consequence of existence. (2) Misery has its source in desire. (3)
Misery can be escaped only by the extinction of desire. (4) Desire
can be extinguished only by becoming wholly unconscious of the world
and of self. (5) He who attains to such unconsciousness attains to
Neikban. (6) Evil actions constitute demerit. Good actions constitute
merit.
In this deeply grounded belief as to merit and demerit lies the secret
of much that we see in the life of the people. _Now_ we know what
these people are doing,--they are seeking to _accumulate merit_ by
repeating over and over again a certain formula, or portions of their
"Law" with their faces towards the,--to them,--sacred pagoda or idol.
But no Buddhist expects to attain to Neikban at the end of this
existence. He realizes that it is utterly hopeless for him to think of
fulfilling the conditions. But he cherishes the groundless hope that
in some future existence under more favourable conditions he may be
able to accumulate sufficient merit, though he cannot now. This belief
presupposes the doctrine of transmigration, or metempsychosis.
The Buddhist believes that he has passed through countless existences
in the past,--whether as man, animal, or insect, or all many times
over, he knows not; finally, birth into this world as man. He dies
only to be reborn into this or another world,--whether as man, animal,
or insect he knows not; then death again, and so through countless
ages. Even Gautama himself is said to have passed through five hundred
and fifty different phases of existence, including long ages in hell,
before he finally entered this world as man, and became a Buddha.
Although Buddhism has no God, and no heaven, it has a very vivid
conception of hell, yes,--eight of them, surrounded by over forty
thousand lesser hells,--their terrors limited only by the limitations
of the imagination. But no man can escape--the doctrine of Karma
settles that. A man's own words and deeds pursue him relentlessly, and
there is no city of refuge to which he may flee. "Not in the heavens,
not in the midst of the sea, not if thou hidest thyself in the clefts
of the mountains, will thou find a place where thou mayest escape
the force of thy own evil actions." So say their scriptures, and so
every Buddhist believes. Hell is the inevitable penalty of many deeds
or accidents, such as the killing of the smallest insect under foot.
Between the Buddhist and his hopeless hope of Neikban yawns this awful
gulf of existences and sufferings.
"Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap," gives the gist of
Buddhism. He is now reaping from past existences; he will reap in the
next from his deeds in this. In the past each succeeding existence
depended upon the last previous existence. In like manner, what the
next existence shall be depends wholly upon the deeds of this life.
So the countless series of transmigrations may be, theoretically,
in the ascending or descending scale. But when the awful penalties
assigned to innumerable and unavoidable violations of the Buddhist
law are taken into consideration all hope of future existences in the
ascending scale vanishes. The poor fisherman, beginning at the very
bottom of the lowest of the four chief hells must spend countless ages
in each, before he can hope to be reborn as man.
The man who unwittingly puts his foot on the smallest insect and
crushes out its life must atone for the deed by spending a long
period in torment. Taking the life of any living thing, even to the
killing of poisonous snakes, is held to be the worst of all sins. The
priests, to avoid the possibility of destroying insect life, use a
brass strainer finely perforated, to cleanse their drinking water, in
blissful ignorance of the microbe theory. A native preacher once asked
me to get him a microscope so that he might prove to the priests that
notwithstanding their precautions they were drinking to themselves
perdition.
His motive may have been in part, to convince them as to the futility
of their hope, and in part to get even with them for their harsh
criticisms of "animal-killing Christians."
A story told by one of our native preachers vividly illustrates
this dread of future punishment. "I had been preaching for about
two hours to a large company in a jungle-village. During all this
time an old woman was sitting on a log near by, counting off her
beads, and devoutly murmuring to herself the customary formula,
'_Ah-nas-sa, Dok-ka, Ah-nat-ta; Paya, Taya, Thinga,--Radana
Thón-ba_'--'Transitoriness, Misery, Illusions; Lord, Law, Priest,--the
three Jewels.' When I had finished I approached her saying: 'Why do
you worship so devoutly?' 'To escape the penalty of hell,' she sadly
replied. 'So you fear the future,--what is your notion of hell?' 'Oh,
it is a terrible place. They say it is shaped like a great cauldron,
and full of burning oil in which people suffer endlessly and are not
consumed. And when they try to escape, the evil beings of the place
thrust them back with sharp forks and spears. Oh, it is a terrible
place!' she repeated, fairly trembling as she described its horrors.
