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In Theravada abhidharma, consciousness and the object of consciousness emerge codependently and are hence phenomenologically inextricable. That is to say, the objects of experience appear not upon a preexistent tabula rasa, but rather within a cognitive matrix that includes affective and discursive dispositions occasioned by one’s past activity (karma). The elimination of these attendant dispositions does not yield “non-conceptual awareness” so much as the cessation of consciousness itself.

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”,Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 474-475

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Superficially, [the] notion of mindfulness as bare attention would seem tied to a view of the mind as a sort of tabula rasa or clear mirror that passively registers raw sensations prior to any recognition, judgment, or response. The notion of a conscious state devoid of conceptualization or discrimination is not unknown to Buddhist exegetes; indeed, later Buddhist philosophers associated with pramana (logic) and yogacara  (mental construction) systems posit a “nonconceptual cognition” (nirvikalpajnana) that operates by means of “direct perception” (pratyaksajnana), and these authors use the imagery of the mirror to illustrate the relationship between pure mind and defiled object. This state is sometimes understood as preceding (or undergirding) the arising of conceptualization, or as an advanced stage of attainment tantamount to awakening. But while the notion of non-conceptual cognition became important in some yogacara systems (not to mention Tibetan Dzogchen), it remained at odds with the Theravada analysis of mind and perception.

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”,Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 474

“[While] the notion of non-conceptual cognition became important in some yogacara systems (not to mention Tibetan Dzogchen), it remained at odds with the Theravada analysis of mind and perception.”

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There are, in addition, philosophical objections to construing sati as bare attention. The popular understanding of bare attention presumes that it is possible to disaggregate pre-reflective sensations (what contemporary philosophers sometimes refer to as “raw feels” or qualia) from perceptual experience writ large. In other words, there is an assumption that our recognition of and response to an object is logically and/or temporally preceded by an unconstructed or “pure” impression of said object that can be rendered, at least with mental training, available to conscious experience. Mindfulness practice is then a means to quiet the ongoing chatter of the mind and to keep to the “bare registering of the facts observed.”

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”,Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 474

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Rupert Gethin...notes that sati cannot refer to “remembering” in any simple sense, since memories are, as Buddhists are quick to acknowledge, subject to distortion. Rather, sati "should be understood as what allows awareness of the full range and extent of dhammas; sati is an awareness of things in relation to things, and hence an awareness of their relative value. Applied to the satipatthanas  , presumably what this means is that sati is what causes the practitioner of yoga to “remember” that any feeling he may experience exists in relation to a whole variety or world of feelings that may be skillful or unskillful, with faults or faultless, relatively inferior or refined, dark or pure". In short, there is little “bare” about the faculty of sati, since it entails, among other things, the proper discrimination of the moral valence of phenomena as they arise.

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”,Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 474

In other words, the historical usage of sati is not the same as the highly-vaunted concept of “bare awareness” in modern Theravadan (or Theravadan-inspired) meditation.

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Even in the Satipatthana-sutta  , the term sati retains a sense of “recollecting” or “bearing in mind.” Specifically, sati involves bearing in mind the virtuous dharmas so as to properly apprehend, from moment to moment, the true nature of phenomena. At least this is the explanation found in early Pali exegetical works such as the Milindapanha and the commentaries of Buddhaghosa.

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”,Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 473-474

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The meaning of the term “mindfulness” is presumed by many to be self-evident, and thus modern exponents of mindfulness meditation may see little need to explore the intellectual history of the concept in Buddhism. "Mindfulness” is a translation of the Sanskrit smrti (Pali: sati), a term that originally meant “to remember,” “to recollect,” “to bear in mind.” Its religious significance is sometimes traced to the Vedic emphasis on setting to memory the authoritative teachings of the tradition. The Pali term sati retains this sense of “remembering” in the Nikayas (the scriptures attributed to the Buddha in the Theravada school): “And what, bhikkhus, is the faculty of sati? Here, bhikkhus, the noble disciple has sati, he is endowed with perfect sati and intellect, he is one who remembers, who recollects what was done and said long before.” Moreover, the faculties of recollection and reflection were unarguably central to a variety of classical practices associated with smrti, including buddhanusmrti or “recollection of the Buddha,” which typically involves some combination of recalling the characteristics of the Buddha, visualizing him, and chanting his name.

