Ajahn Amaro examines the arguments for and
against the arhat and bodhisattva ideals that define and too often
divide the Buddhist traditions. He suggests a way out of the
polarizing debate.
A student of Buddhism asked, “Which do you think is the best
path: that of the arahant or that of the bodhisattva?”
“That kind of question is asked by people who understand absolutely
nothing about Buddhism!” Ajahn Sumedho replied.
Don’t be an arahant, don’t be a bodhisattva, don’t be anything
at all—if you are anything at all you will suffer.” —Ajahn Chah
One of the more significant elephants in the living room of
Buddhism in the West is the disparity between the stated goals of
the Northern and Southern schools. In the Northern tradition, the
goal is often formulated as the cultivation of the bodhisattva path
over many lifetimes for the benefit of all beings, culminating in
buddhahood. Its scriptures and liturgies are thickly populated with
the bodhisattva principle, and for those who practice in this
tradition it is normal to take bodhisattva vows. In the Southern
tradition, the spiritual ideal that is extolled instead is the
realization of arahantship—the realization of nibbana and the
ending of rebirth, in this very life. The bodhisattva principle is
hardly ever spoken of, apart from its mention in
the Jataka Tales, stories of the past lives of Gotama
Buddha.
The main reason for delving into this disparity is that people do
make comparisons of the arahant and bodhisattva ideal and ask which
path to follow. The aim here is not to argue a particular position
and defend it, but rather to shed a little more light on the goals
of Buddhist practice and to recount some of what the scriptures and
traditions have said about this landscape over the centuries.
Nowadays these two traditions often have occasion to meet. A wide
spectrum of Buddhist teachings is available, and many people have
been inspired by masters of different lineages. We read a book that
encourages us to be free from greed, hatred, and delusion, to
escape from the endless cycles of rebirth, and we feel, “Yes,
that’s it!” Then we read about those compassionate ones whose chief
concern is to stay in the world to relieve the suffering of others,
and again the heart leaps—“That’s wonderful!”
So do these two paths conflict, or are they compatible? Do they
lead to different goals, or maybe the same goal? Are they actually
the same track known by different names?
Over time, both traditions have developed critiques of each other
and then passed these on as received knowledge. When all we have to
go by is the established outlook, these critiques seem to be
reasonable judgments. Some of the points of view from the South
argue, “The Mahayana schools are not real Buddhism; they wrote
their own scriptures and have wandered from the Buddha’s true path,
namely realizing nibbana and ending rebirth.” Voices from the
North, on the other hand, say, “The Theravadans are the small
vehicle; they only follow the Buddha’s most preliminary
instructions. The Buddha gave far superior teachings, those of the
Great and Supreme Vehicles, and it is those we hold in highest
esteem.”
This said, both kinds of practitioners also wrestle with such
doubts as, “Am I holding an obstructive view if I look down on
arahats?” Or, “Am I adhering to an inferior ideal if I dismiss the
bodhisattva vows?”
In addition to such personal dilemmas, the plot thickens when we
look at the scriptures themselves. On examination we find some
curious and significant anomalies in both the teachings of the
Northern and Southern schools. When studying with a spiritual
teacher, it is the most natural thing in the world to want to
emulate that person and the path that he or she has followed.
However, in the Pali Canon, the subject of the Buddha’s bodhisattva
training never comes up. At no time does anyone even ask about it.
No one enquires, “What made you choose to become a Buddha?” or
“Could an ordinary person like me undertake that path too?” or
“Should I aim for buddhahood or for the more accessible goal of
arahantship?”
Nothing. Not a syllable. It’s like a biography of Winston Churchill
that fails to mention a couple of stints he had as prime
minister.
How come the issue never gets mentioned?
In the Northern tradition, there is an equally mysterious anomaly.
Immediately following his enlightenment, the Buddha’s inclination
was not to teach. He saw that worldly attachment was so great and
the subtlety of his realization was so refined that others simply
would not understand.
