The Roots of the Vajrayāna
Of the two great schools of Buddhism, the Mahāyāna is prevalent in east Asia — Tibet, Bhutan, Nepal, Sikkim, Ladakh, Mongolia, China, Taiwan, Japan, Vietnam, and Korea —, while in southeast Asia — Śri Lanka, Myanmar (Burma), Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, and the Chittagong region of Bangladesh —, the Theravāda holds sway. The Tantras are embodied in a final section of the Mahāyāna canon that the Tibetans received from India and translated with great care and exactness
into their own language. They are based on teachings propounded by the ancient Mādhyamika school, one of whose basic tenets was that truth is attained by adhering to the middle path between belief in (or craving for) permanent existence and extinction, since the real nature of ultimate reality is so subtle that it can neither be said to exist nor not to exist. Eventually, other schools arose from the Mādhyamika, of which the Vijñānavādins and Yogācārins each contributed to the doctrines and practices of the Vajrayāna. Tantric Buddhism particularly emphasizes method as opposed to mere piety or scholarship. The very word Tantra, being connected with a Sanskrit root meaning “to weave,” suggests activity.
To understand the Tantras, it is important to know something of the history of Indian Buddhist development, which can be divided into four distinct periods:
(1) the early centuries during which the original teachings of Śākyamuni (Gautama Buddha) formed the main substance;
(2) a period of expanding the teachings to embrace philosophy, during which a rational systematization took place;
(3) a period of reaction in favor of less rigid views with emphasis on the compassionate Bodhisattvas, beings who postpone their own attainment of Nirvāza in order to help others to reach it;
(4) a period of counter-reaction. Very early Pali works and early Sanskrit works (preserved in Chinese and Tibetan) suggest that the emphasis was originally on final attainment in this life.
The Great Discourse on the Foundations of Mindfulness (Bhaddekavatta Sutta, Majjhima Nikāya) goes so far as to say that from seven years down to as little as seven days is sufficient for an earnest practitioner to attain Enlightenment. In the second period, attention was devoted more to scholarship than to meditation practice, with the result that the teachings became too theoretical and metaphysical. During the period of reaction, meditation was at first re-emphasized, but, later, the idea grew up of a would-be Bodhisattva’s requiring eon upon eon of effort, coupled with the achievement of almost incredible degrees of virtue, in order to attain Enlightenment. When people thought in these terms, the urge towards immediate attainment by frequent meditation declined. In the fourth period, there was a strong reaction in favor of the original ideal of practice and attainment in this life. Like Zen, the Vajrayāna became very much concerned with the Short Path to speedy attainment. Meditation came back into its own.
Tantric Buddhism is so much an integral part of the Mahāyāna that its special techniques cannot be understood apart from the Mahāyāna background. What follows is a bare outline of the basic assumptions underlying the whole fabric of Mahāyāna Buddhism and, therefore, Tantric belief and practice. Buddhism is not a revealed religion depending upon a divinely inspired book like Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Its founder, Śākyamuni Buddha, taught his
followers not to put blind faith in his teachings but to test their validity. It does not follow that no faith is required. Indeed, it is taught that: “Of the ten evils, the greatest is lack of faith.” While there are no special articles to which Buddhists are obliged to subscribe, they must have some spiritual belief, or they would never set foot upon the path of attainment. Perhaps the really essential belief could be defined as “belief in the existence of a supramundane alternative to the wretchedness of life as we know it.” Some misinformed Western writers have castigated Buddhism as being pessimistic; of course, it is not, for its whole purpose is to point the way to the permanent destruction of suffering and, unlike Christianity with its grim doctrine of eternal hell, Buddhism postulates that, ultimately, every sentient being will attain to the bliss that is called Nirvāza.
Śākyamuni Buddha
Metaphysical speculation is discouraged in Buddhism. Even in the unlikely event that scientists could provide us with an irrefutable explanation of the universe’s origin,
what difference would that make to our conduct or to our happiness? We all face the problem: “Here am I in the world; what am I going to do about it?” Certain knowledge that the universe was evolved from a gas or that it was created by one or more divine beings would be of little practical use. This example illustrates the orthodox Buddhist attitude to metaphysical questions, but, in practice, Buddhists do share a set of common views about the universe — views derived from three sources. They are: (1) the cosmological and metaphysical beliefs of the Buddha’s contemporaries; (2) relevant passages gleaned from the Buddha’s own teaching and that of later generations of monks; (3) intuitions of the nature of reality that dawn on adepts during meditation. The following notions have almost the force of dogmas, though no Buddhist is compelled to subscribe to them.
It is held that the universe is not the work of a supreme god — indeed, it is not a creation at all. Rather, it is a delusion, part and parcel of the delusion that makes each being suppose that he has a separate ego, a genuine self-contained entity. This conviction leads to self-love, which serves, in turn, to solidify the ego-consciousness and imprison us in the virtually endless round of birth and death known as Sagsāra. Thus, we are governed by Avidyā — primordial ignorance, or delusion (Moha). How it arose in the first place is not very clearly explained, although its workings are classified into what is called the Twelvefold Chain of Causality (Prātītya-Samutpāda). The illusory existence that results from Avidyā takes place in Sagsāra, a universe of dimensions so vast that, in comparison, our world is like “one grain of sand to all the sands in the Ganges River.”
