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256 pages, Hardcover
First published November 1, 2006
We have lost contact with the old and rich traditions of happiness, and we have lost the ability to understand their essentially moral nature. Deaf to the conversation of the ages, we deny ourselves the chance of finding a happiness that is meaningful. We've settled, nowadays, for a much weaker, much thinner happiness: mere enjoyment of pleasure, mere avoidance of pain and suffering. The so-called new science of happiness perpetuates this impoverished notion of the good life. Somewhere between Plato and Prozac, happiness stopped being a lofty achievement and became an entitlement.
For most of human history, happiness has been understood, even experienced, in the context of religious belief. Only in the past three or four centuries, and mainly in Western culture, has happiness been divorced, for some people, from faith, religion, and spirituality.
Yes, Epicurus believed that pleasure was the secret of happiness, but here's the twist: he defined pleasure not as sensual indulgence - touching this, tasting that - but as the absence of desire. [...] True pleasure, Epicurus insisted, is marked not by intensity but by tranquility.
Ghazali's crisis coincided with his introduction to Sufism, the mystical side of Islam that preaches neither doctrine nor dogma but affirms, above all else, the transforming power of the personal experience of God's presence. The Sufis call this experience dhawq, "taste," which nicely captures the sensuous immediacy of their vision of happiness.
Happiness may, and probably will, begin with pleasurable feelings, but it will also go well beyond them because happiness isn't really about feeling good - it's about being good. The problem is that we are apt to mistake the former for the latter.
The virtuous man will be courageous, Cicero explained, not because he esteems courage but because he desires to live without anxiety. And exhibiting courage is a highly effective way to have an anxiety-free life.
That is the teaching of the Chandogya Upanishad, one of the most ancient Hindu scriptures, dating back several thousand years. (Upanishad translates as "sit down near," which tells us that they were originally composed as stories to be listened to, not read.)
And it was precisely to lift the cloud of ignorance, to dispel illusions, and to foster true knowledge that jnana yoga emerged in India more than a thousand years ago.
The philosopher Shankara (A.D. 788-820), the first great teacher of jnana yoga, asserted that happiness could be achieved through knowledge alone.
Traditionally, the jnana yogins renounce society and give up their family, home, property, and career. Because they have learned to discriminate between the world of false appearances and the world of absolute reality, they gladly forsake the world of appearances. For who would choose to live in ignorance and delusion when knowledge and clarity are possible? (To offer a pedestrian analogy, this must feel something like the connoisseur whose refined palate makes the house red undrinkable.) The busy life of the householder - providing for a family, punching the time clock, being a good neighbor - distracts them from the contemplation of eternal truth, which has become their heart's desire.
The wisest seek refuge in a separate realm where other people's ignorance - our ignorance, for most of us are busy householders - will not stain the purity of their wisdom. (This is not as far-fetched as it seems, for in the medieval Christian West, monasteries and universities were created for much the same purpose, although that purpose has now all but disappeared.) We must imagine the recluse to be happy - happier, in fact, than those of us still imprisoned by our delusions as we run the race of life. He is happy because he has exchanged a world of illusion for one of perfect and pure reality.
Krishna teaches that we must act (passivity is never an option) but always with indifference, neither pinning our hopes on one outcome nor desperately seeking to avoid another. Let us be clear: we are not expected, suddenly, to relinquish all desire and motivation for action. [...] Rather, we must prevent ourselves from becoming obsessed with the results of what happens when we act on our desires. Our goal, then, is detachment from the fruits of our labor, whether gain or loss, joy or sorrow, praise or blame. Holding these worldly concerns at a distance, we shall come to regard them all equally. (Around the time that the Gita was composed, the first Stoic philosophers in ancient Greece were thinking much the same thing.)
Such freedom can be fully gained only through discipline, which is the rousing imperative of karma yoga. Action without yoga - without control - is idle movement, just spinning your wheels or revving your engine. To give action its ultimate meaning and purpose, we must temper it through the discipline of yoga. "Stand fast in Yoga," Krishna commands. "In success and failure be the same and then get busy with your works."
In the West, the most famous bhakti movement - and one that for many people is their dominant image of Hinduism - is Hare Krishna (the International Society for Krishna Consciousness, or ISKCON).
All the types of yoga that we are looking at teach the value of detachment from what confronts us in the here and now - the world and its incessant demands (jnana yoga), action and its consequences (karma yoga), and the self and its ego-driven obsessions (bhakti yoga) - for in detachment they find the secret of happiness.
But if we are ready for it, what lies ahead is the mental journey (our modern-day chariot ride) from delusion to insight and, finally, to wisdom. Which is another way of saying that it is a journey to happiness. Like Siddhartha, we can delay the journey only for so long. Something inside us - call it the dark night of the soul, a change of heart, or even a midlife crisis, so little does the label matter - compels us to leave the palace, climb into the chariot, and take to the open road.
A similar, though less dramatic, expansion has occurred in the United Kingdom and Western Europe, where more than a million people have converted - most of whom, it should be noted, are drawn from the white liberal educated elite.
One ninth-century Zen master told his students, "If you meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha!" to underscore the importance of remaining independent of authority figures.
In the castle of Roccasecca, north of Naples, where he was later imprisoned by his brothers, was born the youngest son of the Conte d'Aquino. History - and heaven - knows him as Thomas Aquinas (1224-1274), saint of the Roman Catholic Church, author of the Summa Theologiae, and reconciler of reason and faith. The scion of an aristocratic family (his great uncle, Frederick Barbarossa, had been the Holy Roman Emperor), Aquinas was sent at age five to be educated at the Benedictine monastery at nearby Monte Cassino.
In our time of abrasive journalism and political debates that quickly descend into juvenile retorts, it is easy to miss what is (for us) most unusual about how Aquinas argued his points: that he fought not against his opponent but for the truth.
Like other theologians of his time, Aquinas had learned about a wise Persian mystic from an earlier century named "Algazal."
But if you want to discover the greatest allegorical expression of the Sufi path, you must turn to an epic poem of five thousand lines written in the twelfth century by another Persian writer, the sometime pharmacist Fariduddin Attar. This inspirational classic is called The Conference of the Birds. [...]
As the poem begins, the birds of the world realize that they are the only creatures who lack a supreme ruler, and so they decide to search for one. They elect a hoopoe bird to guide them in their quest.
The Sufi orders, which arose in the twelfth century, are not monastic orders, such as found in Christianity, but fellowships, or confraternities, of those who have chosen to follow the Sufi path. [...]
The most famous of the Sufi orders is the Mevlevi, whose members are known throughout the West as the whirling dervishes because of the distinctive dance they perform as a means of concentration. (The dervishes spend 1,001 days learning the dance by spinning around a large nail placed between the first two toes of the left foot.)
But virtue, as Berkovits reminds us, must be freely chosen, because our choosing is what matters. To be virtuous under compulsion - you would like to shoplift, but you don't because the closed-circuit television camera would expose you - is to be not virtuous, but only obedient. Virtue arises only when you could do something wrong and then do not.
Despair is the wrong conclusion to be drawn from the unalterable fact of suffering, for that is to concede that our response is likewise unalterable.