If compassion for other beings was his prime motivation in
developing the spiritual perfections for so many lifetimes—for
“four incalculable periods and 100,000 eons,” according to the
scriptures—why should he feel that there was no point in
even trying? Very mysterious.
One would imagine that such incongruities would lead people to
investigate their own beliefs more closely, and to ponder whether
the standard views of their own and other traditions were reliable.
Unfortunately, it’s more often the case that such anomalous
elements are ignored or dismissed, and one’s preferred version of
reality re-established.
If we look into the roots of the conflict and ponder possible
resolutions, we first encounter a question: What exactly is the
problem?
When reading texts extolling the virtues of the arahant and the
bodhisattva, both appear to be noble aspirations. How wonderful
that we can develop such purity and wisdom! Clearly it is not the
ideals themselves that are the root of any conflict; rather, the
root of the problem is people—more specifically, the issue of
tribalism. It’s the great “mine” field: through a misguided
faithfulness to our origins—this
is my team, my lineage—we
co-opt the intellect to defend our group, often bending the facts
and the philosophy for the sake of winning the argument.
Whether it’s football teams, family feuds, or Buddhist lineages,
the dynamics are identical: first, we seize on some features of the
opposition to criticize; then we enter the labyrinth of
position-taking; finally, we miss the reality of what it was we
were contesting in the first place. Even though the intent of an
exchange might be very noble, the emotional tone permeating it can
be deeply instinctual and aggressive, as well as territorial. We
might observe the appropriate etiquette and protocols, but
nevertheless be taken over by the reptile brain.
The real issue, then, is often not philosophy; it’s hurt feelings.
What probably began as an amicable spiritual discussion somehow
evolved into a bitter rivalry a few centuries later. Critical
comments were bandied back and forth and they degenerated into
derogatory insults, until the various factions were stabbing each
other with verbal daggers, and each opposing group became
stereotyped: Anyone who aspires to arahantship is a
selfish nihilist; all those who take the bodhisattva vows are
obviously heretical eternalists.
Many spiritual traditions tell the tale of the blind men and the
elephant. Isn’t it revealing that we rarely think of ourselves as
one of the blind? We prefer to see ourselves as watching the sorry
squabbling of the sightless. It’s humbling, though, to see how
easily we’re pulled into this kind of deluded certainty and
position-taking based on our attachment to views and opinions.
We’re so sure: “This is not an opinion, it’s
a fact!”
Even if the “fact” is 100 percent provable, if we use it as a
weapon it becomes, as Ajahn Chah said, “Right in fact, but wrong in
dhamma.” Sometimes it is devout faithfulness, rather than
negativity, that generates such dualisms. Once, when Ajahn Chah was
visiting England, a woman long connected to the Thai Forest
tradition came to see him. She was very concerned:
“I respect your wisdom immensely but I feel uncomfortable
studying and taking refuges and precepts with you; I feel I’m being
unfaithful to my teacher, Ajahn Maha-Boowa.”
Ajahn Chah replied, “I don’t see the problem. Ajahn Maha-Boowa and
I are both disciples of the Buddha.”
It is possible to explore these various teachings and traditions in
this spirit of nonpartisan openness and, hopefully, appreciate the
landscape of the way of the Buddha with eyes that are “right in
dhamma.” Through this kind of investigation, perhaps we can find
ways to resolve these ancient conflicts.
If the difficulties that have arisen over the centuries can be
attributed to contentious position-taking, one way to resolve them
should be through the practice of non-contention. The Buddha once
said that his entire teaching could be summarized as, “Nothing
whatsoever should be clung to.” Such a spirit of non-contention and
non-clinging approaches the core principle of the middle way. The
skillful refusal to pick one particular viewpoint and cling to it
reflects right view; it also expresses the effort that is essential
to arrive at resolution. The question then arises: how exactly do
we find this mysterious middle—the place of non-abiding, the place
of non-contention?
“The middle way” can mean a lot of different things. It can even be
used by politicians to describe their war plans. In this
investigation, the term denotes the fundamental principle that the
Buddha realized at his enlightenment. It refers to the insight of
awakening that transcends the later categories of Theravada,
Mahayana, and Vajrayana.
