Theosophy and Buddhism

M. Émile Burnouf, the well-known Sanskritist, has just published in the Revue des Deux Mondes (Vol. 88, July 15, 1888) an article entitled “Buddhism in the West,” in which he presents his views on the mission and future of the Theosophical Society.

Too rarely has the Society the good fortune to receive treatment as courteous and counsel as sympathetic, and signed with a name so dear to all who love the East, for us not to think it will please our readers to set before them these critiques from a serious thinker and these encouragements from a man of heart.

This article proves that the Theosophical Society has at last taken, in the thought of the nineteenth century, the place due to it and that it is about to enter a new era. It therefore deserves the respect and attention of all who have understood our work or have devoted themselves to it. Burnouf successively studies Buddhism, Christianity, and the Theosophical Society,

“. . . three religions or associations of men having identical doctrines, the same aim, and attaching themselves to a common source. This source, which is Eastern, was formerly contested; today, it is fully brought to light by the researches of scholars, notably English scholars, and by the publication of original texts. Among these sagacious investigators, it will suffice to cite the names of Sayce, Poole, Beal, Rhys-Davids, Spence Hardy, Bunsen; it would be difficult to exhaust the list.” [p. 341.]

The first part of the article is devoted to the biography of the Prince of Kapilavastu, to a brief exposition and a historical summary of Buddhism up to the Christian era. The life of Śākyamuni is too well known for us to repeat it; but we must point out a few words proving that Nirvâna does not mean annihilation.

“I have no need here to discuss the nature of nirvāṇa. I will only say that the idea of nothingness is absolutely foreign to India; that the Buddha’s aim was to deliver humanity from the miseries of earthly life and its alternating returns; and that he spent his long existence struggling against Māra and his angels, whom he himself called Death and the army of death. The word nirvâna does indeed mean extinction, for example of a lamp one blows upon; but it also means absence of wind.¹ I therefore think that nirvāṇa is nothing other than that requies aeterna, that lux perpetua which Christians also ask for their dead. It is in this sense that it is understood in the Burmese text published some years ago in Rangoon, in English, by the Reverend Bigandet.” [p. 343.]

Few conceptions have been more misunderstood than that of Nirvāṇa, unless perhaps that of divinity. Among the Jews and other Semites, among the ancient Greeks and Romans, and even among the Brahmins, the priest is the mediator between man and God.

“. . . He transmits to God the offering and adoration of the faithful; God in return gives his graces and helps in life; on the day of death God receives the faithful among his elect. For such an exchange to be possible, it is necessary that God be conceived as an individual being, as a person—in a way, as the king of the universe—distributing his favors according to his will, doubtless also according to justice. . . . Nothing of the kind exists in Buddhism. Since there is no personal god, there is no holy sacrifice; there is no intermediary.” [p. 344.]

“. . . This Buddha is not a god to be implored; he was a man who attained the supreme degree of wisdom and virtue. . . . As for the nature of the absolute principle of things, which other religions call God, Buddhist metaphysics conceives it in an entirely different way and does not make it a being separate from the universe. . . . Secondly, the Buddha opened his Church to all men, without distinction of origin, caste, country, color, sex: ‘My law,’ he said, ‘is a law of grace for all.’ It was the first time a universal religion appeared in the world. Until then, each country had its own, from which foreigners were excluded. It can be maintained that, in the first years of his preaching, the reformer did not have in view the destruction of castes, since he acknowledged royal power as a legitimate right and did not struggle against it. But the natural equality of men was one of the bases of his doctrine; the Buddhist books are full of dissertations, tales, and parables whose aim is to demonstrate it. . . . Freedom was the consequence. No member of the Church could impose upon another the obligation to remain in it against his will. . . . [pp. 345–46.]

. . . One was not born a Buddhist; one became so by a voluntary choice and after a sort of probation that every candidate had to undergo. Once a member of the Assembly, one no longer distinguished oneself from the other brothers; the only superiority one could acquire was that of knowledge and virtue. . . . This mutual love, this fraternity, extended to women and made the Assembly a kind of family.” [p. 346.]

