Part 37

Probably Vardhamāna Mahā-vīra (usually called Mahā-vīra) was merely a reformer of a system previously founded by a teacher named Pārṡva-nātha. Not much is known of the latter, though he is greatly honoured by the Jains. His images are ‘serpent-canopied’ like those of Buddha (p. 480). His pupils are called Pāsāvaććijja (for Pārṡvāpatyīya, ‘belonging to the descendants of Pārṡva’). They were only bound by four vows, whereas Mahā-vīra’s teaching imposed five vows.

We have seen that Gautama Buddha, in the fifth century B.C., came to the conclusion that bodily austerities were useless as a means of obtaining liberation. His main idea seems to have been that liberation from the painful cycle of continued re-births, that is, from Saṃsāra, was to be obtained by means of knowledge (Bodhi), evolved out of the inner consciousness through meditation (dhyāna) and intuition; whereas, in contradistinction to this Buddhist idea, the main idea of the Jain teacher Mahā-vīra seems to have been that liberation was to be obtained through subjugation of the passions and through mortification of the body (tapas). The term Jina, ‘conqueror,’ is used in both systems, but Gautama Buddha was a Jina or conqueror through profound abstract meditation, whereas Mahā-vīra was a Jina through severe bodily austerity.

In fact, the Jains, like all other ascetics, were impressed with the idea that it was necessary to maintain a defensive warfare against the assault of evil passions, by keeping under the body and subduing it. They had also a notion that a sense of shame implied sin, so that if there were no sin in the world there would be no shame. Hence they argued rather illogically that to get rid of clothes was to get rid of sin; and every ascetic who aimed at sinlessness was enjoined to walk about naked, with the air or sky (Dig) as his sole covering (Dig-ambara).

In the Kalpa-sūtra of the Jains we read that Mahā-vīra himself began his career by wearing clothes for one year and one month, and after that he walked about naked. Now Gautama Buddha was an opponent of Jain asceticism, and it seems to me probable that one of the chief points on which he laid stress was that of decent clothing. In the Dhamma-pada (141) occurs the sentiment that ‘Nakedness cannot purify a mortal who has not overcome desires.’ And again, in the Sekhiyā Dhammā we have ‘properly clad’ ‘must a monk itinerate.’ (See p. 473 of these Lectures.)

It is recorded in the Vinaya (Mahā-vagga I. 6. 7-9) that Upaka, a man of the Ājīvaka sect of naked ascetics, founded by Gosāla (said to have been a pupil of Mahā-vīra), met the Buddha just after his enlightenment, and noticing his bright countenance, asked him who had been his teacher? He replied, ‘Having gained all knowledge, I am myself the highest teacher.’ Thereupon the naked ascetic shook his head and went another road.

Clearly these naked Nigaṇṭhas, disciples of the Jain Teacher Mahā-vīra, were no friends of the Buddha. It seems to me even possible that Gautama’s great rival, Deva-datta (see pp. 405, 406), may have belonged to a Dig-ambara sect who opposed the Buddha on questions of stricter asceticism, especially in the matter of clothing; for in ancient sculptures Deva-datta is generally represented naked or nearly so, and is usually in close proximity to his cousin Gautama Buddha, who, in marked contrast to the other, is always clothed. Evidently the question of dress was a crucial one, and in process of time a party seems to have arisen, even among the Dig-ambara Jains, opposed to strict asceticism in this particular.

This party ultimately formed themselves into a separate sect, calling themselves Ṡvetāmbaras, that is, ‘clothed in white garments.’ It is well known that in early Buddhism two similar parties arose, the strict and the lax. But the two Buddhist parties were ultimately reunited. The second council is supposed to have settled the controversy.

Dr. Jacobi has shown that the separation of the two Jain sects must have taken place (according to the traditions of both parties) some time before the first century of our era.

It appears probable that the strict Dig-ambaras preceded the more lax Ṡvetāmbaras, though each sect claims to be the oldest. The two Jain sects have remained separate to the present day, though in all essential points of doctrine and discipline they agree.