“The middle way” is an everyday expression. This renders the
principle highly accessible; however, it also belies its
profundity. In the Buddha’s first discourse, he equated the middle
way with the noble eightfold path, thus defining it as a quality
that embodies the entire spiritual training.
In this original sense, it was an all-encompassing teaching.
Predictably, in later years and in certain regions, it came to be
emblematic of one particular school—that based on the Madhayamaka
philosophy of Acharya Nagarjuna. That school was distinguished from
other groups such as the Chittamatrans, Vaibashikas, and
Sautrantikas. Thus, although it began as a universal principle, the
meaning of “middle way” shrank somewhat, within this sphere, to
become another tribal insignia.
Although the term is not being used here in this narrower sense, it
is nevertheless interesting to explore what Nagarjuna’s insight was
fuelled by. For it is in this central principle of the middle
way—and particularly in the analysis of the feelings of existence
and of “self”—that we find the means to harmonize conflicting
views.
In a seminal exchange between the Buddha and Maha-Kaccana, the
Buddha says:
“All exists,” Kaccayana, this is one extreme, “All does not
exist,” this is the other extreme. Without veering towards either
of these extremes the Tathagata teaches the dhamma by the middle
way.
—Samyutta Nikaya 12.15
There is a very close connection between this discourse, found in
the Pali Canon, and the words of Nagarjuna in his Treatise
on the Root of the Middle Way. This latter text is considered
a cornerstone of the Mahayana movement, and it has informed the
approach of the Northern school for the past 1,800 years.
Ironically, it makes no mention of such characteristic Northern
elements as bodhisattvas and bodhichitta. Indeed, scholars such as
Kalupahana and Warder have pointed out that there’s actually
nothing particularly “Mahayana” in what it says.
Nagarjuna mentions the dialogue between Buddha and Maha-Kaccana;
further, he writes:
“Existence” is the grasping at permanence; “non-existence” is
the view of annihilation. Therefore, the wise do not dwell in
existence or non-existence.
—Mulamadyamakakarika 14.10
Both teachings point out how to recognize the feeling of self, how
to see through it, and, ultimately, how to break free from the
tyrant. They both indicate that clinging to the sense of self is
what primarily obstructs knowing the middle way.
These teachings point to the fact that, yes, there is the feeling
of selfhood, but they also make it clear that the feeling of “I”
arises due to causes. These causes are habits rooted in ignorance
and fired by craving. There might be the feeling of “I,” yet, like
all feelings, it is transparent and empty of substance—merely a
pattern of consciousness that arises and ceases.
This teaching is usually taken to be a philosophical description;
however, it is most significant as a meditation tool. It helps us
to see that questions such as “Do I exist?” or “Do I not exist?”
are irrelevant. Instead the perspective shifts to one of
cultivating and maintaining a mindful awareness of the feeling of
“I” arising and ceasing. This is the essence of vipassana, or
insight meditation.
The dissolution of the conceit “I am” was described by the Buddha
as “nibbana here and now,” and it cuts to the root of all
contentions.
It is said that the Buddha’s first discourse, the Setting
in Motion of the Wheel of Truth, encompasses all
teachings—just as the footprint of all creatures that walk are
encompassed by an elephant’s footprint. This is said not only by
followers of the Southern school but also by Mahayana and Vajrayana
masters such as His Holiness the Dalai Lama. It is here that the
Buddha first articulated the middle way and the four noble
truths.
There are two insights crucial to understanding these truths:
first, they are relative, not absolute; second, they are not just
personal but also universal. This first insight indicates that the
statement “There is dukkha” describes a relative experience. It is
not intended as a proclamation meaning “Dukkha is absolutely real.”
This is one reason why the Buddha called these truths “noble”
rather than “ultimate.”
The second insight refers to the fact that it’s not
just me who is experiencing dukkha; there is a
shattering of the delusion that my experience of dukkha could be
more significant than yours. All beings are in the same boat.
