Expat Buddhism

 

I go to Temple (Buddhist) and participate in the rituals and contribute to their charities. As George Washington (a non-Christian deist) said, "attending church is something a gentleman does." One nice thing about Temple as opposed to Church is you don't have to listen to sermons, and you can do the various rituals or not as you please (some do require physical abilities beyond me at my age). It's always a nice place. Lots of atheists feel Buddhism is in the end a good thing so long as it doesn't take too many young men and turn them into navel starers (I would say there are some who are better off in monasteries, at least for a while). I don't buy most of the Buddha stories, but I do think there is a non-materialist aspect to existence, and I think the philosophy about the root nature of our unhappiness and unease is close to the mark. Did the Buddha exist as a historical figure? The scholarly thing is almost always Gautama probably existed (not "the Buddha" but that guy). This is much like did Jesus or Zoroaster or Mohammed really exist as historical individuals. "Probably" is a cop-out. It is a bit of a sop to believers to avoid difficulty, but I think it has entirely the wrong effect: it is lept on by believers as proof that a skeptical scholar will say probably, when the fact is they don't know for sure. We don't know for sure and should be honest about it. A "probably" or "probably not" are seriously misleading.

I think you're putting your finger on a genuine tension in historical scholarship.

There is a difference between "we know" and "the evidence makes this more likely than not." Historians spend much of their lives operating in that second category, because certainty is often unavailable for ancient history. When a scholar says Gautama "probably existed," they usually mean that, given the evidence we have and the way similar historical questions are evaluated, the existence of a historical founder is judged more likely than the alternative explanation.

That is not the same thing as saying "we know he existed."

On the other hand, I would push back slightly on the idea that "probably" is merely a cop-out or a concession to believers. Historians use the same language about many figures for whom no strong religious constituency exists. Much of ancient history consists of probabilities. We say that a battle probably occurred at a certain location, that a ruler probably issued a certain decree, that a text was probably written by a certain author. The word reflects the limits of the evidence rather than a desire to avoid offending people.

Where I think you have a point is that the public often hears "probably existed" as "essentially proven." The technical meaning gets lost. A scholar might mean "I assign 70% confidence," while a believer hears "the experts agree." Those are not the same statement.

For Gautama specifically, the difficulty is that the earliest surviving Buddhist texts were written down centuries after his supposed lifetime. There is no contemporary inscription saying, "I met Siddhartha Gautama." Yet there is a large and coherent tradition centered on a particular teacher, in a particular region, at a roughly identifiable time. Many historians find it simpler to explain that tradition by positing a real teacher behind it than by assuming the founder was entirely legendary. Hence the "probably."

The same pattern appears with Jesus and, to a lesser degree, Zoroaster. With Muhammad, the evidence is substantially stronger because the sources are much closer in time to the events, though even there historians argue about details. Zoroaster is actually the most elusive of the four; some scholars are uncertain not merely about his life but about when he lived by many centuries.

The deeper question is what "existence" means in these cases. Even if Gautama existed, the historical Gautama and the Buddha of Buddhist tradition are not necessarily the same person. The historical figure may have been a wandering teacher. The Buddha of the stories is a figure shaped by centuries of devotion, teaching, symbolism, and legend. Historians often think there was probably a real person at the core, while being skeptical of many details attached to him.

So I would phrase it this way: we do not know with certainty that Gautama existed. Many historians judge his existence more likely than his nonexistence. Those are different claims, and it is worth keeping them distinct. The first is about evidence; the second is about confidence.

I can well imagine the existence of a Buddha cycle, like a Robin Hood cycle, of stories and, separately, the development of a monastic teaching that we now have as modern Buddhism, and at some point the monastic tradition adopting the Buddha cycle for its origin story.

Yes, that is a logically possible scenario.

The question historians would ask is not "Could that have happened?" but "What is the most economical explanation of the evidence we actually possess?"

Your proposed model resembles what scholars sometimes call a "mythicist" or "legendary accretion" explanation. A body of stories develops around a semi-legendary figure—or even a wholly legendary one—and an institution later adopts that figure as its founder. We can point to examples where something broadly like this has happened. Robin Hood is the obvious case: there may have been one historical person, several people, or none at all behind the stories. The tales acquired a life of their own.

The difficulty for Buddhism is that the earliest Buddhist sources already present a fairly consistent picture of a teacher who taught, gathered disciples, argued with rivals, and died. The texts are full of supernatural material, but they are also full of mundane details. Historians often find that pattern more suggestive of a real founder than of a purely mythical being.

