the demands
of your everyday life. The very purpose of recharging a battery is to enable it to run
something, isn’t it?” What His Holiness is proposing is that meditation can energize the
battery of our mind, allowing it to run our day-to-day lives according to the principles of
loving compassion and true wisdom.
As for our personal practice of meditation, His Holiness offers some practical
advice: “Diet is important when we engage seriously in the practice of meditation. One
should follow a light diet which is also very good for the body.
“One’s daily routine is also important. Getting up early in the morning is very
good. Some people, particularly in the city, do the opposite. They stay up very late and
are very busy and are fully alert at night. Then they are sleeping peacefully after the sun
rises the next morning. For a practitioner, that kind of lifestyle is very bad. So, get up
early in the morning - Tibetans say ‘The freshness of early morning, the freshness of our
mind.’ And for that you need sufficient sleep by going to bed early.”
This leads to the question of when one should meditate, and for how long each
time. My teachers, as well as my own personal practice, have suggested that some time
set aside in the early morning and some time before retiring for the day are the foundation
for a good contemplative practice. And each session should be around one half hour,
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with twenty minutes being the minimum and one hour being an ideal. A regular time and
a quiet space soon become your own gift to yourself. In His Holiness words, “We spend
a large amount of the best human brainpower looking outside - too much - and it seems
we do not spend adequate effort to look within, to think inwardly.” So much in our
world is calling us outward - television, advertising, our daily obligations in general - that
when we claim for ourselves the luxury of solitude and turning inward, the sounds we
perceive in our inner silence soon become for us a rich reward that we will gladly return
to claim again and again.
The next question for the novice is that of place - where to meditate. One should
select a quiet space that can remain the same each day. It should be free of visual
distractions, as we are turning inward with our meditation and wish to avoid those
distractions which regularly call us outward. A window with a view or even soft music
should be avoided since, once again, they call our undisciplined mind to turn away from
our center.
With that said, it should be added that meditation is not simply a matter of sitting
in a particular place or breathing in a particular way; it is a state of mind. Although the
best results usually come when we meditate in a quiet place at a regular time, we can also
meditate while working, walking, riding on a bus or cooking dinner. First, we learn to
develop the meditative state of mind in formal, sitting practice, but once we are good at it
we can be more freestyle and creative and can generate this mental state at any time, in
any situation. That will be when our meditation has become for us a way of life.
“Then there is the question of posture. Generally this is also quite important,”
says His Holiness. “You should sit straight. The Buddhist justification for this posture is
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that if you remain straight then your body energy circulates more normally. If you sit
one-sided then the body may not be so balanced. Therefore, you should consider this
important. But, do not think it is very important to sit cross-legged. For some people,
instead of helping meditation it causes more pain. So, I do not think it is very important.
You can find a more comfortable posture if you wish.
“According to Buddhist tradition, sometimes one may get a kind of extraordinary
understanding or awareness. Take faith for example. Sometimes without a particular
reason, some kind of spontaneous feeling may occur. But from our tradition such an
experience - while very positive - is not so reliable. One day faith may be there
spontaneously, but the next day it may not. However, once you get that kind of
spontaneous experience of faith, it is very useful to maintain and sustain the faith through
effort. So you should not rely too much on just spontaneous experience. It comes and
goes, comes and goes. The other more sustained experience of faith, developed through
continuous effort, is much more reliable.
“I think that in both analytical meditation and single-pointedness meditation the
important thing is one’s sharpness of mind - having a fully alert mind. This is very, very
important. Now, in analytical meditation, a sharpness of mind is essential for the
analytical process. But in single-pointedness meditation, fully alert clarity of the mind
must also be maintained. Otherwise, sometimes the experience of single-pointedness
develops as a result of darkness. This is not at all helpful. You must remain fixed on the
object of meditation with full alertness.
“How can you keep full alertness? When your mental energy goes down,
then an uplifted state of the mind does not occur. For example, if you start single-
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pointedness meditation, and your mind at that moment is in a slightly sad mood, then that
mood automatically reduces the alertness of mind. So at the time you need to extend
some effort in order to heighten the state or spirit of your mind.
“One method for a Christian would be to think about God’s grace or mercy and to
reflect on how fortunate we are. Thinking of these kinds of things, which make you feel
happy with more hope and more self-confidence, will uplift your mind.
“Sometimes you experience the opposite, namely, your mind may be too excited.
That state of mind is also a great hindrance to single-pointedness. When you are about to
do single-pointedness meditation and your mind is too distracted due to excitement, then
think about the fact that because of this kind of mental attitude your spiritual practice,
your spiritual experience, will not develop much. Think that because of this excited state
you will experience a failure of single-pointedness of mind. Then, you see, your
excitement will become a little reduced. When you see your mind come down a little bit,
then with that cooler basis go on to meditate. So, these are the methods for avoiding
mental dullness and excitement in meditation.”
Many of us have a sincere desire to establish a daily meditation practice, but can’t
seem to fit it into our busy schedules. His Holiness shares how he manages:
“First, I must say that I am a very poor practitioner. Usually I get up at 3:30 in
the morning. Then I immediately do some recitations and some chanting. Following this
until breakfast, I do meditation, analytical meditation mainly. Then after each analytical
meditation, I do single-pointedness meditation. The object of my meditation is mainly
dependent arising. Because of dependent arising, things are empty.
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“So, meditating on this gives me a kind of firm conviction of the possibility of the
cessation of afflictive emotions. This is one of the main objects of my practice. Another
is compassion. These two are my objects of practice. If you ask me about experience in
my practice I think it is better than zero! On that basis, I can assure you that the mind is
always changing, so no matter how strong the afflictive emotion, there is always the
possibility of change. Transformation is always possible. So therefore, you see, there is
always hope. I think that is why it is really worthwhile to make an effort.
“Then also, in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, Buddhist tantra practice is also
involved. So you see, a lot of time is also spent on visualization in deity yoga.” This is
the third of the major types of Tibetan meditation, visualization meditation. It is
generally reserved for the highest practitioners, since it is thought to be the most
advanced form of meditation, one that allows for the attainment of enlightenment in a
single lifetime. One popular form of visualization meditation involves meditating on the
image of a deity who represents a particular quality of an enlightened being -
compassion, for example. The goal of the meditation is to become the quality meditated
upon. Through repetitive meditation, the teachings say, one can actually come to take on
the qualities of compassion, to embody it.
Visualization meditation takes on other forms as well. His Holiness: “This
includes visualizing the process of death and rebirth. In fact in my daily prayer or
practice, I visualize death eight times and rebirth eight times. This is not necessarily the
Dalai Lama’s reincarnation, but some reincarnation. These practices I feel are very
powerful and very helpful in familiarizing oneself about the process of death. So when
death actually comes, one is prepared. Whether these practices are really going to benefit
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me at the time of death, I do not know at this moment. I suppose that even with all this
preparation for death, I may still be a complete failure! That is also possible.
“There is another type of meditation which is like praying. Its purpose is to
recollect the various stages of the path by going through something that you have
memorized and reflecting on each stage.
“So from around 3:30 a.m. until 8:30 a.m. I am fully occupied with meditation
and prayer, and things like that. During that time I take a few breaks, including my
breakfast - which is usually at 5:30 a.m. - and some prostrations. After 8:30 a.m., when
my mood is good, I do some physical exercise. One very important thing is that I always
listen to the BBC for the news. Then I do office work until noon. And if it is a holiday, I
also start reading important texts. Prayer and meditation are usually done without any
texts. Then at noon, I have my lunch. Afterward usually I go to the office and do some
more work. At 6:00 p.m., I have my evening tea and dinner as a Buddhist monk. Finally,
around 8:30 p.m., I go to sleep - my most favorite, peaceful meditation!”
One of the most frequent problems we westerners have with meditation is
“finding the time.” His Holiness the Dalai Lama is one of the busiest men on the planet,
and he finds the time! Saint Thomas à Kempis wrote in The Imitation of Christ, that “if
you give up unnecessary conversation, idle walking about, and listening to news and talk,
you will find plenty of time which you can well devote to good meditation.” His
Holiness manages to make the time, and still listen to the news!
In addition to finding a time to meditate, we westerners have difficulty making a
commitment to the “right time” to start. I would suggest that the best time to start your
own contemplative practice is right now, with the reading of this little book. In the next
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few pages I will share some concrete methods of meditation and contemplation for use in
developing your own spiritual practice. They have proven beneficial to me. However,
the purpose of a book about meditation and contemplation is to provide suggestions on
how to order your spiritual practice and perfect your thinking, and not to do your thinking
for you. Consequently, if you have picked up this book and are merely reading it, you
will be wasting your time. In the pages that follow, when any thought stimulates your
mind or your heart you may put this book down and take the time to reflect...for then you
will have entered the Mandala, and your meditation has, in fact, already begun.
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Chapter 10
Taming Your Monkey Mind
One of the major aims and purposes of religious practice for the
individual is an inner transformation from an undisciplined, untamed, unfocused state of mind toward one that is disciplined, tamed, and balanced.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama
Painted on the entry wall of the gompa, or meditation hall of Tushita monastery is
a pastoral representation of the “Tree of Life,” a popular theme in the folk art of all
cultures. A flowering tree in a green meadow gives shelter to a variety of animals who
share each other’s company in peace alongside a life-giving stream. Dominating the
painting are the two central figures: a monkey seated calmly on the back of an elephant.
This hand-painted scene is something of a Tibetan version of Edward Hicks’ classic
American folk painting, “Peaceable Kingdom,” a presentation of the idyllic Biblical
image of the realized Kingdom of God on earth found in the eleventh chapter of the book
of the Hebrew prophet Isaiah. This passage, often read as a foretelling of the coming of
Jesus, speaks of a day when one will come with the spirit of the Lord resting upon him,
the spirit of wisdom and understanding, and on that day the wolf shall live with the lamb,
the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the calf and the lion together, and a little
child shall lead them.
Conspicuously absent from the Hebrew imagery, or from the Quaker artist Hicks’
painting, is any representation of either an elephant or a monkey! Here in the foothills of
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the Himalayas, however, any image of an ideal, imaginary peaceable kingdom would
have to include a monkey at rest and in abiding harmony with his neighbors. The reason
being, such a calm monkey does not exist in the less than idyllic world of day-to-day
experience! Such a monkey could exist only in the mind’s imagination.
In Dharamsala, the gregarious monkeys descend in chattering packs down from
the hills, swinging rapidly from tree branch to tree branch just before daybreak, moving
ever lower down the hills toward the villages below, in search of food, and, it seems, in
search of child-like mischief. They taunt each other and scream, pouncing on each other
and beating on the corrugated metal roofs of the Tibetan’ homes, awakening all and
signaling the start of a new day. Throughout the remainder of the day, their playful
behavior is non-stop – chasing, climbing, swinging in the trees, endless tumbling and
jumping one on the other. And the games with food never stop. Pity the poor child or
unsuspecting westerner who has just purchased a banana or mango from a vendor and is
walking toward home with her fruit in hand. Seemingly from nowhere, the clever
monkey will fly in from behind, snatch the fruit from the startled human’s hand, and race
away to the nearest tree to gobble down the prize. And even as the gloating monkey eats,
he, too, has to flee the attacks of other monkeys who would, in turn, steal the fruit from
him! It’s an endless cycle of games and activity that continues unabated until dark begins
to settle over the hills, when then the monkeys, still in full play, commence their noisy
return to the mountain tops for the night.
