I would recommend this lovely though long book to anyone interested in Buddhism as a religion. It’s not a guide to meditation or a pithy and inspiring set of dhamma talks. Instead, Ajahn Jayasaro provides us with not merely a comprehensive view of Ajahn Chah’s life and teachings (as the subtitle explains) but a deep background on the entire Thai Forest tradition. Part of the task he took on was to restore the context so notably missing from something like Gold Wrapped in Rags. So while he tells the story of the very hard core dhamma of the early Ajahn Chah, he also explains that this was an effective way of teaching and practicing in the Thai culture in which it evolved. Many young men in Thailand came to be monks for just a few years or even just a season, before returning to lay life. Taking robes could be seen as a mere rite of social passage, and in this context, students would require a certain discipline to go beyond the introductory phase and uncover who was suited to a deeper calling. In addition, Thai culture apparently does not suffer from the crippling self-doubt, self-castigation, and reactive self-assertion so common in the West, but instead tends towards a more natural self-confidence and indolence. In this context a hard core and almost fiery dhamma focused on renouncing sensual attachments makes a lot more sense. And in fact, Jayasaro points out that the softer, funnier Ajahn Chah so famous the West, is likewise a bit of a mask adopted as a skillful means of teaching neurotic overly intellectual Westerners. In short, I really appreciated how much time the book took to situate the teachings as a function of the context. I feel like I also now have some deeper insight into the particular monastic soil from which they grew.
Tuesday, October 27, 2026
Why I Am Not A Christian
I haven't read much Betrand Russell up to now, despite his towering reputation in Anglo philosophy. But I've long heard reference to the classic essay which gives this collection its title. I enjoyed Evan Thompson's reworking of its inspiration in Why I am Not a Buddhist, and of course I just read C.S. Lewis give us the other side of the argument in Mere Christianity, so when I found a copy of these, "essays on religion and related subjects" at the cat bookstore, I figured it was about time.
Unfortunately, I found Russell rather narrow-minded and disappointingly early modern on the question of religion. He dismisses all religion as mere childish superstition that we, as triumphantly rational early 20th century adults, can finally dispense with. The tone of condescending irony here is thick enough to frost your cake and eat it too. It's not that there isn't a lot of truth in what he says. The monotheistic version of religion dominant in the West has undoubtedly done a lot of harm over its 2000 year history. As Experiments in Mystical Atheism (among others) argued at some length, concluding that a single God created the world in order to test human faith and judge our worthiness represents a deep and perverse diminishment of the potential of human experience. I am not a Christian either. Nor am I superstitious.
But I do have some respect for the impulse to look beyond ourselves to some sort of larger frame of existence that the religion represents. Christianity may not be my preferred version of this larger universe, but to dismiss this impulse entirely out of rationalistic hubris seems to me deeply misguided. In addition, Russell offers us nothing in its place, and instead merely sneers at what he considers a feebleminded attempt to evade the 'hard' realities of materialistic science. He speaks of human flourishing and argues for a 'rational' morality that would support this, but in the end he can produce nothing more than the utilitarian pursuit of the greatest individual pleasure for the greatest number. 100 years after he wrote about it, everyone today has lived this utilitarian utopia, and it turns out that it isn't all it was cracked up to be. It shows little promise of making us universally happy and tolerant. We can, of course, argue that the problem is that we have **still** only incompletely inculcated the scientific and rational worldview, that we still have yet to fully slay the dragon of ancient superstition and cruelty that Russell thinks religion represents. However, isn't it time to ask ourselves how long we should run this experiment? Jesus believed that many of those hearing his preaching would live to see the final judgement. Similarly, we might ask Russell how long should we wait for scientism and social management to solve all our problems.