After having related the progress of Buddhism in the South and North of India, among the Mazdeans and the Jews, M. Burnouf remarks that the latter borrowed from Buddhism their idea of the Messiah. Eastern influence has been clearly discerned in Jewish history since the Captivity; the doctrine of reincarnation also comes from India.

“The Essenes are regarded as forming the link and meeting point between the rabbis, the Jewish gnostics, the Platonists or Pythagoreans on the one hand, and Parsism and Buddhism on the other. . . . They condemned bloody sacrifices, like the Buddha and the Synagogue, and replaced them with meditation and the sacrifice of the passions. . . . They abstained from meat and wine. . . . They practiced community of goods, almsgiving, love of truth, purity in actions, in words, and in thoughts. . . . They proclaimed the equality of men, proscribed slavery, and replaced discord with charity. . . . The first Christians were Essenes.” [pp. 352–53.]

Comparing the life of Jesus and that of the Buddha, one sees that their biographies divide into two parts: the ideal legend and the real facts. Now, the legendary part is identical in both. From the theosophical point of view, this is easy to explain since these legends are based on the cycle of initiation. Finally, the author compares this legendary portion with corresponding features of other religions, among others with the Vedic story of Viśvakarman. According to him, it was only at the Council of Nicaea that Christianity officially broke with ecclesiastical Buddhism; nevertheless, he regards the Creed adopted by the Council as the development of the formula: “The Buddha, the Law, the Church” (Buddha, Dharma, Sangha).

Several pages are devoted to the branches of the Essene sect that were not completely absorbed by the religion of Christ. Such are the sects of the Mandaeans, the Sabians or Manichaeans; finally the Albigenses on the one hand, and on the other the Paulicians—whose influence on Protestantism is discernible—represent the last vestiges of Buddhist influence in the West. The Manichaeans were, in origin, Samans or Śramanas, Buddhist ascetics whose presence in Rome in the middle of the third century Saint Hippolytus mentions. M. Burnouf explains their dualism with respect to the double nature of man, good and evil, evil being the Māra of the Buddhist legend. He shows that the Manichaeans derived their doctrines from Buddhism more directly than the Christians; consequently a mortal struggle arose between the two when the Christian Church took shape and claimed to possess the truth alone and exclusively. This idea is in direct contradiction with the fundamental conceptions of Buddhism, and those who professed it were naturally bitter adversaries of the Manichaeans. Thus it was the Jewish spirit of exclusion that armed the secular arm of Christian states against the Manichaeans. The persecution was terrible; “they were so crushed that their multitude, then immense, dissipated like smoke.”

Theosophists may thus consider ecclesiastical persecutions as one of the noblest portions of their heritage. No society has been more ferociously slandered and persecuted by odium theologicum than the theosophical association and its founders, since the Christian churches have been reduced to employing no other weapons than the tongue.

Having followed this high line from India, across Palestine to Europe, we believe we ought to quote in full several paragraphs that M. Burnouf devotes to the Theosophical Society:

“Analysis shows us in our contemporary society two essential things: the idea of a personal God among believers, and, among philosophers, the almost complete disappearance of charity.

The Jewish element has regained the upper hand, and the Buddhist element of Christianity has veiled itself.

It is therefore one of the most interesting, if not the most unexpected, phenomena of our day that the attempt now being made to arouse and establish in the world a new society, supported on the same foundations as Buddhism. Although it is only at its beginning, its growth is so rapid that our readers will be glad to see their attention called to this subject. It is still, so to speak, in the state of a mission, and its propagation is accomplished without noise and without violence. It does not even have a definitive name; its members group themselves under Eastern names placed at the head of their publications: Isis, Lotus, Sphinx, Lucifer. The common name that prevails among them for the moment is Theosophical Society.

