Karma As Moral Bedrock

The conceptual framework of karma, rebirth and samsara is best viewed as an empirical hypothesis and/or explanatory schema embedded in a moral argument. Crudely put, the argument goes something like this:

1.      Belief in the fair disposition of human affairs is a necessary component of the moral life. In the case that the world is unjust (or persons do not believe that the world is just, that is, if they think bad things happen to good people for no morally relevant reason), then people are less likely to be good.

2.      Apart from the actuality of universal retribution there is no compelling motivation for doing good rather than bad deeds.

3.      All the pleasant and unpleasant feelings that seem to result from apparently random and morally neutral causes and conditions, and from events initiated here and now, are in fact the consequences of past morally charged actions in this life or a previous life. Undeserved joys and sorrows, otherwise inexplicable, are really deferred rewards and punishments.

4.      The assignment of just deserts for past actions (a. k. a. punishment and reward) occurs through an impersonal causal process alluded to in various canonical and traditional sources.

5.      Moral indifference, despair, and outrage are based upon a misapprehension, for it is certain that (a) the fortunate and unfortunate circumstances and events of this life are the consequences of past deeds and (b) the good deeds of this life will cause a more auspicious rebirth in future lives, and the bad deeds will bring about renewed existence in one of the painful realms.

6.      Belief in the certainty of retribution is sufficient to coerce good moral behavior.

The factual claims about moral causation (4. and 5. above) serve as premises for the final moral claim regarding the inhibitory power of karmic retribution. The argument is intended as an antidote to the moral doubt and indecision that can follow hard upon the discovery that life is not fair. By insisting that human existence, and the whole universe along with it, is truly just despite appearances to the contrary, the Buddhist teacher hopes to support positive moral traits and pre-empt antinomian tendencies.

It should be noted that the whole of the argument depends for its force upon the further premises that (1) although the justice is delivered on a cosmic scale, justice in itself does not make life worth living because (2) in the end or, more accurately, “along the beginningless and endless way,” even the most pleasurable existence will be marred by impermanence and pain and therefore, (3) the clear choice is to put an end to life, now and forever.

Samsāra

In our progress through the Early Buddhism component of the Buddhist Studies curriculum we have come to the inevitable encounter with the complex of ideas that form a cluster around the central conception of action-result (P. kamma-vipaka). In the weeks to come we will be examining various concepts drawn from the suttas of the Pali canon, and discussing them in light of later developments in Buddhistic thinking, the Zen tradition in particular, and our personal experience. This is the first in a series of postings about karma, renewed existence, and samsāra.

The vision of samsāra—the repeated renewal of personal existence as shaped by the results of past and present acts—has a simple underlying message, to wit, life does not end when you die. On the contrary, it goes on and on, endlessly, unless you abandon life altogether. Buddhist tradition has invested heavily in a literary tradition intended to convince us that for eons in the past we have been wandering among the realms of existence and will continue to do so for an unimaginable span of time to come, unless we adopt the Buddha’s eight-point program for putting an end to pain, not just in this body but in all possible future bodies. The overarching task is to get out of life and stay out, and the alternative is virtually endless dukkha.

It is at least arguable that, if you can manage to believe in a cosmology that offers the prospect of indefinitely long-term suffering, you have a powerful motive for striving to extricate yourself from the conditions that condemn you to an unpleasant eternity. If you can’t adopt that particular conceptual scheme, then the matter of whether or not you achieve awakening is likely to seem much less pressing, for we will all die sooner or later, and then our troubles will be over.

Most Western students of Buddhism and Zen are inclined to accept karma and samsāra as part of the package without giving them much thought. As it is typically presented—“what goes around comes around”—karma seems little more than an exotic variant of the idea of cause-and-effect. Thinking in causal terms is both commonplace and necessary. Kant believed that causal reasoning was part of human nature, and its evolutionary advantages are obvious. Upon reflection, however, the conceptual schema of karma, rebirth, and samsāra turns out to be very much more complex, and to require very much more in the way of support, than the physics of “every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”

As we shall see, belief in karma and renewed existence is rather more difficult than it might appear to be at first glance. Can the notions of morally-charged action and conditionally-renewed existence do the heavy lifting required to produce a plausible continuity of the non-self across many lifetimes? Do we, fascinated by and absorbed in the world as we are, really need or want to look beyond it?