It seems that in some regions, the understanding of these two
principles shrank. Dukkha became regarded as an absolute reality,
and thus a narrower diameter for the footprint emerged. It also
appears, according to some historians, that because of this
shrinking footprint the impulse for renewal arose, initiating what
became known as the Mahayana movement.
The Pali scriptures repeatedly state that the best thing we can do
for ourselves and all beings is to be totally enlightened. If that
intention is grasped in the wrong way, however, the breadth of its
scope can be lost. Our own suffering can drift into seeming more
significant than that of others, simply because it’s what we have
the power to resolve.
The Mahayana teachings arose to say, “My suffering is felt here,
yet it can’t be more important than anyone else’s. All beings have
similar experiences.” Of course, this understanding has always been
present within the Southern teachings as well; however, it seems
that it was obscured by various factors.
We have been looking at this question from a large-scale social
view, but all movements are composed of individual human beings.
These patterns of development are readily to be found on the
personal plane too. During his early years in Thailand, Ajahn
Sumedho once declared to Ajahn Chah, “I’m totally committed to the
practice. I’m determined to fully realize nibbana in this lifetime;
I’m deeply weary of the human condition and determined not to be
born again.” Given the classic Theravadan vernacular, that’s a
worthy attitude; you’d expect the teacher to respond,
“Sadhu! Good for you, Sumedho!”
Ajahn Chah, however, replied, “What about us, Sumedho? Don’t you
care about those who’ll be left behind?” In one stroke he had
teased his disciple by suggesting that Ajahn Sumedho was the more
spiritually advanced and then alluded to the value of a “caring for
all beings” approach. He had lovingly chided his disciple for his
narrowness.
Ajahn Chah detected there was a nihilistic view rather than dhammic
detachment behind Ajahn Sumedho’s comment. And as long as that kind
of negativity was active, it guaranteed painful results. Ajahn Chah
reflected that attitude back to him by tilting the view in the
other direction, highlighting the self-centered negativity.
In considering this encouragement toward a more expansive attitude,
it is highly significant that the four bodhisattva vows are
actually an explicit extension of the four noble truths. In the
Chinese version of the Brahmajala, or Brahma
Net Sutra, it addresses this quite directly. Venerable Master
Hui Seng, a contemporary elder of the Northern tradition, explains
the connection in his commentary to the sutra:
[R]elying on the Four Noble Truths, he brings forth the Four
Great Vows of a Bodhisattva. The Four Noble Truths are:
Suffering,
Accumulation,
Extinction, and
The Way.
The first Noble Truth is Suffering, and since all living beings are
suffering, he brings forth the first Vast Vow, which is,
Living beings are numberless;
I vow to save them all.
The second Vast Vow is based upon the second Noble Truth,
Accumulation. Accumulation means accumulation of afflictions. The
second Vast Vow is,
Afflictions are endless;
I vow to cut them off.
The third Noble Truth is that of Extinction, and based upon this,
the Bodhisattva brings forth the third Vast Vow,
The Buddha Way is unsurpassed;
I vow to accomplish it.
And the fourth Noble Truth is The Way, and based on that truth he
brings forth the fourth Vast Vow, which is,
Dharma-doors are numberless;
I vow to study them all.
So, above he seeks the Buddha Way, and below he transforms living
beings. This is a reciprocal function of compassion and wisdom.
—The Buddha Speaks the Brahma Net Sutra, by Master Hui
Seng
This expression of the four noble truths spells out their
non-personal, expansive quality. In the same epoch, a parallel
teaching arose that also spelled out the strictly relative nature
of the four noble truths: the Heart Sutra.
Probably the most well-known teaching in the Northern Canon,
the Heart Sutra has been recited for centuries
from India to Manchuria, from Kyoto to Latvia, and nowadays
throughout the world. It is the natural counterpart to the
bodhisattva vows, and indeed, they are often recited together.
The Heart Sutra states: “There is no suffering,
no origin, no cessation, and no way.” The sutra thus takes the four
noble truths and points out their empty aspect: ultimately, there
is no dukkha. We think we’re suffering, but in ultimate reality
there isn’t any dukkha.
