Part 7

Riding one day with a missionary who had a wide acquaintance with the Burmans and their language, I asked him certain questions as to their real belief. His reply was, "No man can tell, until he finds a way to get into the Burman mind." The first business of the missionary seemed to be then to make every effort to get into the Burman mind; to study him; study his religious habits; ascertain if possible, his point of view; learn to see things from his point of view; to know what there is in him that must be eradicated and supplanted by the gospel of Jesus Christ. We see the country fairly alive;--no, _dead_ with idols. We see the people kneeling before these idols, and, to every appearance praying. Are they praying? How can they be praying, inasmuch as Buddhism knows no God,--does not claim to have a God? Gautama himself whom all these images represent, never claimed to have any power to save others, or even to save himself. These worshippers know that he was only a man, that at the age of eighty years he died, that his death was due to an attack of indigestion (from eating too much fresh pork), as any other man might die. It is supposed that he was born near Benares, about six hundred years before Christ; that his father was a chief of an Aryan tribe called the Sakyas. From the sacred books they learn that Gautama's early life was spent in dissolute pleasure and luxury common to oriental princes; that after a time becoming dissatisfied with his own manner of life and the corrupt conditions around him, he yielded to another his princely prospects, abandoned his wife and child and gave himself up to a life of meditation and study under religious teachers; that failing in this to gain the longed-for peace of soul he for several years led a life of the most severe privation and affliction of the flesh, until by long continued meditation and self-concentration the light broke in upon him, and he became "the enlightened one,"--a Buddha. Did he not by this enlightenment become something more than man? Not at all. He had learned nothing of God, not even that such a being existed. He entertained no thought that he himself had acquired any supernatural character or power. And so he died. Even the common people of the jungle villages know all this, and yet they prostrate themselves before these images of brass, wood, or stone. Are they praying? Perchance their hopes are based on what Gautama became, after death. According to Buddhism, Gautama had now passed through all the necessary conditions and changes, and entered at once upon the final state, the highest goal of Buddhism, Nirvana, ("Neikban," in Burmese).

Had he now become a God? Not at all. No Buddhist entertains such a thought. What then is Neikban? "It means," they say, "the going out, like the flame of a candle." By a long-continued process of self-concentration Gautama is supposed to have become absolutely oblivious to the world around him, and ultimately to have become unconscious even of self. His death is believed to have been utter extinction of both physical and spiritual existence. Some deny that Neikban is equivalent to annihilation. The best that can be claimed for it is an impossible existence in which there is neither sensation nor conscious life.

Fittingly they describe it as "a flame which has been blown out."

According to Buddhist teachings and current belief Gautama has disappeared, body and soul. Brahmins may talk of being absorbed in the "One Supreme Soul," and Theosophists glibly repeat the form of words, but Buddhists claim nothing of the sort. There is no Supreme Soul to absorb them, and no human souls to be absorbed. It is not soul, or life that is perpetuated, but _desire_ merely. Neikban, they declare, is the cessation of everything, a condition of unconsciousness, lifeless ease, they do not like to say annihilation. Then what are these worshippers doing here on their knees before images which represent no existing being? surely not praying, for they have "no hope, without God in the world"; no being higher than themselves to whom prayer could be addressed; no expectation of blessing of any sort from any supernatural source; absolutely nothing in their religious conceptions or experience corresponding to the communion between the Christian and his God.

There is no such thing as real prayer in the whole Buddhist system. What, then, are they doing? Here comes in the system of "merit" on which Buddhism is built. An instinctive sense of guilt and impending penalty is universal. Having no Saviour--man must save himself.

From what? Not from sin, as violation of the laws of a Holy Being, but from their train of evil consequences to himself.

The chief tenets of Buddhism are: (1) Misery is the inevitable consequence of existence. (2) Misery has its source in desire. (3) Misery can be escaped only by the extinction of desire. (4) Desire can be extinguished only by becoming wholly unconscious of the world and of self. (5) He who attains to such unconsciousness attains to Neikban. (6) Evil actions constitute demerit. Good actions constitute merit.

In this deeply grounded belief as to merit and demerit lies the secret of much that we see in the life of the people. _Now_ we know what these people are doing,--they are seeking to _accumulate merit_ by repeating over and over again a certain formula, or portions of their "Law" with their faces towards the,--to them,--sacred pagoda or idol.

But no Buddhist expects to attain to Neikban at the end of this existence. He realizes that it is utterly hopeless for him to think of fulfilling the conditions. But he cherishes the groundless hope that in some future existence under more favourable conditions he may be able to accumulate sufficient merit, though he cannot now. This belief presupposes the doctrine of transmigration, or metempsychosis.