It is this experience of the monkey, not the image of the peaceable monkey
painted on the wall, that is known to myself and the other meditators as we pass by the
Tree of Life on the wall and enter the gompa to take our place on the cushions in silence.
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I join a group of monks and nuns and westerners who are already sitting cross-
legged in calm silence, awaiting the morning’s teacher. When the tall monk enters the
front of the hall from the side door, all rise and bow in a gesture of respect, a welcome
that is acknowledged with a giggle and an embarrassed grin by the gentle monk, Stardust.
Stardust takes his place on the elevated cushion of the teacher, adjusts his saffron
robe, and begins. “Good morning. Today we are going to go bananas.” His face erupts
with a most delightful smile as he lets his surprising statement sink in. “Our minds
cannot be controlled, at least not in the pre-programmed manner that the western thinker
likes to believe the mind can be programmed to concentrate on one thought. When we let
go of our inhibitions, when we let our hair down, so to speak, we sometimes say we let
ourselves ‘go bananas.’ That is what the mind is doing all of the time. Today we are
going to let go of our obsession with trying to control the mind, and simply observe as it
goes bananas.”
Stardust was born in Germany, just outside of Stuttgart, about forty-six years ago.
He grew up in a devout Roman Catholic family and remembers his childhood as “a
wonderful mystery,” but also remembers his Catholic upbringing as very narrow-minded
and with so much emphasis on “sin” that there was no effort or encouragement to connect
with the “goodness within.” He rebelled against the Christian conformity of the church
and his family, and escaped to an inward adventure in Asia. His first stop was Indonesia
where a friend told him he was a natural meditator, and encouraged him to find a teacher
in Thailand. A monk outside Bangkok gave him some names of “forest teachers,” and
Stardust picked one at random, sought him out and entered into the “forest life” of a Thai
Buddhist monk. He tried the monastery, but learned he was best meditating as a loner.
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He remained with his teacher for about two years before ordination as a full-fledged
Buddhist monk, and then meandering in the Thai forest as a traditional “wandering
monk.”
He spent time in Thailand, India and Sri Lanka before returning to India recently.
He describes his experience in Sri Lanka as living in silence in a small forest temple,
“discovering my inner self and getting in touch with emotions.”
He says he went from rejecting the forced, narrow views of Christianity to forcing
upon himself new attachments and aversions of Buddhism. He made a pendulum-like
swing from one extreme to a new one. It was later that he discovered the middle way –
letting go of attachments to any predetermined belief or way of thinking.
Today, he says that visual meditation and analytical meditation are necessary for
him because all day long he is contemplating how everything he encounters is arising and
passing away. For Stardust, “the more we move from or let go of the notion of and the
attachment to self, the more compassion arises automatically. The more one lets go of
the obsession with self, the greater one’s compassion toward others.”
His Master taught him about Buddhist meditation, “Don’t strive to become simply
an enlightened parrot.” To Stardust, this meant that for most westerners the Buddhism
they discover just becomes a “new prison,” that replaces the old. “They are too
conditioned, so they respond to Buddhism just as they did to their old Christianity or
Judaism.” What he means is that old attachments are discarded but simply replaced with
new attachments.
Now, each morning in a simple meditation session, Stardust captivates his
western audience of novice meditators with his simple wisdom of non-attachment. “Let
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go of your thoughts,” he teaches, “as they are nothing more than illusion – illusions
which arise randomly and then pass away.” But he is careful to admonish those of us
before him on our cushions that one also needs to learn not to force that letting go.
Meditation is not to be a rigid rejection of thought, but rather a gentle letting go of
thought, and a mindful observation of their random rising and passing away.
And he teaches this penetrating wisdom and practice with the abandon of a child.
“Observing your thoughts is full of ‘ah-so’ experiences. A thought arises and you
observe it, not making any value judgements about it - just observing. And then you say
in your mind, ‘ah-so,’ as if to say ‘OK – it is. It simply is. Ah-so.’ It is, and so be it. No
judgement, just the observation and acknowledgement of its arising, and later of its
passing away.”
Tibetans practice three types of meditation: mindfulness meditation or calming of
the mind, analytical meditation or guided thought, and finally visualization meditation
that focuses on a deity or quality and moves the mind toward imitating or “becoming” it.
Mindfulness, or single-pointedness as His Holiness refers to it, is the foundation of a
contemplative practice. “In order for the training in wisdom to mature and become
strong, one must first develop meditative concentration; and in order to develop and
support concentration one should cultivate the training in self-discipline, which calms the
mind and provides an atmosphere conducive to meditation.”
And Stardust has the most delightfully disarming way of introducing his western
students to this basic calming of the mind. Allow the following illustrations from his
teaching, embellished with the wisdom of His Holiness, to calm your mind and aid you in
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letting go of your monkey-like tendencies to jump from thought to thought, and your
selfish tendency to cling to each thought as though it were a tangible possession.
We begin calming the mind by concentrating on the natural breath. Neither
posture nor technique is terribly important. Remember, we are not trying to become
“great meditators.” There is no inherent value in that. Meditation is a tool, a means
toward the end of enlightened thinking and acting. It is good, however, to sit comfortably
and with the spine erect. This facilitates the natural flow of mental energy. His Holiness
teaches, “The meditation seat should be slightly raised at the back because that helps
reduce tightness. Sitting in the full cross-legged position is very difficult, but if it causes
no pain then that is the proper way. Or you can sit in the half-lotus position which is
usually very comfortable.”
Then the hands should be resting comfortably on the crossed legs, either extended
toward the knees, with the thumb and first or second finger touching, as if to form a small
circle with the fingers. Or the hands can rest cradled, one in the other, in the lap. Again,
His Holiness’ preference: “In the correct hand mudra, the back of the right hand rests in
the palm of the left hand and the two thumbs stand up and touch one another, forming a
triangle. This triangle has a tantric significance, symbolizing the Realm of Truth.”
The head should be allowed to tip slightly forward, naturally, with the eyes
directed in approximately a forty-five degree angle toward the floor. In the Dalai Lama’s
teaching, “The arms should not touch the body. The head is slightly bent down, the tip of
the tongue touching the palate, which prevents thirst and drooling when the meditator
engages in deep, single-pointed concentration (His Holiness grins broadly). Lips and
teeth should be left in their natural position, eyes looking toward the tip of the nose. This
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is no problem when one has a big, pointed nose, but if one has a small nose, looking at its
tip sometimes causes pain. (now His Holiness is laughing heartily) So this depends on
the size of one’s nose.”
Initially, the meditation student should close the eyes, not with any strength, but
just naturally allowed to rest closed. Experienced contemplatives often sit with open
eyes, but for those of us just beginning it is best to avoid the external distractions we see
with our eyes open. Meditation is turning inward. All the day long, in our modern
society especially, we are bombarded with sensory stimuli drawing our attention outward.
It has become unnatural to block all that out and take time to look only inward. That is
the luxury we are going to claim for ourselves with our meditation. But it requires Right
Effort and Right Concentration, meaning that, initially at least, we will have to be very
intentional about blocking out all those sounds and sights that would return our attention
toward the outer world. And that means, for now, gently closing the eyes.
A word of caution is in order here, however. Sitting comfortably, with the eyes
gently closed, creates a significant risk for the new practitioner: he or she may fall asleep!
And sleeping is not at all the same thing as meditating! The cure for falling asleep is
simply concentrating on the focus of the meditation, and that is what we will examine
next.
Our focus will be simply the natural breath – the arising and passing of each
normal breath. Why? Why “waste our time” looking at nothing more important than our
natural breathing? It is because this practice begins to train our mind to calm itself, to
center itself, and then to examine itself through observation. Anything else we may try
to do in our meditation – analytical meditations or visualization meditations – will require
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our ability to calm the mind and focus our attention. Like a musician practices playing
the scales over and over to master the basic techniques, we, too must practice – over and
over – the basics of concentration.
But there is also great value in mindfulness meditation for mindfulness’ sake
alone. It is in these times of focused concentration, but absence of conscious thought,
that we have the opportunity to experience “knowing.” Real experiential knowing only
occurs in the absence of our ordinary, conditioned – and “wrong,” as it were – thoughts.
So, on to the practice. In your comfortable meditative position - spine erect, head
at rest, eyes gently closed – focus your attention on the small triangle of space that
encompasses your lower lip as the base and the bridge of your nose at the top.
“Watching” this space in your mind’s eye, simply pay attention to your natural breathing
in and breathing out. Don’t force it. Don’t increase or decrease the natural rhythm of
your breath. Just begin observing it. As His Holiness says, “During meditation your
breathing should be natural. You should not breathe violently nor too gently. When you
are in a fluctuating state of mind, like when you are angry or have lost your temper, then
it is good to bring back calmness by concentrating on breathing. At that moment when
your mind concentrates fully on breathing - the breath coming and going - all passions
subside. Afterwards, it is easier to think clearly.”
Observe how the breathing in is somehow different from the breathing out. Feel
your lungs expand, your diaphragm lower, and the air pass over your lower lip and into
your nostrils. Notice that the air is cooler going in, warmer passing out. Pay attention to
the very feeling of your lungs being full, the feeling of your lungs being empty. As you
pay closer attention, notice that you can observe the very hairs in your nose responding to
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the flowing in and flowing out of your breath. Notice how the arising and passing away
of each breath has its own stages of effort and relaxation. Don’t force the effort. This is
not an exercise in breathing, it’s an exercise in awareness.
At this point, it is worth reflecting upon how we are now practicing observing
something so natural and so ordinary that we may never have actually “observed it”
before at all. What a miracle this action of breathing is! How many of our body parts
participate and are nurtured by this simple yet so complex an act that we daily take for
granted. This is the beginning of the practice of everyday mindfulness – becoming aware
of the daily reality to which we have become so numbed. It is the beginning of being
awake, becoming enlightened.
Continue to focus on the natural breath. But now, as you do, notice – observe, if
you will – how random disconnected thoughts enter your mind, distracting your focus on
the breath. When this occurs, as it will constantly, don’t chastise yourself or give up,
thinking you can’t concentrate. These random and distracting thoughts are natural and
unavoidable, even for the “expert” meditator. The appropriate way to respond to these
thoughts is with Stardust’s approach: observe that a thought has arisen and respond with a
mental “ah-so.” That’s all. Notice it, then move on. Think of the random thoughts as
clouds, that arise and pass away, and then gently, without much effort or pushing, simply
brush them aside and return to the focus of your attention, the natural breath. At times,
the distracting thoughts will completely take over your attention. You will suddenly
realize you are no longer paying attention to your natural breath at all! Again, very
natural. Again, “ah-so.” Observe this phenomenon as having arisen, make note of it,
then return your attention to the natural breath without scolding yourself at all. This is
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the practice of Right Effort and Right Concentration and you will daily get better at it,
daily become more easily focused and centered.
