| The
'Jewish Problem', the Races and the Dalai Lama
Regarding the "Jewish problem," my understanding from DK's presentation of it using the story of the three disciples (Esoteric Psychology 1.393-401) is that it pertains to all three races, the Semitic, the Latin and Celtic, and the Teutonic, Scandinavian and Anglo-Saxon (p. 400). So the word "Jewish" in DK's discussion of the "Jewish problem" pertains also to the Christian races, and this problem might just as well have been called the "Judeo-Christian" problem. This problem can be seen today in a Gentile society such as the U.S.A., where happiness is defined by wealth and possessions, and where materialism has reached new limits. I suppose we could be more inclusive, and more accurate, and call it the "Judeo-Christian-Islamic" problem." You wrote: "DK is not entirely wrong by relating the very human problem of aspiring for possessions to the Jewish people, what he did not take into account was that possessions was all they could have, during that long period of wandering. They could not possess or own land and could not settle in one place for any substantial period of time. " My understanding of DK's meaning here is that the wandering was for the purpose of providing an opportunity, a spiritual opportunity, in which attachment to possessions could be lessened. In the
Eastern religions, this has been less of a problem, because of their
primary teachings. What is regarded as the pinnacle of Hindu thought
is Advaita Vedanta, which teaches that the world and everything in it
is maya, "illusion," so that seeking material possessions
is in fact like seeking a mirage in the desert. Similarly, what is regarded
as the pinnacle of Buddhist thought is Madhyamaka, which teaches the
ultimate emptiness of everything. Again, there is little point in coveting
things that are ultimately empty of any real existence. "Normally we tend to see things in a solid, tangible way," Lhakdor translated. "Therefore, there is a tendency to grasp at things, to become attached to things. We cling to the idea of a separate self and separate things. We strive for new experiences, new acquisitions. Yet as soon as we possess them, the buzz is gone, and we look for something new. This endless cycle of craving brings suffering. "In
His Holiness' case, this grasping attitude does not arise. This is because
the 'self,' wishes, desires, or Rolex watches are perceived ultimately
by him as impermanent, changing, elusive. Empty. Like mirages, they
are not quite real. There is no way you can truly hang on to them. Therefore,
there is no point to covet them. If we acquire an understanding of emptiness,
craving, the source of our suffering, is lessened." By the time we reached the top of Vulture's Peak, the Dalai Lama was sweating. He stopped, reached inside his monk's tunic, and pulled out a tissue, dabbing his forehead and face with it. Bowing slightly, Tenzin Taklha, close at hand as always, held out a hand for the used wipe. But the Dalai Lama put it back inside his tunic. The top of Vulture's Peak was a handkerchief-sized piece of flat ground hemmed in by rocky outcrops on three sides. On the fourth, the knife-edged ridge dropped steeply down the valley. A U-shaped brick enclosure, built to waist height, dominated the flat area. Numerous offering candles had been placed on top of the enclosure's low walls. After prostrations, the Dalai Lama walked to the edge of the ridge and looked down onto the flat valley of Rajgir (Rajagriha in Sanskrit), three hours' drive from Bodhgaya. A lone red-dirt road bisected the verdant farmland, leading straight to the high mountains ringing the valley. The view was gorgeous. But the Dalai Lama didn't linger over it. His mind was on the prayers--the wisdom sutras explaining the concept of emptiness--that he had come to recite. It was on this spot that two and a half thousand years ago, the Buddha expounded the doctrine of emptiness, and idea that lies at the heart of Buddhist knowledge. In previous meetings with me, the Dalai Lama had explained at length the interrelated concepts of interdependence and emptiness--they are the two sides of the same coin, two different ways to come to grips with the same idea. This is what he has told me: the existence of anything--coffee mugs, feelings of jealousy--is totally dependent upon a complex web of relationships. Because of this, if you think about it long enough, there is no logical way for these things to exist independently. Therefore, in the Dalai Lama's terminology, they are said to be devoid of a life of their own. They have no inherent existence. In other words, they are empty. He had also told me that to fully appreciate these central concepts, to transcend mere intellectual understanding, a rigorous spiritual practice involving long periods of meditation is indispensable. In another interview, I wanted to know how the Dalai Lama first encountered the concept of emptiness and how it has subsequently assumed such pivotal importance in his life. "Emptiness is not an easy thing to understand," the Dalai Lama told me. "But once I developed some understanding, some direct insights, then I realized it is applicable to almost all experiences, all situations." He turned to Lhakdor (his translator) and spoke to him in Tibetan. "Having gained more knowledge with growing age, the influence of emptiness on his life becomes more pronounced," Lhakdor translated. "I think around twenty years old, I already developed genuine interest in