The Buddhist believes that he has passed through countless existences in the past,--whether as man, animal, or insect, or all many times over, he knows not; finally, birth into this world as man. He dies only to be reborn into this or another world,--whether as man, animal, or insect he knows not; then death again, and so through countless ages. Even Gautama himself is said to have passed through five hundred and fifty different phases of existence, including long ages in hell, before he finally entered this world as man, and became a Buddha.

Although Buddhism has no God, and no heaven, it has a very vivid conception of hell, yes,--eight of them, surrounded by over forty thousand lesser hells,--their terrors limited only by the limitations of the imagination. But no man can escape--the doctrine of Karma settles that. A man's own words and deeds pursue him relentlessly, and there is no city of refuge to which he may flee. "Not in the heavens, not in the midst of the sea, not if thou hidest thyself in the clefts of the mountains, will thou find a place where thou mayest escape the force of thy own evil actions." So say their scriptures, and so every Buddhist believes. Hell is the inevitable penalty of many deeds or accidents, such as the killing of the smallest insect under foot. Between the Buddhist and his hopeless hope of Neikban yawns this awful gulf of existences and sufferings.

"Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap," gives the gist of Buddhism. He is now reaping from past existences; he will reap in the next from his deeds in this. In the past each succeeding existence depended upon the last previous existence. In like manner, what the next existence shall be depends wholly upon the deeds of this life.

So the countless series of transmigrations may be, theoretically, in the ascending or descending scale. But when the awful penalties assigned to innumerable and unavoidable violations of the Buddhist law are taken into consideration all hope of future existences in the ascending scale vanishes. The poor fisherman, beginning at the very bottom of the lowest of the four chief hells must spend countless ages in each, before he can hope to be reborn as man.

The man who unwittingly puts his foot on the smallest insect and crushes out its life must atone for the deed by spending a long period in torment. Taking the life of any living thing, even to the killing of poisonous snakes, is held to be the worst of all sins. The priests, to avoid the possibility of destroying insect life, use a brass strainer finely perforated, to cleanse their drinking water, in blissful ignorance of the microbe theory. A native preacher once asked me to get him a microscope so that he might prove to the priests that notwithstanding their precautions they were drinking to themselves perdition.

His motive may have been in part, to convince them as to the futility of their hope, and in part to get even with them for their harsh criticisms of "animal-killing Christians."

A story told by one of our native preachers vividly illustrates this dread of future punishment. "I had been preaching for about two hours to a large company in a jungle-village. During all this time an old woman was sitting on a log near by, counting off her beads, and devoutly murmuring to herself the customary formula, '_Ah-nas-sa, Dok-ka, Ah-nat-ta; Paya, Taya, Thinga,--Radana Thón-ba_'--'Transitoriness, Misery, Illusions; Lord, Law, Priest,--the three Jewels.' When I had finished I approached her saying: 'Why do you worship so devoutly?' 'To escape the penalty of hell,' she sadly replied. 'So you fear the future,--what is your notion of hell?' 'Oh, it is a terrible place. They say it is shaped like a great cauldron, and full of burning oil in which people suffer endlessly and are not consumed. And when they try to escape, the evil beings of the place thrust them back with sharp forks and spears. Oh, it is a terrible place!' she repeated, fairly trembling as she described its horrors. 'Yes,' I said. 'You seem to understand it very well. Now what are you doing to escape such an awful fate?' 'Oh, many, many years I have worshipped before the pagodas and idols; every day I count my beads over and over, repeating the formula, as Gautama directed. Do you think that after all I have done I must still go to hell?' 'Yes,' I said. 'If that is all you have done, you surely must.' 'Oh, then, tell me,' she said in great distress, 'what _can_ I do to escape, for I greatly fear the terrors of that place.' Then sitting there on the log, with this poor old woman on the ground before me, I told the blessed gospel story over again, as Jesus Christ did with the woman of Samaria. And then I said: 'You must repent of your sins, and confess them to the eternal God. You must believe and trust the Lord Jesus Christ, who died to save you. If you do this He will forgive your sins, and save you.' Her wrinkled face brightened with hope as she exclaimed, 'If I do as you have said, and believe on Jesus Christ, _will_ He save me?' 'Yes, He surely will, for He has said, "Him that Cometh unto me I will not cast out."' On her face was an almost heavenly light--as she replied: 'Then _I do_ believe, and I want to go with you that you may tell me about Him until I die.' Her friends ridiculed her saying, 'Oho! Grandma wants to go off with the preacher. She is becoming foolish in her old age.' 'Oh, no,' she said. 'But the preacher has told me how I may escape the penalty of hell, and _I am so glad_.'"