But the random, distracting thoughts will never disappear, no matter how many
years you meditate. And that is not important. As with most things in nature, your only
hope is to tame the mind, not to subdue it entirely or, heaven forbid, shut down its
activity. What this practice seeks is the calming of the mind and, at the same time, the
increasing of mindfulness. What we hope to create is simply time and space to turn
inward, time and space to observe the arising and passing away of thought that occurs
naturally every day, and to experience it as a teacher – a teacher of the reality of the
arising and passing away of everything in life.
In mindfulness meditation, one tries to keep the mind centered on the focus of our
attention, in this case the natural breath, for as long as possible without distraction. As
meditators, we soon discover how difficult that is. As soon as we try to keep the mind
fixed on our breathing, we begin to worry about a pain arising in our leg. As soon as we
try to brush distracting thoughts aside, a thousand new thoughts arise: memories, plans,
hopes, fears. One of these soon catches our attention and after a short time we realize we
have forgotten the natural breath altogether.
Who’s in control here? Not long into this exercise it becomes clear that the mind
is, in fact, out of control. Like the monkeys that interrupt our meditation by their racing
across the temple roof above our head, our minds race from one random thought to
another, testing our patience and our ability to focus and observe.
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Again, that’s OK. We can’t change our mind’s lifelong pattern of processing
thought continuously. But we can learn to observe and tame our mind’s reactions to its
own thoughts.
There is no “goal” to these sessions of practicing mindfulness. In fact, we want to
use this time of observation to learn how to avoid labeling the thoughts that arise as either
“good” or “bad.” They are just thoughts, natural thoughts. They are neither good nor
bad unless we label them as such. They are empty of any inherent existence as “good
thoughts” or “bad thoughts,” they only take on such an appearance if we name them.
Continuing with that thought, there is no such thing as a “good meditation session” or a
“bad meditation session.” Meditation time is simply meditation time. The good or bad
label is illusion. Perhaps the only “goal” of our mindfulness meditation, if there were one
at all, would be the observation and realization of this illusion.
His Holiness points to these illusions and our mental capacity to sort illusion from
reality: “With respect to the fact that the nature of the mind is clear light, we can say that
the nature of the mind is that it has the capacity to know objects. Therefore, since the
mind itself has a nature of comprehending objects, ignorance of objects is not due to the
nature of the mind but is due to some other obstructive factor. For instance, if you put
your hand over your eyes, you will not see anything. That absence of sight is not due to
the fact that the eye does not have a nature of seeing or capacity to see. The eye does
have a nature of seeing, but something is obstructing its sight.” A purpose of
mindfulness meditation is the removing of those obstructions to our truly seeing.
Stardust pointed out how mindfulness meditation simply teaches us how to live
our lives mindfully, placing no value judgements on the daily occurrences of life, but
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learning to sort out their illusion from reality. “Observing the natural breath is the means
for practicing right awareness. Our sufferings arise out of our ignorance. We react
because we do not know what we are doing, because we do not know the reality of
ourselves. The mind spends most of the time lost in fantasy and illusion, reliving
pleasant or unpleasant experiences and anticipating the future with eagerness or fear.
While lost in such cravings or aversions we are unaware of what is happening now, what
we are doing now. Yet surely this moment, now, is the most important moment for us.
We cannot live in the past; it is gone. Nor can we live in the future; it is forever beyond
our grasp. We can only live in the present; and yet most of us are painfully unaware of
the reality of the moment. If we can develop the ability to be aware of the reality of the
present moment, we can use the past as a guide for ordering our actions in the future.”
I recalled his words the following day, when, after waiting for silence at the
beginning of the morning meditation, Stardust simply began the session by slowly
reciting this poignant admonition: “Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream,
merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is but a dream.” The gompa was pregnant with
silence as a new meaning of these familiar words settled in.
But now I digress. My thoughts have wandered. Back to the natural breath. How
long should the practitioner do this, and how often? The experts suggest at least half an
hour a day, with twice a day being better, and working at it every day. This is the
foundation of an effective contemplative spiritual practice.
But, we say, where can I find an hour each day for meditation? My life is so
busy. Well, the obvious answer is that we can all find time for anything we really desire;
it’s just a matter of priorities. To actually find that extra half an hour in the morning, all
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one needs to do is set the alarm a half-hour earlier. Give yourself the gift of that extra
time. As for the possible loss of sleep, practicing calming your monkey mind will work
wonders with your ability to make your actual sleeping time more restful. One hour less
time spent sleeping and one hour more time spent meditating each day will actually result
in your being more rested each day. For me, the curious part was this: after a while
meditating daily, I became very possessive of my contemplative time. This is a problem,
from the Buddhist standpoint, I know! But, nonetheless, I soon came to crave and desire
“my time,” that time that I selfishly set aside for myself to turn inward and shut out the
mundane for a half-hour. I soon wanted nothing to keep me from my meditation time,
and settling into my cross-legged position on the cushion began to feel like a warm,
“coming home” experience that I daily cherished.
Now back to focusing on the breathing in and breathing out. Notice how easy it is
to become distracted and for the thoughts to drift in other directions. No problem. Just
return to observing the natural breath as soon as you realize you’ve drifted away. That’s
the value of having the natural breath as a tool to help center yourself. It’s always with
you, always available to use as a focus for those otherwise errant thoughts. It is like a
training leash for that monkey mind of yours.
As your meditation practice continues over days and weeks, you can begin fine-
tuning your powers of observation. Pay closer and closer attention to that triangle of
space between your upper lip and the bridge of your nose. Start to become aware of
every sensation that arises and passes away there, from as profound as the passing in and
out of air to the subtlest arising of a small twitch beneath the skin. Notice how each of
these sensations arises and passes away. Begin to notice how we instantly label these
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sensations, either as “good” or “bad,” “pleasant” or “pain;” how we instantly develop
attachment or aversion to them, wanting the “good” sensations to remain or repeat, and
wanting the “bad” sensations to go away.
When you have practiced sufficiently that you think you are becoming good at
remaining somewhat focused on the natural breath and the portion of the body around the
nose, you can progress to what is sometimes referred to as “body sweeping.” In this
practice, you simply move your focus from the area around the nose to other parts of the
body, one area at a time. Start with the head, perhaps the forehead. Focus your attention
on a small space, as small as a square inch or two. Notice for a few moments every
sensation that arises and passes away there. Observe the arising and passing away of
pain, or of sensations of warmth or cold, or of an itch or a twitch. Observe this one small
part of your forehead, then move down the face. Stop for a while and let your mind’s eye
observe, then move on to the neck, the arms, the chest, and so on. At each stop, focus
and observe. Observe what arises and passes away, and make note of your mental
reaction to those sensations: how you label them and react to them.
The most profound of all these bodily observations will probably prove to be the
pain that arises in your legs, calves, or lower back as you extend your periods of
meditation. This discomfort is common to all who begin meditation, especially to we
westerners who have not practiced from birth crossing our legs and sitting for prolonged
periods of time on a hard floor.
His Holiness is often quoted as saying that his enemy is his best teacher. This
usually refers to his “enemy” China, and he means it sincerely when used in that vein.
But he also teaches that any of our enemies are our best teacher, and, in the case of
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meditation, that includes our pain. Pay considerable attention to the arising and passing
away of pain, for inevitably the pain will pass away. No one, to my knowledge, has ever
lost a limb to the pain of meditation! In time, the pain that has arisen will just as surely
pass away, just like the little itch on your upper lip arose and passed away if you
exercised enough patience and discipline not to scratch it away.
This observing of the arising and passing away of pain is the beginning of an
experiential knowing of the emptiness of all phenomena and of impermanence. No
sensation is inherently “pain.” One cannot put one’s finger on the actual pain, even
though one is very much aware of its existence and location. There is a sensation, true
enough, but not a concrete thing we can hold and touch that has any independent
existence as “pain.” A sensation arises, we label it pain, and we immediately develop
aversion to it, wishing it would go away. In our meditation we can observe how we do
that. Then, over considerable time, we can learn to slow down our monkey mind to the
point where we no longer are so quick to label, no longer so quick to develop aversion,
and are more able to simply observe what is, without suffering the consequences of pain
over it. This ability will grow in direct proportion to our ability to observe how even pain
passes away, just as surely as does anything else. What we are seeking here is an ability
to react to our enemy pain with that “ah-so” reaction. It’s a matter of being awake to the
reality of the nature of that which we call pain, and through Right Understanding, Right
Effort, Right Concentration removing the mental causes of our suffering, replacing our
ignorance of how things are with a new and enlightened mindfulness. It is our enemies
that can teach us thusly, in the inner calm of our meditation.
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This mindfulness meditation, this sitting quietly and turning one’s thoughts and
attention inward, is not unlike the contemplation of the monks of the early Christian
church. On the surface, it seems that there exists a differing “reason” or goal for
Christian contemplative endeavor compared to Buddhist or Hindu meditation. Christian
contemplatives would probably use language such as “to experience God” to describe
their purpose in meditating, while Buddhists would probably say it was to “perceive
reality.” Here I would argue that, just as in our earlier look at the differences between the
western understanding of a Creator God and the Buddhist understanding that denies such
a god, there is a meeting of minds on the subject of Ultimate Reality. With that in mind,
it seems to me that meditation that allows for an experiential knowing of reality is very
much the same as contemplation that seeks to experience the Divine Reality. Both can
lead to a knowing that transcends mere knowledge.
This points to the reason that a meditative practice is necessarily an integral
component in any effort toward spiritual growth. Recalling that spirituality is
relationships, it is only through Right Effort, Right Thought, Right Concentration, Right
Mindfulness that we can understand and even transform our relationships with persons
and events in our lives. In the concluding chapters of this little book we will examine
specific meditative practices, including directed and analytical methods, that can help us
shape who we are and who we are becoming. But these require a foundation of a clear
and calm mind and the ability to focus. They also depend upon a growing appropriation
of reality: of the inherently empty nature of things in terms of our false understandings,
and of both the causal arising and fleeting impermanence of everything in the universe.
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It has been my observation that Western religion has lost its sense of daily
spiritual practice. If there is a growing disillusion among many church and synagogue
members today, it is, at its core, arising from this void. Each of us is seeking a path, a
path toward greater understanding and a more spiritually mature relationship with the
people and the world around us. There was a time that the western religions were
practiced in an all-consuming and life-changing way by at least a few. Spiritual seekers
today are searching for such a practice and not finding it within the walls of the
traditional western faiths.
The contemplative endeavor I have discovered for myself among my Buddhist
teachers and friends is empty of any inherent labels such as Hindu, Christian, Jewish - or
Buddhist. The Masters of every faith persuasion have found their way within the calm
and revelation of contemplative experience. Clear thinking and a calm mind belong to
any who would claim them. That is the reality. And walking a spiritual path requires a
foundation of nothing more – or less.
