The Great Awakening

A Buddhist Social Theory

David R. Loy

• Verlag: Wisdom Publications
• Jahr: 1997
• ISBN:
  9780861718634
• Thema: Philosophy
• Thema: Eastern Philosophy

The most essential insight that Buddhism offers is that all our individual suffering arises from three and only three sources, known in Buddhism as the three poisons: greed, ill-will, and delusion. In The Great Awakening, scholar and Zen teacher David Loy examines how these three poisons, embodied in society's institutions, lie at the root of all social maladies as well. The teachings of Buddhism present a way that the individual can counteract these to alleviate personal suffering, and in the The Great Awakening Loy boldly examines how these teachings can be applied to institutions and even whole cultures for the alleviation of suffering on a collective level.This book will help both Buddhists and non-Buddhists to realize the social importance of Buddhist teachings, while providing a theoretical framework for socially engaged members of society to apply their spiritual principles to collective social issues. The Great Awakening shows how Buddhism can help our postmodern world develop liberative possibilities otherwise obscured by the anti-religious bias of so much contemporary social theory.

CHAPTER 1

Buddhist Social Theory?

BUDDHISM today faces the same challenge that confronts and may yet destroy every traditional religion. Our modern world is so different from the India of Shakyamuni Buddha 2,500 years ago—and, for that matter, from most of Asia until recently—that educated Buddhists cannot avoid the cognitive dissonance between their religious beliefs, which originated in an Iron Age worldview, and the Information Age technologies most of us use daily. Although the Buddha has often and traditionally been regarded as omniscient, there is no good reason to think (and many good reasons to doubt) that Shakyamuni knew anything about the cellular structure of organisms, the genetic code of life, the microbial cause of most diseases, the periodic table of the atomic elements, the structure of the solar system, Newton’s laws of motion, the physics of light and electromagnetism, or the theory of relativity, much less possible applications such as the internal combustion engine, antibiotics, the telephone, television, nuclear fission, silicon chips, computers, or the Internet.

Most of us do not know very much about them either, but they have created the world we live in. I may not understand anything about how electricity works, yet I turn on the lights when it gets dark. I do not know how computers work, yet I use e-mail and surf the Net. Although I cannot claim to comprehend E = mc², I grew up (and still live) in a world haunted by the threat of nuclear war and nuclear accidents. Unlike the teachings of Buddhism, the contemporary world has been shaped by these technologies.

As far as we know, the Buddha was illiterate, literacy being rare in the India of his time. His teachings were orally preserved (and no doubt altered, perhaps considerably) until the first century B.C.E. Shakyamuni therefore could not have known about the extraordinary psychological and social effects of literacy, much less the equally significant consequences of the printing press. He was also unfamiliar with nation-states, corporate capitalism, universities and scientific institutes, high-tech warfare, the United Nations, and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. He knew nothing about the modern social sciences, including developmental psychology (and psychotherapy), sociology, anthropology, and comparative religion.

It is no use pretending otherwise: these developments have so transformed our world that we cannot evade the question of how relevant the Buddha’s teachings can be for us today. Nor can we take the easy route of distinguishing these technologies and institutions from the people who use them. The Buddhist emphasis on the nonduality of self and world just aggravates the dissonance. If our world is so different from the Buddha’s, then, to a significant extent, so are we. The Buddhist teaching of anatta (no-self) seems to undercut efforts to find an invariant human identity throughout history.

What is perhaps an even more fundamental difference between the Buddha’s world and ours has not yet been mentioned here: secularism. The scientific and social innovations that have restructured our world are the result of a shift from supernatural explanations to an empirical rationality that casts doubt on all religious beliefs, including claims of spiritual redemption. Despite a resurgent nostalgia for such sanctuaries in the late twentieth century, the contemporary world seems to have a decreasing need for increasingly dubious forms of transcendence. Our empirical understanding of the natural world leads us to be skeptical about the supernatural, but the dualism we create between the natural and the supernatural is generally alien to pre-modern societies.