Clinging to the false notion of its permanency, the wretched ego suffers successive rounds of death and rebirth, eon upon eon, during which it fashions its own rewards and retributions; every thought, word, and action produces Karma, a force that brings results exactly consonant with their causes. Whatever tends to diminish the ego-illusion loosens the grip of Karma; whatever strengthens it draws tight the bonds. None of the infinite number of states in Sagsāra is altogether satisfactory; progress lies not in trying, by good works, to achieve rebirth, say, among the gods; even the gods have dissatisfactions to put up with and, when their good Karma is exhausted, they will have to descend to more painful states. The remedy lies in freeing oneself from Sagsāra forever by destroying the last shreds of egohood.
Within Sagsāra, everything is transient (Anitya), everything subject to Dukha (suffering in the sense of every kind of dissatisfaction, from mild to agonizing), and nothing has a true being of its own (Anātman), since it cannot exist independently of others even for a instant. Everything is seen as interconnected and interdependent, perpetually changing from moment to moment. This picture of a universal flux filled with illusory entities, mingling, separating, and reforming, seems contradictory to the notion of rebirth; but it is not so. The so-called beings who are born to die and who die to be reborn are, in fact, not beings but waves of being. At sea, we can watch the arising of a wave, see it grow big, diminish, and cease to be. We think of it as an individual wave, but we know that the water composing it is changing all the time and that it is, in fact, inseparable from the sea. Only the motion is real. It should not be thought that the universe, any more than the wave in our analogy, is wholly unreal. In a sense, everything exists, but our perceptions lie in giving us an impression of individual objects. The concept of the universe’s reality is important. Were it but a dream, we could wake up (or die) and put an end to it. As it is, karmic accretions enclose our false ego like a turtle’s shell and hinder its dissolution. These accretions, in the form of instincts, desires, longings, tendencies, facets of character, ways of thought, and so forth, must be shattered. The ego must be negated.
Of the three universal characteristics — transience (Anitya), Dukha (suffering) and absence of own-being (Anātman) —, the Buddha selected Dukha as the starting-point of his teaching. Dissatisfaction and suffering in their innumerable forms are largely caused by T0[zā (which embraces both desire and aversion), or longing for things to be other than they are. If we cultivate profound equanimity (Upek[ā), although illness, old age, and death will still be with us, most of suffering’s other manifestations will vanish. Thereafter, we can proceed further towards Liberation by means of restraint, compassion, and insight, all of which are powerful weapons for negating the ego and thereby fully emancipating ourselves from Sagsāra.
In pursuing the goal, we have to depend on our own efforts. It is believed that there are invisible divine beings in the universe, but they, too, are creatures of Sagsāra and unable to assist us, unless perhaps by doing us mundane favors which, by slightly alleviating our lot, are likely to weaken our resolution to be free from Sagsāra once and for all. A Buddhist knows that his vessel will sail or sink in accordance with his skill in steering it and his resolution in not letting go the rudder. What he requires are restraint (Sagvara), compassion (Karuzā), self-awareness (Sm0ti), and wisdom (Prajñā). Restraint does not involve self-mortification, but avoidance of excess and mastery over the senses and emotions. Compassion involves the negative virtue of
avoiding harm to others and the positive virtues of helpfulness, generosity, and ready sympathy. Self-awareness includes scrutinizing our actions and motives, sitting back, as it were, to watch our passions and greedy desires in action, observing the thoughts slip through our minds, and making a careful study of our bodily functions such as muscular movements (walking, standing, sitting, lying, etc.) and the pulsing of our blood, the process of breathing, and so forth. Awareness helps us to come to realize the illusory nature of the ego. Wisdom means the intuitive wisdom that dawns when the mind is stilled. It is acquired by physical and mental exercises that start with simple feats like breath control and achieving one-pointedness of mind, from which the practitioner is led forward into the more difficult kinds of meditation, and, in the case of Tantrist adepts especially, visualization. All of these help to negate the ego and promote the unimpeded flow of wisdom from within the mind.
Compassion and wisdom interact upon each other. Compassion, besides making us good to others, is very beneficial to ourselves. Gifts of thought, time, energy, goods, or wealth are all expended at the cost of the ego, which diminishes accordingly. With the diminution of the ego, wisdom arises; and, with wisdom’s dawning, compassion increases; for the clearer it becomes that distinctions between I and other are unreal, the more natural it is to be compassionate. Few people choose to rob or violate themselves. The radiant wisdom that gradually manifests itself in the stillness of a peaceful mind is in fact the first gleam of ineffable wisdom that, in its fullness, is the Enlightenment of a Buddha.