Unfortunately, I found Russell rather narrow-minded and disappointingly early modern on the question of religion. He dismisses all religion as mere childish superstition that we, as triumphantly rational early 20th century adults, can finally dispense with. The tone of condescending irony here is thick enough to frost your cake and eat it too. It's not that there isn't a lot of truth in what he says. The monotheistic version of religion dominant in the West has undoubtedly done a lot of harm over its 2000 year history. As Experiments in Mystical Atheism (among others) argued at some length, concluding that a single God created the world in order to test human faith and judge our worthiness represents a deep and perverse diminishment of the potential of human experience. I am not a Christian either. Nor am I superstitious.
But I do have some respect for the impulse to look beyond ourselves to some sort of larger frame of existence that the religion represents. Christianity may not be my preferred version of this larger universe, but to dismiss this impulse entirely out of rationalistic hubris seems to me deeply misguided. In addition, Russell offers us nothing in its place, and instead merely sneers at what he considers a feebleminded attempt to evade the 'hard' realities of materialistic science. He speaks of human flourishing and argues for a 'rational' morality that would support this, but in the end he can produce nothing more than the utilitarian pursuit of the greatest individual pleasure for the greatest number. 100 years after he wrote about it, everyone today has lived this utilitarian utopia, and it turns out that it isn't all it was cracked up to be. It shows little promise of making us universally happy and tolerant. We can, of course, argue that the problem is that we have **still** only incompletely inculcated the scientific and rational worldview, that we still have yet to fully slay the dragon of ancient superstition and cruelty that Russell thinks religion represents. However, isn't it time to ask ourselves how long we should run this experiment? Jesus believed that many of those hearing his preaching would live to see the final judgement. Similarly, we might ask Russell how long should we wait for scientism and social management to solve all our problems.
Mutual Aid
On a recent carpool ride to the monastery, an acquaintance suggested that Dean Spade's anarchist organizing manual held some advice relevant to the growth of our budding community. Unfortunately, while there are some useful suggestions about dealing with conflict in groups, this book is mostly aimed at a completely different type of group. Turns out, a monastery is not a mutual aid organization, at least in the sense Spade intends.
The book is really discussing how to organize groups like Black Lives Matters, or the other types of protest groups that appeared in the wake of the murder of George Floyd or more recently in opposition to ICE deportations. This probably accounts for the militant and millenialist tone Spade uses throughout. He sees these organizations as the last line of defense in a life or death survival struggle. In some of these cases, of course, he's absolutely right. The problem comes when he begins to suggest that the type of organizations created in a last ditch effort to protect people against state sponsored terrorism should expand to become the normal mode of societal organization. Without getting into an endless debate about the extent to which anarchist self-organization can solve all our problems, I don't think that we should treat every situation as a war against the state. Perhaps this is a very relevant lens through which to see questions of community law enforcement, but is it actually a way to fix, say, our broken healthcare system? It seems to me that there are different types of problems, for which different organizational structures are suited. Spade's enduring emnity towards hierarchy prevents him from seeing that it is also a completely normal phenomena that has evolved over and over again in both social and evolutionary contexts. That doesn't mean it's always healthy; but perhaps it's not **always** evil?
I didn't enjoy the hyperbolic writing style, nor did I find the book a compelling argument for anarchism (despite considering myself an anarchist sympathizer) or a particularly insightful guide for organizing. But instead of leaving it a two star review on my highly influential blog, I think I should simply say that I'm not the relevant target audience. I'm not involved in any organization like this, so how can I judge the effectiveness of these ideas for running one. And while some of the same organizational questions do come up in the construction of a new Thai Forest Monastery, the frame in which they are understood and the process thorough which they are resolved are not so ... militant.
The book is really discussing how to organize groups like Black Lives Matters, or the other types of protest groups that appeared in the wake of the murder of George Floyd or more recently in opposition to ICE deportations. This probably accounts for the militant and millenialist tone Spade uses throughout. He sees these organizations as the last line of defense in a life or death survival struggle. In some of these cases, of course, he's absolutely right. The problem comes when he begins to suggest that the type of organizations created in a last ditch effort to protect people against state sponsored terrorism should expand to become the normal mode of societal organization. Without getting into an endless debate about the extent to which anarchist self-organization can solve all our problems, I don't think that we should treat every situation as a war against the state. Perhaps this is a very relevant lens through which to see questions of community law enforcement, but is it actually a way to fix, say, our broken healthcare system? It seems to me that there are different types of problems, for which different organizational structures are suited. Spade's enduring emnity towards hierarchy prevents him from seeing that it is also a completely normal phenomena that has evolved over and over again in both social and evolutionary contexts. That doesn't mean it's always healthy; but perhaps it's not **always** evil?