There is a favorite story, told by Buddhist teachers of meditation, about the
doctor’s prescription. A man becomes sick and goes to the doctor for help. The doctor
examines him and then writes out a prescription for some medicine. The man has great
faith in his doctor. He returns home and in his prayer room he puts a beautiful picture
and statue of the doctor on his altar. Then he pays respect to the picture and the statue by
bowing three times and lighting candles and incense. Then he takes out the prescription
that the doctor wrote for him and very solemnly recites it: “Two pills in the morning.
Two pills in the afternoon. Two pills in the evening.” All day long, for several days, he
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recites the prescription, but, alas, the prescription does not help him overcome his
suffering.
The man decides he wants to know more about this medicine and the doctor who
prescribed it, so he runs to the medical office and asks, “What is this medicine and why
did you prescribe it?” The doctor explains, “Here is the cause of your disease. If you
take the medicine I have recommended it will eradicate the root cause. When the cause
has been eliminated, your suffering will cease.” The man thinks, “Ah, wonderful! My
doctor is so intelligent and his prescriptions are like a miracle.” He goes home, and then
starts arguing with his neighbors, insisting, “My doctor is the best doctor. Your doctors
are useless."
But still he is not cured. All his life he may venerate his doctor as the best, but
what does it gain him? Until he takes the medicine, only then will he be relieved of his
misery. Only then will the medicine help him.
All of the world’s religions have their Masters who are like the physician. Out of
loving compassion they have offered their lives as prescriptions for alleviating suffering.
But many of their followers have venerated the doctor without entering into the regimen
of taking the medicine to relieve their suffering.
Having faith in the doctor is useful if it encourages you to take the medicine the
doctor prescribes. Understanding how the medicine works is beneficial if it encourages
you to take the medicine regularly. But the medicine can only work its miracles and
relieve the suffering if you take it, internally, yourself.
The Dalai Lama embellishes on the meaning of the story: “Religions are like
medicine in that the important thing is to cure human suffering. In the practice of
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medicine, it is not a question of how expensive the medicine is; what is important is to
cure the illness in a particular patient. Similarly, you see, there is a variety of religions
with their different philosophies and traditions. The aim or purpose of each religion is to
cure the pains and unhappiness of the human mind.”
My inherited faith offers answers - and prescriptions, if you will - for the anxiety I
have personally felt regarding my spiritual journey. In the silence of the meditation
room, with the help of teachers from all walks of life, I have begun to still my monkey
mind and discover unused prescriptions in my ancient medicine cabinet. I have begun to
take them. Daily spiritual exercise is beginning to improve my spiritual health.
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Chapter 11
Cultivating Compassion
I believe the purpose of all the major religious traditions is not to construct big temples on the outside, but to create temples of goodness and compassion inside, in our hearts.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama
It is Sunday morning in Dharamsala when Christine approaches me outside the
historic St. John-in-the-Wilderness church where I have just given the morning sermon.
Across the valley we can view His Holiness’ residence and the Namgyal Temple, and
hear the guttural drone of the temple horns echoing their call to Tibetan Buddhist
worship. She asks a question I am often asked: “What is there in Buddhism that is of
any particular benefit to those of us who were raised as Christians. Why should the
western Christian bother to investigate Buddhist wisdom and practice?”
I tell her I’ve had the opportunity to ask the same question of the Dalai Lama. His
response was, “That is mainly, I believe, the message of love and compassion...of
forgiveness. And then...there are different techniques, different ways, to promote or
increase these human good qualities. And there, I feel, is where we can learn from each
other.”
I am inclined to believe that it is within a shared emphasis on love and
compassion that Buddhism and Christianity find their deepest expression of inner
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affinity. I have also come to believe that a personal spiritual journey toward embodying
the Christian ideal of self-sacrificing love can be enhanced with the illumination of
Buddhist wisdom and practice.
It is often said in Christian theology that “God is love.” It is not said that God is
like love, or similar to love. It is not even said that God is merely loving. The teaching
says that God is, in fact, love. If that is a Christian truth - that God is love - then
Buddhists certainly believe in the same God - and the same Truth - since nothing is more
important in Buddhist teaching and practice than love and compassion.
And the wonderful value of Buddhist teaching for we westerners is that it offers
us a method and a practice for cultivating the genuine love and compassion we earnestly
seek to embrace and express through the thoughts and the actions of our everyday lives.
Jesus taught us to love our neighbor as our selves. Not only are we to love our
neighbor as we love our self, but we are to understand our neighbor as an extension of
our self, loving our neighbor as inseparable from self, one and the same. And we are
taught to love our enemies as well. But nowhere in the Gospels did Jesus directly teach a
method for his ordinary followers to develop that love, to cultivate it, to fine-tune it. We
can all understand love of neighbor as a logical abstract concept, but how can we make it
come alive and pervade the very sinews of our being and become the directing force in
our every impulse?
Our Buddhist neighbors offer us a method and a practice that can do just that.
With effort and concentration - with practice - we can become more loving, more Christ-
like, more God-like. We can come to be more compassionate in our spiritual
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relationships with self, with others, with the Divine and with all of creation. We can
discover and awaken the heart of Christ within us.
Certainly Buddhism teaches “the message of love and compassion,” but, so, too,
does Christianity - and Jesus. Where we can benefit from our exploration of Buddhist
wisdom and method is in those “different techniques, different ways, to promote or
increase those human good qualities.”
His Holiness says, “I believe it is possible to progress along a spiritual path...and
reconcile Christianity with Buddhism. Love of one’s neighbor, kindness, and
compassion - these are, I believe, the essential and universal elements preached by all
religions. Christians say ‘love of God, love for neighbor, love for fellow being.’ This is
my personal interpretation of Christianity. And just as you have love for God, love for
your neighbors, so the purpose of having love for God is to be able to make yourself
close to God. If you are close to God you have a motive to listen to His voice, and His
voice or teaching is that we should love one another. Basically the most important thing
is this love for others. In Buddhism, also, every emphasis is on love for others.”
He adds, “There are a number of qualities which are important to mental peace,
but from the little experience I have, I believe that one of the most important factors is
human compassion and affection; a sense of caring.”
To progress along the spiritual path, then, seems to imply growth in our ability to
love and to show compassion. What exactly do we mean by “compassion?” His
Holiness responds: “Usually our concept of compassion or love refers to the feeling of
closeness we have toward our friends and loved ones. Sometimes compassion also
carries a sense of pity. This is wrong. Any love or compassion which entails looking
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down on the other is not genuine compassion. To be genuine, compassion must be based
on respect for the other, and on the realization that the others have the right to be happy
and overcome suffering just as much as you do. On this basis, since you can see that
others are suffering, you develop a genuine sense of concern for them.”
I learned as a hospital chaplain that the word compassion is derived from the
Latin com and passio - literally “with the pain.” To be truly compassionate is not to show
pity but rather to enter into another’s pain, to be one with them in their pain, to share their
suffering, to recognize their suffering as if it were our own, to love our neighbor as
though his or her suffering were, in reality, an extension of our own.
His Holiness continues, “As for the closeness we feel towards our friends, this is
usually more like attachment than compassion. Many forms of compassionate feelings
are mixed with desire and attachment. For instance, the love parents feel for their child is
often strongly associated with their own emotional needs, so it is not fully compassionate.
Again, in marriage, the love between husband and wife - particularly at the beginning,
when each partner still may not know each other’s deeper character very well - depends
more on attachment than genuine love. This is an indication that love has been motivated
more by personal need than by genuine care for the individual. Genuine compassion
should be unbiased. If we only feel close to our friends, and not to our enemies or to the
countless people who are unknown to us personally and towards whom we are
indifferent, then our compassion is only partial or biased. True compassion is not just an
emotional response but a firm commitment founded on reason. Therefore, a truly
compassionate attitude towards others does not change even if they behave negatively.”
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Jesus pointed out this need to develop unbiased love and compassion when he
related his famous parable of the Good Samaritan. The Samaritans were considered
outcasts and non-believers, second-class religious citizens in Jesus’ time. But in his
story, it was the Samaritan who came to the aid of the poor victim of street violence while
the priestly religious figures passed him by. Jesus explained the moral to his story by
asking, “Who is your neighbor?” and answering his own question with, “Your neighbor
is anyone in need.” He might well have answered that genuine love and compassion
should be freely directed toward anyone who is suffering - namely, everyone!
“Of course,” says the Dalai Lama, “developing this kind of compassion is not at
all easy! As a start, let us consider the following facts: Whether people are beautiful and
friendly or unattractive and disruptive, ultimately they are human beings just like oneself.
Like oneself, they want happiness and do not want suffering. Furthermore, their right to
overcome suffering and be happy is equal to one’s own. Now, when you recognize that
all beings are equal in both their desire for happiness and their right to obtain it, you
automatically feel empathy and closeness for them. Through accustoming your mind to
this sense of universal altruism, you develop a feeling of responsibility for others: the
wish to help them actively overcome their problems. Nor is this wish selective; it applies
equally to all. As long as they are human beings experiencing pleasure and pain just as
you do, there is no logical basis to discriminate between them or to alter your concern for
them if they behave negatively.”
His Holiness is alluding to what is often referred to in Buddhist teaching as the
principle of equanimity. Genuine love and compassion involves equanimity - loving all
others without prejudice or bias - whether friend or foe, brother or enemy.
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“Let me emphasize that it is within our power, given patience and time, to
develop this kind of compassion. Of course, our self-centeredness, our distinctive
attachment to the feeling of an independent, self-existent ‘I’ works fundamentally to
inhibit our compassion. Indeed, true compassion can be experienced only when this type
of self-grasping is eliminated. But this does not mean that we cannot start and make
progress now.”
Here His Holiness is again making reference to emptiness, and the fact that
everything is empty of the inherent existence we typically ascribe to it, most notably this
illusory concept of “self” we all cling to. Until we can let go of our false concept of self,
we will be hindered in our capacity to grow in compassion and loving kindness.
“Obviously, it is not enough for us simply to think about how nice compassion is!
We need to make a concerted effort to develop it; we must use all the events of our daily
life to transform our thoughts and behavior. We should begin,” His Holiness continues,
“by removing the greatest hindrances to compassion: anger and hatred. As we all know,
these are extremely powerful emotions and they can overwhelm our entire mind.
Nevertheless, they can be controlled. If, however, they are not, these negative emotions
will plague us - with no extra effort on their part! - and impede our quest for the
happiness of a loving mind.
“So as a start, it is useful to investigate whether or not anger is of value.
Sometimes when we are discouraged by a difficult situation, anger does seem to be
helpful, appearing to bring with it more energy, confidence and determination. Here,
though, we must examine our mental state carefully. While it is true that anger brings
extra energy, if we explore the nature of this energy we discover that it is blind: we
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cannot be sure whether the result will be positive or negative. This is because anger
eclipses the best part of our brain - its rationality. So the energy of anger is almost
always unreliable. It can cause an immense amount of destructive, unfortunate behavior.