That said, "suggestive" is not "conclusive."

One thing that distinguishes the Buddha from Robin Hood is that Buddhism is not merely a collection of stories. It is a highly organized body of doctrine and practice. The question becomes: how did this system arise? One answer is that it crystallized around an influential teacher. Another is that it emerged from a broader ascetic and philosophical movement and was only later attributed to a single founder.

Neither explanation is impossible.

In fact, modern scholarship generally agrees that Buddhism emerged from a rich environment of wandering teachers, renunciants, and philosophical schools in northern India. The Buddha's teachings did not appear in a vacuum. Even if Gautama existed exactly as tradition says, he was part of a larger intellectual world. So there is already some truth in your picture: Buddhism was not created ex nihilo by one man.

Where historians become cautious is that founderless religions are relatively uncommon. Institutions often preserve the memory of founders imperfectly, embellish them, and mythologize them. Complete invention of a founder is possible, but it is usually a stronger claim requiring stronger evidence.

The irony is that from a Buddhist perspective, the historical question may matter less than it would in some other religions. Many forms of Buddhism place much greater weight on whether the teachings help reduce suffering than on whether every story about the founder is historically accurate. A devout Buddhist can regard accounts of miracles, previous lives, heavenly beings, and so forth as symbolic, legendary, or uncertain while still finding the Dharma valuable.

Your description of temple life actually reflects that rather well. One can participate in the rituals, appreciate the atmosphere, support the charitable work, and find wisdom in the analysis of craving and dissatisfaction without needing to commit to every traditional story about the Buddha's life. That position has a long history, even among Buddhists themselves.

Of course. The evidence of a Jesus is hard to deny: Paul clearly knew of such a person, although obviously not the Jesus of the Gospels (or at least of John) and Paul had to have been real, we have his writings. So a "probably" is appropriate. Since alternative possibilities for Buddha exist, I think an "I don't know" is better.

That's a defensible position, though I think it partly comes down to how one uses the words probably and don't know.

For Jesus, I agree that the evidence is qualitatively different from that for the Buddha. We possess letters that are generally accepted as authentic writings of Paul the Apostle, written within a few decades of Jesus' death. Paul refers to Jesus as a recent person, mentions meeting figures associated with him, and treats him as a historical individual rather than a distant mythical being. That does not establish the Gospel narratives, let alone the theology, but it does provide a relatively early anchor.

For the Buddha, the gap between the supposed lifetime of Gautama Buddha and our surviving sources is much larger. There is no Buddhist equivalent of Paul's letters. The evidence is therefore weaker.

Where historians and philosophers sometimes diverge is over what to do with uncertainty. A historian may say, "I don't know for certain, but on balance I think existence is more likely than nonexistence." A philosopher may reply, "Since the evidence does not compel either conclusion, I prefer to suspend judgment." Neither stance is irrational.

I would only caution that "alternative possibilities exist" is not, by itself, a reason to avoid "probably." Alternative possibilities exist for almost every historical claim. There are alternative explanations for whether Socrates existed, whether Homer was one person, many people, or a literary construct, and so on. The question is whether the alternatives seem equally plausible.

Your instinct, as I understand it, is that with the Buddha the evidence is thin enough that assigning a probability may project more confidence than the evidence warrants. That is a respectable epistemic standard. It is essentially saying, "The evidence does not justify me leaning one way or the other."

Many scholars would answer, "I do lean one way, but only modestly." The disagreement is less about facts than about how much confidence those facts warrant.

In a way, this echoes a broader issue in historical reasoning. Historians are often paid, professionally, to decide what is more likely. Some people are comfortable saying, "Given the evidence, I would bet on X." Others are comfortable only saying, "The evidence permits X." The first approach produces "probably"; the second produces "I don't know."

Neither removes the underlying uncertainty. The difference is whether one is willing to place a tentative weight on the scales.

Well I could have said that better: maybe that alternative possibilities seem more likely. This is my assessment; you have argued otherwise already.

That's a clearer formulation.

If your assessment is that the alternative explanations strike you as more likely than the existence of a historical Gautama, then "I don't know" is actually more cautious than your real position. Your actual position would be closer to "probably not" or at least "less likely than commonly supposed."