It has often been asserted that Buddhism has a moral code rivaling, if not superior to that of Christianity. We had not been at our mission station a week before we heard the remark, "Buddhism is a beautiful religion,--why do the missionaries try to disturb them in their belief?" That there are noble precepts and commandments all must admit. But he who expects to see their "beauty" reflected in the lives of the people will be doomed to disappointment. Take the commandment already noticed--"Thou shalt not take the life of any living thing."

This commandment admits of no exceptions whatever, under any possible circumstances, not even in self-defense; and puts the taking of a human life and that of the smallest insect in the same category. But the Burmans, among whom Buddhism is found in its purest form, have been a more or less warlike race from their earliest history, often practicing the greatest cruelties. How do they reconcile this with the teachings of their law? We will suppose that one man has taken the life of another. According to his own belief and the law of the land, he is a murderer. To free himself from just and inevitable penalty he resorts to his doctrine of "merit," by which he may absolve himself from the demerit of his evil act. The building of a small pagoda of sun-dried brick, or the forming of an idol from a portion of his fire-wood log will balance the scales, square the account, restore him to his former prospects, and to future prospects as bright as though he had kept the whole law. By this convenient belief he may take his absolution into his own hands, and work it out to suit himself. But if he be a poor man, unable to perform an adequate work of merit, he must suffer to the full the consequences of his act.

A missionary found a man digging for huge beetles. When one was found it was impaled on a sharp stick along with the others, all to go into the curry for the morning meal. Then the following conversation took place: "Are you not afraid of punishment in hell for killing these creatures?" "I shall go there if I do not kill them." "Then you do this because there is no hope for you, whether you take animal life or not?" "It is all the same." Sins beyond his power to counterbalance by merit had already been committed, until hope had given way to despair.

One may shoot pigeons in the vicinity of a Buddhist monastery, and then divide with the priest, who anticipates a savoury meal without any compunctions of conscience on account of "aiding and abetting."

Young Burmans are eager to follow the man with the gun, showing him the likeliest place to find game, and when the animal is wounded, will rush in and dispatch it with their dahs.

The fisheries of Burma furnish a livelihood to hundreds of Burmans. Large sums are paid to government annually for the privilege of controlling certain specified sections of rivers or streams. The fisherman makes the taking of animal-life his business and daily occupation.

Theoretically he is ranked among the very lowest classes. In real life we find him enjoying the same social position that others of equal wealth enjoy. But I do not hesitate to say that this general belief that fearful penalties must be endured in future existences for taking animal-life in this, has a deeper hold on the Buddhist than any other commandment.

Take the commandment: "Thou shalt speak no false word,"--strikingly like the Christian's commandment, "Thou shalt not bear false witness," "Lie not one to another." One would naturally expect to find among the devotees of a system containing such a commandment some value placed upon one's word of honour. But if truthfulness has ever been discovered among non-Christian Burmans, the discovery has never been reported. But we have not far to search to find the secret of this general lack of any regard for truthfulness.

The same "Sacred Book" that sets forth the commandment, "Thou thalt speak no false word," gives this definition of falsehood: A statement constitutes a _lie_ when discovered by the person to whom it is told, to be untrue! See what latitude such a definition gives. Deceit is at a premium. Children grow up with no higher standard of honour than a belief that the sin of falsehood and fraud lies entirely in its discovery. Is it any wonder that these people have become expert in the art. It is the common practice among themselves,--in business, in family life, in match-making, and most of all, in their dealings with foreigners. No European (after the first year) places the slightest reliance upon the most emphatic promise of a heathen Burman. In fact, the more emphatic the promise, the greater seems to be the temptation to do just the other thing. It may have been this inbred trait that led the schoolboy to translate "Judge not, that ye be not judged," by "Do no justice, lest justice be done to you."

When it is remembered that deceit and fraud are national vices, bred in the bone for centuries, it is not to be marvelled at that native Christians, only a step from heathenism, are sometimes found deficient in their sense of honour. Here is an illustration in point. A young Burman wanted to become a Christian. He became a regular attendant at chapel services, and finally asked for baptism. This greatly enraged his heathen wife, who proceeded to make his life most miserable. She tore around, screamed, pulled her own hair, and made things interesting generally. She got possession of his box containing his best clothing and other valuables, and would neither give it back to him nor live any longer with him unless he would promise to break with the Christians, and cease attending their worship. The young man appealed to his uncle. The uncle's advice was: "You go and tell your wife that you will have nothing more to do with the Christians. You cannot recover your property in any other way. When you have regained possession of your box, come back to us, and then we will baptize you." So far as he then knew, the end justified the means. Take the commandment: "Thou shalt commit no immoral act,"--an ideal precept in itself, but standing for little more than a joke when inscribed on the banner of any non-Christian people. The Burman is perhaps superior, morally, to some other races of this country, yet his moral sense is very low. Among middle-aged people marriage seems to be an actual institution, and family life well guarded. Separations are comparatively few. Conditions of life in the tropics are such that the young are subject to temptations sad to contemplate. Heathen parents freely discuss subjects in the presence of their children that never would be mentioned before them in a Christian home. Missionaries' children often startle their parents by repeating what never should have come to their ears. It seems a wonder that moral character exists at all among the young. That many do set a high value upon virtue no unprejudiced observer of native life can doubt. Jealousy plays a large part in early separations, and with sufficient cause. Both may find other partners of their joys on the day following.