As to Nirvāza, the goal of all this effort, the Buddha never spoke of it except to say what it is not, thus conveying that it fits no category conceivable by the human mind. However, certain things are tentatively said of it — not based on speculation but on intimations received during meditation. Theravādin Buddhists hold that it is a state beyond, and thus outside, Sagsāra. Mahāyānists believe it to be Sagsāra as seen when the veils of delusion have fallen. It has been described by means of analogies deduced from the mystical perception that arises in meditation. The descriptions of it include radiant light, ecstatic bliss, infinity, wholeness, eternity, reality, shining void, the union of opposites, boundless compassion, immaculate undifferentiated mind, and many,
many more. Although radiant, it is said to be colorless and without form or substance; for which reason, I have sometimes called it the non-substance of reality. Christian and Sufi mystics ascribe similar attributes to God. Doubtless, they have experienced the same reality, but there are important differences between the Buddhist and the ordinary Christian or Moslem interpretations of what is experienced. Buddhists do not equate this shining reality with a creator of the universe; they hold Nirvāza to be not the presence of God, nor a heaven inhabited by individual souls, but a state of being beyond duality in which all
beings are one with one another and with Nirvāza itself. This accords with the Buddhist concept of a middle path between belief in permanent existence and extinction. No being is ever extinguished but, when his false ego has been negated, nothing remains of which it could be said “he exists.” So, to use Sir Edwin Arnold’s lovely phrase, “the dewdrop slips into the shining sea;” only, it should be added that, strictly speaking, there is no slipping into, for sea and dewdrop have never been separate except in appearance; nor is the sea a sea in the sense of a substance in which the many are absorbed into the one; it is a non-substance, which has the marvelous quality of being the one and the many simultaneously. This is something that can be understood in mystical states of consciousness in which dualistic logic is transcended. Some points in this outline need further elaboration.
The Concept of No God
To many people, the idea of a religion without God seems extraordinary, so they are apt to equate Buddhism with atheism as ordinarily understood, although, in fact, they have no affinity. True, the various kinds of supernatural beings recognized by Buddhism are regarded as devoid of saving power, and the existence of a supreme God is categorically denied; but it is not really the concept of a creator god that unites all those countless people who, since the beginning of the world, have sought a spiritual antidote to the miseries of existence. On the contrary, rigid theism has been a divisive factor responsible for a great deal of unnecessary hostility between the followers of different religions. The real distinction between Christians, Jews, Moslems, Hindus, etc., and the followers of religions not based on the doctrine of a supreme deity (Daoists [[[Taoists]]], Platonists, and Buddhists) is largely a verbal one; what is more, the mystical sects among Christians and Moslems hold views that make them, in some respects, closer to the Buddhists than to their coreligionists.
Buddhists, despite their firm faith in the existence of what, for the moment, we will call a supernatural order of being, eschew the word “God” for three reasons: (1) being nondualists, they cannot conceive of a supreme being and of other beings as more than provisionally separate; (2) their conception of ultimate reality is impersonal; (3) they look upon the universe not as a creation of divine reality but as a delusion in men’s minds, or rather, as we shall see later, they equate it with divine reality; as seen in the distorting mirror of the senses, it is not the universe itself but our perception of it that constitutes the delusion. Mystics of other religions who take the term “God” to mean ultimate, divine reality — uncreated, sublime, omnipresent, immaculate, void of duality, and the source of infinite compassion, but nevertheless impersonal — come very close to the Buddhist position. Theravādin Buddhists might be inclined to dispute this, but I believe it would be a dispute over words rather than over what they signify. As with what Christian mystics call the Godhead, Buddhists think of divine reality not as a person to be adored but as a state to be attained. They regard delusion (i.e., the universe as we see it now) not as a creation of divine reality because it does not proceed from a divine source but from our own ignorance (Avidyā).
Mahāyāna Buddhists have no one name for divine reality. It is so exalted and so subtle that any name must demean it since all names imply the limitation “this but not that” and because things named are usually held to exist, whereas we are now considering what is above the categories of existence and non-existence. However, for convenience sake, various names are given to it in different contexts. As a state to be attained, it is Nirvāza; as the source of everything, One Mind; as the “container” of everything, the Womb of Dharmas; as the condition of one who has attained it, the Dharmakāya; as the principal of Enlightenment, Bodhi or Buddha; as the source of Enlightenment, the Buddhatathatā; as free from characteristics, the Void; and so on. There is not a hair’s breadth of difference among them. The word “God,” which might conveniently have been used to embrace them all, would have given rise to two errors — the concept of a personal deity and the concept of a creator forever distinct from his creation. In my own view, the ideal Buddhist name for divine reality is Tathatā, or Suchness.
It follows that the aim of Buddhists is union with this state or, to be more accurate, conscious experience of a union that has never ceased to be. This is called Enlightenment (Bodhi) and, in the sense that it frees us from the shackles of our egos and the need to be reborn, Liberation (Mok[a). Indeed, when full perception dawns “with the brilliance of a thousand suns,” men become so free that the limitations “I” and “other” vanish; then, each perceives that he contains the entire universe within himself — that he is the entire universe. Full consciousness of this more than godlike state is, as accomplished mystics have discovered, accompanied by a bliss that is inconceivable.