When I was last in India, in 1884, I ascended the two hills, Pārasnāth (for Pārṡva-nāth) and Ābū—both of them most sacred places in the estimation of the Jains, and covered with their temples. My ascent of the former has been already described (p. 509). I also visited Delhi, Jaypur, Ājmere, and some other chief Jain stations. Jaypur is the stronghold of the Dig-ambara Jains, and two intelligent Dig-ambara Paṇḍits, named Phaṭe Lāl and Syojī Lāl, visited me there. We conversed for a long time in Sanskṛit, and I asked them many questions about their religion, and the points in which they differed from the Ṡvetāmbara sect.

Three chief differences were stated to be: First, the Ṡvetāmbaras object to entirely nude images of any of the twenty-four Jinas or Tīrthaṃ-karas accepted by both sects. Hence all Ṡvetāmbara statues ought to have some appearance of a line round the middle of the body, representing a strip of cloth. In one respect the images of the Jinas differ from those of the Buddhas. They have a jewel-like mark on the breast. This is especially conspicuous in Pārṡva-nāth. They are also of different colours, and have symbols (generally animals, such as a deer, tortoise, pig) connected with them.

Secondly, the Ṡvetāmbaras admit women into their order of ascetics just as Buddhists have their Bhikkhunīs, or nuns; whereas the Dig-ambaras, for obvious reasons, do not admit women.

Thirdly, the Ṡvetāmbaras have distinct sacred books of their own, which they call Aṅgas, ‘limbs of the Law,’ eleven in number, besides others, making 45 Āgamas, 11 Aṅgas, 12 Upāṅgas, 10 Pāinnas (Prakīrṇaka), 4 Mūlas, 6 Ćhedas, 1 Anuyoga-dvāra, and 1 Nandi. Dr. Bühler places the composition of the Aṅgas in the third century B.C. Dr. Jacobi places them at the end of the fourth or beginning of the third century. They are written in Jain Prākṛit (sometimes called Ardha-Māgadhī, a later form than Pāli), with Sanskṛit commentaries. The Dig-ambaras substitute, for the Aṅgas, later works, also written in more modern Prākṛit (probably in the fifth or sixth century after Christ), and maintain that the Ṡvetāmbara Canon is spurious. Both sects have valuable Sanskṛit works in their sacred literature.

I now add a few characteristics of both sects of Jains as distinguishing them from Buddhists.

I need scarcely notice the fact that the Jains of the present day keep up Caste. The two Jain Paṇḍits who came to me at Jaypur were Brāhmans, and wore the Brāhmanical thread. I believe this to be a mere modern innovation, which does not properly belong to the Jain system.

More important are the following points:—The Jain saints, or prophets, are called by a peculiar name Tīrthaṃ-kara, ‘ford-makers,’ i. e. making a ford across the troubled river of constant births or transmigrations (Saṃsāra) to the Elysium of Nirvāṇa; whereas the name Tīrthaṃ-kara with the Buddhists means a ‘heretical teacher.’ Then there are twenty-four Jain Tīrthaṃ-karas, whereas there are twenty-five Buddhas. Of the twenty-four Jain saints, the twenty-third and twenty-fourth—Pārṡva-nāth (pp. 509, 529) and Mahā-vīra—are the only historical personages. The others, beginning with Ṛishabha, are mythical.

Next, the Jains have no Stūpas or Dāgabas (p. 504) for preserving the relics of their saints.

Still more important is the point that the Jains believe in separate individual souls (Jīva), whereas the Buddhists deny the existence of souls. Souls, according to the Jains, may exist in stocks, stones, lumps of earth, drops of water, particles of fire. In Buddhism there is, as we have seen, no true metempsychosis, but rather a connected series of metamorphoses, and this stops at animals; whereas the metempsychosis of Jainism extends to inorganic matter.

With regard to the moral code two or three points may be noticed. The Jaina ‘three jewels’ are Right-belief, Right-knowledge, and Right-conduct, whereas the Buddhist Tri-ratna consists in the well-known Triad—the Buddha, the Law, and the Monkhood.

Then as to the five chief Moral Prohibitions—the fifth with Jains is: ‘have no worldly attachments;’ whereas with Buddhists it is: ‘drink no strong drink.’ I believe the Buddhists to have been the first to introduce total abstinence from strong drinks into India. The Jains, too, lay even more stress than the Buddhists on the first prohibition:—Kill no living creature. They strain water before drinking, sweep the ground with a silken brush before sitting down on it, never eat in the dark, often wear muslin before their mouths to catch minute insects, and even object to eating fruits containing seed.