The Great Being, Mahāsattva

Bodhisattva Mahāsattva, Great Awakening Beings, make their appearance around the beginning of the Common Era. In painting and sculpture they are depicted as clad not in the patchwork robes of the monk—Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva is the exception—but in princely raiment, adorned with coronets, bangles and necklaces. They are sometimes shown in the posture of royal ease. Such bodhisattvas are not merely beings who aspire to awaken, boon companions in the process of self-transformation, and background figures in the scenes of Lord Buddha’s discourses. They are adepts and teachers in their own right, capable of instructing and assisting ordinary people. The social matrix from which they emerge is different from that of the Buddha’s day. Their courtly appearance marks the transition from republican to feudal forms of political organization, which change itself is mirrored in the ascendancy of the role of the authoritarian guru as contrasted with the relatively egalitarian relations within the early monastic community. In Buddhist art and literature of the Mahayana, the Great Beings rise to a status nearly equal to that of the Buddha. In certain forms of popular worship they surpass it. Bodhisattvas also appear as the central figures in scriptures such as the Prajnāpāramitāhrdāya, the Vimalakirtinirdesa, and the Avatamsaka.

Unlike the Buddha, who escapes from the round of birth and death, and attains an indescribable mode of being, the Mahāsattva, although possessed of liberating knowledge and conduct, remains in the world to help all who suffer in the six realms. The wide-ranging activity and multiple roles of the Mahāsattvas bespeak a conception of liberation that is compatible with embodied human existence. Worldly enlightenment also harmonizes well with the doctrine of a fundamental, inherent Buddhahood that extends even to the inanimate, and the increasingly “ecological” interpretation of interdependent causal-conditionality (pratītya-samutpāda.)

“The Buddha said to Drdhamati, “It is a Samādhi called the Concentration of Heroic Progress (surangama samādhi). Bodhisattvas who have obtained this samādhi can, since you ask about it, manifest Parinirvāna, but without definitively ceasing to be.’”

--Śūrangama Samādhi Sutra

That hallowing of the world also accords with the tantric goal of banishing the very notion of impurity. To borrow the words attributed to the sage, Bodhidharma, “In heaven and earth, nothing holy,” which is just to say, “Everything is holy.” Thus, an inconceivably great multitude of Awakening Beings is said to permeate the universe (or multiverse). That vision of enlightenment’s plenitude is also an expression of the fundamental luminosity and self-transcendence of everything in nature. For followers of the Way, the Mahāsattvas are the focus of aspiration and the embodiment of the awakened life as it is seen to work in the world at all times and in all places.

Zazen & Memory

The primary task in zazen is to disable certain associative and specifically mnemonic functions. The intimate connection between memory and consciousness is the reason why the forerunner and Daoist counterpart of “just sitting,” called “sitting in oblivion” (Chinese “zuowang”) is sometimes (rightly) translated as “sitting in forgetfulness.” Not-knowing is precisely the inability to recall, and unknowing is the essence of zazen. In zazen we intentionally (or at lest willingly) disable the neural mechanisms that perform the numerous, mostly involuntary associative operations that make the texture of our ordinary mental life so rich and varied. To use a simile from the world of digital computation, the practitioner of “just sitting” gradually reduces the extent of the massive parallel processing that enables her to use multiple screens and multiple windows within a screen, and to compare the contents of innumerable open folders almost simultaneously. The closing of those programs greatly reduces the amount of mental activity while at the same time taking computing power away from the functions of higher-order awareness.

The success of Dōgen’s way is due to the clever misdirection of his instructions for zazen, and his insistence that dhyāna-samādhi is ever-present and self-realizing. We are relieved of responsibility for our own liberation and, therefore, the process of unlearning, de-centration, and dissociation is able to unfold gradually and naturally, mostly outside of awareness.

