Confession of a Buddhist Atheist

by Batchelor, Stephen

• ISBN13: 9780385527064
• ISBN10: 0385527063
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2010-03-02
• Publisher: Spiegel & Grau

Summary

Written with the same brilliance and boldness that madeBuddhism Without Beliefsa classic in its field,Confession of a Buddhist Atheistis Stephen Batchelorrs"s account of his journey through Buddhism, which culminates in a groundbreaking new portrait of the historical Buddha. Stephen Batchelor grew up outside London and came of age in the 1960s. Like other seekers of his time, instead of going to college he set off to explore the world. Settling in India, he eventually became a Buddhist monk in Dharamsala, the Tibetan capital-in-exile, and entered the inner circle of monks around the Dalai Lama. He later moved to a monastery in South Korea to pursue intensive training in Zen Buddhism. Yet the more Batchelor read about the Buddha, the more he came to believe that the way Buddhism was being taught and practiced was at odds with the actual teachings of the Buddha himself. Charting his journey from hippie to monk to lay practitioner, teacher, and interpreter of Buddhist thought, Batchelor reconstructs the historical Buddhars"s life, locating him within the social and political context of his world. In examining the ancient texts of the Pali Canon, the earliest record of the Buddhars"s life and teachings, Batchelor argues that the Buddha was a man who looked at human life in a radically new way for his time, more interested in the question of how human beings should live in this world than in notions of karma and the afterlife. According to Batchelor, the outlook of the Buddha was far removed from the piety and religiosity that has come to define much of Buddhism as we know it today. Both controversial and deeply personal,Confession of a Buddhist Atheistis a fascinating exploration of a religion that continues to engage the West. Batchelorrs"s insightful, deeply knowledgeable, and persuasive account will be an essential book for anyone interested in Buddhism.

Author Biography

Stephen Batchelor is a former monk in the Tibetan and Zen traditions and the author of books including Alone with Others, The Faith to Doubt, The Awakening of the West, Buddhism Without Beliefs, and Living with the Devil. He lives with his wife, Martine, in southwestern France and lectures and conducts meditation retreats throughout the world.

Table of Contents

Preface	p. ix
Monk
A Buddhist Failure (I)	p. 3
On the Road	p. 8
The Seminarian	p. 19
Eel Wriggling	p. 32
Being-in-the-World	p. 45
Great Doubt	p. 60
Layman
A Buddhist Failure (II)	p. 81
Siddhattha Gotama	p. 97
The North Road	p. 111
Against the Stream	p. 125
Clearing the Path	p. 136
Embrace Suffering	p. 150
In Jeta's Grove	p. 163
An Ironic Atheist	p. 174
Vidudabha's Revenge	p. 184
Gods and Demons	p. 195
Tread the Path with Care	p. 212
A Secular Buddhist	p. 225
Appendixes
The P&abar;li Canon	p. 241
Was Siddhattha Gotama at Taxil&abar;?	p. 245
Turning the Wheel of Dhamma	p. 253
Map: The Buddha's India	p. 255
Notes	p. 259
Glossary	p. 275
Bibliography	p. 281
Acknowledgments	p. 287
Index	p. 289
Table of Contents provided by Ingram. All Rights Reserved.

Excerpts

Chapter One


 A BUDDHIST FAILURE    

(I)   MARCH 10, 1973. I remember the date because it marked the fourteenth anniversary of the Tibetan uprising in Lhasa in 1959, which triggered the flight of the Dalai Lama into the exile from which he has yet to return. I was studying Buddhism in Dharamsala,the Tibetan capital in exile, a former British hill-station in the Himalayas. The sky that morning was dark, damp, and foreboding. Earlier, the clouds had unleashed hailstones the size of miniature golf balls that now lay fused in white clusters along the roadsidethat led from the village of McLeod Ganj down to the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, where the anniversary was to be commemorated.

   A white canvas awning, straining and flapping in the wind, was strung in front of the Library. Beneath it sat a huddle of senior monks in burgundy robes, aristocrats in long gray chubas, and the Indian superintendent of police from Kotwali Bazaar. I joineda crowd gathered on a large terrace below and waited for the proceedings to begin. The Dalai Lama, a spry, shaven-headed man of thirty-eight, strode onto an impromptu stage. The audience spontaneously prostrated itself as one onto the muddy ground. He reada speech, which was barely audible above the wind, delivered in rapid-fire Tibetan, a language I did not yet understand, at a velocity I would never master. Every now and then a drop of rain would descend from the lowering sky.  

I was distracted from my thoughts about the plight of Tibet by the harsh shriek of what sounded like a trumpet. Perched on a ledge on the steep hillside beside the Library, next to a smoking fire, stood a bespectacled lama, legs akimbo, blowing into athighbone and ringing a bell. His disheveled hair was tied in a topknot. A white robe, trimmed in red, was slung carelessly across his left shoulder. When he wasn't blowing his horn, he would mutter what seemed like imprecations at the grumbling clouds, hisright hand extended in the threatening mudra, a ritual gesture used to ward off danger. From time to time he would put down his thighbone and fling an arc of mustard seeds against the ominous mists.  

Then there was an almighty crash. Rain hammered down on the corrugated iron roofs of the residential buildings on the far side of the Library, obliterating the Dalai Lama's words. This noise went on for several minutes. The lama on the hillside stampedhis feet, blew his thighbone, and rang his bell with increased urgency. The heavy drops of rain that had started falling on the dignitaries and the crowd abruptly stopped.   After the Dalai Lama left and the crowd dispersed, I joined a small group of fellow Injis. In reverential tones, we discussed how the lama on the hill--whose name was Yeshe Dorje--had prevented the storm from soaking us. I heard myself say: "And you couldhear the rain still falling all around us: over there by the Library and on those government buildings behind as well." The others nodded and smiled in awed agreement.  

Even as I was speaking, I knew I was not telling the truth. I had heard no rain on the roofs behind me. Not a drop. Yet to be convinced that the lama had prevented the rain with his ritual and spells, I had to believe that he had created a magical umbrellato shield the crowd from the storm. Otherwise, what had happened would not have been that remarkable. Who has not witnessed rain falling a short distance away from where one is standing on dry ground? Perhaps it was nothing more than a brief mountain showeron the nearby hillside. None of us would have dared to admit this possibility. That would have brought us perilously close to questioning the lama's prowess and, by implication, the whole elaborate belief system of Tibetan Buddhism.  

For several years, I continued to peddle this lie. It was my favorite (and only) example of my firsthand

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Excerpted from Confession of a Buddhist Atheist by Stephen Batchelor
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