'Yes,' I said. 'You seem to understand it very well. Now what are you
doing to escape such an awful fate?' 'Oh, many, many years I have
worshipped before the pagodas and idols; every day I count my beads
over and over, repeating the formula, as Gautama directed. Do you
think that after all I have done I must still go to hell?' 'Yes,' I
said. 'If that is all you have done, you surely must.' 'Oh, then,
tell me,' she said in great distress, 'what _can_ I do to escape,
for I greatly fear the terrors of that place.' Then sitting there on
the log, with this poor old woman on the ground before me, I told the
blessed gospel story over again, as Jesus Christ did with the woman of
Samaria. And then I said: 'You must repent of your sins, and confess
them to the eternal God. You must believe and trust the Lord Jesus
Christ, who died to save you. If you do this He will forgive your
sins, and save you.' Her wrinkled face brightened with hope as she
exclaimed, 'If I do as you have said, and believe on Jesus Christ,
_will_ He save me?' 'Yes, He surely will, for He has said, "Him that
Cometh unto me I will not cast out."' On her face was an almost
heavenly light--as she replied: 'Then _I do_ believe, and I want to
go with you that you may tell me about Him until I die.' Her friends
ridiculed her saying, 'Oho! Grandma wants to go off with the preacher.
She is becoming foolish in her old age.' 'Oh, no,' she said. 'But the
preacher has told me how I may escape the penalty of hell, and _I am
so glad_.'"
It has often been asserted that Buddhism has a moral code rivaling, if
not superior to that of Christianity. We had not been at our mission
station a week before we heard the remark, "Buddhism is a beautiful
religion,--why do the missionaries try to disturb them in their
belief?" That there are noble precepts and commandments all must
admit. But he who expects to see their "beauty" reflected in the lives
of the people will be doomed to disappointment. Take the commandment
already noticed--"Thou shalt not take the life of any living thing."
This commandment admits of no exceptions whatever, under any possible
circumstances, not even in self-defense; and puts the taking of a
human life and that of the smallest insect in the same category. But
the Burmans, among whom Buddhism is found in its purest form, have
been a more or less warlike race from their earliest history, often
practicing the greatest cruelties. How do they reconcile this with the
teachings of their law? We will suppose that one man has taken the
life of another. According to his own belief and the law of the land,
he is a murderer. To free himself from just and inevitable penalty he
resorts to his doctrine of "merit," by which he may absolve himself
from the demerit of his evil act. The building of a small pagoda of
sun-dried brick, or the forming of an idol from a portion of his
fire-wood log will balance the scales, square the account, restore him
to his former prospects, and to future prospects as bright as though
he had kept the whole law. By this convenient belief he may take his
absolution into his own hands, and work it out to suit himself. But
if he be a poor man, unable to perform an adequate work of merit, he
must suffer to the full the consequences of his act.
A missionary found a man digging for huge beetles. When one was found
it was impaled on a sharp stick along with the others, all to go into
the curry for the morning meal. Then the following conversation took
place: "Are you not afraid of punishment in hell for killing these
creatures?" "I shall go there if I do not kill them." "Then you do
this because there is no hope for you, whether you take animal life or
not?" "It is all the same." Sins beyond his power to counterbalance by
merit had already been committed, until hope had given way to despair.
One may shoot pigeons in the vicinity of a Buddhist monastery, and
then divide with the priest, who anticipates a savoury meal without
any compunctions of conscience on account of "aiding and abetting."
Young Burmans are eager to follow the man with the gun, showing him
the likeliest place to find game, and when the animal is wounded, will
rush in and dispatch it with their dahs.
The fisheries of Burma furnish a livelihood to hundreds of Burmans.
Large sums are paid to government annually for the privilege of
controlling certain specified sections of rivers or streams. The
fisherman makes the taking of animal-life his business and daily
occupation.