emptiness," the Dalai Lama continued, rocking backward and forward gently on the edge of his chair. "I remember one incident. In 1954, I attended the National People's Congress in Peking. There were some days without much engagements. So I asked to study emptiness with Ling Rinpoche, my senior tutor. That was one indication of my interest." The Dalai Lama fell silent, his rhythmic rocking stopped. He sat ramrod straight and stared into the distance. After a few moments, he scratched his chin and started to speak again in Tibetan to Lhakdor, rubbing his right hand gently, in a circular motion, around his chest. Lhakdor leaned far forward, his eyes fixated on the Tibetan leader as he translated. "It was in His Holiness' late twenties, in 1963. One day he was reading a Buddhist text. At one point he came across a line which says: 'I' is merely designated to the self of physical aggregates (mental and physical collection). As soon as he read that, he got a special kind of sensation, a strange experience." Lhakdor's voice was a hoarse whisper, I had to strain to hear the words. "How long did that strange experience last?" I asked. "That feeling lasted, I think, few weeks, maybe," the Dalai Lama replied. He spoke to Lhakdor some more. The furrows on his brow lightened, he peered down at the floor in front of him and gestured to the carpet with a sweeping motion. There was a look of wonder on his face. "During this time," Lhakdor translated, "whenever he saw people, things . . . carpet, for example, he would see them as carpet and people, but at the same time, he noticed that they have no essence. He had the distinct feeling that there is no 'I'. Not in the sense that 'I' do not exist, but a certain feeling of no 'I' as we understand it." "Absence of solid reality," the Dalai Lama said emphatically. He raised both his hands to chest level and clenched them into tight fists. "Did you have any visions?" I asked tentatively, unsure of the wisdom of pursuing this line of questioning. I had just realized that the conversation had taken an unexpected turn. The Dalai Lama was telling me something very personal, something perhaps only a handful of people had ever heard. "No," He answered. "But there was this experience of no 'I,'" I said. "Yes." The Dalai Lama again spoke directly to Lhakdor. "Physically, something like lightning surged through his heart," Lhakdor translated. "He experienced something like an electric shock." I had the uncomfortable sensation that I was eavesdropping. Spiritual realizations are intimate, personal experiences for a Buddhist, and this was the first time I had ever heard a serious practitioner talk about them. But I needed to confirm what I'd just heard. "An electric shock going through your body?" I asked the Dalai Lama. "Yes," he replied. He was watching me closely, his hands now clasped on his lap. I heard a soft click, a sound that seemed to come from far away. Then I realized my tape recorder had stopped, the tape was finished. I kept my eyes fixed on the Dalai Lama, not trusting my ability to fish a new tape from my day pack. I'd get a copy of the interview from Lhakdor later. "In those few weeks you saw objects as without essence, without substance?" I asked. The Dalai Lama sat very straight in his chair, his face impassive. It occurred to me that he looked very much like a Buddha at the moment. I couldn't help feeling awed by his presence. "Yes. If I thought about non-self, no 'I,'" he elaborated, "then in that one moment, just like picture. I think it is similar to watching TV or a movie. It is especially like watching a movie. One way to look at the movie: feeling something real going on in there. But at the same time, while your eyes looking there, your mind knows this is mere picture--acting, not real. So seeing same picture: one, without understanding this acting, another, seeing but still feel this is acting." The Dalai Lama was telling me that his way of seeing had changed after the strange experience of 1963. He saw that things now appeared to have two facets. One: solid, real, touchable, the kind of everyday things we encountered-- fridge, anger, neighbours. Second: the underlying unreal nature of things--things that are like a picture show--their essences nothing but flickering Technicolor mirages on a wide screen. Their existence, characterized by constant change and impermanence, depends on a web of relationships. All things--fridge, anger, neighbours--can be viewed in these two perspectives. The influence of the 1963 incident stayed with him, the Dalai Lama told me. As he continued with his practice and meditated on a daily basis, his spiritual insights came about with more frequency. Whenever the thought of "self" of "I" flashed across his mind, it was likely to be accompanied by a sensation of emptiness, of "no I." "Previously," the Dalai Lama said, "unless I think seriously and continuously at least for a few minutes, it was difficult to get that kind of feeling. Nowadays, as soon as I remember about emptiness, the picture becomes clearly different." "Is this a stronger realization of emptiness?" I asked. "Yes," the Dalai Lama said. Then he promptly backtracked: "Emptiness ... I don't know." I had the feeling he wanted to be very careful about this. "What's the importance in seeing the intangible in things? What has that got to do with your life?" I asked. The Dalai Lama spoke to Lhakdor. "Normally we tend to see things in a solid, tangible way," Lhakdor translated. "Therefore, there