Moreover, if anger increases to the extreme, one becomes like a mad person, acting in
ways that are as damaging to oneself as they are to others.
“It is possible, however, to develop an equally forceful but far more controlled
energy with which to handle difficult situations.
“This controlled energy comes not only from a compassionate attitude, but also
from reason and patience. These are the most powerful antidotes to anger.
Unfortunately, many people misjudge these qualities as signs of weakness. I believe the
opposite to be true: that they are the true signs of inner strength. Compassion is by nature
gentle, peaceful and soft, but it is also very powerful. It is those who easily lose their
patience who are insecure and unstable. Thus, to me, the arousal of anger is a direct sign
of weakness.
“So, when a problem first arises, try to remain humble and maintain a sincere
attitude and be concerned that the outcome is fair. Of course, others may try to take
advantage of you, and if your remaining detached only encourages unjust aggression,
adopt a strong stand. This, however, should be done with compassion, and if it is
necessary to express your views and take strong countermeasures, do so without anger or
ill intent.
“You should realize that even though your opponents appear to be harming you,
in the end their destructive activity will damage only themselves. In order to check your
own selfish impulse to retaliate, you should recall your desire to practice compassion and
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assume responsibility for helping prevent the other person from suffering the
consequences of his or her acts.
“Thus, because the measures you employ have been calmly chosen, they will be
more effective, more accurate and more forceful. Retaliation based on the blind energy
of anger seldom hits the target.”
His Holiness, while using language that could just as easily have come from the
Gospels, is pointing us toward the calming of the mind that has already been alluded to in
our discussion of meditation. A calm mind, a rational approach to the manner in which
we respond to difficulty, checking our own selfish impulses - these are the concerns of
our meditation, these are the cutting edges of our spiritual growth that can be the
appropriate subject of our contemplation.
And His Holiness offers two principal meditational techniques for cultivating the
compassion that he argues will benefit not only those “others” around us, but ourselves as
well. These meditations focus on the “others” in our lives, on the relationships we can
cultivate with the others in our lives. For ultimately, since we are all connected, since we
are all part of a cosmic “one,” we cannot realize true and complete happiness in our own
lives until all the “others” in our lives have achieved happiness as well. And we can have
some small effect on that happiness of others. The compassion we desire to cultivate
must, in the end, be based on a sincere desire to relieve the suffering of all if we are to
ever be free of our own suffering.
The Dalai Lama teaches the first of these two meditations in this manner: “The
way to develop love and compassion is first of all to visualize a person whose level of
suffering is such that, to an ordinary mind, we feel we cannot bear it. We just do not
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even want to look at it. Take that person to mind and reflect on the qualities of his or her
suffering. Then reflect on the fact that he or she is similar to yourself in terms of wanting
happiness and not wanting suffering. Through time, you will very strongly feel a sense
of concern for that other person. This is how love and compassion are developed.
“Then move your meditation to other persons who are close to you, one by one.
Eventually work on your enemies, one by one, taking them to mind and seeing that they
are similar to yourself in wanting happiness, not wanting suffering, and having the right
to be free from suffering. Thus, you can develop the same strength of concern with
respect to them. It is important that we emphasize developing love and compassion with
respect to those persons who are hard to care for, our so-called enemies. They are the
ones who give us the most trouble. And they are the ones who give us the most
opportunity to practice love and compassion. Not our friends, of course, but our
enemies! So, if we truly wish to learn, we should consider our enemies to be our best
teachers.
“For a person who cherishes compassion and love, the practice of tolerance is
essential, and for that an enemy is indispensable. So we should feel grateful to our
enemies, for it is they who can best help us develop a tranquil mind. In the Gospels, (this
is the Dalai Lama speaking!) there is the same message about the need to develop
patience and forbearance in loving one’s enemies.”
His Holiness goes on to point out that “it is often the case in both personal and
public life that with a change in circumstances, enemies become friends. So anger and
hatred are our real enemies which we need to confront and defeat, not the temporary
‘enemies’ who appear intermittently throughout life.”
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This is the concept of labeling, and it is always our decision how we choose to
label someone. We decide who is enemy or friend or even lover, and we do so typically
without any critical thinking on our part. And labels are perfect examples of emptiness -
they are empty of any inherent existence. Our labels of others are only our self-centered
projections. Think for a moment: if this stranger were really an “enemy,” everyone
would see “enemy” in him or her. But the reality is that most see him or her as a neutral
stranger, while still others see a friend, or a son or daughter, father or mother, even lover.
The Dalai Lama often points out that he has learned much from his “enemy,”
China - the nation that currently occupies his country and which has systematically
persecuted his people. I used to think he was just being “politically correct” and
magnanimous when he publicly stated that this “enemy” has been his best teacher in life.
But after dealing with my own personal “enemies” in meditations in India and at home, I
have come to realize the truth contained in his message. We don’t learn how to cultivate
love and compassion from those who are easy to love, we learn it from those for whom
our love requires significant effort and constant practice - our so-called enemies. And
some of our most troublesome enemies are not people at all, but our inner sources of pain
and suffering. We can learn from these enemies, and liberate ourselves from their control
over us, through the practice of our contemplation and meditation.
This meditation on love and compassion (His Holiness refers to it as the
meditation on equanimity) has become an important part of my personal meditation
practice and a favorite of those I teach in my meditation classes. Let me guide you
through it in detail:
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Imagine in the space in front of you three people: someone you like, someone you
dislike, and someone you feel indifferent to. Retain the images of your friend, your
enemy, and the stranger throughout the meditation.
First, focus on your friend. Allow your feelings for him or her to arise. Feel your
conviction that this person is definitely friend, that is, a person who is good to you and
who satisfies your needs. Feel how you really want this person to be happy. Immerse
yourself in your good feelings.
Now, turn to your enemy, the person you do not like and who is not kind to you,
who does not satisfy your needs, who hurts you. Look carefully at this man or woman;
carefully note your feelings.
Finally, turn to the so-called stranger, this person you know a little but whom you
neither like nor dislike. Look carefully at the person and note your feeling of
indifference.
Now, recognize that the basis for your relationship to these three people is solely
what they do or don’t do for you, at this point in time. Is this a sound basis? Given the
Buddhist view that our minds are beginningless, it follows that everyone has been our
friend, enemy and stranger countless times before, so isn’t it reasonable to be kind to
your enemies now because they have been friends before?
Now return to your friend and imagine a situation that would cause the
relationship to end. Imagine your friend turning against you; feel the resentment and
hurt, and how you no longer feel warm, no longer wish him or her well. Where is your
friend now?
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Recall that this person was not your friend before you were acquainted, and could
very easily cease to be your friend now, as you have visualized.
Realize that there is no sound reason for feeling kind and loving towards only the
friend of this moment. Relationships have changed in the past and will continue to
change in the future. Today’s friend can become tomorrow’s enemy.
Now, turn to the present enemy. Imagine a situation in which you could be drawn
together: a common interest, a word of praise or kindness. Look carefully at the person
and your feelings. Are you softening? You can learn to feel warmly towards your
enemy. This has happened before and will happen again. Why hold so strongly to the
conception that this is definitely “enemy?”
And what of the “stranger?” Imagine how one act of kindness or anger from this
person could immediately turn him or her into a friend or enemy. There is no inherent,
definite stranger there and no sound reason for your feelings of indifference. Remember
that your present friend and enemy were strangers to you beforehand; this stranger could
become friend or enemy now.
Keep these three people clearly in front of you. Think about the fragile
impermanence of these relationships. It is only your misconceived belief in the stability
of them that holds your mind back from the possibility of change.
Your friend, enemy and stranger all want happiness as much as you; in this
respect everyone is equal. And everyone is equal in having the potential to develop their
minds to the fullest and to achieve ultimate clarity and compassion. The differences we
see in people are superficial, based on our mistaken and narrow self-centered viewpoint.
In fact, everyone is equally deserving of our care and compassion.
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None of this means that we should not discriminate; on a practical level it is
necessary. Naturally we feel closer to some people and are wise to keep our distance
from others. This is not a contradiction. The point of the meditation is to develop equal
concern, equal regard, for everyone, whether they help or harm us at this point in time,
and to see that our present discrimination is based on arbitrary, mistaken and very
changeable labels.
Finally, close your meditation with a genuine wish for the happiness of your
friend, your enemy, and for the strangers in your life, and dedicate your positive energy
and insight toward the well being and happiness of all.
There is a second important meditation and way of re-framing our thinking that is
also helpful in cultivating compassion. This was touched upon in the previous
meditation, and also in our earlier discussion of the Buddhist belief in countless past lives
for all of us. This has to do with a view that all persons - friend, enemy or stranger - were
at one time our mother; our nurturing parent in a previous life among the infinite lives we
have known. This re-framing of our relationship with friend, enemy and stranger as
having been a past parent is one of the benefits I mentioned earlier of choosing to
integrate the Buddhist view of rebirth into one’s own world view. It helps one
understand our interconnectedness at a deeper level, and facilitates this cultivation of
compassion toward all persons that we intuitively understand is necessary for our own
happiness.
His Holiness explains it this way: “It would be reasonable to call one person
friend, another an enemy, and a third a stranger if they had held this status throughout the
billions of lives we have experienced since beginningless time. But this is not the case.
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All beings have been friend, relative, and even mother and father to us again and again.
Each time they have showered us with a rainfall of kindness, protecting us from harm,
and providing us with much happiness. This is in the past. As for the future, until we
attain liberation or enlightenment we shall continue to spin on the wheel of life with
them, meeting them again and again in relationships of friend, relative and so forth.
“The kindness of the mother is chosen as the example of the intensity of kindness
that all beings have shown us. We can see the kindness of a mother not only in humans
but in animals, birds and so forth. A mother dog will starve herself to feed her pups and
will die to protect them. In the same way, even if our mother were strange to us in some
ways she would still have instinctively and unconsciously shown us great kindness. All
beings have loved us in this very same way, sacrificing their food for us and even dying
to protect us because their love for us was so strong. The people who are friends,
enemies, and strangers to us in this life showed us the great kindness of a mother in
countless previous lives. We have to learn how to see all beings in this same loving
image.
“When we meditate on these facts,” His Holiness teaches, “and apply the
experiences of our meditations in our daily exchanges with people, the smooth mind that
looks upon all beings with equanimity is quickly generated. As a result of this meditation
one gains a feeling of spontaneous familiarity with all other sentient beings, a recognition
that they are somehow very close to us and very precious.
“Whenever anyone harms us we should think to ourselves, ‘In many past
incarnations this person was my mother. As my mother she fed me, cleaned my body,
and protected me from every harm. I slept in her lap and drank milk from her breasts. At
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that time this person only benefited me and shared all possessions with me. The harm
this person is now bringing to me is due only to the forces of negative karma and
delusion.’
