please ignore last post, grumpy old man at work
REPOSTED–thanks for your patience: I find I’m okay with being a grumpy old man after all…
There are numerous variations on self-help Buddhism. Self-help itself constitutes a cultural modality into which Buddhism has been appropriated. Although sometimes difficult, such efforts should be distinguished from actual efforts at dialogical inquiries, which attempt to create by bridging. (my thanks to Ann Gleig for helping me to draw this distinction)
Such self-help Buddhisms are usually constituted from
(a) some small kernel of teaching, whether presented as authentic/original/pure or essence/heart/core,
padded out with
(b) extensive claims that it has been re-formulated for either the unique needs of our contemporary times, or alternatively, the eternal and timeless quest for wholeness, fulfillment, our true selves, and
(c) quasi-scientific sounding references to the latest research—popular ones being abstruse theories of cosmology (such as quantum or string theory), evolutionary psychology, and neuroscience.
This sounds very much like John Ganz’s discussion of charlatans in a column in the New York Times. Though his concern is more directed to the social and political discourse of our present moment, it applies as well to self-help Buddhism. Referencing the analysis of medieval charlatans by Grete de Francesco, Ganz points out that:
simplistic reductions of social ills function the same way as quack medicine: They seem to provide a cure, but since they only further inflame the underlying fears, they are just driving their own demand.
Like the clowns he shared the town square with, a good charlatan could often juggle, simultaneously keeping up pretensions to scientific rigor and mystical profundity. The most sophisticated mountebanks employed a hodgepodge drawn from science, alchemy, astrology, myth and philosophy.
Central to self-help Buddhism is the reduction of complex issues to simple ones, ones for which there are simple answers. The rhetorical presentation of mindfulness as a panacea exemplifies this dynamic. (see Jeff Wilson’s study of mindfulness for instances of this)
Under the influence of neoliberalism, that reduction of complex issues to simple ones includes making everything personal. By narrowly focusing on the individual’s issues, the social, political, economic, and cultural dimensions of suffering (dukkha) are kept out of awareness. In light of the half-truth that I can only deal with my own life—keep my little corner of the world clean, as my grandmother might have admonished—the truth that the personal is the political has been forgotten.
An extreme version of such individualization of suffering is the transmutation of the teaching of karma into a vehicle for blaming the victim. Blaming the victim is central to the present-day systemic cruelty of punishing immigrants, removing labor protections, eliminating health care, and all the other elements of the current politically dominant mind-set. Converse to blaming the victim, though equally prone to cruelty, is the image of the heroic individual.
Heroic individualism is another almost invisible dimension of popular religious culture. It is taken for granted whenever practice is described in phrases that employ terms like “quest.” The hero’s quest, for example, was treated as the single fundamental form of myth by Joseph Campbell, in his superficial reinterpretation of Jung’s thought. But, Jung was specifically critical of the misappropriation of the technologies of yoga in the service of heroic individualism.
The heroic individual is disconnected from the social and its obligations, and indeed is willing in some cases to sacrifice those for his/her own fulfillment. Charlatans play on the ideal of the heroic individual, or offer a simple cure for whatever ails you. Such motivations, however, are not conducive to living in the complex messiness of one’s actual life.
Matthias Mauderer wrote a while back to ask about clinging to views and the apparent contradiction that follows from clinging to the view that views are not to be clung to:
Tokoro Teruyoshi born 14 Aug 1949, died 1 Aug 2016.
Tokoro san was a quiet man who I knew when I was studying on Koyasan in 1982–83. My late teacher encouraged the Tokoros to assist us, no doubt because both husband and wife spoke English well. His daughter, Keiko, and our daughter (known in Japanese as Hanako, that is, flower child) became friends quite naturally. Tokoro san was both kind and quite helpful to my family while we lived on Kōyasan, and continued to demonstrate those qualities long after as well.
Suddenly, three and a half decades have gone by. Like what, morning mist lingering between the giant cryptomeria on Kōyasan vanishing away in the sunshine? But that sounds too sweet, since I recently learned of Tokoro san’s death. Untimely in my mind, since one of those coincidences that helped to create a friendship is that we were born three days apart.
What then of the aspects of contemporary Buddhism in Japan of the title? Tokoro san’s daughter, Keiko, inherited a temple from him, Kannonji, which is located in Wakayama city, south of Osaka. She and her temple represent three aspects of the changing institutional nature of Japanese temples. First, she is the head priest, serving in that function rather than her husband. Second, Kannonji provides funeral services for pets. And, third, the temple is the location of Keiko’s restaurant, Otera de Dining Kannonji. From the photos on Facebook, she makes outrageously delicious pastries and desserts.
These sociological changes from the standard image of Japanese Buddhist temples have drawn the attention of several scholars, as for example John Nelson in Experimental Buddhism, Barbara Ambros in Bones of Contention, and Stephen Covell in Japanese Temple Buddhism.
I hope that I can visit Kannonji in Wakayama, visit Keiko, and see this temple that so fully instantiates the contemporary changes in Buddhist institutions in Japan.
Forthcoming this August from Bloomsbury:
Language in the Buddhist Tantra of Japan: Indic Roots of Mantra, Richard K. Payne
In contrast to Western approaches to the philosophy of language, which are grounded in viewing language as a form of communication, this book argues that it is the Indian and East Asian philosophies of language that shed light on the use of language in meditative and ritual practices in Japan. It also illuminates why language was conceived as an effective means of progress on the path from delusion to awakening.
