The Buddha lived prior to the discoveries of modern physics, chemistry, biology, geology, and astronomy. There are lots of things we know now—cell biology, genetics, evolutionary theory, relativity, quantum mechanics, astrophysics—that the Buddha had no way of knowing.
On the other hand, during the Buddha’s lifetime there was active speculation and debate about the nature of reality. We moderns usually underestimate how much the ancients knew about their world—they knew a surprising amount for their time and place. There were advocates for various versions of atomic theory, physicalism, determinism, and skepticism that the Buddha came into direct contact with during his lifetime, and he developed the Dharma against the backdrop of these lively debates.
Ethics, unlike modern science, has not evolved much beyond the Axial Age—the period when the Buddha, Confucius, Mencius, Laozi, Plato, Aristotle, Epictetus, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Jesus, and Hillel lived. While our ideas about matter, energy, time, space, the cosmos, and evolution have changed considerably over the centuries, our ideas about what it means to be a good person have not changed all that much.
All this is a way of saying that while there are certain conclusions the Buddha drew that might still be valid for us today, there are others that unavoidably reflect the limitations of the time and place in which he lived. In fact, we might assert as a more general proposition that all the great philosophers throughout history got some things right and others wrong. All great philosophers initiate and participate in traditions in which subsequent philosophers continue to investigate and elaborate on the questions they raised. There is a way in which all the great Western philosophers continued to work out the implications of questions initially posed by Plato and Aristotle. Similarly, the Chinese Confucian tradition continued to work out the implications of issues initially raised by Confucius; and Buddhist philosophers like Nagarjuna, Vasubandhu, Asanga, and Dharmakirti continued to work out the implications of issues initially investigated by the Buddha.
If we adopt this view of the history of ideas, we must struggle with what it means for us to call ourselves “Buddhists” today. Is Buddhism a matter of dogma—must everything the Buddha said be true by virtue of the fact that he said it— or does being a Buddhist mean we’re seriously engaged in exploring the issues the Buddha addressed— that while we agree with much of what he taught, there are areas where we are not quite so sure, and others where experience has taught us to think differently?
If we think of the Buddha as being divine or believe his enlightenment gave him privileged access to truth we’re stuck with having to believe everything he taught. But if we believe in empiricism and inquiry, things can only be considered true when there is evidence that warrants belief. Even if we could somehow bring ourselves to believe that the Buddha was different from every other human being who ever lived—that he was infallible—we would still need to be able to authenticate that all the thousands of discourses attributed to him were in fact his exact words—not later fabrications or elaborations—and that he spoke so clearly that there could never be a question of how to interpret what he taught.
This blog advocates a modern form of Buddhism that is naturalistic, pragmatic, eudaimonic, and cosmopolitan. Naturalistic means not relying on supernatural explanations for phenomena—explanations that rely on magic, miracles, gods, demons, witchcraft, spirits, occult energies, or ghosts. It also means not relying on explanations that directly contradict the scientifically arrived at laws of physics. This does not mean that science completely understands the nature of reality, nor does it mean that some of science’s current ideas will not eventually be proved wrong. It does assume that future scientific advances must be based on either the principles of efficient cause-and-effect or the principles of probability. This is an unproveable assumption; it may eventually prove to be mistaken. But it is a belief that has led to greater human progress than beliefs in magic, spirits, or witchcraft.
A naturalistic Buddhism does away with all the aspects of Buddhism that are non-naturalistic. It excludes the various hell and heaven realms of rebirth; the existence of mythological beings and celestial bodhisattvas; the existence of pure lands and Buddha fields; the existence of a transcendental realm of nirvana; the existence of supernatural powers of Buddhas, mantras, and relics; supernatural understandings of karma and merit; and the existence of unembodied mental events. Rebirth would also be a non-starter: how could the mental residue of a deceased person persist in non-physical form and then get physically implanted in a developing embryo?
Pragmatism is a form of naturalism and empiricism originating with the work of Charles Peirce, William James, and John Dewey. Pragmatism views ideas as useful or un-useful tools. The laws of physics are not laws that particles, waves, and fields obey the way humans obey traffic laws. They are mathematical principles that enable us to predict observable outcomes with remarkable accuracy— and hence useful tools.
Ideas can be either productive or unproductive—they either help us address problems we wish to solve or they do not. We can only distinguish the pragmatic value of two ideas by observing their consequences.
We can think of Buddhist tenets and practices in pragmatic terms—as either useful or not in attaining sets of goals. We can evaluate them in terms of the goals that are central to living well: do they make us happier, less vulnerable to stress, or more considerate of others? There are other possible goals—attaining nirvana or a more auspicious rebirth, for example. But since it’s difficult to define exactly what nirvana is and whether or not another person has attained to it—and since it is impossible to know, if people are in fact reborn, what “realm” they are reborn into—there’s no way for a pragmatist to test these ideas to establish their value.
On the other hand, it’s possible to devise ways of measuring whether people are happier, more compassionate, whether they think their lives are going well, or whether their peers think they are admirable. Happiness, compassion, life satisfaction, and admirability are all partial—albeit imperfect— ways of measuring whether something helps us to live better. A good deal of empirical research is currently underway seeking to discover whether mindfulness, lovingkindness, and self-compassion do, in fact, improve people’s lives. While the jury is still out, it’s at least something we’re in principle capable of investigating.
