Semantic search
There is no traditional rubric of tathāgatagarbha scriptures, though modem scholars (e.g. Takasaki, 1974) have treated several scriptures as belonging to a thematic class, namely the ;;Tathāgatagarbhasūtra, the Anūnatvāpūrṇatvanirdeśaparivarta, the Śrīmālādevīsiṃhanādasūtra, the (Mahāyāna) Mahaaparinirvāṇamahāsūtra, the Mahāmeghasūtra, the *Mahābherīhārakasūtra, and the Mahāyāna Aṅgulimālīya (or Aṅgulimālīyasūtra). This classification is based in the first instance on the use of these and related works as proof texts in the Indian treatise Ratnagotravibhāga (Mahāyānottaratantra). The category is thus in some sense conceptually coherent even in an Indian context. Moreover, many of these texts take on a very significant role in East Asia where, again, they are often appealed to in various groupings.
The notion of tathāgatagarbha (embryo of the tathāgatas), a Mahāyāna innovation, signifies the presence in every sentient being of the innate capacity for buddhahood. Although different traditions interpret it variously, the basic idea is either that all beings are already awakened, but simply do not recognize it, or that all beings possess the capacity, and for some the certainty, of attaining buddhahood, but adventitious defilements (āgantukakleśa) for the moment prevent the realization of this potential. (Radich, "Tathāgatagarbha Sūtras," 261)The historical approach to Zen in Heinrich Dumoulin's major work, A History of Zen, published over twenty years ago, broke new ground in Western Zen studies. Up to that time Zen publication in the West dealt primarily with interpretive accounts of Zen and translations of Zen or Zen-related texts. I follow here an alternate approach to Zen and seek to place it in the context of one or another aspect of Mahāyāna tradition. One might read Zen in the perspective of Indian Mādhyamika or Yogācāra, or in terms of the Chinese prajñic or Hua-yen doctrinal development. But I would like to place it within the perspective of Tathāgatagarbha thought. (Kiyota, "Tathāgatagarbha Thought," 207)
Humans have long grappled with the question of the nature of our Self, defined here as the ultimate reality inherent to our individual being. Religious traditions can be a great place to look when attempting to understand this aspect of our humanity. Broadly speaking, when contemplating ideas of Self in Buddhism and Hinduism, the relationship between the Buddhist notion of Buddha-nature (tathāgatagarbha) and the Hindu notion of Self (ātman), is an intriguing one: How can we understand them to be similar or different? How do the Buddhist concepts of emptiness (śūnyatā) and mind-only (cittamātra) relate to the concepts of tathāgatagarbha and ātman? Is emptiness contrary to these ideas? Are tathāgatagarbha and the Hindu teaching that ātman is equal to brahman (ultimate reality), both expressions of a non-dualistic state of mind? Although it is commonly taught that Hinduism and Buddhism differ in their understanding of Self, one thing that becomes apparent is that these are not simple questions, perhaps mainly because their answers are contextual. There are many answers that come from many different types of Hindus and Buddhists in various places. For this paper, I will be looking at commentary on the Buddhist text the Mahāyāna Mahāparinirvāṇa sūtra and its use of the concept of a permanent Self and how this relates to emptiness (śūnyatā) and skillful means (upāya). This paper seeks to support my claim that, through skillful means, ātman and anātman (no-Self) are both saying something quite similar—despite the apparent paradoxical nature of this statement—and will look at Buddha-nature in the Mahāparinirvāṇa sūtra as a way to understand and help articulate this thought. (Laughlin, "Tathāgatagarbha and Ātman," 57)
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Notes
- (In title and not shown) This was originally written in 1994; the publisher seems to have fallen into a black hole, so I am putting it out here myself; I have not changed it (other than fonts and some formatting issues) in order to keep the historical in perspective. I think that I still agree with myself, especially with the idea that tathāgatagarbha represents more of a dualism than a monism and thereby leads to ethical problems with the less-than-real (accidental) kleśa.
- Many of the questions considered here have been treated in David Ruegg's recent publication Buddha-nature, Mind and the Problem of Gradualism in a Comparative Perspective (Delhi: Heritage Publishers 1992); see especially Chapter One.