This society is very young; yet it already has a history. It was founded in 1875, in New York, by a very small group of persons, troubled by the rapid decline of moral ideas in the present age. This group styled itself: ‘Aryan Theosophical Society of New York.’ The epithet Aryan clearly indicated that the Society separated itself from the Semitic world, notably from Jewish dogmas; the Jewish part of Christianity was to be reformed, either by simple amputation or, as in fact happened, by way of interpretation. Nevertheless, one of the principles of the Society was neutrality with regard to sect, and freedom for personal effort toward science and virtue. . . .

“The Society has neither money nor patrons; it acts with only its occasional resources. It has nothing worldly about it. It has no sectarian spirit. It flatters no interest. It has set itself a very high moral ideal, combats vice and egoism. It tends toward the unification of religions, which it considers identical in their philosophical origin; but it acknowledges the supremacy of truth. The Lotus, the monthly review it publishes in Paris, has taken for its epigraph the Sanskrit motto of the Mahārājas of Benares: ‘Satyān nāsti paro dharmah, there is no religion higher than truth.’

“With such principles, and in the times in which we live, the Society could hardly have imposed upon itself worse conditions of existence. Nevertheless, it has progressed with astonishing rapidity. . . . [pp. 366–67.] . . . In America, the Society has taken on great expansion in recent times; its branches have multiplied, and then, as it were, federated themselves around one of them, the Cincinnati branch. . . .

“Since the second object the association proposes is the study of Aryan and Eastern literatures, religions, and sciences, and since a portion of its members pursues the interpretation of ancient mystical dogmas and the unexplained laws of nature, one might see in it a sort of hermetic academy, rather foreign to the things of life. One is quickly brought back to reality by the nature of the publications it issues or recommends, and by the declaration contained in Lucifer, published in London, and reproduced in Le Lotus of last January: ‘He is no theosophist who does not practice altruism (the opposite of egoism); who is not prepared to share his last morsel of bread with someone weaker or poorer than himself; who neglects to help man, his brother, whatever his race, nation, or belief, whenever and wherever he sees him suffering, and who turns a deaf ear to the cry of human misery; who, finally, hears the slander of an innocent person, theosophist or not, without taking his defense, as he would for himself.’

“This declaration is not Christian, since it takes no account of beliefs, makes no proselytism for any communion, and since, in fact, Christians have ordinarily employed calumny against their adversaries—for example, against the Manichaeans, the Protestants, and the Jews. Still less is it Muslim or Brahmanical. It is purely Buddhist; the Society’s practical publications are either translated Buddhist books or original works inspired by the Buddha’s teaching. The Society therefore has a Buddhist character.

“It defends itself somewhat from this, for fear of taking on a sectarian and exclusive color. It is wrong: true and original Buddhism is not a sect; it is scarcely a religion. It is rather a moral and intellectual reform that excludes no belief but adopts none. This is what the Theosophical Society does. . . . [pp. 368–69.]”

In speaking of Buddhism, M. Burnouf constantly has in view primitive Buddhism, that magnificent flowering of virtue, purity, and love whose swan of Kapilavastu cast the seed upon the soil of India. On this point, we agree with him. The moral code established by the Buddha is the greatest treasure ever given to humanity; this religion, or rather this philosophy, approaches truth or secret science far more than any other exoteric form or belief. We cannot propose a higher moral ideal than those noble principles of fraternity, tolerance, and detachment; and Buddhist morality represents almost exactly theosophical morality. In a word, one could do us no greater honor than to call us Buddhists—if we did not have the honor of being Theosophists.

But the Theosophical Society very seriously—and not merely for form’s sake—denies that it was created “to propagate the Buddha’s dogmas.” Our mission is not to propagate dogmas, any more Buddhist than Vedic or Christian; we are independent of every formula, every ritual, every exotericism. We have been able, against attempts at encroachment made by zealous—but still—Christians, to oppose the noble principles of Buddhist ethics. The Presidents of the Society have been able to declare themselves personally Buddhists, and they have been reproached enough for it; one of them has devoted his life to the regeneration of that religion in its land of origin. Let those cast the stone who do not understand the needs of present-day India and do not desire the raising up of that ancient homeland of virtues. But this does not commit the theosophical body, as such, with respect to ecclesiastical Buddhism, any more than the Christianity of certain of its members commits it with respect to any Christian church.