It’s also something we each can investigate on our own. Whether or not mindfulness meditation is useful for everyone, or for the average person, we can investigate whether it seems useful for us. It’s the same with other Buddhist practices, such as practicing equanimity, seeking harmonious relations with others, or evaluating whether fulfilling a desire is concordant with our higher-order goals and improving our well-being.
As we do this, we may discover that certain Buddhist practices no longer make sense for us—they don’t improve our lives. For example, we may discover that trying to rid ourselves of all our desires is not only impossible, but counterproductive. Or we may discover that trying to impartially love everyone—to feel the same way about our children that we do about our insurance salesman—is not only beyond our capacity but would rob our children of the special love they need. We may discover that special relationships with family and friends add something important to our lives—that our lives would be impoverished without them. So we may revise the Buddhist tenets to fit our discoveries. We may decide that while it’s worthwhile to try to establish a compassionate attitude toward everyone as much as we can, it is also worthwhile to have sets of special relationships with family and friends. Pragmatism teaches that every idea can be tested through experience. It also teaches us that the conclusions we arrive at are tentative at best and open to revision given more experience.
This idea that Buddhist practices enable us to live better lives—to cultivate the virtues and wisdom that are the prerequisites for good lives — is what makes this naturalistic, pragmatic Buddhism also eudaimonic. Eudaimonia was Aristotle’s word for a life that met the dual criteria of being subjectively happy and objectively good. Aristotle believed we achieved eudaimonia through cultivating a set of moral and intellectual virtues— similar to the Buddha’s idea that we are at our best when we practice morality (sila) and acquire wisdom (prajña) and Confucius’s belief that cultivating morality and wisdom were the highest human goals. Contemporary moral philosophers label all three of these approaches—Aristotelean, Buddhist, and Confucian—as virtue ethics approaches. All three are about building character and judgment and finding ways to live happily and harmoniously with others—ways that not only make us happier, but that also take the happiness of others into account.
Finally, I advocate a cosmopolitan stance. We’re not only members of families, tribes, communities, and nations—but also citizens of the world. This means that we do not consider the Buddha’s voice the only voice worth listening to. What the Buddha said is important, but so is what Aristotle, Confucius, the American pragmatists, the romantic poets, the transcendentalists, the existentialists, and modern scientists have said. We identify wise people from the past and present—Aristotle, Confucius, Epictetus, Laozi, Jesus, St. Paul, Hillel, Maimonides, Rumi, Hume, Kant, Hegel, Nietzsche, James, Dewey, Rorty, and Rawls—and we’re interested in what they have to say, too. We happily identify as Buddhists but we aren’t exclusively Buddhist. Being closed-minded is never a virtue. Especially if we believe we are best off when we widen our horizons through considering others’ perspectives—that truth is never any one person’s sole possession but is, by its very nature, intersubjective.
So, what does a Buddhism that’s naturalistic, pragmatic, eudaimonic, and cosmopolitan look like? How is it different from traditional forms of Buddhism? How can we practice it, and what do we gain from it? This is what I have been exploring and will continue to explore in this blog.
Do we lose anything with this new kind of Buddhism? The biggest thing that we lose is what Zen Master and psychoanalyst Barry Magid calls our curative fantasies: Our fantasies that Buddhist practice can lead us to some permanent and perfect happily-ever-after ending—that with diligent practice we can transcend our tragicomic human condition. There’s no nirvana at the end of the rainbow. We will never be omniscient, imperturbable, and unceasingly compassionate. We will never be beyond the reach of anxiety, grief, pain, and regret. We will never be at a place where self-centered desires are completely extinguished this side of the grave. This is a Buddhism for grown-ups. It is a Buddhism that says we can do better, we can be happier, we can be kinder, we can be less selfish, we can reduce the suffering of others, we can be more equanimous—but never perfectly so. And there will never be a time or place in our lives where we can be all these things without continued effort—where we are free from the possibility of back-sliding. We lose, in other words, a belief in magic. We are condemned to see reality as it is, ourselves as we are, and engage in endless practice. The goal of practice is to make things better for ourselves, our families, our friends, our society, and the world writ large—but only one bit at a time.
Given this more modest set of goals, what sense can we make of words like enlightenment or awakening? First, enlightenment or awakening cannot be a final, specific end-state. It is a horizon we can aim at and make progress towards, but not a final state we can achieve. We can always become more enlightened and more awake, but there is no such thing as total enlightenment.
But what does it even mean to become more enlightened or awake? It helps me to think of enlightenment not as a single dimension, but as a set of semi-independent dimensions. We are more enlightened when we are more mindful and present in our lives. We are more enlightened when we approach situations with an attitude of “how can I help?” and not “what will I get out of it?” We are more enlightened when we develop our capacity to reflect on our whims, desires, and urges rather than impulsively act on them. We are more enlightened when we cultivate the virtues of benevolence, courage, truthfulness, and fairness. We are more enlightened when we are less self-focused and better able to listen to, appreciate, and learn from other’s viewpoints. We are more enlightened when we appreciate the ways in which we and the world are not made up of discrete, unchanging things, but out of deeply interconnected, mutually inter-affecting, ever-changing processes. We are more enlightened when we understand our opinions are just that —opinions—that there’s an awful lot we don’t know, and much of what we think we know is probably wrong.
But as Zen master Bernie Glassman was fond of saying (paraphrasing the character of The Dude in The Big Lebowski), “That’s just my opinion, man.”