I didn't enjoy the hyperbolic writing style, nor did I find the book a compelling argument for anarchism (despite considering myself an anarchist sympathizer) or a particularly insightful guide for organizing. But instead of leaving it a two star review on my highly influential blog, I think I should simply say that I'm not the relevant target audience. I'm not involved in any organization like this, so how can I judge the effectiveness of these ideas for running one. And while some of the same organizational questions do come up in the construction of a new Thai Forest Monastery, the frame in which they are understood and the process thorough which they are resolved are not so ... militant.
Mere Christianity
Though I must have mentioned enjoying The Screwtape Letters I was still caught by surprise when one of my esteemed colleagues from Texas sent me C.S. Lewis's, "beloved classic on what all Christians believe". After 10 years of practice, I've only recently started considering myself a Buddhist, so I hardly feel like good conversion material. But then we are told grace works in mysterious ways ... so you never know.
Because this book was more of a straightforward exposition of core Christian beliefs than the more imaginative Screwtape scenario, I found it less interesting overall. Nevertheless, I think it is a wonderful introduction to the best version of Christianity I've heard anyone argue for. Lewis is cogent, persuasive, and genuine. He presents of vision of what makes one a Christian -- any kind of Christian -- that focuses less on what dogma one needs to believe than on what qualities one is asked to cultivate. This goes some way towards answering what I would consider one of the main defects of Christianity relative to something like Buddhism. Generally, Christianity is presented as mainly a system of belief, and Buddhism mainly as a system of practice. To be a Christian means to believe that Christ is the unique God and he died for your sins. To be a Buddhist is to think that the Buddha offered a coherent path for freeing your mind through meditation. While I think this characterization is largely accurate, Lewis shows us that the lines between these two may not be as bright as they first seem. On the one hand, I should note that while explicitly more empirical and DIY, Buddhism also clearly involves beliefs on some level. And on the other, Lewis depicts a Christianity that is much more about the practice of letting go of one's self through the cultivation of ethical virtue and community mindedness. Many parts of *Mere Christianity*, particularly the later chapters where Lewis begins to unfold a more transformative and mystical view of what it means to be Christian, sketch a practice that doesn't feel far from the cultivation of the Buddhist path. There is a shared emphasis on going beyond yourself to discover something larger, a shared appreciation that true faith can transform us, and not merely optimize our machine, and a shared joy in surrounding ourselves with a community of like minded practitioners. So I found it exciting to consider this take on Christianity that sounds so different from the ones I remember growing up with; whether this is really, "what all Christians believe," as the back cover would have it, is obviously a question for Christians, not Buddhists, to adjudicate.
While I'm grateful that the book made me better appreciate why some people feel Christianity is a satisfying spiritual path for them, it didn't do anything to change my own personal beliefs or practice. For me personally, I still find that the Christian worldview simply begs the point of all spirituality. What we are searching for is something more than ourselves. We feel drawn past our everyday craving for pleasure and avoidance of pain into an exploration of why we're here at all and what it's all for anyhow. I agree with folks like Ziporyn and Nishitani who identify this as the underlying impulse behind all spirituality. And I also agree with them that the Abrahamic faiths' notion of a single unified God who creates, controls, and judges all of existence just like a father creates, controls, and judges his family is fundamentally a betrayal of the the spiritual quest. The problem is not that this God is too transcendent, too woo-woo and 'unscientific'. The problem is just the opposite. The problem with this God has always been that he is way too much like us, way too close to a putative individual human self projected into the sky. And Christianity merely compounds this problem by putting the sky on the ground, drawing God and man closer together. The only way I could believe in a monotheist God is in the way Spinoza thought of him -- as absolutely nothing like we (think) we are.