- Jikido Takasaki, A Study of the Ratnagotravibhāga (Uttara-tantra), (Rome, 1966), p. 302. Hereafter cited as Ratnagotravibhāga.
The concept of the Buddha's real or essential nature is referred to by (or better: rests upon) many different Sanskrit terms - e.g. (tathāgata-)dhātu, (buddha-)gotra, (tathāgata-)garbha, dharmatā, dharma-kāya, buddhatā. Other terms that are closely related are Tathatā, āśraya, prakṛti, prabhāsvara-citta, dharma-dhātu, buddha-jñāna.'"`UNIQ--ref-000011ED-QINU`"' So when we speak of the Buddha-nature (which is how I will abbreviate the more cumbersome 'the Buddha's real or essential nature' from now on), we are tacitly drawing upon some or all of these terms, which have their own ramifications and interrelations, of course. This is a very complex situation and I want to try and clarify it by approaching it from two angles. First, historically, I want to propose that Buddhism in India always had within it three strands which tended to view and understand the Dharma from their own standpoint; these strands are those of śīla, samādhi and prajñā (see p. 262 for details). Secondly, conceptually, I propose a number of what may be called conceptual nets or images (e.g. withinness, foundation, nature/being—see p. 263 for details) that can be applied to the concept of the Buddha-nature, and which (a) tend to hang together as a group, but in addition (b) each of the conceptual nets to a large extent determines the sort of terminology that is used when speaking of the Buddha-nature. Part of my argument is that works like the RGV (and to a lesser degree, the ŚMS) represent a systematization of the different terms (and hence, tacitly, the conceptual nets that give rise to these terms) that were available at the time that the Mahāyāna was growing to maturity.'"`UNIQ--ref-000011EE-QINU`"' This period of the Mahāyāna is usually referred to as the third turning of the Dharma-cakra; it involved a fundamental shift in the axis of Buddhism which led to a bhedābheda philosophy (i.e. the Absolute is both distinct and non-distinct from its attributes). Finally, we look at what the Chinese made of all this. They settled on the term fo hsing to mean 'Buddha-nature', but we find that hsing is used to translate different Sanskrit terms (e.g. prakṛti, gotra, bhāva—see p. 267 for details), and that these Sanskrit terms are themselves translated by other words than hsing (e.g. t'i, shen, chen, shih). In other words, the inherent ambiguities in the Sanskrit terminology are replaced by inherent ambiguities in the Chinese terminology. In addition, because garbha (which nearly always means 'embryo' in Sanskrit) is translated by ts'ang, ( = 'womb'; lit. 'storehouse'), a certain vacuum was created in the Chinese vocabulary which the terms fo hsing and fo hsin ( = buddha-citta) neatly filled. (Rawlinson, introductory remarks, 259–60)
Buddhism, and especially early Buddhism, is known for the anātman (no self) teaching. By any account, this teaching is central to both doctrine and practice from the beginning. Zen Buddhism (Chinese Ch'an), in contrast, is known for its teaching that the single most important thing in life is to discover the 'true self'. Is there a real, or only an apparent, conflict between these two versions of Buddhism? Certainly there is at the least a radical change in the linguistic formulation of the teaching. Examining the two teachings on the linguistic level, we note that the use of the term 'true' in the phrase 'true self' may indicate that we have here a conscious reformation of the place of the term 'self' in the tradition, or perhaps that the use of this phrase in Zen is the product of such a conscious formulation. Thus we may expect, upon investigation, to find an evolution from one teaching to the other, rather than a true doctrinal disparity. The apparent, or linguistic, conflict between the two, however, remains; hence we must also expect to find a doctrinal formulation at some point in this evolution in which the apparent conflict is consciously apprehended and resolved.