Another interesting difference is that Jainism makes Dharma and Adharma, good and evil, or rather merit and demerit, two out of its six real substances—its fundamental and eternal principles (Astikāya)—the other four being matter (pudgala), soul (jīva), space and time. The Jains reject the Buddhist theory of the five Skandhas (see p. 109).

Lastly, the prayer-formula of the Jains differs from the well-known ‘three-refuge’ formula of the Buddhists (‘I go for refuge to the Buddha, the Law, and the order of Monks’) thus: ‘Reverence to the Arhats, to the Siddhas, to the Aćāryas, to the Upādhyāyas, to all the Sādhus’ (Namo Arihantāṇaṃ namo Siddhāṇaṃ namo Ayariyāṇaṃ namo Uvajjhāyāṇaṃ namo loe sabba-sāhūṇaṃ).

Time will not permit me to notice minor differences, such as the Jain rule that the hair should be painfully torn off, instead of cut off, etc.

Certainly Jainism, when viewed from the stand-point of Christianity, is even a colder system than Buddhism, and has even less claim to be called a religion. Yet no system can show a greater number of temples. Every Jain who is noted for his piety builds a small temple. He never repairs the temples of others. At Pālitāna in Kāthiāwār, there is a whole city of Jain temples. Nor is it at all necessary that every temple built to hold a Jain saint should possess either priests or worshippers. What is aimed at is the acquisition of merit by the performance of pious acts.

I must conclude by expressing my opinion that Indian Jainism is gradually drifting back into the current of Brāhmanism, which everywhere surrounds it and attracts it. Jainism, like Buddhism, came out from Brāhmanism, and into Brāhmanism it is destined to return.

LECTURE XVIII. _Buddhism contrasted with Christianity._

In the previous Lectures I have incidentally contrasted the principal doctrines of Buddhism with those of Christianity.

It will be my aim in this concluding Lecture to draw attention more directly and more in detail to the main points of divergence between two systems, which in their moral teaching have so many points of contact, that a superficial study of either is apt to lead to very confused ideas in regard to their comparative excellence and their resemblance to each other.

And first of all I must remind those who heard my earlier Lectures of the grand fundamental distinction which they were intended to establish—namely, that Christianity is a religion, whereas Buddhism, at least in its earliest and truest form, is no religion at all, but a mere system of morality and philosophy founded on a pessimistic theory of life.

Here, however, it may be objected that, before we exclude Buddhism from all title to be called a religion, we ought to define what we mean by the term ‘religion.’

Of course, it will be generally acknowledged that mere morality need not imply religion, though—taking the converse—it is most undeniably true that religion must of necessity imply morality.

Unquestionably there have been great philosophers in ancient times who have lived strictly moral lives without acknowledging any religious creed at all. Many excellent men, too, exist among us in the present day, who resent being called irreligious, and yet hold no definite religious doctrines, and decline to accept any system which commits them to absolute belief in anything except an eternal Energy or Force.

Clearly the definition of the word ‘religion’ is beset with difficulties, and its etymology is too uncertain to help us in explaining it[278]. We shall, however, be justified if we affirm that every system claiming to be a religion in the proper sense of the word must postulate the eternal existence of one living and true God of infinite power, wisdom, and love, the Creator, Designer, and Preserver of all things visible and invisible.

It must also take for granted the immortality of man’s soul or spirit, and the reality of a future state and of an unseen world. It must also postulate in man an innate sense of dependence on a personal God—a sense of reverence and love for Him, springing from a belief in His justice, holiness, wisdom, power, and love, and intensified by a deep consciousness of weakness, and a yearning to be delivered from the presence, tyranny, and penalty of sin.

Then, starting from these assumptions, it must satisfy four requisites.

First, it must reveal the Creator in His nature and attributes to His creature, man.

Secondly, it must reveal man to himself. It must impart to him a knowledge of his own nature and history—what he is; why he was created; whither he is tending; and whether he is at present in a state of decadence downwards from a higher condition, or of development upwards from a lower.

Thirdly, it must reveal some method by which the finite creature may communicate with the infinite Creator—some plan by which he may gain access to Him and become united with Him, and be saved by Him from the consequences of his own sinful acts.

