Ever since those disconcerting bombs [i. e., _the words of
Christ_] were originally thrown courageous divines and laymen
have been rushing in to pick them up and throw them away,
combining as well as they could an air of respect for the
thrower with tender care for the mental ease of congregations
occupied generally in making money and occasionally in making
war. Yet there they lie, miraculously permanent and disturbing,
as if just thrown. Now and then one will go off, with seismic
results, in the mind of some St. Francis or Tolstoy.
The Buddha, sitting under his Bo Tree (_ficus religiosa_--and it is
fairly obvious why so many philosophers have chosen fig trees to sit
under; a really lusty fig will bear, according to the New International
Encyclopædia, three crops of fruit in a season, thus keeping the
eremite well fed; and a fig, L. E. W. says, is what he doesn’t give for
the ideas of rival magi) is to us an enviable vision. We wonder how his
meditations would have fared if there had been a telephone at the foot
of the tree.
The only drawback, as far as we are concerned, to becoming a Buddhist
is the vow to abstain from intoxicating liquors. In this respect the
Western religions seem to us more liberal. We have meditated long and
earnestly on the subject and still have never been able to understand
why an occasional exhilarating drink should be contrary to any wise
man’s ethic. Indeed, if Nirvana (or Perfect Release from Struggle) is
the object of life, we have seen it well attained by three or four
juleps or Tom-and-Jerries. The lay Buddhist has to take five vows;
the Bhikshus (or Brotherhood of the Elect) take ten. Some of these
additional vows required of the Bhikshu are:
_I vow and promise not to eat food at unseasonable times--that
is, after the midday meal._
_I vow and promise not to dance, sing light songs, frequent
public amusements, and, in short, to avoid worldly dissipation
of every kind._
_I vow and promise not to wear any kind of ornament, nor to use
any scents or perfumes, and, in short, to avoid whatever tends
to vanity._
_I promise and vow to give up the use of soft bedding and to
sleep on a hard, low couch._
These, we admit, present some difficulties. Frequenting “public
amusements” offers too many opportunities for quibble. In one sense
every possible mingling with the world is a public amusement. If there
is anything more amusing than a smoking car full of men or a Broadway
pavement at lunch time we don’t know what it could be. Sleeping on
a hard, low couch is easy enough--we can sleep anywhere with equal
satisfaction, even on the floor. The queer thing that we always notice
about every kind of moral code is that, sooner or later, it begins to
lose sight of the distinction between essentials and non-essentials.
Such matters as intoxicating drink and public amusements should not
be (for the Western philosopher) subject to prescriptive legislation.
The individual may very rightly impose restraints upon himself in
non-essential matters; but to lay them upon him from above is to
stultify the whole purport of ethics--which, if we understand it, is
to encourage and develop a worthy personal will. And the Buddhist
Catechism recognizes this in a very potent phrase--“Every one of us
must become his own redeemer.”
But Buddhism seems to have a firm grasp on one very essential and
valuable idea, which is comparatively rare among religions. Thus the
Catechism:
43. _Does Buddhism teach its followers to hate, despise, or
persecute non-believers?_
Quite the reverse. It teaches us to love all men as brethren,
without distinction of race, nationality, or creed; to respect
the convictions of men of other beliefs, and to be careful
to avoid all religious controversy. The Buddhist religion is
imbued with the purest spirit of perfect toleration. Even where
dominant, it has never oppressed or persecuted non-believers,
and its success has never been attended with bloodshed.
The true Buddhist does not feel hatred, but only pity and
compassion for him who will not acknowledge or listen to the
truth, to his own loss and injury only.
Of course, all forms of human attempt to unscrew the inscrutable
are fascinating and full of interest. The Westerner, however, is
a bit troubled when he finds “Love of life on earth” listed among
the “ten fetters” which, according to the Buddha, prevent the soul
from receiving full freedom and enlightenment. That seems, to our
earth-bound and muddied conceptions, a shabby doctrine. Even the most
timid tincture of good manners suggests that a life so exciting,
so amusing, so painful, so perplexing, and so variously endowed
with unearned beauty and amazement deserves at least a courteous
gratefulness on our part. Mr. C. E. Montague (if you will allow us to
quote him once more), explains what we mean:
Among the mind’s powers is one that comes of itself to many
children and artists. It need not be lost, to the end of his
days, by any one who has ever had it. This is the power of
taking delight in a thing, or rather in anything, everything,
not as a means to some other end, but just because it is what
it is.... A child in the full health of his mind will put his
hand flat on the summer turf, feel it, and give a little shiver
of private glee at the elastic firmness of the globe. He is not
thinking how well it will do for some game or to feed sheep
upon.... No matter what the things may be, no matter what they
are good or no good for, there they are, each with a thrilling
unique look and feel of its own, like a face; the iron
astringently cool under its paint, the painted wood familiarly
warmer, the clod crumbling enchantingly down in the hands, with
its little dry smell of the sun and of hot nettles; each common
thing a personality marked by delicious differences.
It is this sensuous cheerfulness in mere living, apparently, that the
Buddhist would have us cast away. You remember Rupert Brooke’s fine
poem _The Great Lover_. Western students may be pardoned for wondering
whether “Love of life on earth,” whatever that life’s miseries, ills,
and absurdities, is not too precious to be tossed lightly aside.
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