That educated Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, and Jews experience much the same cognitive dissonance as Buddhists can be no consolation to any of them in this corrosive modern world where the value of premodern religious perspectives is questioned when it is not dismissed out of hand.

The worst is yet to come, however. We have not touched upon the greatest challenge to premodern ways of thinking, which also undermines much modern thinking: the cluster of related insights usually described as postmodern. Postmodernism has had extraordinary individual and social effects that may rival the impact of the printing press—consequences we are just beginning to recognize. Over the last thirty years the miniaturization made possible by the silicon chip has transformed most technologies. An equivalent transformation in the intellectual realm is the postmodern insight into the constructed nature of our truths and therefore our “realities.” Our previous innocence about such matters cannot be regained, now that we have begun to lose it. Ways of thinking can be repressed, but as Freud realized, what is repressed does not disappear. It returns to haunt us until we acknowledge it and learn to deal with it.

No social activity is more vulnerable to this realization than religion. The French philosopher Jean-François Lyotard has defined postmodernism as incredulity toward all meta-narratives, and no narratives are more “meta-” (the Greek word for more comprehensive) than religious ones. The post-modern revolution may signify the beginning of the end for traditional religious beliefs, practices, and institutions. This includes Buddhism, of course, insofar as the Buddhist message too has been domesticated into a reassuring worldview—a “sacred canopy”—that provides psychic and social stability. Today all such protective canopies are threatened by the fundamental insight that they are human creations.

Unfortunately, that is just about the last thing we want to be told. Throughout most of history, the canopy provided by religions has been essential for grounding us: for teaching us what this world actually is, and therefore what is really important about it, and therefore how we are to live in it. It is terrifying to learn that this canopy is a fiction we have constructed and then objectified (by “forgetting” that we have made it) in order to dwell comfortably beneath it. This is worse than an earthquake: the ground beneath our feet actually disappears. No wonder we have become so anxious; no wonder we spend so much of our psychic energy denying this dawning realization, or distracting ourselves from it. It signifies the end of humanity’s collective childhood. It forces us to grow up, or engage in increasingly desperate attempts to suppress what becomes ever more difficult to ignore.

But is religion only a protective, reassuring canopy? Even if reassurance has been its main social function, religion has served and continues to serve another role, now becoming more obvious and more important. Religions are vehicles for self-transformation. Not only do they reassure us, they provide us with principles and precepts and practices that can change us or show us how to change ourselves. Buddhism, of course, is a good example. The original teachings of Shakyamuni are concerned almost solely with such a process: the path he discovered (or rediscovered) that led to his “awakening” (the literal meaning of Buddha is “the awakened one”).

There is often tension between these two roles—sacred canopy and self-transformation—yet they are not entirely distinguishable. The spiritual path is usually arduous and painful, because we confront the demons that lurk in the shadows of our minds. Having faith in this process implies, in practice, believing in a particular worldview that encourages and guides our efforts. According to Buddhism, however, the two roles are connected in another way as well. The deconstruction and reconstruction of the sense of self is necessary to become aware of the most deceptive of meta-narratives: the one we normally do not perceive because it is our ordinary, everyday reality—the “real world” we take for granted but in fact is constructed. The postmodern realization that my self and my world are constructs (and, for Buddhism, realizing that the duality between them is a construct) does not necessarily grant insight into what they are constructed of, how they are constructed, or what the possibilities for reconstruction are. Modern empirical science offers an analytic answer: the world, including ourselves, is an extraordinarily complex machine. But is that reductionistic paradigm just another meta-narrative?

Christianity provides us with a particularly wonderful example of personal transformation: the suffering of a loving god-man, whose death was necessary for a redemptive resurrection. As a model symbolizing the ego-death and transformation that each of us needs to undergo in order to realize our true nature, there is perhaps no more inspiring myth. It is therefore all the more unfortunate, from a Buddhist perspective at least, that Christianity has so often literalized this myth into history, into the story of God’s only son, who can save us if we believe in him. In place of a path of self-transformation, we are taught to depend on someone else to save us.