That is, Buddhism embraces both the teaching that there is no self and the teaching that the goal of life is to discover the true self. Not only does Buddhism embrace these two formulations, but each in its own context is the central pivot of the teachings of the school or community concerned. Two questions arise here. (1) How can a single tradition affirm both no self and true self? How can the two ideas be reconciled? (This is the philosophical question.) (2) In linking early Buddhism and Zen we are discussing two religious movements separated by approximately 12 centuries and by their development in two vastly different cultures, the Indian and the Chinese. What is there in the course of this development that could account for the transition from talk of no self to talk of true self? (This is the question of intellectual history.) In the present essay I will attempt to show that it is by examining the Buddha nature (fo hsing 佛性) concept and understanding it as a term representing certain actions that these questions may be answered. (King, "The Buddha Nature," 255)
Watsuji Tetsurō (1889-1960) brought Dōgen out of this long period of obscurity with his treatise Shamon Dōgen written between 1919 and 1921.'"`UNIQ--ref-00000D58-QINU`"' Watsuji's contribution, however, is not limited to his introduction of Dōgen to public attention. Instead of treating Dōgen as the founder of the Sōtō School, he presents him as a human being, a person, a man (hito):
- ...it may be justifiable to assert that I opened a gate to a new interpretation of Dōgen. He thereby becomes not the Dōgen of a sect but of mankind; not the founder Dōgen but rather our Dōgen. The reason why I claim it so daringly is due to my realization that his truth was killed by sheer sectarian treatments (Watsuji 1925,p. 160).
This realization grew out of Watsuji’s effort to solve the problem of how a layman like himself could attempt to understand Dōgen's "truth" without engaging in the rigorous training prescribed by the Zen tradition (Watsuji 1925, p , 156). A sectarian would claim that the "truth" must be experienced immediately and that any attempt to verbalize or conceptualize it constitutes falsification. If the immediate experience is the only gateway to the "truth," as the sectarian would claim, why did Dōgen himself write so much? Dōgen believed that it was through writing that his truth was to be transmitted to others. For his own religious training, he singlemindedly concentrated on sitting in meditation; yet he saw no intrinsic conflict between sitting and writing. This is why Dōgen started writing Shōbōgenzō in 1231: so that he might be able to "transmit the
Buddha’s authentic Dharma to those who are misguided by false teachers" (Watsuji 1925, p. 157). Watsuji further quotes from Dogen: "Although it (Shōbōgenzō) might appear to be a mere 'theory,' it still bears indispensable importance for the sake of Dharma" (1925,p. 157). Thus Watsuji claims that his approach, which relies on words and concepts, is a valid alternative to the monk’s subjective pursuit.
According to Dōgen, enlightenment is possible only through rigorous sitting in meditation (kufū zazen) and through the study of Dharma under a master (sanshi monpō). One can encounter Dōgen as a master through his writings, for he answers one’s questions in his works. But one still must practice sitting in meditation. Watsuji insists that meditation can be done in an office or a study as well as in a meditation hall; he even goes so far as to say that perhaps a study may be a more congenial place for this purpose than a meditation hall when many monasteries are no longer concerned with the transmission of the truth but are immersed in secular concerns (1925,p. 158). Therefore, for Watsuji, meditation does not necessarily require the act of entering a monastery.
Of the two prerequisites for the realization of the truth, sitting in meditation is left to the individual. But the other, the pursuit of Dharma under a master, is Watsuji's principle concern. Shamon Dogen is an account of Watsuji's personal encounter with the person of Dōgen as he speaks in his writings, primarily Shōbōgenzō and Shōbōgenzō zuimonki, the latter of which was compiled by Ejō, Dōgen's closest disciple. In Watsuji's treatise, we encounter not only Watsuji as he faced Dōgen but Dōgen himself.
Watsuji’s new methodology considers it central to discover and encounter the person (hito) of Dōgen in his works.'"`UNIQ--ref-00000D59-QINU`"' Many people have followed Watsuji’s methodology. Professor Tamaki Kōshirō of the University of Tokyo, for instance, remarks that not only was he first exposed to Dōgen through Watsuji, but also that he encountered the living Dōgen in Watsuji’s treatise.'"`UNIQ--ref-00000D5A-QINU`"'
This writer finds Watsuji's methodology to be particularly applicable to the study of Dōgen. Dōgen himself saw the truth fully embodied in the personhood of his Chinese master, Juching. Dōgen's encounter with this individual was the single
most decisive experience in his life, as is abundantly attested in his writings. Furthermore, Dōgen repeatedly discouraged his disciples from associating with institutionalized Zen. This paper, therefore, is the result of the writer’s attempt to encounter the personhood of Dōgen.