Precisely because present-day Buddhism needs to be regenerated—rid of all the superstitions and all the restrictions that have invaded it like parasitic plants—we would be greatly wrong to try to graft a young and healthy bud onto a branch that has lost its vitality, though it may perhaps be less withered than other boughs. It is infinitely wiser to go straight to the roots, to the pure and unalterable sources from which Buddhism itself drew its powerful sap. We can enlighten ourselves directly by the pure “Light of Asia”; why linger in its distorted shadow? Despite the synthetic and theosophical character of primitive Buddhism, present-day Buddhism has become a dogmatic religion and has split into numerous and heterogeneous sects. The history of this religion and of others is there to warn us against half-measures. See the partial reform called Protestantism: are the results satisfactory enough to engage us in patch-ups? Even the Arya Samaj is, after all, only a national effort, whereas the essential position of the Theosophical Society is to affirm and maintain the truth common to all religions—the real truth, which the inventions, passions, or needs of the ages have been unable to sully—and to invite all men to it, without distinction of sex, color, rank, and—what is more—of belief.

M. Burnouf warns us against indifference. Whence does it come? From indolence first—that scourge of humanity—and then from discouragement. And if man is weary of symbols and ceremonies whose meaning the priest never explains, though he draws fine profit from them, it is not by substituting bonzeries for our chapels that we shall shake off this torpor. The moment has come when all the bells have but one tone: they ring boredom. To claim to reinstall the religion of Buddha upon the ruins of that of Jesus would be to give to a dead tree the support of a dried stick. Our critic himself warns us that humanity is tired even of the words “God,” “religion.”

Let us note, in this connection, that the term theosophy, which means divine wisdom, does not necessarily imply belief in a personal god. We believe the doctrine of the theosophists has been sufficiently expounded for there to be no need to insist on this point. Ammonius Saccas, Plotinus, Iamblichus, Porphyry, Proclus were theosophists; and, were it only out of respect for these men, we can well keep this title.

No, the Sangha of the Buddhists cannot be restored within our civilization. As for the Buddha himself, we venerate him as the greatest sage and the greatest benefactor of humanity, and we shall miss no opportunity to vindicate his right to universal admiration. But in the presence of that terrible law that always makes admiration degenerate into adoration, and the latter into superstition—in the presence of that desperate crystallization that occurs in minds disposed to idolatry and excludes everything that is not the idol—would it be wise to demand for the elder brother of Jesus the narrow place where the latter endures a sacrilegious cult? Alas, can it be that there are men selfish enough to be able to love only one being, servile enough to wish to serve only one master at a time!