Is it a coincidence that the same pattern so often recurs in other religions? In India the notion of a savior God is a relatively late addition to the most important spiritual traditions, including Samhkya-Yoga, Vedanta, and even Buddhism. Mahayana Buddhism developed a pantheon of celestial bodhisattvas devoted to helping us, as well as the promise of a Pure Land accessible to those who appeal to Amitabha Buddha. Psychologically, the early equivalent of a sacred canopy is the security provided by our parents, so it is not surprising that we continue to yearn for the protection of a cosmic father or the maternal love of an all-embracing mother. But as a meta-narrative to rely upon and reside within, this kind of canopy is less and less tenable in a postmodern world.

In contrast, the early Buddhist teachings focus almost exclusively on the path of self-transformation, with a minimum of dogma or metaphysics—in other words, with a rather flimsy canopy, at best, to shelter beneath. These original teachings not only deny a creator God and the salvific value of rituals such as sacrifices, they also emphasize the constructed nature of both the self and the world. For Buddhism there are no self-existing things, since everything, including you and me, interpenetrates (interpermeates) everything else, arising and passing away according to causes and conditions. This interconnectedness—not just an intellectual insight but an experience—was an essential aspect of the Buddha’s awakening, and it is congruent with the essential postmodern realization. Even more radical then than now, the original Buddhist teachings, not surprisingly, eventually became elaborated into another sacred canopy, focused on a transcendental liberation from this world. What is more surprising is that early Buddhism should have had such deconstructive insights and that they have been preserved in recognizable form for two and a half millennia.

This perspective on the Buddha’s awakening deserves our attention because no other religious tradition foregrounds so clearly this crucial insight into our constructedness. There are some parallels with the philosophical realization in ancient Greece that society is a construct that can and should be reconstructed (e.g., Plato’s Republic). The history of the West since then has incorporated and developed the Greek concern for social transformation. Yet none of the important Greek philosophers proposed what Shakyamuni Buddha taught—the deconstruction and reconstruction of the fictive sense of self.

These resonances between postmodern theory and Buddhist teachings provide the basis for a comparison that is more than merely interesting. Today the postmodern realization about the constructed nature of our canopies, sacred and otherwise, contributes to global crises that we are far from resolving. Indeed, Nietzsche’s prescient prediction of a coming age of nihilism suggests that the world’s destabilization may be far from over. Some people and perhaps a few institutions are beginning to assimilate the postmodern insight, but although we are becoming more aware of its implications and dangers, we do not yet have a good grasp of the possibilities it opens up.

For the West, the postmodern perspective grows out of, and depends upon, a secular modernity that privileges empirical rationalism over religious superstition. In this regard, too, our attitude derives from the Greeks, whose philosophy originated as a critique of the Olympian deities and the rites associated with them. The Indian situation was quite different. According to one’s sympathies, one can see that Indian (including Buddhist) philosophy never quite escaped the orbit of religious concerns or, more sympathetically, that Indian thought never felt the Western need to differentiate between them.

What does that difference mean for us? Today we are struggling with the radical implications of the postmodern realization into how we construct both the world and ourselves; and the Buddha’s similar discovery, in a very different time and place, offers us another perspective on that realization. This more religious perspective implies different possibilities. To dismiss that other perspective and therefore those other possibilities, without considering them, is arrogant and may be costly. Ecologists tell us that many exotic species are disappearing that have never been catalogued, much less studied; who knows what possible medical therapies—a drug for cancer?—die with them? Might the same be true for exotic religio-philosophical teachings? Might some of them have remedies for our postmodern nihilism?