The Concept of No-Self
The concept of no “God” follows inevitably from the more widely embracing one of no own-being (Anātman), or self-being. It is held that absence of self (Ātman) is the true nature of every sort of entity — abstract or material, animate or inanimate —, without exception. When Buddhists speak of finding one’s true self, they mean finding the no-self that is a universal possession sometimes called in English the Self. Yet this does not imply that a sentient being is a lump of flesh animated by a life-force that is snuffed out at death; it points to the profound truth that lies between the erroneous concepts of eternal existence and annihilation. Just as there is no part of a teapot, for example, that can be described as the “real self” of that pot, no essence of teapot
independent of its substance, shape, color, age, condition, and function, so do gods, men, and animals have nothing that can be divorced from the constantly changing physical and mental phenomena of their beings. The seeming individuality of each is a bundle of transient qualities, all ephemeral and unstable, all dependent for their fleeting existence on innumerable interlocking factors to which billions of causes, prior and concurrent, have contributed. Take away all these qualities and what remains is indivisible from the own-nature (or own non-nature) of all other entities. There can be no individual soul for, when the transient qualities are removed, what is left is the immaculate non-substance that neither exists nor is non-existent, in which there is no duality, let alone plurality. What science teaches about the constitution of matter provides some sort of a rough analogy; it is seen that “entities” consist of atoms of varied formation that are in fact no more than temporary manifestations of a single force — energy.
The Concept of Impermanence
Since nothing perceptible to the senses is static, but always in a state of becoming, waxing, waning, or ceasing to be what it was, it is reasonable to deduce that the same holds true of what is neither measurable nor perceptible. Just as the cells of the body are renewed once every seven years, so are the immaterial components of our being subject to unending renewal; indeed, changes occurring in our consciousness are the swiftest and easiest to observe. There are, of course, certain propensities in each of us that are relatively constant, but all of them alter with time even though they may persist long enough to be carried over from one life to the next. The transience, or impermanence (Anitya), of everything is, of course, one of the primary causes of Dukha. Much of life’s unsatisfactoriness results from it, and the longing for an after-life is another of its progeny. It can also be said that transience is a manifestation of lack of own-being. Without a self to persist, there can be no permanence.
As we have seen, the Buddhist term “Dukha”, of which “suffering” is the usual translation, actually has a much wider connotation. Perhaps “unsatisfactoriness” is closer, but it lacks the force to cover all the meanings of Dukha, which include giving rise to disappointment, disillusion, discontent, longing, desire, aversion, loss, sorrow, anxiety, shame, pain, decay, illness, death, and many more. Whereas impermanence and lack of own-being are passive qualities, “suffering” (i.e., giving rise to suffering) relates to the action of one entity upon another. To be without or to have too little of something we desire is suffering, to be forced to put up with what we dislike is suffering; the diminution or loss of our loved ones, powers, and possessions is suffering; and the
disenchantment that so often follows the fulfillment of desire is suffering. Of course, physical, mental, and emotional satisfactions frequently give us joy, but joy can seldom balance Dukha; disillusion is more common than ecstasy; most joys pall with frequent repetition and may give place to boredom or disgust; moreover, it is our nature to be discontented with our gains and to set our targets ever higher. Want feeds on the satisfaction of want. Snatching at what we took to be nuggets of gold, we find ourselves grasping a handful of leaves, which turn to dust in our hands. During most of our waking hours, we are plagued with a vague or explicit need for something or other, big or small, to complete the happiness of the moment. This desire can now and then be quenched, but not for long. Perhaps it could be said that Dukha is the “sense of lacking,” i.e., lacking whatever it is that is needed for our full enjoyment now or in the future.
If this analysis of the three characteristics common to all entities were the end as well as the beginning of the Buddha Dharma, then Buddhism could be properly regarded as negative, pessimistic, and nihilistic; but, of course, so dreary a doctrine could never have succeeded, as Buddhism has done, in claiming the devotion of something like a third of the people in the world ever since it spread from its homeland more than two thousand five hundred years ago. The purpose of insisting upon life’s unsatisfactoriness is twofold: by sweeping away the dross of attachment and aversion, we can, in a short space of time, attain to a state of equanimity; whereafter, we shall live in tranquil contentment. By going further and negating the ego altogether, we can attain the divine bliss of Nirvāza.
The Concept of Rebirth
Though the notion of an eternal soul free from the laws of transience and absence of own-being is rejected, it is recognized that the bundle of characteristics that constitutes a man’s personality does persist — though, of course, in changing form from life to life and eon to eon. Just as the middle-aged man has gradually developed out of the boy he has ceased to be, so has each of us developed from the being we used to be in our previous existence, bringing with us into this life many of the relatively long-term characteristics that determine our present circumstances and personality. Thus, the Buddhist equivalent of the Christian concept of a soul is a continuum that changes from moment to moment, life to life, until the ego is negated and Nirvāza won.
This belief is often too alien to the Western mindset to be easily acceptable by the heirs of a Christian or Moslem culture, but it is something that is taken for granted by about half the human race, for Hindus, Daoists (Taoists), and others besides Buddhists, subscribe to it. Though impossible to verify, it is completely logical. There is less logic in the theistic belief that postulates an infinite extension of life in the future for beings who had a finite origin, for it is reasonable to suppose that what had a beginning must have an end. Everything observable (matter and energy) is subject to change but never to creation out of nothing nor to total extinction, and it seems more likely than not that the same laws apply to what is not observable. Incidentally, acceptance of the doctrine of rebirth makes it easy to arrive at tentative explanations of many problems insoluble in terms of environment or heredity.