Theoretically he is ranked among the very lowest classes. In real life
we find him enjoying the same social position that others of equal
wealth enjoy. But I do not hesitate to say that this general belief
that fearful penalties must be endured in future existences for taking
animal-life in this, has a deeper hold on the Buddhist than any other
commandment.
Take the commandment: "Thou shalt speak no false word,"--strikingly
like the Christian's commandment, "Thou shalt not bear false witness,"
"Lie not one to another." One would naturally expect to find among
the devotees of a system containing such a commandment some value
placed upon one's word of honour. But if truthfulness has ever been
discovered among non-Christian Burmans, the discovery has never been
reported. But we have not far to search to find the secret of this
general lack of any regard for truthfulness.
The same "Sacred Book" that sets forth the commandment, "Thou thalt
speak no false word," gives this definition of falsehood: A statement
constitutes a _lie_ when discovered by the person to whom it is told,
to be untrue! See what latitude such a definition gives. Deceit is at
a premium. Children grow up with no higher standard of honour than
a belief that the sin of falsehood and fraud lies entirely in its
discovery. Is it any wonder that these people have become expert in
the art. It is the common practice among themselves,--in business, in
family life, in match-making, and most of all, in their dealings with
foreigners. No European (after the first year) places the slightest
reliance upon the most emphatic promise of a heathen Burman. In fact,
the more emphatic the promise, the greater seems to be the temptation
to do just the other thing. It may have been this inbred trait that
led the schoolboy to translate "Judge not, that ye be not judged," by
"Do no justice, lest justice be done to you."
When it is remembered that deceit and fraud are national vices, bred
in the bone for centuries, it is not to be marvelled at that native
Christians, only a step from heathenism, are sometimes found deficient
in their sense of honour. Here is an illustration in point. A young
Burman wanted to become a Christian. He became a regular attendant at
chapel services, and finally asked for baptism. This greatly enraged
his heathen wife, who proceeded to make his life most miserable.
She tore around, screamed, pulled her own hair, and made things
interesting generally. She got possession of his box containing his
best clothing and other valuables, and would neither give it back to
him nor live any longer with him unless he would promise to break
with the Christians, and cease attending their worship. The young man
appealed to his uncle. The uncle's advice was: "You go and tell your
wife that you will have nothing more to do with the Christians. You
cannot recover your property in any other way. When you have regained
possession of your box, come back to us, and then we will baptize
you." So far as he then knew, the end justified the means. Take the
commandment: "Thou shalt commit no immoral act,"--an ideal precept
in itself, but standing for little more than a joke when inscribed
on the banner of any non-Christian people. The Burman is perhaps
superior, morally, to some other races of this country, yet his moral
sense is very low. Among middle-aged people marriage seems to be an
actual institution, and family life well guarded. Separations are
comparatively few. Conditions of life in the tropics are such that the
young are subject to temptations sad to contemplate. Heathen parents
freely discuss subjects in the presence of their children that never
would be mentioned before them in a Christian home. Missionaries'
children often startle their parents by repeating what never should
have come to their ears. It seems a wonder that moral character exists
at all among the young. That many do set a high value upon virtue no
unprejudiced observer of native life can doubt. Jealousy plays a large
part in early separations, and with sufficient cause. Both may find
other partners of their joys on the day following.
Among all races there are certain laws and social customs that
in large measure restrain evil practices. Even among the heathen
a certain value is placed upon one's social standing in the
community,--which has greater weight than the commandment against
immorality, in his "law." An educated Burman once said to me--"Burmans
do not take much account of sin, but they do not like to lose their
respectability."
Other commandments, such as those directed against "love of the
world," and "love of money," seem to be honoured more in the breach
than in the observance. The Burmans are notoriously the proudest,
gayest people on the face of the earth. They enjoy a good time and
will have it, whatever the occasion. There is little of real religious
significance in their so-called religious gatherings. A display
of fine clothes, a few presents for the priests; some of the more
devout, especially the elderly women, worshipping before the shrine.