“How can we repay the kindness of all those persons who have at one time loved
us as a mother? Through showing them immaculate love and compassion. Immaculate
love is the thought, ‘May they have happiness and its causes.’ Compassion is the
thought, ‘May they be free of suffering and its causes.’ When we meditate that we
ourselves should generate a personal sense of universal responsibility for the welfare of
others, each of whom has been our mother many times over, we begin to understand that
we are striving for enlightenment in order to benefit all living beings, and a subtle change
in our attitude toward them is immediately effected. Our compassion takes on an added
depth and richness, and our meditation takes on a new dimension.”
Love your neighbor as your self, Jesus taught. How much easier might it be to
put that teaching into the action of our lives if we could relate to everyone in our world as
if they had once loved us as our mother?
His holiness ends this contemplative lesson by asking, “Why are we able, through
the application of such meditative techniques, not only to develop but to enhance
compassion? This is because compassion is a type of emotion that possesses the potential
for development. Generally speaking, we can point to two types of emotion. One is
more instinctual and is not based on reason. The other type of emotion - such as
compassion or tolerance - is not so instinctual but instead has a sound base or grounding
in reason and experience. When you clearly see the various logical grounds for their
development and you develop conviction in these benefits, then these emotions will be
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enhanced. What we see here is a joining of intellect and heart. Compassion represents
the emotion, or heart, and the application of analytic meditation applies to the intellect.
So, when you have arrived at that meditative state where compassion is enhanced, you
see a special merging of intellect and heart.”
In Christian churches and in Buddhist monasteries, in communion and in conflict
with my universal brothers and sisters, and in my sacred journey through the Mandala of
life, I have experienced that compassion is neither automatic nor instinctive. The loving
and compassionate heart of the Christ or of the Buddha needs to be learned; it needs to be
nurtured and cultivated. And I have learned that it can be cultivated by any of us - with
wisdom and insight nurtured in the discipline of a daily spiritual practice.
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Chapter 12
Spiritual Exercises
If we practice religion properly or genuinely, religion is not something outside, but in our hearts. The essence of any religion is a good heart.
- His Holiness the Dalai Lama
“By the grace of God I am a Christian, by my deeds a great sinner, and by my
calling a homeless wanderer of humblest origin, roaming from place to place.”
These are not my words, but they might have been. They were penned by an
unknown nineteenth-century Russian peasant and speak of his constant wrestling with the
problem of “how to pray without ceasing.” Through his journeys and travels, and under
the tutelage of spiritual guides, he becomes gradually more open to the experience of
God. The Way of a Pilgrim has become a classic of inspirational literature.
The author continues writing: “On the twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost I
came to church to attend the Liturgy and entered just as the epistle was being read. The
reading was from Paul’s First Letter to the Thessalonians, which says in part, ‘Pray
constantly.’ These words made a deep impression on me and I started thinking of how it
could be possible for a man to pray without ceasing when the practical necessities of life
demand so much attention.
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“What shall I do? I thought. Where can I find a person who will explain this
mystery to me? I will go to the various churches where there are good preachers and
perhaps I will obtain an explanation from them. And so I went. I heard many good
homilies on prayer, but they were all instructions about prayer in general: what is prayer,
the necessity of prayer, and the fruits of prayer, but no one spoke of the way to succeed in
prayer. I did hear a sermon on interior prayer and ceaseless prayer but nothing about
attaining that form of prayer. Inasmuch as listening to public sermons had not given me
any satisfaction, I stopped attending them and decided, with the grace of God, to look for
an experienced and learned person who would satisfy my ardent desire and explain
ceaseless prayer to me.”
Again, these are not my words, but they might have been. Like myself, the
pilgrim who wrote these words would seek and find a valuable teacher:
“I heard that you are a devout and wise man and I came in the name of God to ask
you to explain the meaning of the words, ‘Pray constantly.’ How is it possible to pray
continuously? I am very eager to know this and cannot in any way comprehend it.
“The gentleman was silent for a moment; then he looked at me intently and said,
‘Ceaseless interior prayer is a continuous aspiration and a yearning of the spirit of man
toward God. To succeed in this sweet exercise it is necessary to ask God frequently that
He teach you to pray continuously. Pray often and fervently and prayer itself will reveal
this mystery to you, how it is possible for it to be continuous. But it takes time.’”
I have heard His Holiness offer much the same wisdom: “Although it is essential
to maintain a reasonable material basis on which to live, the emphasis in one’s life should
be on cultivating the mental and spiritual causes of our happiness. Persons who seek
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happiness and wish to overcome suffering are wise to exert themselves in spiritual
methods.”
I have learned the value of praying unceasingly and of spiritual exercise and of
meditation and contemplative practice from Buddhists, Hindus, Christians and Jews.
Their wisdom converges in universal themes and language. Saint Ignatius sounds very
Buddhist when he writes in his Spiritual Exercises, “The purpose of these Exercises is to
help the exercitant to conquer himself, and to regulate his life so that he will not be
influenced in his decisions by any inordinate attachment. In order that the one who gives
these Exercises and he who makes them may be of more assistance and profit to each
other, they should begin with the presupposition that every good Christian ought to be
more willing to give a good interpretation to the statement of another than to condemn it
as false.”
And the Pilgrim encounters this advice along the way to an understanding of
continuous prayer: “To be spiritually enlightened and to be an interior man one needs
only to take a passage from scripture and meditate on it; as much as possible one should
hold one’s attention on it and in this way one’s mind will become illuminated.” He
doesn’t record it in his journal, but I suspect his teacher had encountered Buddhist
thought along his own way.
There is a universal understanding among the sages of all faith traditions that the
key to personal spiritual growth and fulfillment is the cultivation of a daily contemplative
practice.
That revelation has been the sum total of the lessons I have learned in my own
spiritual wanderings. This book has been written to make the same case, and this closing
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chapter will offer methods and suggestions which, when combined with some of the
techniques presented in the past few chapters, can form a framework for your own daily
spiritual practice. They are drawn from several traditions, but share a commonality: they
are all offered as a means to an end, not an end unto themselves. Spiritual practice is
intended to foster an experiential awareness of reality, which can and should be applied
to one’s daily living. Spiritual practice and meditation are not something we “do” for an
hour or two in the privacy of our room while seated on our cushions, and after which we
resume our ordinary and unsatisfactory patterns of life. The contemplative endeavor is
the “practice” of observation and life skills that need to be applied to every waking
moment of every single day. Spiritual practice is intended to be transformational.
The Tibetans divide their practice into three categories: calm abiding or
mindfulness, analytical meditation and visualization.
We have been introduced to the basic skills of mindfulness meditation in an
earlier chapter. For our western thinking, that wants results and wants them right now,
this basic skill can sometimes seem empty of any concrete result. The exact opposite is
actually true. Simply creating the time and space to experience reality is the one most
effective method of experiencing spiritual growth. Over time, we can observe the
illusions that comprise our daily thought and we can begin to understand the fallacy of
most of our reactions to the people and events around us. We see, feel, hear, touch, smell
and then draw conclusions about the reality of that which we perceive. Usually we label
that reality with a false understanding. Then we react. We like what we perceive or we
dislike it. We want it or we want it to go away. Usually this perceiving, labeling and
reacting is so automatic we are not even aware it is happening. And we are surprised to
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know that there might be any other way of perceiving, understanding and acting.
Mindfulness meditation allows us to examine all of this, to observe it, to experience it
and to begin to understand it. Then, we can move from our cushion to our daily
interaction with people and things and observe how we interact with them. Meditation,
like the prayer life of our wandering Pilgrim, can and should be practiced unceasingly.
In his Holiness’ words, “At a time when people are so conscious of maintaining
their physical health by controlling their diets, exercising, and so forth, it makes sense to
try to cultivate the corresponding mental attitudes too.”
That having been said, let’s look at a delightfully simple spiritual practice that is
taught by Stardust, usually by leading his western students in silence to an idyllic
meadow above Dharamsala. Here, within view of the snow-covered peaks of the
Himalayan foothills and in the company of playfully-chattering monkeys, Stardust
teaches “walking meditation.” The purpose of this exercise is summed up in a little story
of an encounter between a practicing monk and an incredulous observer. “What are you
doing,” asks the observer. “I’m meditating,” replies the monk. “No you’re not. You’re
just walking.” “That’s right,” taught the monk, “but I am aware of my walking.”
Walking meditation can be done anywhere, at any time. It is certainly nice to
practice it in a grassy meadow with the Himalayan peaks as a backdrop, but downtown
Manhattan will do just as well! Just walk. But as you do, allow your eyes to rest in a
nearly closed position – the eyelids naturally at rest – and begin to pay attention to
everything. This is the quintessential experience of mindfulness. Become mindful of
every motion, every sensation, every thought. Understand, at a very deep level, that you
are consciously placing one foot in front of the other in order to move from here to there.
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Become aware of the present moment. Gently brush aside memories of the past and
thoughts of future plans that may arise in your thinking. In this manner, it is much like
our seated mindfulness meditation. Become totally aware of the present moment – the
sounds of the birds, the warmth of the sun, the fragrance of the flowers and the grass (or
the noise and exhaust if you’re in Manhattan!), and the interaction of your own thoughts
and responses as you, methodically and with focused concentration, place one foot
deliberately in front of the other to become somewhere where you were not only a
moment before. This is walking, and “knowing you are walking.”
The really great thing about walking meditation is that you can do it anywhere.
Oh sure, people on the street may pause and stare if you take it too far, but so what? Just
tell them, like the monk, “I’m walking. But I know I’m walking,” and enjoy their head-
shaking response as they try to find meaning in your strange walking and your puzzling
koan-like assertion.
And you don’t have to limit this kind of meditation to walking. I do some of my
best meditation as I wash the dishes, looking out the kitchen window. It’s my
dishwashing meditation! People think I’m only washing the dishes, but I know that I
know I am washing dishes! It may sound silly, but it has very real value: it reminds me of
the need for constant mindfulness, and it reinforces an understanding of how
contemplative spiritual practice can and should be translated into an enlightened
understanding of everyday experience.
Now let’s look at those contemplative practices that are of value during my
specific meditation time. Again these come not only from the Buddhist tradition but
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from my inherited Christianity as well. They also include some practices from the
newest contemporary spiritual movements, as no one tradition has all the good tools.
Firstly, and so very importantly, are the practices mentioned in the previous
chapter on cultivating compassion. Over and over I visualize the friend, the stranger, the
enemy as having been my mother or my father in a previous lifetime. I stated earlier that
an understanding – if not a belief – in an infinite progression and regression of lifetimes
has value, value from the standpoint of being able to see the people around me in the new
light of their former and future relationships to me. This enables me to comprehend how
I apply arbitrary labels to others, labels that are empty of any inherent meaning when
viewed in the light of infinite lifetimes. I would encourage you to make this type of
analytical meditation a cornerstone of your daily practice. By so doing, you will soon
notice how naturally it begins to have an effect on your day-to-day interactions with
others. The labels of “stranger” or even “enemy” start to dissolve into the nothingness
they really are, and you soon are treating all persons with a new and satisfying
equanimity. Judgements of people that used to cause you unnecessary suffering start to
disappear.