Sagsāra and Nirvāza
Buddhists intent upon the path to Liberation are more concerned with the “hows” of practice than with the “whys” of existence. The Zen and Vajrayāna schools, especially, have returned to the early Buddhist attitude of discouraging idle speculation. The human mind in its ordinary state of consciousness is probably incapable of grasping life’s ultimate mysteries, and time devoted to speculation would be better spent on making progress in achieving Enlightenment. In all countries, whatever the religious background, true mystics have always sought intuitive wisdom within themselves and regarded intellectual knowledge as unhelpful, just as scientists have preferred intellectual knowledge and viewed intuitive wisdom with suspicion. Pursuing opposite goals, they value opposite means.
Buddhists of whatever school believe that this unsatisfactory state of Sagsāra, this realm of Dukha, transience, and no own-being, is the product of Avidyā — primordial ignorance, or delusion. In other words, our surroundings are our own mental creations, or mental distortions, of reality. As to how and why Avidyā first arose, there has never been a satisfactory explanation, nor much feeling of a need for one. If snow blocks the road or hail flattens the crops, a knowledge of why snow and hail form does not help repair the damage.
Whatever caused the arising of Avidyā, which substitutes appearance for reality, its victims — sentient beings — revolve through innumerable cycles of existence (Sagsāra), ignorant of their own exalted nature. Clinging to the notion of an ego and restlessly striving to satisfy its wants, they add momentum to the process of causation by which they are enslaved; as their minds create fresh objects of desire, the mists of illusion thicken about them. Endlessly, they traverse the six states of existence (gods [[[Devas]]], Asuras, humans, animals, hungry ghosts [[[Pretas]]], and hell beings), which, though some provide transient joys, are none of them free from profound unsatisfactoriness (Dukha). There is no way out of this vicious circle of rising and tumbling from one state to another until, unable to bear it longer, a being decides to set about negating his ego and striving for liberating wisdom.
Buddhism’s disinterest in offering a solution to the problem of origins is far from unique. Viewed dispassionately, none of the solutions suggested by other religions or by science is satisfactory. The Christian explanation seems to Buddhists nothing less than horrific. It is impossible to understand why an omnipotent father, allegedly full of loving concern for his children, should create a world in which not only are untold generations condemned to suffer for the sin of their remote ancestors, but also animals innocent of sin have to spend their lives in a welter of slaughter, devouring, and being themselves devoured. Suffering is present; no one can avoid it, but suffering devised by one’s supposed father seems downright sadistic and, accordingly, especially hard to bear. If we turn to the scientists for answers, we are met with what amount to guesses or with silence.
Nirvāza is the state that supervenes when desire, aversion, and all clinging to an ego have been vanquished, thus negating the last traces of a being’s illusory individuality. It is a concept frequently misunderstood by non-Buddhists, who generally suppose it to be either total extinction or a variant of the theistic concept of an everlasting heaven. Nirvāza is not extinction because mind (which, from the first, was the only real component of the vanished beings) persists; it is not heaven because no being remains to enter it. In all the hundreds of volumes of the Buddhist canon, there is no clear description of it, since, by its very nature, it is indescribable. However, I will venture a very crude illustration of what happens in passing from Sagsāra to Nirvāza, which, with the reservations added at the end and with stress on its crudity, might be acceptable to most Buddhists.
Imagine an illimitable ocean in which there are innumerable vials. Each vial is filled with sea-water belonging to that very ocean and each is composed of a substance that gradually thickens or dissolves in response to circumstances. Under suitable conditions, it dissolves altogether, at which point, the water it contains becomes indistinguishable from the rest of the ocean. Not one drop of water ceases to exist; all that is lost is its apparent separateness. In this analogy, the water in each vial represents a so-called individual being, and the gradually thickening or dissolving vial symbolizes his mental and physical characteristics — accretions born of Avidyā and nourished by the force of Karma, or causality. Once the accretions have been dissolved, the being’s “separate”
identity ceases. The aptness of this analogy is dependent on two reservations: (1) since the vials have only an illusory existence, the water inside and outside has never been really separate; (2) the “ocean” is in reality Mind, a non-substance free of space or time dimensions, from which it follows that the smallest part comprehends the whole; hence the water in each vial is not part of the ocean — it is the ocean. With these two reservations, it can be said that Nirvāza is the state reached by the water in the vials at the moment of their dissolution.
Buddhists distrust such analogies, as they are liable to error and misconstruction. As I have said, Śākyamuni Buddha’s own references to Nirvāza consist of guarded negatives. However, the general understanding is that entering Nirvāza is a return to the state of ultimate reality undistorted by Avidyā’s mists. Theravādin Buddhists perhaps do not conceive of it precisely in these terms, as they speak of Sagsāra as a state to be left behind and of Nirvāza as a state to
be entered. The Mahāyāna doctrine is that the two are identical in all but appearance; that, since beings have never been apart from Nirvāza, Liberation consists of becoming conscious of our real state. Nirvāza is Sagsāra. Every sentient being has, in reality, always been one with the non-substance — uncreated, eternal, formless, colorless, free from attributes, of infinite extent, and no extent at all. It is known that full experiential consciousness of this state is attended by the utmost bliss.