In short, I still feel Christianity is a bad answer to a great question. In fact, for me, the whole point of the question lies in not having an answer at all, much less in providing an answer so clearly modeled on our own most conditioned reflex.
Gold Wrapped in Rags
When Clear Mountain Monastery had leftover gift bags at the end of their Almsgiving ceremony I decided to bring one home. To my surprise, it also contained this autobiography of Ajaan Jia Cundo, who I had never heard of, but who turns out to be a student of Ajaan Mun, one of the founders of the whole Thai Forest tradition. The book is a transcription and ordering of a number of interviews Jia Cundo gave towards the end of his life, that reconstruct the circumstances and path of practice that led him to full arahantship. It even contains a description of his actual moment of enlightenment! For the right audience, this naturally makes an interesting read, though quite a lot of it is taken up with the recounting of what by ordinary lights would be a pretty boring life. Jia Cundo spent most of his days wandering through the Thai jungle alone, looking for places to sit very still. Not the sort of life they generally make into a major motion picture. So it’s not a book one would ever recommend to a non-Buddhist, unless your goal was simply to impress them with descriptions of how hard core the early Thai Forest monks could be.
Because that’s the story of Ajaan Jia Cundo in a nutshell – hard core in every possible way. This was a guy totally dedicated to and driven by the quest to reach full awakening. Everything else was simply a distraction. While the diligence and single minded focus described here is literally incredible, I actually found it raised more questions than it answered about this path.
I assume that this story is meant to inspire us as practitioners; enlightenment didn’t just happen in the Buddha’s time but is still possible; you just have to want it bad enough. For me, I found it had the opposite effect. If the path to enlightenment requires utterly dropping out of society and sacrificing every possible enjoyment of life on the altar of meditation, I’m not going to get there. And if the fruits of it are epitomized by a man who frankly sounds like he was a bit of jerk, then I would also throw the goal itself into question. Jia Cundo barely mentions love or compassion at all in his story. There is some discussion of love and gratitude towards teacher and parents, but only insofar as they allowed him to get enlightened, not as real and fallible human beings who he lived in relationship to. As for just about everyone else, well, they are mostly just in Jia Cundo’s way, and he regularly lets them know this. Of course, the idea is supposed to be right there in the title; actually Jia Cundo had a heart of gold, but it was wrapped in the rags of an unpleasant personality. Perhaps this is something his students and peers (he never mentions what you might call a friend) experienced. After all, someone wanted him to tell his story. But there’s little evidence of this supposed heart in the book I read. Unless we count serving his teacher with an anxious vigilance and teaching the dhamma with an iron fist, I don’t beleive Jia Cundo recounts a single instance of kindness towards or help for another individual. How are we ever to see there is gold in dem dar rags?
The Hair Carpet Weavers
I had never heard of Andreas Eschbach before my esteemed colleague from Texas suggested this novel, even though it turns out to already be 30 years old. But it only takes a few pages to recognize a classic (now with interesting new cover art). Eschbach's tale is part allegory, part tragedy, and part mystery, but completely page-turning and poignant throughout. The central conceit is the mystery surrounding a world entirely devoted to the production of exquisite carpets woven of human hair, works of art so complex that a master only finishes a single carpet in his lifetime. These carpets, their makers believe, are destined to grace the palace of the immortal Emperor. But in a Nietzschean twist, we slowly learn that the rumors of the Emperor's death are hardly exaggerated. What then is the purpose of the carpets? And what becomes of the lives of the society devoted to making them? "A single hair carpet was an awe-inspiring sight. A whole stack of carpets, on the other hand, was a monstrosity" (pg. 265).
Eschbach gives us a conceptual novel that nevertheless has characters we actually care about and insights into human psychology we can actually relate to. Meanwhile the writing manages to be relatively unadorned while still conveying a deeply touching elegiac quality. Highly recommended.
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