While this writer uses Watsuji’s methodology, the main body of literature that is examined in this paper is the chapter of Dōgen’s Shōbōgenzō devoted to the busshō or Buddha-nature. The reasons for this choice are three. The question that tormented the young monk Dōgen concerned the Buddha-nature. Dōgen's search for the answer to this question took him to the eminent monks of his time: Kōen of Mt. Hiei; Kōin of Miidera temple;
Yōsai of Kenninji temple; Myōzen, who succeeded Yōsai at this first Rinzai Zen monastery in Japan; Wu-chi Liao-pai and finally T'ien-t'ung Ju-ching in Southern Sung China. This pilgrimage spanned a period of over ten years ending in 1225 when he attained enlightenment under Ju-ching’s instruction and solved his question. Thus it is possible to look at Dōgen's formative years as a continuing struggle with the fundamental question he first raised on Mt. Hiei. Secondly, the Buddha-nature chapter is one of the longest of the ninety-two chapters, in the Shōbōgenzō which may suggest Dōgen's particular concern for the subject matter. Lastly, the original manuscript of this chapter, now preserved in Eiheiji temple, bears witness to the fact that Dōgen laboriously revised the chapter a number of times. Study of the Buddha-nature chapter, therefore, can
reasonably be taken as central to understanding Dōgen's life and thought. (Kodera, "The Buddha-nature in Dogen's
Shōbōgenzō," 267–70)
So far, no lifeless universe has been discovered. That is, the occurrence of matter without the occurrence of life is, judging by the available empirical evidence viewed globally, something that does not happen. In every case that matter has been there in any universe, life has occurred—eventually.
I do not mean that there has never been a time, a single snapshot moment or a billion such moments, during which there was only matter but no life. Nor do I mean that there is no part of the universe in which, considered in isolation from all other parts, there is only lifelessness. "In every case that matter has been there in any universe, life has occurred" is true even if there are immense periods of time, considered in isolation, and immense swaths of space, considered in isolation, where there is no life.
The crux of the problem, however, lies in those three words, "considered in isolation." Everything depends on how we divide things up, where our definition of "one thing" begins and ends.
For what I mean when I say that "matter without life has never existed" is that, scientifically speaking, there has never appeared even one particle of any kind of matter found in any non-life-producing universe, considering that universe as a whole. For no non-life-producing universe has yet been discovered. Likewise, there is no lifeless matter in any period of time that is not part of at least one sequence of time that produces life.
All matter that has ever been discovered has existed only in a universe that also contains life, and all lifeless times were part of this sequence of time we are now in, the total sequence of time that produced this life.
No lifeless universe has ever been discovered. Among all the universes that have been discovered so far, there is not even one that is devoid of life. I challenge you or anyone to show me even one particle of matter, or even one moment of time, from a universe without life.
At this point we have merely been speaking empirically about what has so far been discovered. There are very few things that we can know with absolute certainty without relying on empirical contingency. But in fact this is one thing we can know with absolute certainty: no universe will ever be discovered devoid of life.
We can know this for two reasons. The first is perhaps relatively trivial, although some philosophers attach great significance to it. It is that the act of "discovering" itself requires a living being. Ipso facto, wherever any discovering is done, life is also present. Therefore no universe devoid of life can ever be discovered.
The second reason has to do with how we define universe. Th is is the hidden premise of the claims I am making here: it is because we understand the idea of "universe" in a certain way that we can claim, with absolute certainty, that there is no lifeless universe. If the universe is taken in its broadest meaning, which is also its most commonsensical meaning, it means "all that exists." All that exists certainly includes this planet, this solar system, this period of time. The universe in this broadest sense is what includes any more-narrowly construed universes—for example, all alternate universes. If we call the sum total of all possible universes "the universe," then it is obvious that there is no universe but this one, and since this one contains life, no universe can be discovered that is devoid of life. Whatever might be discovered is by definition part of this totality that includes our lives.