Bhāvanā & "Practice"

Bhāvanā is an Indic term that was adopted by the early Buddhists to designate the broad range of somato-psychic exercises commonly known as meditation. The word can be translated as “development” or “cultivation.” The field of self-investigation and mental therapeutics, taken as a whole, is more accurately described as a balance of cultivation and neglect. The following analogy may be helpful: just as the prudent farmer cultivates some of his fields and lets others lie fallow, certain faculties of mind can be strengthened or intensified, while others are allowed to rest. Here is another analogy: the flow of a river can be reduced by damming and irrigation; or, the digging of a canal can divert the river into a different course. In like manner the faculties of attention, etc., are diverted from the usual everyday tasks such as planning, and set to performing well-defined exercises intended to foster specific qualities and attributes.

Just as bhāvanā entails voluntary control over certain mental faculties, its successful practice also requires the intentional loss of control under particular circumstances. The ability to make adjustments in focus and tension, to know when to hold the faculties steady and when to back off, improves with experience. Some exercises will require more mindfulness and “concentration,” some less, and some almost none at all.

Dōgen’s zazen is an interesting case because, although it is demonstrably a practice that gets results of various kinds, we are taught that it is, in the words of the Fukanzazengi, “not a dhyāna of training.” We are encouraged to read that passage as suggesting that there is no learning curve in the course of doing zazen and no skill to be acquired over time. In fact at least two kinds of learning occur as we sit for months and years and decades. First, whilst we strive to approximate what we are told was the Buddha’s posture, we are developing mindfulness of the body-image and the bodily sensations associated with it. Once the method of correct sitting has been mastered and drops below the threshold of awareness, we cultivate the art of non-resistance—that is, letting go, letting in, and letting be—without which we cannot “merely sit.” Dōgen’s insistence upon non-action (“Just don’t do it!”) was an expedient aimed at preventing the arising of egotism. By sticking to the line that “zazen does itself,” teachers in the Dōgen lineage aim to undermine the trainee’s tendency to take credit for progress in meditation and improvement in the quality of life, and to pre-empt yet another layer of self-conscious reflection.

A handwritten sign was left outside the door of the zendo recently. It read

     

How can we learn (!) to sit without any idea? As a New York cabbie answered when asked how to get to Carnegie Hall, “Practice!”

Conceptions of Awakening & the Path

During the 12 centuries of Buddhism’s evolution, approaches to mental cultivation have been shaped by changing ideas about the ultimate goal of training and the path(s) by which it can be attained, if any. The various traditions of Buddhistic teaching provide the following alternative views of the process at a minimum:

1. Enlightenment/awakening is gradual and progressive, attained in conjunction with the development of the necessary causes and conditions, namely, the accumulation of merit through moral reform, mental development through the practice of dhyāna (contemplative absorption), and the accumulation of wisdom (prajñā) through analysis of past events and direct insight (vipaśyanā) into the nature of experience. (Early Buddhism)

2. Enlightenment is sudden, total, and of obscure causation. (Zen)

3. Enlightenment is innate, a primordial given, and therefore unattainable yet, nonetheless, to be realized by various means. (Mahāyāna)

4. Enlightenment is a concept, dependent upon its opposite (ignorance), therefore empty. As such, it is to be let go, along with its opposite, lest we become prisoners of our desire for it. (Madhyamaka)

5. Although empty and provisional, the ideas of enlightenment and ignorance are convenient ways of characterizing fundamental energies that are essential to the activity of consciousness and life throughout the universe. (Mantrayāna, or Esoteric Buddhism) On that view, although we are accustomed to thinking of the pair as polar opposites, and the journey from ignorance towards enlightenment as movement along a continuum by finely shaded degrees, that analogy is conditioned by our habitual goal orientation and, therefore, not so much false as incomplete. We will come to see ignorance and enlightenment as qualitative and contingent features of a continually changing experiential field that is fundamentally self-liberating and subject to pulsations, oscillations, and waves, of which ignorance and enlightenment are the primary perceptual nodes.