There remains, then, Dharma: we have said how highly we esteem Buddhist morality. But Theosophy concerns itself with more than rules of conduct: it performs the miracle of being able to unite a pre-Buddhist morality to a pre-Vedic metaphysics and to a pre-Hermetic science. Theosophical development appeals to all the principles of man—to his intellectual faculties as to his spiritual faculties—and the last two objects of our program have more importance than M. Burnouf seems to grant them. We can assure him that if our Society receives the adhesion of many men of his value, it will be the channel for a torrent of new ideas borrowed from ancient sources—a torrent of artistic, economic, literary, and scientific innovations as much as philosophical ones—and more fruitful for the future than the first Renaissance. There will be more than an academic coloring: the academy itself will learn the alphabet that allows one to read clearly, between the lines, the meaning—so obscure and often so seemingly insignificant—of ancient scriptures. This key lies within reach of those who have the courage to raise a hand and take it. And this key the Buddha possessed, for he was an adept of high rank. It is true that there exist no mysteries or esotericism within the two principal Buddhist churches, that of the South and that of the North. Buddhists may well content themselves with the dead letter of the doctrines of Siddhārtha Buddha, for to this day there are, happily, none more noble; none that can produce a more significant effect on the ethics of the masses. But here lies the great error of all Orientalists. There is an esoteric doctrine, a philosophy that ennobles the soul, behind the outward body of ecclesiastical Buddhism. The latter, pure, chaste, and immaculate as the virgin snow on the summits of the Himalaya, is nevertheless just as cold and desolate with regard to the condition of man post mortem. The secret system was taught to the Arhats alone, generally in the underground hall of Saptaparṇa (Sattapaṇi of the Mahāvaṁsa), known to Fa-hien under the name of the Cheta cave near Mount Baibhār (Pāli Webhāra), at Rājagṛiha, the ancient capital of Magadha; it was taught by the Lord Buddha himself, between the hours of Dhyāna (mystic contemplation). It was from this cave, called in the time of Śākyamuni Saraswati, or the Bamboo Cave, that the Arhats initiated in the secret wisdom carried their instruction and their science beyond the Himalaya, where the secret doctrine is taught to this day. If the Indians of the South—the invaders of Ceylon—had not “piled up as high as the tops of the coconut trees” the ollas of the Buddhists and burned them, just as the Christians burned all the secret archives of the Gnostics and the Initiates, the Orientalists would have the proof, and we should have no need now to affirm this well-known fact.

The three objects of the theosophical program may be summed up in the three words Love, Science, Virtue, and each is inseparable from the other two. Clad in this triple bronze, the Theosophical Society will accomplish the miracle M. Burnouf asks of it and will cast down the dragon of the “struggle for existence.” It will do so not by denying the existence of the law in question, but by assigning it its proper place in the harmonious order of the universe; by unveiling its nature and significance; by showing that this pseudo-law of life is in reality a law of death, one of the most dangerous fictions with regard to the human family. “Self-preservation,” on such premises, is truly a slow and certain suicide—a policy of mutual homicide. By its practical application, men sink and fall back more and more toward the animal degree of evolution.

The struggle for existence, even on the data of political economy—which does not rise above the material plane—applies only to the physical being and not at all to the moral being.

Now it is fairly likely, at first sight, for one who has somewhat probed the constitution of our illusory universe of paired opposites, that if egoism is the law of the animal extremity, altruism must be the law of the other extreme; the formula of the struggle for life is less and less true as one ascends the steps of the ladder—that is to say, as one approaches spiritual nature. But for those who have not developed the faculties of that part of their nature, the laws that govern it must remain in the state of sentimental conviction. Theosophy points out the road to follow so that this intuition may turn into certainty, and the individual progress it asks of its disciples is also the only safeguard against the social danger with which, according to our critic, we are threatened; to reform society, one must begin by reforming oneself. It is not the politics of self-preservation, nor the interests of one personality or another in their finite and physical form, that can lead us to the desired goal and shelter the Theosophical Society from the effects of the social hurricane—even if that personality represented the ideal of man, even if that aegis were the Buddha himself.

Salvation lies in the weakening of the sense of separation among the units that compose the social whole; and this result can be accomplished only by a process of inner enlightenment. Violence will never secure bread and comfort for all; nor will a cold policy of diplomatic reasoning conquer the kingdom of peace and love, of mutual aid and universal charity—the promised land where there will be “bread for all.” When one begins to understand that it is precisely personal and ferocious egoism—the great spring of the struggle for existence—that is at bottom the sole cause of human misery; that it is egoism again—this time national—and the vanity of State, which lead governments and wealthy individuals to bury enormous capital and render it unproductive by erecting splendid churches and maintaining a heap of lazy bishops, true parasites of their flocks—then, and only then, will humanity attempt to remedy the universal ill by a radical change of policy.

This change only theosophical doctrines can accomplish peacefully. It is by the close and fraternal union of men’s higher Selves, by the growth of solidarity of soul, by the development of that feeling which makes us suffer in thinking of the sufferings of others, that the reign of equality and justice for all can be inaugurated, and that the cult of Love, Science, and Virtue will be established, defined in that admirable axiom:

“There is no religion higher than truth.”

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