Thus, all objects, sounds, sensations, and concepts, together with the three realms of desire, form, and formlessness and the six states of existence — in short, all constituents of the universe — are mental creations identical with the one, undifferentiated non-substance, or Mind. In their multiple aspect, they are Sagsāra; in their uniform aspect, Nirvāza. If, during meditation, this is recognized not merely with the intellect but experientially, then Nirvāza is glimpsed in this life. When a man becomes fully Enlightened, which means that he will be liberated as soon as his present human body is cast off, then he is
able to experience Nirvāza continuously while still in this body, though it may be supposed that, for the sake of coping with his surroundings (eating, excreting, sleeping, talking, and preaching the Dharma, for example), he is able to withdraw temporarily from Nirvāza at will. However, this last point is supposition. Those who have achieved Enlightenment in this life have never been specific about such matters. All this being so, the Zen and Vajrayāna schools emphasize that we should never turn from the world in disgust or seek Liberation by shutting eyes and ears to our surroundings. Respecting everyone about us as partaking of the Buddha-nature and viewing everything as one in essence with Nirvāza, we must reject nothing. The royal road to Liberation is recognition that there is no being or object in the universe from which we stand apart.
Karma and Causality
The impetus that impels a sentient being to pass from round to round of birth and death is provided by karmic force. Acts of body, speech, and mind produce internal and external results that, in combination with the fruits of other acts (Sagskāras), become the causes of further and yet further results, many of which involve the doer. Thus, Karma (causatory energy) leads to chains of action and reaction extending from life to life and governing the circumstances of each. Belief in the action of Karma must not be confused with predetermination, predestination, or fatalism. Though we are bound to reap all we sow, we are free to sow new seeds that will bear good fruit. Moreover, with the gradual negation of the ego, Karma’s hold is loosened.
The karmic process is intricate. A criminal, for example, incurs more than legal punishment or terror of discovery; the results of his crime affect his personality either by coarsening it or by afflicting him with remorse; that coarsening or affliction will, in turn, produce results; and those results, yet others. Thus, whether or not legal punishment follows, the consequences of wrongdoing are severe. Whereas a Christian may hope that his piety and good works will be accepted as atonement, a Buddhist, knowing that his severest judge, jailer, and executioner are himself and that sentence by this judge is mandatory, understands that virtue and evil never cancel out each other, that he will harvest and consume the fruits of each. On the other hand, in the Buddhist view, evil is not sin but ignorance (for no one able to foresee all the karmic consequences of an evil deed could bring himself to commit such a deed). Hence, the remedy is the wisdom that tends to diminution of the ego and to a weakening of karmic force. This oversimplified account of Karma’s workings represents the level at which they are commonly understood, but the concept of Karma as explained by Buddhist philosophers is very much more subtle and, perhaps, more convincing to those capable of understanding it.
Merit and its Transfer
The fruits of good thoughts, words, and deeds are collectively known as merit (Puzya). Merit, like the fruits of bad Karma, persists for a long time; stocks of it can be built up and expended by an act of will in two ways: (1) to ameliorate our present circumstances and/or to ensure rebirth into a relatively pleasant situation; (2) to loosen Sagsāra’s bonds and advance us towards Liberation.
Since nothing is predestined and, despite Karma, there is wide scope for the play of “free will,” it follows that we have some degree of choice as to whether the merit will be expended frivolously on a pleasant rebirth or wisely on securing a rebirth conducive to the pursuit of Liberation. (Some Buddhists, thinking of Liberation as something immeasurably far off, prefer agreeable mundane results that will be more immediate.)
The notion that an act of will can affect the fruits of merit is carried further. In Mahāyāna Buddhism, it is believed that merit can be transferred to other beings — Mahāyānists consider it ignoble to hoard merit for oneself. Vajrayāna followers daily renew an act of will transferring their merit to sentient beings in general. Whether or not it is really possible to transfer merit, forming an intention to do so is salutary, for all unselfish thoughts naturally lead to a corresponding diminution of the ego. Unfortunately, this reflection makes it difficult to be sincerely generous; for, at the moment of offering merit (or anything else) to others, one may be conscious of doing oneself a good turn!
The “Elements of Being”
Divine reality is viewed as having two aspects, void and non-void. Being subtle, free from distinguishing characteristics, one, and indivisible, it is void. Containing, in potential form, everything that ever has existed or could exist, it is non-void. Buddhists often liken it to the surface of a dust-free mirror; this, although it offers an endless procession of pictures, is uniform and colorless in itself but is not apart from the pictures it reveals. However, it must be understood that the “mirror surface” symbolizes a uniformity that, unlike glass, is not a substance.
Divine reality in its non-void aspect is conceived of as an infinitely vast complex of universes, each of which comes into existence and, though subject to unending change, persists for an incalculable number of eons before undergoing destruction and, thence, being manifested anew. The multitudes of beings and objects contained in this boundless flux are held to be dynamic concentrations of Dharmas or “elements of being,” which are in fact tiny impulses of energy — each so brief that, in the time it takes to pronounce the sound “phat,” it is gone. Mental concepts, no less than material forms, are composed of these Dharmas. Objects and concepts, though ultimately void, since all consist of the indivisible non-substance, exist in a relative sense as transient compound entities conditioned by prior and concurrent causes and devoid of own-being. In a universe thus composed, everything interpenetrates, and is interpenetrated by, everything else; as with the void, so with the non-void — the part is the whole.