Among all races there are certain laws and social customs that in large measure restrain evil practices. Even among the heathen a certain value is placed upon one's social standing in the community,--which has greater weight than the commandment against immorality, in his "law." An educated Burman once said to me--"Burmans do not take much account of sin, but they do not like to lose their respectability."

Other commandments, such as those directed against "love of the world," and "love of money," seem to be honoured more in the breach than in the observance. The Burmans are notoriously the proudest, gayest people on the face of the earth. They enjoy a good time and will have it, whatever the occasion. There is little of real religious significance in their so-called religious gatherings. A display of fine clothes, a few presents for the priests; some of the more devout, especially the elderly women, worshipping before the shrine. But a large majority will be found sitting in the "zayats" talking familiarly among themselves, painting the ground below red with _kun_-juice by spitting through cracks in the floor, and never going near the pagodas or idols at all. The Buddhists are proud of their "law," and lay great stress upon it for purposes of argument. But as we have seen, either from their low moral sense, or their dependence on works of merit, the "law" has little effect on the lives of the people.

We visited that most famous worship-place of the Buddhists, the Shwe Dagon pagoda, and for the first time saw heathenism as it is. We had read "The Light of Asia"; and heard theosophists talk glibly of "Mahatmas" whose wisdom is more ancient and profound than anything in the religious literature of the West.

But here we saw the yellow-robed, "Light of Asia" (more fittingly called the "Blight of Asia") and the graven image, both representing their annihilated Buddha, seemingly equal in intelligence, and sharing together the superstitious worship of the common people. Up the long ascent to the pagoda is a covered way, its brick or flagged steps hollowed out by the tramp, tramp of thousands on thousands of barefooted worshippers, extending over many, many years.

Guarding the approach are two horrible griffins, the first suggestion of the superstitious mind of these benighted people. On either side of the stairway are sellers of artificial flowers, paper streamers, candles, and other things used as offerings, each worshipper stopping to invest in whatever he thinks will gain for him the greatest amount of merit at the least possible cost. This great pagoda itself 1,350 feet in circumference, tapering in graceful curves to a height of 328 feet, is entirely covered with gold leaf. It is said that the pagoda has been regilded several times, at fabulous cost. But this does not seem so wonderful when one recalls that the Parliament of Religions witnessed the regilding of the entire Buddhist system.

This lofty spire is surmounted by a _htee_ or umbrella ornamented with gems and gold said to be valued at about $200,000. The htee has been renewed several times, by different kings, each striving to outdo all others. The present htee was placed there in 1871, by Mindon Min. The space around the base of the pagoda, protected by a parapet, and flagged with stone or cement, accommodates a large throng of worshippers. Hither pilgrimages are made every year from all parts of Burma. Besides the four large idols built into the base of the pagoda far out of sight, as in all pagodas, there are many auxiliary shrines deeply recessed into the base, dimly lighted by tiny candles, and containing gilded or alabaster images of Gautama. Still other shrines have been erected at the outer circumference of the floor space. Huge bells are suspended between posts, near the floor.

The largest, cast in 1842, is fourteen feet high, seven and a half in diameter, with sides fifteen inches in thickness, weighs 94,682 pounds. It is said that when this bell was cast, quantities of gold, silver and copper were thrown in as offerings. After the second Burmese war, the English undertook to carry this bell away as a curio, but by some accident it fell into the river. The Burmans afterwards recovered it and put it again in its place,--a marvellous feat, considering their rude appliances.

Intensely interesting is all this when seen for the first time; but inexpressibly saddening when one stops to reflect what it all stands for. One is forcibly reminded of its terrible significance by groups of worshippers kneeling before these shrines, mumbling hurriedly through their so-called prayers, prostrating themselves repeatedly to the ground. After going through his prayers and prostrations the worshipper goes to the bell and strikes it with the end of a heavy piece of wood, kept there for the purpose. The attention of gods and men must be called to the fact that he has performed a certain amount of merit-earning worship. "Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image nor any likeness of anything that is in heaven above or that is in the earth beneath; thou shalt not bow down to them nor serve them." What new meaning that commandment had for us, as we saw it violated before our eyes! Idolatry seemed even darker than it had been painted.