One reason we may be tempted to reject the Buddhist perspective on our conditioning is that contemporary Buddhist teachers and institutions do not always offer it. Instead Buddhism is presented as another belief system, another sacred canopy under which we can find shelter. More often than not, its destabilizing path of self-deconstruction has been objectified into a fixed worldview that paradoxically ends up serving to stabilize and reassure the sense of self. As this suggests, the tension between the two roles of religion—sacred canopy and self-transformation—is strong within the Buddhist tradition. Shakyamuni Buddha had nothing to do with funerals, yet in Japan (where I live), most people identify Buddhism with funerals and memorial services—that is the only time most Japanese care to visit a temple. The main social (and economic) function of Buddhist priests is performing these expensive ceremonies. In other words, the primary role of Buddhism in Japan is to reassure people and give them the rituals they need to cope with the death of loved ones—an important function, to be sure, but a far cry from the path to liberation taught by Shakyamuni.

In contrast, the practices in Zen monasteries, such as zazen meditation and focusing on koans, works against such a reappropriation by emphasizing a letting-go of mental phenomena and promoting the direct, unmediated realization of our emptiness (shunyata). Shakyamuni Buddha used the metaphor of a raft that we can use to ferry ourselves across the river of samsara; rather than carrying that raft on our backs everywhere, we need to know when to let it go. His teachings are tools, not metaphysical claims.

In short, contemporary Buddhism remains a paradoxical mixture of the premodern (e.g., rituals) and the postmodern (an understanding of constructedness), whose liberative potentials are often obscured. In order to clarify the possibilities contemporary Buddhism offers us, both individually and socially, it is necessary for us to begin the process of discriminating between the essentials of its message and the incidentals of its Iron Age origins. What, for example, do the doctrines of karma and rebirth mean today? How can we (post)moderns understand them?

By asking this, I do not mean to imply that these concepts should now be rejected outright as untenable, but they certainly need to be reevaluated. Should Buddhists accept as literal truth everything the Pali canon says about karma and rebirth, simply because it is in the Pali Canon? One does not need to accept the literal truth of everything in the Bible to be a Christian. Shakyamuni himself emphasized that our faith should not be blind; we really understand something only when we know it for ourselves, from our own experience. Karma and rebirth were common beliefs in Shakyamuni’s day, just as the belief in an imminent messiah was common in Jesus’ Israel. How literal should our understanding of karma and rebirth be now, given what we now know (or believe we know) about the physical world and human psychology? What science has discovered about the physical structure of the world seems to provide no support for psychic survival after death; yet even if we choose to ignore all religious claims about an afterlife, we must at least consider the growing literature of personal accounts of near-death experiences, which may (or may not) be indicative of some type of survival or continuation. Maybe we cannot yet resolve that tension, but still we should acknowledge it.

There are other important dimensions to karma, aside from those pertaining to psychical and bodily rebirth. Whether or not the law of karma is a moral law of the universe—a kind of psychic equivalent to Newton’s third law of motion, that every action has an equal and opposite reaction—the Buddhist emphasis on no-self and intentional action points to a more subtle aspect of karma: that we construct ourselves by what we choose to do. My sense of self is a precipitate of my habitual ways of thinking, feeling, and acting. Just as my body is composed of the food I eat, so my char...

Inhaltsverzeichnis

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Publisher’s Acknowledgment
• Contents
• Acknowledgments
• 1 Buddhist Social Theory?
• 2 Buddhism and Poverty
• 3 Pave the Planet or Wear Shoes?
• 4 Can Corporations Become Enlightened?
• 5 The Nonduality of Good and Evil: Buddhist Reflections on the New Holy War
• 6 How to Reform a Serial Killer
• 7 Zen and the Art of War
• 8 Remaking Ourselves: On the Duality between Nature and Technology
• 9 Loving the World As Our Own Body: The Nondualist Ethics of Taoism, Buddhism, and Deep Ecology
• Afterword: A Nondual Social Theory
• Notes
• Bibliography
• Index
• About Wisdom