From another point of view, the transient entities known as sentient beings (gods, humans, animals, etc.) are held to consist of five aggregates (Skandha) — namely, form (Rūpa), feelings (Vedanā), perceptions (Sagjñā), impulses (Sagskāra) (that is, mental formations), and consciousness (Vijñāna) —, apart from which they are nothing but pure, undifferentiated non-substance. It is the conglomerations formed by these aggregates, which are, in turn, composed of Dharmas, that give rise to the illusory individuality of beings. The “three fires” that, by stimulating karmic energy, help to perpetuate the illusion are craving (and aversion), passion, and ignorance. When these fires have been extinguished (the ordinary Buddhist way) or transmuted (the Tantric way), the illusion is destroyed.
The notion of reality having both void and non-void aspects accounts for some apparent contradictions in the Buddhist canon. Taught to seek Liberation from Sagsāra for ourselves and all beings, we are also taught that there is nowhere to be liberated from or to and no beings to cross over! Truth has to be apprehended by making a simultaneous void and non-void approach to the subtle nature of reality. What is common to both approaches is the absence of own-being. Whether we analyze something into aggregates and Dharmas or view it as pure Void (Śūnyatā), there is no room for the notion of its having a self or individuality of its own.
Buddhas and Bodhisattvas
The term “Buddha” has a triple signification, of which many Westerners are not aware. Some two thousand five hundred years ago, Prince Gautama, later known as Śākyamuni (Sage of the Śākya Clan), achieved Enlightenment, preached the Dharma, or Sacred Doctrine, and was accorded the title of Buddha (Enlightened One). The notion of a religion founded by a human being whose achievement resulted from his own effort appealed to Western rationalists and agnostics of the late nineteenth century, who seem to have ignored or failed to grasp the other significations of the word “Buddha” and to have transmitted an incomplete account of its meaning. Ironically, this incomplete notion has since been adopted by some English-speaking Asians so as to resolve a contradiction between their traditional religion, to which they are bound by ties of affection, and their modern rationalist views in which they take great pride. Such “modern Buddhists” stand in relation to Buddhism much as Western agnostic rationalists stand in relation to Christianity, though they might be indignant if that were pointed out to them.
Even in this first sense of a being who won divine status by his own efforts, the title “Buddha” does not belong to Śākyamuni Buddha alone; for it is held that, in every age and every universe, a Buddha appears; Śākyamuni is the Buddha of our age (two thousand five hundred years is a mere trifle when Buddhists speak of ages), and the names of four of his predecessors are given in the canon. While it is true that “the Buddha” used in this particular sense does nearly always mean Śākyamuni, in Mahāyāna Buddhism, he is generally regarded not just as a man who became Enlightened, but as an incarnate eternal principle. Mahāyāna Buddhism, though rational in the sense that no dogmas are imposed, does not lack a powerful mystical element that makes it a religion in the full sense of the word.
Before considering the other principal meanings of “Buddha,” one further point needs to be explained. Śākyamuni was the fifth in a line of Buddhas held to extend backwards for as many ages, and Maitreya, the Buddha-To-Be, is expected to appear in the age to come. Since Śākyamuni Buddha’s time, a large number of persons are thought to have achieved full Enlightenment not fundamentally different from that of a Buddha; but for some reason they are not called Buddhas. The term for them is Arahants (or Arhats), unless they are thought to have postponed entrance into Nirvāza in order to help other beings achieve it, in which case they are called Bodhisattvas.
In its second sense, the term “Buddha” is used as a name for the spiritual principle underlying Buddhahood, of which Śākyamuni was one of the countless manifestations that occur in an infinite number of universes. The point of using the same term to mean both a principle and the human manifestations of that principle is not hard to grasp — it is that, when Nirvāza is won, there is not a hair’s breadth of difference between the principle and its manifestation; both pertain to the formless realm of Void in which there are no distinctions. Another way of bringing out the significance of “Buddha” in this sense is to render it “the urge to Enlightenment.” Thus, we see the Buddha in relation to ultimate reality — the stainless Void — and to Avidyā, or the primordial delusion that
distorts men’s vision of their true being. In this relationship, he stands as the principle of Enlightenment that is, at the same time, the innate urge to seek Enlightenment and the power by which Enlightenment is obtained. There are several ways of understanding one concept. Midway between these human and absolute significations, namely, the Buddha as a human and as a principle (or urge or power), comes the third — a manifestation that is human in outline but imbued with splendor and with the “thirty-two superhuman marks” mentioned in the canon. It is thus that the Buddha is seen in the mind, in visions, in dreams, and in statues, too; for nearly all Buddha-likenesses (including those of the historical Śākyamuni Buddha) are intended to depict not the human form of a particular Buddha but Buddhahood.
These three aspects of the Buddha are collectively called the Trikāya (Triple Body), of which the Dharmakāya, or Buddha principle, being one with immaculate reality, is, of course, invisible; the Body of Bliss (Sagbhogakāya) has the splendor appropriate to a divine being; and the Body of Transformation (Nirmāzakāya) is a temporary human (animal, angelic, or demonic) manifestation. Whether the Body of Bliss portrayed in pictures and statues is, so to speak, an individually existing divine being or a personification created by the adept’s mind is left to his own understanding, for not everyone can grasp the subtleties of the Trikāya doctrine, and opinions vary.