Amazing Disgrace

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When not just one contemporary Buddhist Master but a baker’s dozen (pun intended) have been accused of various kinds of financial, sexual, and social misconduct, we collectively turn our eyes upon them and cannot look away even as the lurid details continue to emerge. Accounts of the alleged events are at once horrifying and fascinating. The outmoded theological term “disgrace” comes to mind. We are rapt, in part because of the feelings that the stories evoke—simple curiosity, indignation, protectiveness, and titillation. Add to the mix of feelings a sense of moral dread at the dawning realization that we are not what we thought ourselves to be, and you have the makings of serious interest. Perhaps because I am the son and grandson of journalists, I cannot but view the unfolding story as a writer’s dream come true. I mention this not in a spirit of cynicism, but because of what it says about our fascination with such matters as these in an age dominated by mass communications. It is our own Zen supermarket tabloid headliner.

Like most people who have pondered the continuing revelations, I am of the opinion that fraud, theft, and predation are not good things. Where they can be proven, the bad actors should be pointed out, the behavior stopped and punished. Perpetrators, victims, and members of their communities should seek justice and healing. That having been said, I am yet disturbed by the alternation of the commentary between the accusatory and the apologetic. It is as if I’d fallen asleep aboard a bus bound for the Zen monastery only to awaken at a church camp abuzz with gossip. The ceaseless discussion of the latest scandals and the frantic efforts to guard against future scandals have taken on a Protestant odor and an air of panic that is unseemly in followers of the Way. As I am not inclined to promote any sect of Japanese Buddhism, and because my capacity for institutional loyalty is set in the neighborhood of zero, I am less than wild about the prospects of a Zen Licensing Board. Ms. Shireson and her cadre of would-be bureaucrats seem determined to make Wayfaring as safe as a game of canasta. We practitioners, corralled by our self-absorption, oscillate between moral outrage and frissons of prurient interest. This unpleasant business is our own private reality show, in which we are both players and audience. In the background one hears murmurings of ethical guidelines, committees, and boards of review, of professional standards and training—bodhisattvas reduced to so many potential shysters and quacks—as if we have not had the benefit of such things all along. Mazi, Huangbo, and Linji would laugh themselves sick to hear of it. If the tenets of Buddha-Dharma, the precepts, and the monastic code are not enough to keep our boys and girls from going wild, then perhaps it is time to admit that as a society we are not yet mature enough to undertake the project of self liberation without adult supervision.

“But,” someone will be asking, “How could we let such things happen?” Up to now it has been possible for us to imagine that to embrace Buddhism and/or Zen invests us with a higher ethical standard than that of the general public, a safety mechanism built into the practice that protects us from what is worst in ourselves. If we ever believed that, we were deceived. But my aim here is neither to chastise nor to engage in a sociological critique that might let us off the hook. There has already been a great deal of that sort of thing. What interests me is what these scandals say and don’t say about our understanding and practice of Zen and Buddhism.

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There is widespread agreement that the conduct under discussion here violates contemporary ethical standards and is not to be tolerated. Public examination of the unfolding events has focused on such topics as male sexuality, relations of power between student and teacher, Allzumenschlichkeit, professional boundaries and the like. The social, psychotherapeutic, and ecclesiastical consequences are being addressed in various ways. Yet relatively little has been said about the implications of those events for Buddhism and Zen, as religion and as contemplative practice, except to note that the occurrence of such improprieties puts them in a bad light. I am quite certain, however, that there is more to it than that, that we have opened the proverbial Can of Worms.

In its narrowest compass the undeniable misconduct of our teachers draws our attention to the supposed connection between moral rectitude and spiritual accomplishments. That alone ought to be enough to stimulate a re-evaluation of traditional views of Buddha-Dharma. In its wider application it raises a cluster of difficult questions about our beliefs and practices as individuals and communities. We might begin with the most obvious of these, and ask, “Isn’t enlightenment supposed to immunize the Zen Master against the kind of temptations that are likely to arise in a situation so rife with opportunities for abuse? And if it doesn’t, why doesn’t it?” It is widely supposed that a connection obtains between moral perfection and awakening, such that without the former the latter is impossible.