Table of Contents:
1. Extraordinary Language Use
2. Is Language Communication?: Extraordinary Language in the face of Philosophy of Language
3. Indic Understandings of Language-from Vedas to Tantra
4. East Asian Understandings of Language
5. Emptiness and Cosmogenesis in the Tantric Buddhism of Japan
6. The Clear Light Mantra Homa- Religious Agency in Medieval Japanese Buddhist Ritual
7. The Authority of the Speech of the Buddha: Aural Dimensions of Epistemology
8. Dharaṇi in the Lotus Sutra: Indic Context for the Power of Words
9. Ajikan: Visualizing the Syllable A
10. Concluding Reflections
At the recent (March 23, 24, 25) annual meeting of the Western Region of the American Academy of Religions, hosted by the Institute of Buddhist Studies, in Berkeley, I had the opportunity to present a paper under the title: Subduing Demons: The Shingon Yamāntaka Abhicāra Homa (forthcoming as “Lethal Fire” in the Journal of Religion and Violence).
At the end, an audience member asked, How did Shingon practitioners explain the failure of rituals? It was a question that caught me off-guard, having not encountered it for a long time. I honestly answered that I had no idea, but my ignorance was not sufficient for the questioner, who pursued with follow ups along the line of Well how might they have explained ritual failure?
Not only didn’t I know the answer, but I felt that I didn’t want to make something up that I could put into the mouths of Shingon priests. But upon reflection the question revealed a deeper difficulty. As so often happens in instances like this, my difficulty ares from seeing the question as comprising two levels. There was the surface level, which the questioner seemed to feel was perfectly reasonable—if your car doesn’t start when you turn the key, how do you explain it? if a ritual doesn’t work after you’ve done it, how do you explain it?
We of course all know the stock answers to questions about how others explain ritual failure, and we should therefore be suspicious of those answers: inadequate preparations, ritual impurity, breaches in performance, malevolent spirits, and so on.
There is, however, a more important, more foundational level. That is the unexamined presumption that there is a single, uniform reality to which our contemporary understandings of causality unproblematically adhere. In other words, our present understandings of how things work are taken as simply given, since (we presume) they are accurate reflections of reality. In other words, (we think) we actually understand how things work. The problem with this view is that we cannot simply assume that our present understandings are either (a) actually correct, or (b) shared by Shingon practitioners of any historical era. While our present understanding of causality as instrumental and mechanistic seems obvious, natural, just the way things are, it is in fact a modern understanding, one at the end of a long historical and cultural development. At the same time, our very understanding of rationality—still often deployed to distinguish us from them—depends in great part on our conception of causality.
In other words, to be rational is to understand causality, or perhaps better: to be rational like I am is to understand causality in the way I do. The issue of ritual “failure” is rooted in Reformation Era disputes over the Sacraments, and then in the predominantly Protestant formulations of religion in the nineteenth century, in which a key issue is the question of the rationality–viz. humanity–of the Other. This determination held important ethical and policy consequences (see David Chidester, Savage Systems, Univ. of Virginia, 1996). To be blunt, the importance of this complex of questions is rooted in Euro-American imperialism. If Native Americans, or sub-Saharan Africans, or whatever group was being encountered were not rational, then they were not human, and could therefore be displaced, confined to reservations or homelands, and slaughtered like animals if they resisted. In the present, the rhetoric of racism is rife with dehumanizing attributions of animality.
While perhaps not so blatantly dehumanizing, judgements regarding the lack of rationality have been employed to constrain the freedoms not just of racially and ethnically other persons, “primitives,” but also of women, children, and persons identified as insane. (Consider that only recently has the corporal punishment of wives by their husbands, and children by their parents become problematic—and remains so.)
The difficulties in comprehending the ritual practices of others, Shingon Buddhist practitioners in this case, is not unlike the difficulty some raise when learning about the ambiguities of post-mortem existence in Japanese Buddhist practice. Is Grandma in the Pure Land? or is she in the votive tablet on the home altar? or is she in the family temple? or is she in the graveyard? Which is it? They want to force more clarity and reduce ambiguity, perhaps to affirm their own rationality in the face of the seemingly quite evident irrationality of those others. In modern European conceptions of causality and rationality, Grandma is a singular entity, and there is only one place Grandma can be. In Aristotelian logic, the problem is referred to as the principle of non-contradiction–one is not supposed to assert two contradictory things at the same time: Grandma can’t both be in the Pure Land and in the votive tablet. (In an essay on relics Robert Sharf [“On the Allure of Buddhist Relics,” Representations, 1999] has pointed out, however, that modern conceptions of identity are not so clear cut after all.)
Thus, the “problem” regarding explaining ritual “failure” arises from the belief that I think I know causality (specifically, and “reality” in general) directly, and failing to recognize that it is my conception of causality that I know. Judgements of success or failure are not objective measures, but rather are themselves rooted in a particular mechanistic and instrumental conception of causality deriving from the Cartesian view of a purely mechanistic universe. While that particular conception is quite successful on its own terms (building steam engines, bridges, railways, and so on), there is no guarantee that it is the only right conception.
In other words, judgements of success and failure are necessarily grounded in a particular conception of causality, the judgements are not objective in themselves. Such judgements, therefore, are not criteria that can be applied to establish a rational grasp of causality. Judgements and conceptions of causality are themselves dialectically connected to one another.
Thus, asking the question of how are ritual failures explained entails a dualistic structure. If the “explanation” is adequate according to my conception of causality, then the explainer is rational, and human. If, however, the “explanation” is not adequate according to my conception of causality, then the explainer is irrational, and perhaps not fully human.
Instead then of attempting to answer the question, let me just say that I don’t know what those hypothetical Shingon practitioners might have said about ritual failure, especially since—not sharing the same presumptions about causality that we do—the question may have never come up. Indeed, asking the question that way might well have seemed irrational to them.