But a large majority will be found sitting in the "zayats" talking
familiarly among themselves, painting the ground below red with
_kun_-juice by spitting through cracks in the floor, and never going
near the pagodas or idols at all. The Buddhists are proud of their
"law," and lay great stress upon it for purposes of argument. But as
we have seen, either from their low moral sense, or their dependence
on works of merit, the "law" has little effect on the lives of the
people.
We visited that most famous worship-place of the Buddhists, the Shwe
Dagon pagoda, and for the first time saw heathenism as it is. We
had read "The Light of Asia"; and heard theosophists talk glibly of
"Mahatmas" whose wisdom is more ancient and profound than anything in
the religious literature of the West.
But here we saw the yellow-robed, "Light of Asia" (more fittingly
called the "Blight of Asia") and the graven image, both representing
their annihilated Buddha, seemingly equal in intelligence, and
sharing together the superstitious worship of the common people. Up
the long ascent to the pagoda is a covered way, its brick or flagged
steps hollowed out by the tramp, tramp of thousands on thousands of
barefooted worshippers, extending over many, many years.
[Illustration: A KAREN FAMILY]
[Illustration: BUDDHIST IDOL]
Guarding the approach are two horrible griffins, the first suggestion
of the superstitious mind of these benighted people. On either side
of the stairway are sellers of artificial flowers, paper streamers,
candles, and other things used as offerings, each worshipper stopping
to invest in whatever he thinks will gain for him the greatest amount
of merit at the least possible cost. This great pagoda itself 1,350
feet in circumference, tapering in graceful curves to a height of
328 feet, is entirely covered with gold leaf. It is said that the
pagoda has been regilded several times, at fabulous cost. But this
does not seem so wonderful when one recalls that the Parliament of
Religions witnessed the regilding of the entire Buddhist system.
This lofty spire is surmounted by a _htee_ or umbrella ornamented with
gems and gold said to be valued at about $200,000. The htee has been
renewed several times, by different kings, each striving to outdo all
others. The present htee was placed there in 1871, by Mindon Min.
The space around the base of the pagoda, protected by a parapet,
and flagged with stone or cement, accommodates a large throng of
worshippers. Hither pilgrimages are made every year from all parts of
Burma. Besides the four large idols built into the base of the pagoda
far out of sight, as in all pagodas, there are many auxiliary shrines
deeply recessed into the base, dimly lighted by tiny candles, and
containing gilded or alabaster images of Gautama. Still other shrines
have been erected at the outer circumference of the floor space. Huge
bells are suspended between posts, near the floor.
The largest, cast in 1842, is fourteen feet high, seven and a half
in diameter, with sides fifteen inches in thickness, weighs 94,682
pounds. It is said that when this bell was cast, quantities of gold,
silver and copper were thrown in as offerings. After the second
Burmese war, the English undertook to carry this bell away as a
curio, but by some accident it fell into the river. The Burmans
afterwards recovered it and put it again in its place,--a marvellous
feat, considering their rude appliances.
Intensely interesting is all this when seen for the first time; but
inexpressibly saddening when one stops to reflect what it all stands
for. One is forcibly reminded of its terrible significance by groups
of worshippers kneeling before these shrines, mumbling hurriedly
through their so-called prayers, prostrating themselves repeatedly
to the ground. After going through his prayers and prostrations the
worshipper goes to the bell and strikes it with the end of a heavy
piece of wood, kept there for the purpose. The attention of gods and
men must be called to the fact that he has performed a certain amount
of merit-earning worship. "Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image nor any likeness of
anything that is in heaven above or that is in the earth beneath;
thou shalt not bow down to them nor serve them." What new meaning
that commandment had for us, as we saw it violated before our eyes!
Idolatry seemed even darker than it had been painted.
Pagodas may be seen all over Burma, single or in groups; of all sizes
from the less pretentious structure in the jungle-village, to the
great Shwe Dagon in Rangoon, with its umbrella-top 328 feet in the
air. These pagodas, modelled after the dagobas of Ceylon, are all of
the same general shape, resembling the bottom half of a child's top,
inverted. They occupy the most conspicuous places, on nearly every
hilltop, on points jutting out into the rivers, and near the chief
highways. The more important were built over some supposed relic of
Gautama, such as a tooth or a hair. These pagodas are considered much
more sacred than those that were built for merit only.