All of the above is true even if life exists only once, for a few million years, on one small planet. Even if there was no life for billions of years—and in most of the universe there never has been and never will be life—even if the phenomenon "life" is a peculiar flash that occurs only on planet Earth between the Hadean Eon 4,500 million years ago until 2018 CE, and never arises anywhere ever again, it is still true that there is no universe devoid of life and that there can never be any universe devoid of life.
And yet people often contemplate those vast billions of years and expanses of space and speak of "lifeless matter." This makes sense only if we divide the world in a certain way. That is, it is only because we are in the habit of dividing self and other, or mind and its objects, or—to put it most generally—inside and outside, that it is possible to speak of lifeless matter. Only if any one part of the universe is thought of as an entity truly separate from all other parts can anything be lifeless. The key question is how much of the universe do we consider to be "one thing." Where do we draw the line that divides inside from outside? If "me and that rock" are one thing, that one thing has life, just as "my skin and my fingernails" has life. If me and that rock are separate, then my body has life and the rock has no life.
Mahāyāna Buddhism, particularly that developed in the Madhyamaka school and further elaborated in Tiantai Buddhism, holds that the separation of "inside and outside" is impossible to sustain in any nonambiguous way. These schools generally develop this idea logically by use of reductio ad absurdum arguments that try to demonstrate that any way of drawing common-sense dividing lines to define one object in distinction to another end up being self-contradictory. (Read the entire article here).
Buddhist doctrine refers to entities possessing mind (Skt., citta) as sentient beings (Skt., sattva) and considers them to undergo rebirth through the six realms of existence (hells, hungry spirits, animals, asuras, human beings, heavenly beings). It is because they possess mind that they give rise to the defilements, accumulating the negative karma that is the cause of rebirth. The purpose of Buddhism therefore is to release beings from the suffering associated with rebirth, a condition called liberation (Skt., vimokśa) and nirvana. Mahayana calls it the attainment of buddhahood (Jpn., jōbutsu). There also exist nonsentient beings (Skt., asattva). Since they do not possess mind, they do not undergo the cycle of rebirth and so cannot attain liberation, nirvana, or buddhahood. In principle, therefore, plants, like inorganic substances not possessing "mind," are not understood to undergo rebirth. It is therefore impossible to discuss their attainment of buddhahood. However, when Buddhism entered China, the potential for buddhahood of nonsentient beings became an important subject for debate. Since China had not previously had any concept of sentient beings, no strict distinction was made between sentient and nonsentient, which was why the question of nonsentient buddhahood was taken up. The Jingangbi lun (Diamond Scalpel Treatise) of the sixth Tiantai patriarch, Zhanran (711–82), confronted the issue directly and asserted that nonsentient beings could attain buddhahood. This did not, however, mean that they could aspire to enlightenment, practice, and achieve buddhahood of themselves. Rather, when a sentient being attains buddhahood, the whole environment becomes the Buddha's realm. A sentient being's subjective existence (Jpn., shōhō) arises from past karmic effects and this causes the realm of the environment (Jpn., ehō) to arise. Environment is thus dependent on subjective existence, and therefore, when a sentient being attains enlightenment, so do nonsentient beings. What is important here is that sentient beings attain enlightenment through their own practice, whereas nonsentient beings can only do so as the environment of sentient beings. This was a solution consonant with Chinese ideas that placed significance on a person's own actions, seen typically in Confucianism. The Japanese did not view human beings in any special way as did the Chinese. Furthermore, they tended to look on nature in terms of plants. The land of Japan was called the "middle land of the reed beds" (ashihara no nakatsu kuni), its landscape being described as a swamp where reeds grew. The fecundity of plants symbolized the evolution of the world. According to the Nihon shoki (Chronicle of Japan, eighth century), before Ninigi, grandson of the sun goddess Amaterasu, descended from the heavenly plain, the land of Japan was where "the standing trees, and even the single blade of grass, uttered words." This is thought to represent the disordered state of nature that existed before the land was civilized. Humankind was referred to as people grass (hitogusa); in other words, the mass of people was understood through the model of grasses and trees.