This meditation on compassion is an example of analytical meditation. There is a
“script,” if you will – a plan for organizing and even reordering your thinking. In that
respect it differs markedly from mindfulness meditation which has little or no preset
“goal.” The following is an analytical meditation taken from the original Spiritual
Exercises of Saint Ignatius. Ignore the dated language and pious Christian emphasis of
its time if you wish and observe instead the essence of the meditation.
Contemplation to Attain Divine Love.
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“Two points are to be noted here:
“The first is that love ought to be manifested in deeds rather than words.
“The second is that love consists in a mutual interchange by the two parties, that
is to say, that the lover gives to and shares with the beloved all that he has or can attain,
and that the beloved act toward the lover in like manner. Thus if he has knowledge, he
shares it with the one who does not have it. In like manner they share honor, riches, and
all things.
“Prayer: Begin with your usual preparatory prayer.
“The first prelude is the mental representation of the place. Here it is to see how I
stand in the presence of God our Lord and of the angels and saints, who intercede for me.
“The second prelude is to ask for what I desire. Here it will be to ask for a deep
knowledge of the many blessings I have received. I will ponder with great affection how
much God our Lord has done for me, and how many of His graces He has given me. I
will likewise consider how much the same Lord wishes to give Himself to me in so far as
He can, according to His divine decrees. I will then reflect within myself, and consider
that I, for my part, with great reason and justice, should offer and give to His Divine
Majesty, all that I possess and myself with it, as one who makes an offering with deep
affection, saying:
“Take, O Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and
my entire will, all that I have and possess. Thou hast given all to me, to Thee O
Lord, I return it. All is Thine; dispose of it according to Thy will. Give me Thy
love and Thy grace, for this is enough for me.
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“The second point is to consider how God dwells in His creatures; in the
elements, giving them being; in the plants, giving them life; in the animals, giving them
sensation; in men (and women), giving them understanding; So He dwells in me, giving
me being, life, sensation, and intelligence, and making a temple of me, since He created
me to the likeness and image of His Divine Majesty. Then I will reflect upon myself in
the manner stated in the first point, or in any other way that may seem beneficial.”
O.K., so you don’t want to imitate the language of the contemplative pillars of the
early Church. That’s understandable. But take note of the guidance offered here with
regard to analytical meditation and how a litany can guide you into a contemplative state
that has richness and value. At some deep level it can touch a chord with the primordial
spirituality of your inheritance.
Now let’s try a more Buddhist meditation and notice the similarity with the
ancient Christian exercise we just examined. Let’s look at a visualization meditation on
compassion and a meditation on emptiness.
Visualization meditation, as practiced in the Tantric rituals of Tibetan Buddhism,
is of the highest form of mental exercise and spiritual development, and is often difficult
for westerners to enter into fully. It has as its goal the “becoming” of a quality that is
embodied in a deity or higher being, such as becoming the essence of compassion as
embodied in the deity Avalokiteshvara. The principle is simple: meditate on a quality
long and hard enough and you can literally “become” it. It is not unlike being told you
are the greatest, and repeating it over and over again until you actually are. Or, at the
other end of the spectrum, being told by your parents or your peers over and over that you
are nothing and will never amount to anything. If you hear it often enough, it will
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become a self-fulfilling prophecy. You can, it seems, literally become what you believe,
what you visualize.
In visualization meditation, the object of one’s meditation is a representation of a
quality such as pure compassion. Avalokiteshvara is the deity who, for the Tibetans, is
the embodiment of compassion, literally compassion incarnate. By focusing one’s entire
being on that embodiment, it is possible in Tantric practice, to “become” compassion.
The same could work for westerners - whose experience of Avalokiteshvara is
limited, at best – by focusing the attention on Jesus or Mother Theresa or any
embodiment of a human quality worthy of emulation. The following example is Tibetan,
but your choice of western figures could be substituted effectively in your own practice.
Relax your body and mind and bring your awareness to the present by mindfully
watching your breath. Check your thoughts and feelings and generate a positive
motivation for doing the meditation.
Imagine that all of space is filled with beings, sitting around you and extending
beyond the horizon. Contemplate their suffering. First, think of the suffering of your
parents and the other people you are close to. Open your hearts to the physical and
psychological problems they are experiencing and think that, just like you, they want to
be free of all suffering. Feel how wonderful it would be if they were free and could enjoy
the peace and bliss of enlightenment.
Then think of the people you do not like or who have hurt you. Imagine their
suffering: physical pain and discomfort, feelings of loneliness, insecurity, fear,
dissatisfaction. Just like you, they don’t want problems but they have no choice: as long
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as the mind is confused and ignorant of reality, it cannot find peace. Open your heart to
these people for whom you normally feel irritation or anger.
Now, visualize just above your head and facing the same way as you
Avalokiteshvara (or the other personification of compassion of your choosing), the
manifestation of pure unobstructed compassion, love and wisdom. His body is of white
light, transparent and radiant. Try to feel his living presence.
His face is peaceful and smiling and he radiates his love to you and all the other
beings surrounding you. He has four arms, able to reach out and embrace the world with
compassion. His first two hands are together at his heart and hold a jewel that fulfills all
wishes; his second two are raised to the level of his shoulders, the right holding a crystal
rosary and the left a white lotus. He is sitting on a white moon disc upon an open lotus,
his legs crossed in the full-lotus posture. He wears exquisite silk and precious jewels.
Hold your awareness on this visualization until it is stable. Stay relaxed and
comfortable and open to Avalokiteshvara’s serene and loving energy.
Now, make a prayer from your heart, to overcome your misconceptions and
negative energy and to develop pure love and compassion for all beings. Feel that you
are connecting with your own true nature, your highest potential.
In response to your request, Avalokiteshvara lovingly sends streams of white
light, filling every cell and atom of your body. It purifies all your negativities and
problems, all your past harmful actions and your potential to give harm in the future, and
completely fills you with his limitless love and compassion. Your body feels light and
blissful, your mind peaceful and clear.
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The light from Avalokiteshvara radiates out to every living being, purifying their
negative energy and filling them with bliss.
Hold this image in your consciousness as long as you like. Then visualize
Avalokiteshvara dissolving into white light, which flows down through the crown of your
head and reaches your heart’s center. Your mind merges indistinguishably with
Avalokiteshvara’s mind and you experience complete tranquility and bliss.
Hold this feeling as long as possible. Whenever your usual sense of “I” starts to
arise - an “I” that is bored, restless, hungry, whatever - think that this is not your real self.
Simply bring your attention back again and again to the experience of being at oneness
with the qualities of Avalokiteshvara’s mind: infinite love and compassion.
Finally dedicate the positive energy you have created by doing this meditation to
the happiness of all living beings.
Now the meditation on emptiness: Begin with the breathing meditation to relax
and calm your mind. Now, with full alertness, slowly and carefully become aware of the
“I.” Who or what is thinking, feeling and meditating? How does it seem to come into
existence? How does it appear to you? Is your “I” a creation of your mind? Or is it
something existing concretely and independently, in its own right?
If you think you can identify it, try to locate it. Where is this “I?” Is it in your
head…in your eyes…in your heart…in your hands…in your stomach…in your feet?
Carefully consider each part of your body, including the organs, blood vessels, and
nerves. Can you find the “I?” It might be very small and subtle, so consider the cells, the
atoms, the parts of the atoms.
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After considering the entire body, again ask yourself how your “I” manifests its
apparent existence. Does it still appear to be vivid and concrete? Is your body the “I” or
not?
Perhaps you think your mind is the “I.” The mind is a constantly changing stream
of thoughts, feelings and other experiences, coming and going in rapid alternation.
Which of these is the “I?” Is it a loving thought…an angry thought…a happy feeling…a
depressed feeling? Is your “I” the meditating mind…the dreaming mind? Can you find
the “I” in your mind?
Is there any other place to look for your “I?” Could it exist somewhere else or in
some other way? Examine every possibility you can think of.
Again, look at the way your “I” actually appears, feels to you. After this search
for the “I,” do you notice any change? Do you still believe that it is as solid and real as
you felt before? Does it still appear to exist independently, in and of itself?
Next, mentally disintegrate your body. Imagine all the atoms separating and
floating apart. Billions and billions of minute particles scatter throughout space. Imagine
that you can actually see this.
Now, disintegrate your mind. Let every thought, feeling, sensation and
perception float away.
Stay in this experience of space without being distracted by thoughts. When the
feeling of an independent, inherent “I” recurs, analyze it again. Does it exist in the body.
In the mind? How does it exist?
Do not make the mistake of thinking, “My body is not the “I” and my mind is not
the “I,” therefore I don’t exist. You do exist, but not in the way you instinctively feel,
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that is as independent and inherent. Conventionally, your self exists in dependence upon
mind and body, and this combination is the basis to which conceptual thinking ascribes a
name: “I” or “self” or “Mary” or “John.” This is the you that is sitting and meditating
and wondering, “Maybe I don’t exist!”
Whatever exists is necessarily dependent upon causes and conditions, or parts and
names, for its existence. This is how things exist conventionally, and understanding
interdependence is the principle cause for understanding a thing’s ultimate nature - its
emptiness. The conventional nature of something is its dependence upon causes and
conditions and its ultimate nature is its emptiness of inherent, independent existence.
Think now about how your body exists conventionally; in dependence upon skin,
blood, bones, legs, arms, organs and so forth. In turn, each of these exists in dependence
upon their own parts: cells, atoms and sub-atomic particles.
Think about your mind, how it exists in dependence upon thoughts, feelings,
perceptions, sensations. And how, in turn, each of these exists in dependence upon the
previous conscious experiences that gave rise to them.
Now, go back to your feeling of “self” or “I.” Think about how you exist
conventionally, in dependence upon mind and body and name – the self parts.
When the body feels hungry or cold, for example, you think “I am hungry,” “I am
cold,.” When the mind has an idea about something, you say “I think.” When you feel
love for someone, you say “I love you.” When introducing yourself to someone you say
“I am so-and-so.”
Apart from this sense of “I” that depends upon the ever-flowing, ever-changing
streams of body and mind, is there an “I” that is solid, unchanging and independent?
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The mere absence of such an inherently-existing ‘I’ is the emptiness of the self.
Finish the session with a conclusion as to how you, your self, exists. Conclude by
dedicating sincerely any positive energy and insight you have gained to the
enlightenment of all beings. Think that this meditation is just one step along the path to
finally achieving direct insight into emptiness and thus cutting the root of suffering and
dissatisfaction.
Allied with the concept of emptiness is an understanding of impermanence. The
ultimate example of impermanence is our own. We are constantly changing and
precariously finite human beings. Our impermanence is reflected in the shadow of death
in which we live our every day. For this reason, His Holiness the Dalai Lama reflects on
his own death each day in his personal meditation.
“One important aspect of my daily practice is its concern with the idea of death.
To my mind, there are two things that, in life, you can do about death. Either you can
choose to ignore it, in which case you may have some success in making the idea of it go
away for a limited period of time, or you can confront the prospect of your own death and
try to analyze it and, in so doing, try to minimize some of the inevitable suffering that it
causes. Neither way can you actually overcome it. However, as a Buddhist, I view death
as a normal process of life. I accept it as a reality that will occur while I am in Samsara,
the endless cycle of life and death and rebirth.”