Fourthly, such a system must prove its title to be called a religion by its regenerating effect on man’s nature; by its influence on his thoughts, desires, passions, and feelings; by its power of subduing all his evil tendencies; by its ability to transform his character and assimilate him to the God it reveals.

It is clear, then, that tried by such a criterion as this, early Buddhism could not claim to be a religion. It failed to satisfy these conditions. It refused to admit the existence of a personal Creator, or of man’s dependence on a higher Power. It denied any eternal soul or Ego in man. It acknowledged no external, supernatural revelation. It had no priesthood—no real clergy; no real prayer; no real worship. It had no true idea of sin, or of the need of pardon (p. 124), and it condemned man to suffer the consequences of his own sinful acts without hope of help from any Saviour or Redeemer, and indeed from any being but himself.

The late Bishop of Calcutta once said to me, that being in an outlying part of his diocese, where Buddhism prevailed, he asked an apparently pious Buddhist, whom he happened to observe praying in a temple, what he had just been praying for? He replied, ‘I have been praying for nothing.’ ‘But,’ urged the Bishop, ‘to whom have you been praying?’ The man answered, ‘I have been praying to nobody.’ ‘What!’ said the astonished Bishop, ‘praying for nothing to nobody?’ And no doubt this anecdote gives an accurate idea of the so-called prayer of a true Buddhist. This man had not really been praying for anything. He had been merely making use of some form of words to which an efficacy, like that of sowing fruitful seed in a field, was supposed to belong. He had not been praying in any Christian sense.

Here, however, an objector might remind me that according to my own showing, various developments of Buddhism modified and even contradicted the original creed, and that what has been here said about prayer, is only strictly applicable to early Buddhism as originally taught in the most ancient texts.

I grant this—I grant that expressions of reverence for the Buddha, the Law, and the Monkhood, developed into expressions of wants and needs, and that these expressions, gradually led on to the offering of actual prayers to deified Buddhas and Bodhi-sattvas.

I admit that we ought to judge of Buddhism as a whole. We ought to give full consideration to its later developments, and the gradual sliding of its atheism and agnosticism into theism and polytheism. We are bound to acknowledge that Buddhism, as it extended to other countries, _did_ acquire the character of a theistic religious system, which, though false, had in it some points of contact with Christianity.

Nevertheless, admitting all this, and taking into account all that can be said in favour of Buddhism as a religious system, it will be easy to show how impossible it is to bridge over the yawning chasm which separates it from the true religion.

It is, indeed, one of the strange phenomena of the present day, that even educated people who call themselves Christians, are apt to fall into raptures over the precepts of Buddhism[279], attracted by the bright gems which its admirers delight in culling out of its moral code, and in displaying ostentatiously, while keeping out of sight all its dark spots, all its trivialities and senseless repetitions[280]; not to speak of all those evidences of deep corruption beneath a whited surface, all those significant precepts and prohibitions in its books of discipline, which indeed no Christian could soil his lips by uttering[281].

It has even been asserted that much of the teaching in the Sermon on the Mount, and in other parts of the Gospel narratives, is based on previously current moral teaching, which Buddhism was the first to introduce to the world, 500 years before Christ[282]. But this is not all. The admirers of Buddhism maintain that the Buddha was not a mere teacher of the truths of morality, but of many other sublime truths. He has been justly called, say they, ‘the Light of Asia,’ though they condescendingly admit that Christianity as a later development is more adapted to become the religion of the world.

Let us then inquire, for a moment, what claim Gautama Buddha has to this title—‘the Light of Asia?’

Now, in the first place those who give him this name forget that his doctrines only spread over Eastern Asia, and that either Confucius, or Zoroaster, or Muhammad might equally be called ‘the Light of Asia.’

But was the Buddha, in any true sense, a Light to any part of the world?

It is certainly true that the main idea implied by Buddhism is intellectual enlightenment. Buddhism, before all things, means enlightenment of mind, resulting from intense self-concentration and introspection, from intense abstract meditation, combined with the exercise of a man’s own reasoning faculties and intuitions.