is a tendency to grasp at things, to become attached to things. We cling to the idea of a separate self and separate things. We strive for new experiences, new acquisitions. Yet as soon as we possess them, the buzz is gone, and we look for something new. This endless cycle of craving brings suffering. "In His Holiness' case, this grasping attitude does not arise. This is because the 'self,' wishes, desires, or Rolex watches are perceived ultimately by him as impermanent, changing, elusive. Empty. Like mirages, they are not quite real. There is no way you can truly hang on to them. Therefore, there is no point to covet them. If we acquire an understanding of emptiness, craving, the source of our suffering, is lessened." The Dalai Lama lapsed into Tibetan once again. Something had tickled his funny bone. He launched into one of his full-body laughing fits, waggling his head from side to side. His face was so crunched up with mirth that his eyes disappeared. "His Holiness says he's boasting. And he says this is called a fool trying to fool others," Lhakdor said with a big smile. I looked over the notes I'd jotted down. The interview was veering in a direction I had not expected. A new thought occurred to me, and I asked the Dalai Lama: "Did you ever talk to anyone about your spiritual accomplishment?" "In the ealy seventies," he replied, "I told Ling Rinpoche, almost like report, about my understanding of emptiness, then he ..." He trailed off, turning to speak to Lhakdor in Tibetan. "Ling Rinpoche commented that very soon His Holiness will become a space yogi," Lhakdor translated. "A space yogi is a practitioner who realizes spacelike emptiness, someone who has achieved substantive enlightenment." "Did you get into that state?" I asked, throwing caution to the wind. "I don't know," the Dalai Lama said. I noticed that he seemed to be twiddling his thumbs, but after a second I realized that his hands, resting comfortably on his lap, were rhythmically clicking the beads of an imaginary rosary (mala). He spoke to Lhakdor again. "All the time he's making progress," Lhakdor translated. "His Holiness is quite sure about one thing. If Ling Rinpoche was still alive today, and His Holiness told him about his spiritual attainment, Lind Rinpoche would definitely be pleased. "There is a reason why His Holiness is explaining all this to you," Lhakdor said, unprompted. "Normally it is totally improper to talk about these things." "That's right, that's right. Therefore, whenever I explain some of my experiences about compassion and my understanding of emptiness, I always make clear..." the Dalai Lama said. He switched to Tibetan and spoke directly to Lhakdor. "His Holiness sometimes talks about his spiritual development to inspire people," Lhakdor translated, "but he always concludes by saying: 'I'm not saying I'm bodhisattva, I'm not saying I've realized emptiness.' His Holiness also makes this point: from his own experience, he notices that one can always make progress. Therefore, he would tell his audience: 'In my own case also, even though I am not a bodhisattva, have not cultivated bodhicitta (infinite altruism), but I'm like someone who can now see the top of the mountain." The Dalai Lama interjected, "Not reached top, but now I get the feeling--oh, can get there," he said and pinched his nose. "You can smell it...." I suggested. The shadows were lengthening on the charming veranda outside the room. The Dalai Lama looked at his watch and said to me, "Now, five more minutes." I had been with him for nearly two hours, but I felt a slight panic coming on. I still had a page and a half of questions to go. As I considered my next question, Lhakdor turned to look at me and said: "There is always some danger talking about things like spiritual development." "Danger?" I was nonplussed. I was also surprised that Lhakdor had offered up this caution on his own, and in the presence of the Dalai Lama. It was his habit to remain silent unless he was called upon to translate. "If you say you have realized emptiness, while in actual fact you have not attained that state," Lhakdor explained. "The danger is this," Dalai Lama elaborated. "Although I do not have that intention, on the basis of my statement, someone believes I have attained some higher state. If he believes it out of faith, maybe all right. But if he believes it because of my statement, and then if I feel..." He paused. Lhakdor completed the thought for the Dalai Lama. "If His Holiness feels, 'It is OK, it is fine that he gets such an idea,' then there is a risk." "So there is some selfish motivation now," the Dalai Lama added. As I had been at other time, I was struck by how unflinchingly the Dalai Lama examines his motivation for every act. It is a conditioned response, it happens every time he opens his mouth or makes a decision. "Lie, of course, whether layperson or monk, everyone, lying is sin, negative," the Dalai Lama continued, with heightened intensity, "But I'm Monk, fully ordained. If I tell others that I have some deep experience of spiritual realization, and knowing I have not that quality, that lie is one major lie. It is cause for disrobing--no longer Monk." "It's not like telling a minor lie, it's a very big, special lie," Lhakdor added. "Like sexual misconduct, killing human being, stealing. Then this lie," the Dalai Lama said. "Four major ones," I said. "Then, no longer as Monk. Therefore, it's dangerous,' the Dalai Lama concluded. Our interview
was at an end..... |