The Shwe Dagon pagoda, most famous of all Buddhist shrines, is said to
have been built over relics of four Buddhas, including eight hairs of
Gautama. The Shwe Hmaw Daw pagoda at Pegu, erected by the Talaings,
claims a tooth of Gautama. The Shwe San Daw pagoda at Toungoo has a
different history. A Burman prince, Tabin Shwe' Htee, when born had
one long red hair standing out from the top of his head. This was
a sure indication of an embryonic Buddha. In his honour the great
pagoda was erected, and called the "Golden Hair Pagoda." The Maha Myat
Moonee pagoda at Mandalay, commonly known as the "Arracan Pagoda" is
second only to the Shwe Dagon, in the esteem of Upper Burmans. In
A. D., 146, the King of Arracan cast a great brass image
of Gautama, which became famous for its supposed miraculous powers.
In A. D., 1784, the king of Burma, having conquered other
parts of the country, and secured about everything he wanted, turned
longing eyes towards Arracan and the far-famed image. This great
image, twelve feet high, though cast in a sitting posture,--was
brought over the mountains and deposited at the Arracan pagoda in a
large building specially prepared for it, north of Amarapura. Not
a smile disturbs the settled calm on its face as the visitor reads
the inscription setting forth that the image was drawn here by the
"charm of the king's piety." But from other sources we learn that his
piety found expression in a war of conquest, of which this image was
one of the coveted fruits. Its importation over the mountains was a
wonderful feat. Little wonder that Burmans think it was accomplished
by supernatural help.
A few miles north of Mandalay is the great Mingon pagoda, begun in
1790, and never finished. It is four hundred feet square at the base,
and was to have been carried up to a height of five hundred feet, but
work was suspended when it had reached about one third of its intended
height, the country already having become seriously impoverished.
In 1839 an earthquake split it from top to bottom. No one mourned
the seeming disaster, for no king could gain the "royal merit" by
completing the work of another. As it is, this Mingon pagoda is said
to be the largest pile of brick and mortar in the world.
The largest bell in Burma, weighing between eighty and ninety tons,
and second in size to the great bell at Moscow, cast to match the
immense pagoda, is still to be seen near the ruins. This bell is
eighteen feet high, seventeen in diameter, and a foot and a half in
thickness. It now rests on the ground, having long ago proved too
heavy for its supports.
Pagodas are not temples. There is no open interior for a worship
place. The worshipping is done in the open space around the pagoda, or
in the idol-houses, the real temples.
The first pagoda was probably built at the close of the fourth century
or even later; though Buddhists refer it to a much earlier date.
The sacred books of Buddhism were brought to Burma about 397 A.
D., according to the best authorities.
Before the introduction of Buddhism the Burmans and Talaings, like
all other races around them, were spirit-worshippers. They knew no
gods but _nats_, spirits with supernatural powers. The reigning king
became a convert to the new religion, built a pagoda, and issued a
royal decree that all his subjects should worship it, death being
the penalty of refusal. The king's edict failing to accomplish its
purpose, he cunningly commanded that a _nat-sin_ or spirit-house be
built near the pagoda. The transition from the worship of invisible
nats to the worship of the more tangible pagoda was natural and
inevitable.
"It was by a strange irony of fate," says Sir Monier Williams, "that
the man who denied any God or any being higher than himself, and told
his followers to look to themselves for salvation, should have been
not only deified and worshipped, but represented by more images than
any other being ever idolized in any part of the world."
Dharmapala, who represented Buddhism at the Parliament of Religions,
said: "A system in which our whole being, past, and present, and to
come, depends on ourselves, theoretically, leaves little room for the
interference or even existence of a personal God." It really leaves no
room at all, and its founder plainly said so. Buddhism is a worship of
ancestors, of which Gautama holds a monopoly.