The Heart Sutra reminds us that the four noble
truths are essentially transparent; they are relative, not absolute
truths. Sometimes people faithfully proclaim, “Everything is
suffering,” as if dukkha were an ultimate truth, but that’s not
what the Buddha taught, as is evidenced in the scriptures of both
the Southern and Northern schools. “Suffering” is a conditional,
relative truth; it is “noble” because it leads to liberation.
It is the sense of self that ultimately drives the tribalistic
politics that exist today. Ironically, even though the reformers
aimed at dispelling the self-centeredness they saw, the problem
nevertheless persisted. These divisive politics are like dubious
family heirlooms—hard to discard, being so much a part of our
collective histories.
The conflict essentially arises as a result of conceiving the
arahant and the bodhisattva in terms of self-view. When there is no
clinging to any view, the picture radically changes. The Buddha
said, “Held by two kinds of views, some hold back and some
overreach; only those with vision see.” The former means some
people are life-affirmers, delighting in the things of the world.
When teachings refer to letting go and cessation, their minds
recoil and hold back. By “some overreach,” he means nihilists who
rejoice in the idea of non-being, asserting that when the body
dies, this self is annihilated. They feel this will be true peace.
“Those with vision” see what has come to be as having come to be.
They cultivate dispassion toward that and are at ease with its
cessation.
As long as self-view has not been penetrated, the mind will miss
the middle way. The “ending of rebirth” ideal will tend to get
co-opted by the nihilist view, whereas the “endlessly returning for
the sake of all beings” ideal will tend to become permeated with
the eternalist view.
When the sense of self is seen through, the middle way is realized.
Whether we talk in terms of emptiness of the arahant of the Pali
Canon, or in terms of the absolute zero of the Heart
Sutra or the infinite view of the four vows, these are
merely modes of speech. They all derive from the same source, the
truth of the way things are. They are simply expedient formulations
that guide the heart to attunement with the reality of its own
nature. That attunement is the middle way.
There are many teachings that illuminate this perspective; for
example:
As long as space remains,
As long as sentient beings remain,
Until then, may I too remain
And dispel the miseries of the world.
—Shantideva, Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of
Life
To the average Theravadan, this verse by Shantideva might seem
antithetical to the path. It appears to run completely counter to
that principle to get out of the burning house as soon as one can.
However, the practice of the middle way involves taking up
compassion teachings along with their partner, the emptiness
teachings. These two elements are like the wings of a bird—they
can’t function properly without each other.
If we reflect closely on this verse, another layer of meaning opens
up: as long as space and identity are held to have substantial
reality, the mind has not realized enlightenment. True insight
involves recognizing that space, time, and being are imputed
qualities that have no absolute existence.
Thus the Southern idea of “me going” and “others left behind” must
be missing the mark. Similarly, the Northern view of “this
individual being will persist through infinite time for the sake of
other beings” has also fallen into wrong view. The practice of the
middle way dissolves the illusion that “I” can “go” and “others”
can “stay,” or vice versa. It radically reconfigures the concepts
of time, space, and being.
So the aspiration can validly be as it is in the
verse; but if space no longer remains, if no beings remain, if
their nature is recognized as conditioned and therefore empty, what
does that say about the “I” who would be “staying”?
The irony is that upon knowing that time, space, and beings have no
substantial reality, the “I” is “gone” too—gone to suchness, come
to suchness: Tathagata.
Sri Ramana Maharshi once remarked, “A good man says, ‘Let me be the
last man to get liberation, so that I may help all others to be
liberated before I am.’ Wonderful! Imagine a dreamer saying, ‘May
all these dream people wake up before I do.’ The dreamer is no more
absurd than this amiable philosopher.” His analysis astutely sums
up the issue: only when the heart is free of all self-view can it
attune itself to reality; a precise balance is needed.
In The Vajra Prajna Paramita Sutra, we find passages
that voice a similar understanding:
Subhuti, what do you think? You should not maintain that the
Tathagata has this thought: “I shall take living beings across.”