In Mahāyāna texts, there are frequent references to the “Buddhas of Ten Directions,” who, in their Dharma-Body, are, of course, one, but each of whom has a distinctive Bliss-Body and Transformation-Body. They are, so to speak, personifications of abstract principles such as wisdom, compassion, healing power, stainless activity, and so forth. As we shall see, the Vajrayāna has a special concept of the Five Jinas (Conquerors), each of whom embodies one aspect of Divine Wisdom.
The term “Bodhisattva” may also mean an Enlightened Being. In its primary sense, it is, however, used in speaking of Śākyamuni and similar Buddhas during the lives when they were still working towards Enlightenment. For Mahāyānists, it has the special sense of Enlightened Beings who renounce Nirvāza’s bliss in order to remain in the universe and aid the liberation of their fellow beings. Pious Mahāyānists often take a solemn vow to seek Bodhisattvahood, thus dedicating themselves long in advance of their Enlightenment to the service of others; Theravādins, however, deny that such a choice is possible, holding that,
once the karmic accretions have been burnt up, along with the false ego, nothing remains to be reborn as a Bodhisattva or in any other form. There is some confusion between individual Buddhas and Bodhisattvas; the latter are generally held to be in some unspecified way inferior to Buddhas and pairs of them are often pictured in attendance on a Buddha. Yet, there are some beings who are spoken of now as Buddhas, now as Bodhisattvas. For example, Avalokiteśvara appears in Chinese iconography as a female (or more rarely a male) Bodhisattva, whereas in Tibet, this same being, under the name Chenresig, is sometimes held to be a Buddha. No Buddhist, I think, would regard this sort of confusion as at all important. Buddhas and Bodhisattvas are, after all, identical in that both are embodiments of the principle of Enlightenment. What is of cardinal importance is Mind. Whatever is believed regarding divine beings is altogether secondary to the practice of negating the ego and attaining intuitive wisdom.
Experiential Evidence
One can readily imagine someone saying of these Buddhist doctrines: “Admirable! The nobility of such conceptions places them in a category higher than mere legend, but what evidence is there that they are more than dreams thought up by men who love wisdom and compassion?”
No spiritual truth is amenable to logical proof or demonstration. Yet, a man born color-blind accepts that red is red and green is green although unable to perceive the difference. To suggest that something cannot be true because it is uncommunicable is poor reasoning; we depend on other people’s accounts for most of our knowledge of places and events. Buddhism, which chooses not to be accepted on the authority of its founder, does, like other forms of mysticism, offer satisfying evidence of its validity to those prepared to master the long and difficult task of controlling the mind and opening it to the unimpeded flow
of intuitive wisdom. Early intimations of the truth will presently be replaced by dazzling certainty, but that certainty will be communicable only to those who are well advanced in the same direction. This situation prevails in most branches of knowledge. Einstein’s conclusions have to be accepted on trust by high-school children; it will take years before they can follow every step of his arguments with full understanding. In this day and age, however, it is not easy to find people who are prepared to spend years turning their minds inwards upon themselves in the hope of obtaining results that, during the first few years of practice, must remain hypothetical. They tend to shrug off the testimony available from accomplished mystics by ascribing it to auto-suggestion or self-hypnosis.
Such an attitude is understandable, all the more so as there have been so many religious charlatans in the world and so many people who babble of their spiritual attainments when all they have accomplished is to pile delusion upon delusion. So, in trying to arouse credence in mystical attainment, we are forced back onto the argument that states of consciousness due to sickness or fancy are recognizable by the unending variety of the thought or dream-content,
whereas the accounts of genuine mystical experience reveal a striking unanimity, especially if allowance is made for formal differences imposed by circumstance. These accounts generally include such perceptions as colorless radiance, unutterable bliss (sometimes preceded by agony of spirit), and, above all, a perception of all-pervading unity in which the duality of subject and object, of worshipper and worshipped, is swallowed up.
The long-term results of repeated mystical experience are difficult to assess, because genuine attainment leads to a preference for seclusion and to disinclination to talk about it unless from a compassionate desire to inspire others to follow the same path. Those who speak freely of making progress are generally frauds; for accomplished adepts, wary of giving leeway to their ego-consciousness, shun assertions involving the concept “I have progressed.” On the other hand, people far advanced towards the goal are often recognizable. There is a sweetness about them and a gentle gaiety. Sometimes, they give the impression of daftness; they are so unconcerned about everything — one fears that, were they to meet a lion in the forest, they would stand their ground, lost
in admiration of its handsome whiskers and the splendor of its mane. Indifferent to personal comfort, they are content with what comes their way — much or little. All these signs apart, they can be distinguished by one special quality — an inner stillness which communicates itself to all comers, even to people who have no idea of being in the presence of someone unusual. It would seem that this stillness is apparent even to animals. There are many cases of jungle recluses who live their lives sought out but not molested by the wild creatures in their neighborhood.
Such men are not numerous. During many years of wandering about the Chinese countryside, I now and then came across one living in some Daoist (Taoist) hermitage or secluded Buddhist temple and much more rarely among monks or laymen dwelling in the cities. Later, I found more of them among the Mongols and Tibetans, those dwellers in solitary regions where spiritual achievement is widely pursued. They have never, I think, been common, but their rarity does not seem to matter. Meeting any one of them would have been enough to convince me that the universe offers no activity half so precious as the pursuit of Enlightenment.