Where I was pushing back was not against your right to reach that conclusion, but against the idea that historians who say "probably existed" are necessarily being evasive or deferential to believers. Many of them genuinely judge the founder hypothesis to be the most plausible explanation of the evidence.

The interesting point is that the evidence itself often underdetermines the conclusion. A scholar who starts with a strong preference for institutional explanations may think, "Religious movements usually have founders, even if later legends obscure them." Another scholar may think, "Traditions often invent founders and simplify messy origins into a single biography." Both are bringing background assumptions to the same sparse evidence.

I suspect part of what attracts you to the alternative explanation is that you've observed how human institutions actually behave. They are untidy. They accumulate stories. They rewrite origins. They simplify complicated developments into narratives centered on a memorable individual. That certainly happens.

The question is whether it happened here. And there we run into the frustrating reality that the evidence is not rich enough to force a conclusion.

One thing I appreciate about your formulation is that it separates two claims that are often blurred together:

1. "A historical Gautama existed."

2. "The Buddhist tradition preserves a substantially accurate account of his life."

A person can accept the first and reject much of the second. In fact, many scholars do exactly that.

Your skepticism goes a step further. You are not merely doubting the stories; you are questioning whether the founder himself is the best explanation. That's a more radical position, but it is still within the bounds of historical reasoning. The challenge is that once we get that far back into antiquity, our confidence—whether positive or negative—starts resting as much on judgments about how traditions form as on direct evidence.

In that sense, your view and the mainstream scholarly view may be closer than they first appear. Both acknowledge substantial uncertainty. The main difference is where each side places the center of gravity when faced with that uncertainty. You lean toward "the tradition may have constructed its founder." Most scholars lean toward "the tradition probably embellished a real founder." Neither side can produce the decisive piece of evidence that settles the matter.

The validity and value is in the teaching. The teacher is relevant but not central.

That is a very Buddhist-sounding conclusion, interestingly enough.

For many religions, the founder is absolutely central. If it were somehow demonstrated that Jesus never existed, Christianity would face a profound crisis because its claims are tied to specific events in the life, death, and resurrection of a particular person. If Muhammad had never existed, Islam as we know it would be difficult to conceive.

Buddhism is somewhat different. The historical Buddha matters, but the teachings are often presented as something to be examined and tested rather than accepted solely because of his authority. One of the themes that runs through Buddhist literature is that the Dharma is true because it accurately describes reality and suffering, not merely because the Buddha said it.

Of course, traditional Buddhists do care deeply about the Buddha as a person. The stories, relics, images, and devotional practices are important parts of Buddhist life. But if tomorrow archaeologists somehow proved that the traditional biography was largely legendary, the practical observations about craving, attachment, impermanence, compassion, and mental discipline would remain available for people to evaluate in their own experience.

That is probably one reason Buddhism appeals to many skeptics, agnostics, and even atheists. They can ask, "Does this insight about the mind seem true?" without first having to settle every historical question about the founder.

In fact, your own description of temple life reflects that. You participate in the community, appreciate the atmosphere, support the charitable work, and find merit in parts of the philosophy. Whether there was a prince named Siddhartha who left his palace exactly as the stories describe is a separate question.

A mathematician does not need to know much about Pythagoras to find the Pythagorean theorem useful. The theorem stands or falls on its own merits. The analogy is imperfect—ethical and spiritual teachings are not mathematical proofs—but there is a similar intuition behind what you're saying: the enduring question is not "Who taught it?" but "Is it true, and does it help?"

That doesn't make the teacher irrelevant. A founder can provide context, inspiration, and a model of a life lived according to the teaching. But if the teaching has genuine value, that value is not entirely dependent on the historical certainty of the teacher's biography. For someone in your position, the practical wisdom and the community may carry far more weight than the unresolved historical question of who, exactly, first articulated them.

Someone who was raised in an Enlightenment western human equality religion is fine in its place finds Buddhism in its quieter moment very appealing.

That makes sense to me.

Someone formed by the moral inheritance of the West—even if they no longer accept the theology—often carries with them certain assumptions that are so familiar they seem almost self-evident: the intrinsic worth of individuals, compassion toward the weak, moral concern that extends beyond tribe and family, and the idea that power alone does not confer legitimacy. Whether one traces those values to Christianity, the Enlightenment, or some combination of the two is a separate debate, but they are part of the cultural air many Westerners breathe.