As related in an earlier chapter, His Holiness has told me that, “with regard to
impermanence, it is very good to meditate on death. This helps with an understanding of
attachment. At the time of death, all money, all fame, all power, all influence is of no
use…except for God’s blessing, God’s grace. An understanding of impermanence is very
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helpful to reduce anger, hatred…and to increase forgiveness, tolerance, and here they
have very much in common with Jesus’ teachings of love and compassion.”
Here is a method for reflecting on death. As preparation, begin with the basic
centering approach of mindfulness meditation, focusing your attention on the natural
breath. Bring your mind to a calm but alert state, and think clearly about your motivation
for doing the meditation. Then, with your mind relaxed but fully concentrated,
contemplate on the subject of death, using analytical thought enriched with your own
experiences and insights, in an effort to feel it deeply.
Meditate on the inevitably of death. Everyone has to die. We plan many projects
and activities for the coming days, months and years. Although death is the only event
that is certain to occur, we don’t count it among our plans.
To generate an experience of death’s inevitability, first bring to mind people from
the past: famous rulers and writers, musicians, philosophers, saints, criminals, and
ordinary people. These people were once alive. They worked, thought and wrote; they
loved and fought, enjoyed life and suffered. And finally they died.
Is there anyone who has ever lived who did not have to die? No mater how wise,
wealthy, powerful or popular a person may be, his or her life must come to an end. The
same is true for all other living creatures. For all the advances in science and medicine,
there is still no cure for death and no one expects to be able to eradicate it.
Now bring to mind all the people you know. Go through them one by one,
reflecting that each of them will one day die. Think of all the human beings on earth at
the moment: one hundred years from now only a handful of these billions of people will
still be alive. You yourself will be dead. Experience this fact with your entire being.
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Your lifetime is decreasing continuously. Even as you sit, time is passing.
Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, hours become days, days become
years, and you travel closer and closer towards death. Hold your awareness for a while
on the experience of this uninterrupted flow of time carrying you to the end of your life.
The amount of time spent during your life to develop your mind is very small.
Given that the mind’s energy alone may be the only thing that continues after death, the
only thing that will be of any value to you at the time of death is the positive energy and
constructive energy you have created during your lifetime. But how much time do you
actually devote to understanding your mind, being kind to others, developing wisdom and
compassion? Assess your life in this practical way to see clearly just how much of your
time is spent doing things that will bring positive results, that is, happiness for yourself
and others.
By meditating on these three points we will develop the determination to use our
life wisely and mindfully.
It is possible that you will feel depressed or worried after doing this meditation.
In one sense this shows you have taken the ideas seriously and contemplated them well,
but it also shows you may have made a wrong conclusion, and it would not be wise to
end your meditation session in such a state of mind. Remember that death is just a
natural and inevitable aspect of life, and it is your inability to accept it as such that makes
you upset.
Fear and regret arise because of unrealistic clinging to a permanent self. If we
keep death in mind in an easy, open way this clinging will loosen, allowing us to be
mindful and make every action positive and beneficial, for ourselves and others. And an
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awareness of death has the potential of giving us enormous energy to not waste our life
but to live it as effectively as possible.
Conclude your meditation on death with the optimistic thought that you have
every possibility to make your life meaningful and positive and thus will be able to
conclude your life fulfilled and with peace of mind.
From the meditation on death and the impermanence of life, we turn to a
contemporary Christian contemplative technique that allows time and space for an
encounter with the Infinite, an experience of the Ultimate Divine Reality. This is the
Centering Prayer movement which seeks to renew the teaching of the Christian tradition
of contemplative prayer. It is an attempt to present that tradition in an up-to-date form
and to put a certain order and method into it. The leading proponent of this technique is
Father Thomas Keating, a Cistercian priest, monk, and abbot in the tradition of Thomas
Merton, and founder of Contemplative Outreach. He likes to speak of his approach to
contemplative prayer as making time and space for “hanging out with God.”
Contemplative Prayer is practiced both in small groups and alone. It begins with
the ancient practice of Lectio Divina, the reading or sharing of sacred texts or
inspirational writings to begin the cultivation of “friendship or acquaintance with God.”
The Bible is the typical source of these sacred texts, but any inspirational writings that set
a contemplative mindset in the meditator will do. The quotations of His Holiness that
begin each of the chapters of this book may serve you well as inspiration for some of
your own daily meditations.
After a period of sharing and reflection on the inspirational text, the meditator
chooses a sacred word as the symbol of his or her intention to consent to God’s presence
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and action within. The sacred word is chosen during a period of prayer and reflection as
the sacred text is read. Examples might include Lord, Jesus, Love, Peace, Shalom.
Next, sitting comfortably and with eyes closed, settle for a moment and then
silently introduce the sacred word as the symbol of your consent to God’s presence and
action within. When you become aware of thoughts, return ever-so-gently to the sacred
word.
Father Keating recommends a centering prayer session of at least twenty minutes.
At the end of the contemplative session, remain in silence with eyes closed for a couple
of minutes before returning your attention outward and concluding.
Listen to Father Keating’s description of the contemplative centering prayer
technique and notice its universal language:
“We begin our prayer by disposing our body. Let it be relaxed and calm, but
inwardly alert.
“The root of prayer is interior silence. We may think of prayer as thoughts or
feelings expressed in words. But this is only one expression. Deep prayer is the laying
aside of thoughts. It is the opening of mind and heart, body and feelings – our whole
being – to God, the Ultimate Mystery, beyond words, thoughts and emotions. We do not
resist them or suppress them. We accept them as they are and go beyond them, not by
effort, but by letting them all go by. We open our awareness to the Ultimate Mystery
whom we know by faith is within us, closer than breathing, closer than thinking, closer
than choosing – closer than consciousness itself. The Ultimate Mystery is the ground in
which our being is rooted, the Source from whom our life emerges at every moment.
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“We are totally present now, with the whole of our being, in complete openness,
in deep prayer. The past and future – time itself – are forgotten. We are here in the
presence of the Ultimate Mystery. Like the air we breathe, this divine Presence is all
around us and within us, distinct from us, never separate from us. We may sense this
presence drawing us from within, as if touching our spirit and embracing it, or carrying
us beyond ourselves into pure awareness.
“We wait patiently; in silence, openness, and quiet attentiveness; motionless
within and without. We surrender to the attraction to be still, to be loved, just to be.
“How shallow are all the things that upset and discourage me! I resolve to give
up the desires that trigger my tormenting emotions. Having tasted true peace, I can let
them all go by. Of course I shall stumble and fall, for I know my weakness. But I will
rise at once, for I know my goal. I know where my home is.”
These eloquent words from a living contemplative from my inherited faith
tradition speak to the universal experience of the spiritual quest. It is at one time an
exercise in Right Effort and at the same time the letting go of all conscious effort. It is
the seeking and then the discovery of a peace at the center of our being that was never
absent. It is the realization of the self and the non-self in the same moment.
For me, the spiritual quest has led to discovery of truth outside the boundaries of
my traditional faith teaching. Sometimes the truth of what is contained within a temple
can be best obtained by viewing it through the eastern as well as the western windows.
I have not so much been transformed by this quest and discovery as I have been
empowered and enabled. The truths of Ultimate Reality and my relationship to myself,
to others, to that Ultimate Reality and to all of creation have always been a part of the
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faith of my formation. The gift I have been given from my brothers and sisters in
Dharamsala is a Path to walk for myself, one that can lead to a personal experience of
that Ultimate Reality. And this Path, like everything else, will be constantly changing.
My path will continue to take new and revealing turns that will join it with the paths of all
the spiritual seekers who have gone before me. Without hesitation, I will learn from each
new experience along the way, and I will grow.
I recall the words of Tenzin, as he added still more sand to the Mandala path he
was constructing. “This is the path to the domain of the Deity. But the path exists only
in the mind. Each time a new spiritual journey is initiated the path must be constructed
anew. And the path is never the same as the last one – always new, always changing,
always impermanent. It is like the kingdom of the Deity – with chambers and hallways,
places to discover, places to get lost – but it is only represented in the sand. In reality it is
only ever discovered in the mind.”
Now is the time for my discovery. That will come with my endeavoring to walk a
path of Right Speech, Right Action, Right Livelihood, and applying Right Effort, Right
Mindfulness and Right Concentration to the development of Right Thought and
ultimately a Right Understanding.
The teachings of the Prophets, of Jesus, of Buddha and of wise teachers like His
Holiness the Dalai Lama will continue to guide me. It will be a lifetime journey.
“A common mistake in practice is to have expectations of quick results,” says His
Holiness. “Of course, we should practice as intensely and purely as we can, but unless
we have generated the subtle levels of bodily energy and consciousness, I feel it is more
wise to practice without our eyes anxious for signs of quick enlightenment. First we
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should try to generate some signs of small attainments. By thinking of enlightenment as
something far away, one’s practice remains stable and calm. To expect immediate
progress is to hinder progress, whereas to practice without expectations makes
attainments possible.
“What is progress? How do we recognize it? The teachings are like a mirror
before which we should hold our activities of body, speech, and mind. Think back to a
year ago and compare the stream of activities of your body, speech, and mind at that time
with their present condition. If we practice well, then the traces of some improvement
should be reflected in the mirror.
“The problem with having expectations is that we usually do not expect the right
things. Not knowing what spiritual progress is, we search for signs of it in the wrong
areas of our being. What can we hope for but frustration? It would be far better to
examine any practice with full reasoning before adopting it, and then to practice it
steadily and consistently while observing the changes one undergoes, rather than
expecting this or that fantasy to become real. The mind is an evolving organism, not a
machine that goes on and off with the flip of a switch. The forces that bind and limit the
mind, hurling it into unsatisfactory states of being, are impermanent and transient agents.
When we persistently apply the practices to them, they have no option but to fade away
and disappear. Ignorance and the ‘I’-grasping syndrome have been with us since
beginningless time, and the instincts of attachment, aversion, anger, jealousy and so forth
are very deeply rooted in our mindstreams. Eliminating them is not so simple as turning
on a light to chase away the darkness or a room. When we practice steadily, the forces of
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darkness are undermined, and the spiritual qualities that counteract them and illuminate
the mind are strengthened and made firm.
“We must practice with clarity, humility, and a sense of personal responsibility
for our own progress. Then the path to enlightenment is something that we hold in the
palms of our own hands.”
His Holiness’ teachings were reflected in Tenzin’s earlier prophetic words that
summer’s day. “John-la, this is your path. This Mandala path represents the triumph of
wisdom over ignorance, suffering and death. But it also represents the
interconnectedness of all things, the entire universe, what you would call creation. And
finally, John-la, it’s a way of understanding your journey, a map of yourself, a path
leading inward, away from the borders you have imposed upon yourself and toward the
energy of your own center.
“Now it’s your turn. Add your part to the whole. Go ahead, give it a try.”