Subhuti, do not have that thought. And why? There are actually no
living beings taken across by the Tathagata. If there were living
beings taken across by the Tathagata, then the Tathagata would have
the existence of a self, of others, of living beings, and of a
life. Subhuti, the existence of a self spoken of by the Tathagata
is no existence of a self, but common people take it as the
existence of a self.
We save all beings by realizing there are no beings. The perfection
of wisdom is to see this fact: ultimately, the truth is not self
and not other; there is no arahant, no bodhisattva, no birth, no
death. Though the heart might incline to compassion, it’s only when
we cultivate this wisdom element as well that there is going to be
true spiritual fulfillment.
Experience shows that in order to realize a fulfillment that
maximally benefits all, we need to know our traits and learn how to
balance them out. If we’re a wisdom type—intent on realizing
nibbana to get out as quickly as possible—then it’s necessary to
develop compassion. We need to lean toward people and things. Or,
if we’re an altruistic type, feeling, “I’ve got to stay around
until everyone else has been saved,” then we need to incline toward
the emptiness of things.
In the equipoise of the middle way, the infinite and the void are
sustained. They complement each other; they balance each other
out.
The scene: a Buddhist conference in Berlin. Among the many panels
and presentations, some teachers have come to give workshops as
well. One such elder is an eminent Tibetan lama; he has been giving
instruction on The Praise to the Twenty-One Taras. It
is now time for questions and answers.
A young man with furrowed brow requests to speak. He asks in broken
English, “Rinpoche, for many years now I have been your student. I
am committed to the practice but I have the doubt. I am very
willing to do the pujas, the visualizations, the prostrations, but
it is very hard to have the whole heart in it, because I have this
doubt: Tara, is she really there? Sometime you
talk like she is a real person, but sometimes you say she is the
wisdom of Buddha Amoghasiddhi, or just a skillful means.
If I could know for sure, I would redouble my efforts. So,
Rinpoche, Tara, does she reallyexist or does
she not?!”
For a few moments the lama ponders, then raises his eyes to meet
those of his inquirer. A smile spreads across his face.
He responds, “She knows that she is not real.”
From this place of realization, we can see that there is a reader
here and a page out there, but we can also recognize that this is
all just patterns of consciousness. It has no substantial
reality.
The more we learn to hold this play of forms gently—not clinging to
any view—the more there is an attunement. We begin to get the feel.
We are not dismissing the faith we have in our favored path, but we
are not condemning those who have made other choices. We reflect on
the benefits that have come from the practices and principles we
know, but we question them and are ready to see them differently,
if wisdom indicates a shift of attitude.
We commit ourselves to our chosen spiritual practices with 100
percent sincerity, but at the same time know that all of these
conventional forms—Northern and Southern—are utterly without
substance. As Ajahn Chah would sometimes say to the whole assembly
at his monastery, “There are no monks or nuns here, there are no
lay women, no men; these are mere suppositions, conventional
forms—that’s all. Wahng! It’s empty!”
The middle way is appreciated as a finely felt sense. It has
nothing to do with being mild or halfway along the arc of a
pendulum. Rather, it’s the still point that is the center of
movement, the axis that the pendulum pivots from. In our heart of
hearts we know what it is to be perfectly balanced. There is a
deep, intuitive familiarity with this, and this is what we need to
sustain and trust. This is the way that the root of concord can be
found and embodied.
All this said, the rational mind can still struggle for more
precision, “Yes, but what exactlyis it?!”
When a piece of music moves us we say, “It’s perfect!” But even in
the saying, we’ve almost lost the feeling. Louis Armstrong, when
asked, “What’s jazz?” responded, “Man, if you have to ask, you’ll
never know.”
The middle way is that wordless quality of balance, of pure and
vibrant harmony.
In 1979 AJAHN AMARO was ordained a monk
in the Thai Forest tradition in the lineage of Ajahn Chah. He went
on to study with Ajahn Sumedho at Amaravati Monastery in England
for many years. He is co-abbot of Abhayagiri Monastery in Redwood
Valley, California.