In Japan, therefore, nature was thought of in terms of plants, and people were thought to be close to them. Japan's view of nature is often described as animism, but this is not necessarily appropriate. Not all natural phenomena were regarded as spiritual entities, nor were they objects of veneration. Deities (kami) resided in the depths of nature, manifesting themselves in natural objects serving as receptacles (yorishiro). For example, at Ōmiwa Shrine in Nara Prefecture, Mount Miwa is described as the body (shintai) of its kami. Originally, though, the mountain was regarded as sacred because it was the place to which the kami descended: it was not itself the kami. The buddhahood of grasses and trees came to be a concern precisely because human beings and plants were thought of as being of the same quality. Whereas in China tiles and stones were presented as representative of nonsentient existence, in Japan it was grasses and trees. (Read the entire article here)
America—but also, and no less importantly, in the course of its development
within historical India itself.
One way in which Buddhism has responded to these intellectual and cultural encounters can be related to hermeneutics: that is, the modes by which a tradition explains its sources and thereby interprets (or reinterprets) itself
in a continuing process of reactivation and renewal of its heritage.[1]
In the case of Buddhism this process—perhaps comparable in part to what in another context is now frequently referred to as aggiornamento—had both endogenous and exogenous causes. It was, in other words, set in train both by internal, systemically generated requirements and tensions within the
Buddhist tradition as it evolved in geographical space and historical time, and by external impulses received from its intellectual and social environment, which could be, according to the case, either positive or negative in character.
The purpose of this paper is to explore this process with respect to the Buddhist hermeneutics of the ideas of non-self (anatman) and of a spiritual matrix or germ (gotra, tathagatagarbha or Buddha-nature) and the relationship of this pair of ideas to Vedantic notions and Brahmanical social groups in classical India. Reference will be made also to certain exegetical developments that either originated in Tibet or were at least fully realized there for the first time. Our analysis will revolve around the fact that, however historically antithetical and structurally contrasting these two ideas are in Buddhism, they in fact have not invariably been treated by Buddhist hermeneuticians as contradictory or even as systematically exclusive of each other.
Because of its philosophical and religious significance in the fields of soteriology and gnoseology, the Mahāyānist theory of the tathāgatagarbha—the Germ of Buddhahood latent in all sentient beings—occupies a crucial position in Buddhist thought, and indeed in Indian thought as a whole. In virtue of both their extent and their contents, the sūtras treating the tathāgatagarbha—and the systematically related doctrines of the natural luminosity (prakṛtiprabhāsvaratā) of mind (citta) and the spiritual germ existent by nature (prakṛtistha-gotra)[2]—are amongst the most important in the Mahāyāna. The idea that the doctrine of the tathāgatagarbha and Buddha-nature is one of the supreme teachings of the Mahāyāna is explicitly stated in
the Mahāparinirvāṇa-sutra.[3]
In light of all this, it might seem rather daring to suggest that an Indian actually composed the AFM, but that is what I propose to argue. I do not intend to suggest that the Sarvāstivādin Aśvaghoṣa, or even a "Mahāyāna Aśvaghoṣa" composed the AFM. The first place that any Aśvaghoṣa is listed as the author of the text is in Hui-yüan's Ta-ch'êng i chang, a work composed about a half century after Paramārtha was said to have translated the AFM, so the attribution of the text to Aśvaghoṣa probably postdated its composition. But there are a couple of pieces of important philological evidence, heretofore largely overlooked, that seem to point strongly to an Indian Buddhist, most likely Paramārtha himself, as the real author of the text, or at least of major parts of it. The first piece of evidence is the use in the AFM of the three categories of t'i, hsiang, and yung, categories which I will try to show were derived by the author of the AFM from Sanskrit categories used in the Ratnagotravibhāgamahāyānottaratantraśāstra (RGV) and which could not have been formulated by anyone who did not possess a knowledge of Sanskrit. The second piece of evidence is Paramārtha's interpolation of passages from the RGV into the Mahāyānasaṃgrahabhāṣya (MSbh), which seems to show not only that Paramārtha was intimately familiar with the RGV and its categories, but also that he was personally concerned about issues
central to the AFM. When examined together with some interesting biographical details from accounts of Paramārtha's life, this evidence seems to suggest the very real possibility that Paramārtha was the author of the AFM. (Grosnick, introduction, 65–66)