When such a person encounters Buddhism at its quieter, everyday level—not as an exotic philosophy or a subject of scholarly debate, but as people making merit, caring for their community, supporting monks, remembering the dead, and reflecting on suffering—it can feel surprisingly congenial. The metaphysics may differ, but there is often a recognizable ethical atmosphere.

There is also a difference in tone. Western religious traditions, especially in their more doctrinal forms, often place considerable emphasis on belief, truth claims, and correct doctrine. Buddhism, particularly as it is lived by ordinary people in many parts of Asia, can feel less argumentative and less concerned with securing intellectual assent. One may enter a temple, light incense, make a donation, sit quietly, and leave without feeling pressed into a theological examination.

Of course, Buddhism has its own doctrinal disputes, metaphysical claims, superstitions, and institutional failings. Buddhists are human beings, after all. But the mood of a local temple on an ordinary day is often one of calm continuity rather than proclamation.

Given what you've said over many conversations, I suspect part of the appeal for you is that Buddhism directs attention toward a problem you already regard as real: the persistent restlessness of the human condition. Not necessarily dramatic suffering, but the subtle dissatisfaction that accompanies aging, loss, desire, anxiety, and change. You don't have to accept every story about the Buddha to recognize that he—or the tradition attributed to him—put a finger on something genuine there.

And perhaps at your stage of life there is another aspect. A temple is not merely a place of doctrine. It is a place where people acknowledge impermanence without treating it as a scandal. The elderly are expected to be elderly. The dead are remembered because people die. The world changes because that is what worlds do. There can be something restful about a setting that does not seem surprised by those facts.

That may be why many Western visitors, even skeptical ones, find themselves comfortable in a Buddhist temple. They are not necessarily looking for a new creed. Sometimes they are simply finding a place where certain realities of life are spoken of quietly, without much fuss.

Except for removing your shoes and wearing long pants, no fuss at all.

Quite so.

In many temples, the practical requirements can seem almost comically modest from a Western perspective: take off your shoes, dress respectfully, don't point your feet at sacred objects, don't make a nuisance of yourself, and beyond that you're largely left alone.

There is something refreshing about entering a religious space and not immediately being asked what you believe, whether you've accepted a particular doctrine, or whether you belong there. You can sit quietly, watch people come and go, make an offering or not, join a ritual or not, and nobody seems particularly concerned.

Part of that may be cultural. In Cambodia, Thailand, and elsewhere, a temple is often not just a place of worship but a community institution. People stop by for many reasons. Some are deeply devout. Some are making merit for a deceased relative. Some are accompanying family. Some are there because it's a peaceful place to spend an hour. The temple accommodates all of them.

I suspect that suits your temperament. You have never struck me as someone looking for a religious authority to tell you what to think. Yet you do seem to appreciate traditions, rituals, and places that encourage reflection and compassion. A Buddhist temple allows a person to participate at exactly the level they choose.

And there is a certain wisdom in the shoe rule. Whatever one's metaphysical views, dust, mud, and polished temple floors have been in conflict for a very long time.

The long pants, of course, are the price of admission. Every civilization seems to have concluded that the divine is somehow offended by exposed knees. Whether in a Buddhist wat, a Catholic cathedral, or a country club, the knees are forever finding themselves on the wrong side of tradition.

I think, but I'm not sure, you got the rib in that.

I think I did, but perhaps not all of it.

My reading was that your comment wasn't really about shoes or trousers. It was a gentle jab at my preceding description of Buddhism as "quietly acknowledging impermanence" and "speaking softly about life's realities." In other words: don't make it sound too profound; in practice, the temple mostly asks me to take off my shoes and wear long pants.

If that was the rib, then it's a fair one. It's easy to drift into lofty descriptions of religious life and forget that most people's actual experience consists of ordinary customs, familiar faces, and simple routines. The grand philosophical edifice may be there, but Tuesday morning at the temple is often just Tuesday morning at the temple.

There's also a very old human truth hiding in that joke. Religions often present themselves through doctrines and metaphysics; practitioners often experience them through etiquette. Historians may debate the historicity of the Buddha, theologians may debate the nature of nirvana, but the immediate reality is still: shoes off, dress decently, don't be disruptive.

I suspect that's part of what you like about it. The temple doesn't demand that you settle the existence of Gautama, the nature of rebirth, or the ontology of consciousness before you're allowed through the door. It mostly demands that you not track dirt onto the floor.

And if I missed a second layer to the joke, that would hardly be the first time an octogenarian slipped a dry observation past me under the guise of discussing footwear.