The basic idea is simple enough. If the efficient working of your mental faculties is impaired by shame, remorse, fear of punishment, or any other manifestation of bad conscience, you will not be able to attain contemplative equipoise (Samādhi.) Without a calm mind it is next to impossible to acquire liberating insight. Or so the story goes. It is an hypothesis that has a certain plausibility in the context of a society whose members share a clearly defined and well supported moral code. Within a traditional framework of customs and laws, the vast majority of people can be expected to exhibit more or less similar emotional responses to knowledge of personal guilt. In the absence of such a culture we cannot assume that education in normative standards is sufficiently uniform or thoroughgoing to inculcate a universal ethical standard. I offer our current situation as prima facie evidence of moral confusion and weakness.

The ancient values of Western Civilization that form the basis of our moral life—in theory at least—were never quite so monolithic as we are sometimes led to think. Our so-called Judeo-Christian heritage is a hotch-potch of ancient Jewish mythology, mystery religions, Hellenic philosophy, and Roman law. Moreover, “traditional Western values” have been under attack from several directions since the late Middle Ages at least. The individualism of the Renaissance, the ideology of commerce with its emphasis on self-interest, and the skepticism of science have contributed to the undermining of our sense of moral certainty. Psychology, philosophy and biology have made destabilizing forays into the realm of ethics. Increases in rates of literacy and higher education, modern methods of communication, the international migration of large numbers of people, and a global expansion of trade have placed us cheek-by-jowl with a host of competing systems of religion and political economy, each with its peculiar cultural bias. I dare to say that never have a people inhabited a more varied moral landscape or stood on shakier moral ground.

In any case, monastic tradition has long considered moral sensitivity (P. hiri) and a sense of moral peril (P. ottappa) crucial to the attainment of higher knowledge. As with so many of the Buddha’s teachings, the notion can be expressed in terms of contingent causation, as in the following passage from the Vinaya (V.164):

“[We practice] lifestyle rules for the sake of restraint; restraint for the sake of non-remorse; non-remorse for the sake of gladness; gladness for the sake of delight; delight for the sake of tranquility; tranquility for the sake of ease; ease for the sake of Samādhi; Samādhi for the sake of the knowledge and vision of the way things are; that knowledge for the sake of distaste; distaste for the sake of dispassion; dispassion for the sake of liberation; liberation for the sake of the knowledge and vision of liberation; that knowledge and vision for the sake of complete extinction (nibānna) through non-clinging. Just for that reason do we engage in talk, counsel, support, and listening, namely, liberation of the heart through non-clinging.”

Although some readers might experience puzzlement over the order or details of the sequence, the general idea seems clear enough. Good behavior is conducive to a calm mind, a calm mind is conducive to liberating knowledge, and liberating knowledge brings about non-clinging. The end of clinging puts an end to the activity of the nidānas, the so-called “links in the chain” of dependent origination. From that point onward, one is forever free not only of ignorance, craving and clinging, but of sensory stimulation, consciousness, and life itself. Game over.

Traditionalist will insist that moral purification is the sine qua non of both awakening and the cessation of renewed existence. On account of that relation, belief in karma serves as the bedrock of Buddhist ethics and the indispensable precursor of moral striving. Of course, that is not the only way of looking at the matter. As we shall see, there are Buddhists who deny the connection. For example, in the following passage from the writings of Genju, author of the blog, 108zenbooks.com, no link between the two is assumed:

“Professional and personal ethics are a means of addressing the outcome of being terribly human. And importantly, without the latter, the former is toothless. That is, being a Zen teacher (or psychologist) no more makes us upright than sacrificing birds on an altar. Standing up is the only practice that does, and each time we do so we create a community of uprightness and from that emerges a model of ethical living. Simply put, actions among people in a community are operationalized as acceptable or not; it doesn’t arise out of a naïve belief that our inherent goodness is sufficient for moral action to occur.”

A bit social-sciency, but you get the idea. Now, if you have been reading the Pali Canon, you will have noticed that a good deal of what the Buddha has to say to householders has to do with the moral dimension of action and its consequences in this life and lives to come. That is a dimension of conduct that is largely missing from the current discussion of the Rogue Roshis, about which more in a future post.