Of what nature, then, was the so-called Light of Knowledge that radiated from the Buddha? Was it the knowledge of his own utter weakness, of his original depravity of heart, or of the origin of sin? No; the Buddha’s light was in these respects profound darkness. He confessed himself, in regard to such momentous questions, a downright Agnostic. The primary origin of evil—the first evil act—was to him an inexplicable mystery.

Was it, then, a knowledge of the goodness, justice, holiness, and omnipotence of a personal Creator? Was it a knowledge of the Fatherhood of God? No; the Buddha’s light was in these respects also mere and sheer darkness. In these respects, too, he acknowledged himself a thorough Agnostic. He admitted that he knew of no being higher than himself.

What, then, was the light that broke upon the Buddha? What was this enlightenment which has been so much written about and extolled? All that he claimed to have discovered was the origin of suffering and the remedy of suffering. All the light of knowledge to which he attained came to this:—that suffering arises from indulging desires, especially the desire for continuity of life; that suffering is inseparable from life; that all life is suffering; and that suffering is to be got rid of by the suppression of desires, and by the extinction of personal existence.

Here, then, is the first great contrast. When the Buddha said to his converts, ‘Come (ehi), be my disciple,’ he bade them expect to get rid of suffering, he told them to stamp out suffering by stamping out desires (see pp. 43, 44). When the Christ said to His disciples, ‘Come, follow Me,’ He bade them expect suffering. He told them to glory in their sufferings—nay, to expect the perfection of their characters through suffering.

It is certainly noteworthy that both Christianity and Buddhism agree in asserting that all creation groaneth and travaileth in pain, in suffering, in tribulation. But mark the vast, the vital distinction in the teaching of each. The one taught men to be patient under affliction, and to aim at the glorification of the suffering body, the other taught men to be intolerant of affliction, and to aim at the utter annihilation of the suffering body.

What says our Bible? We Christians, it says, are members of Christ’s Body—of His flesh and of His bones—of that Divine Body which was once a suffering Body, a cross-bearing Body, and is now a glorified Body, an ever-living, life-giving Body. Hence it teaches us to honour and revere the human body; nay, almost to deify the human body.

A Buddhist, on the other hand, treats every kind of body with contempt, and repudiates as a simple impossibility, all idea of being a member of the Buddha’s body. How could a Buddhist be a member of a body which was burnt to ashes—which was calcined,—which became extinct at the moment when the Buddha’s whole personality became extinguished also?

But, say the admirers of Buddhism, at least you will admit that the Buddha told men to avoid sin, and to aim at purity and holiness of life? Nothing of the kind. The Buddha had no idea of sin as an offence against God, no idea of true holiness (see p. 124). What he said was—Get rid of the demerit of evil actions and accumulate a stock of merit by good actions.

And let me remark here that this determination to store up merit—like capital at a bank—is one of those inveterate propensities of human nature, one of those irrepressible and deep-seated tendencies in humanity which nothing but the divine force imparted by Christianity can ever eradicate. It is for ever cropping up in the heart of man, as much in the West as in the East, as much in the North as in the South; for ever re-asserting itself like a pestilent weed, or like tares amidst the wheat, for ever blighting the fruit of those good instincts which underlie man’s nature everywhere.

Only the other day I met an intelligent Sikh from the Panjāb, and asked him about his religion. He replied, ‘I am no idolater; I believe in One God, and I repeat my prayers, called “Jap-jee,” every morning and evening. These prayers occupy six pages of print, but I can get through them in little more than ten minutes.’ He seemed to pride himself on this rapid recitation as a work of increased merit.

I said, ‘What else does your religion require of you?’ He replied, ‘I have made one pilgrimage to a holy well near Amritsar. Eighty-five steps lead down to it. I descended and bathed in the sacred pool. Then I ascended one step and repeated my Jap-jee with great rapidity. Then I descended again to the pool and bathed again, and ascended to the second step and repeated my prayers a second time. Then I descended a third time, and ascended to the third step and repeated my Jap-jee a third time, and so on for the whole eighty-five steps, eighty-five bathings and eighty-five repetitions of the same prayers. It took me exactly fourteen hours, from 5 p.m. one evening to 7 a.m. next morning, and I fasted all the time.’

I asked, ‘What good did you expect to get by going through this task?’ He replied, ‘I hope I have laid up an abundant store of merit, which will last me for a long time.’