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”,Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 473

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Western Buddhist enthusiasts may have a hard time appreciating just how radical Mahasi’s [meditation] method was in its day. Designed to be accessible to laypersons, it did not require familiarity with Buddhist philosophy or literature, most notably with the scholastic literature known as abhidhamma. (Traditional forms of Theravada meditation required proficiency in the categories and methods of abhidhamma analysis.) It also did not require renunciation of lay life, and it could be taught in a relatively short period of time in a retreat format. All this made it easy to export, and it has been influential not only in the Southeast Asian Theravada world, but also among modern Tibetan, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, and Vietnamese religious reformers. By the end of the 20th century, Mahasi’s approach to mindfulness, understood as “bare attention” and “living in the here and now,” had emerged as one of the foundations of Buddhist modernism—an approach to Buddhism that cut across geographical, cultural, sectarian, and social boundaries.

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”,Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 472

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Scholars have argued that the widespread understanding of mindfulness as bare attention has its roots in the Theravada meditation revival of the 20th century, a movement that drew its authority, if not its content, from the two recensions of the Scripture on Establishing Mindfulness (Satipatthana-sutta  ), as well as Buddhaghosa’s Path of Purification (Visuddhimagga), and a few other Pali sources. The specific techniques that came to dominate the Satipatthana  or Vipassana (“insight”) movement, as it came to be known, were developed by a handful of Burmese teachers in the lineages of Ledi Sayadaw (1846/7–1923) and Mingun Sayadaw (1870–1955). Mingun’s disciple, Mahasi Sayadaw (1904–1982), developed the technique that is best known today, in which the practitioner is trained to focus on whatever sensory object arises in the moment-to-moment flow of consciousness. Mahasi designed this method with laypersons in mind, including those with little or no prior exposure to Buddhist doctrine or liturgical practice. Perhaps most radical was Mahasi’s claim that the cultivation of liberating insight did not require advanced skill in concentration (samatha) or the experience of absorption (jhana  ). Instead, Mahasi placed emphasis on the notion of sati, understood as the moment-to-moment, lucid, non-reactive, non-judgmental awareness of whatever appears to consciousness. One of Mahasi’s most influential students, the German born monk Nyanaponika Thera (Siegmund Feniger, 1901–1994), coined the term “bare attention” for this mental faculty, and this rubric took hold through his popular 1954 book The Heart of Buddhist Meditation.

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”,Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 472

In short, modern Theravadan mindfulness meditation isn’t ancient itself, nor did it descend to us through history from an unbroken line of practitioners; it’s a 20th century invention.

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Also on the subject of religion as abuse, scroll down on this page for a lengthy account of such examples in the realm of pop spirituality (the coalition of new age gurus and communes, alt. religions, western convert movements of Buddhism and Hinduism, secular meditation teachers, etc.). Abuse can’t be considered as relegated to mainstream western religions, and must be watched for everywhere.

No. Even in the “common vernacular” Tarico wants us to use, religion does not function as an addiction or a compulsion. Rather, toxic forms of religion function as abuse, and the dynamic of someone recovering from a toxic religion is more comparable to the dynamic of someone recovering from an abusive relationship than from an addiction.

Addictions generally begin as a coping mechanism; the change in emotion or perception they cause provides relief to an underlying physical or mental problem. Abusive relationships, on the other hand, form from someone’s exploitation (sometimes unconsciously) of another person’s physical or mental problems.

Reframing abusive relationships as addictions is also seen explicitly in narratives around codependency (not that codependency is itself abusive, but the dynamic of codependent relationships make them prone to abuse), but it also crops up sometimes in response to other abusive relationship dynamics, is fundamentally an attempt to remove the burden of guilt and blame from the abuser to the survivor.

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The notion that Buddhism is a rational, empirical, and therapeutically oriented tradition compatible with modern science is one of the characteristic features of “Buddhist modernism” (sometimes known as “Protestant Buddhism”), an approach to Buddhism that evolved out of a complex intellectual exchange between Asia and the West that took place over the last 150 years or so.

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”,Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 472

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Chan (Zen/Seon/Thien) Isn’t a Monolith: why every claim you’ve read about “Zen” is misleading

One of the biggest secrets about Chan (and really, Buddhism as a whole) is that it isn't a monolith, easily reducible into an identical and homogeneous entity that has remained unified and unchanged throughout history. The unsurprising yet unknown truth is that the category of Chan/Zen/Seon/Thien/ may easily be based on nothing but features as superficial as lip-service to a semi-legendary dharma ancestor (Bodhidharma), or to a set of ill-defined, malleable, subjective, and amorphous concepts and practices [1][2]. A modern Zen Buddhist in Japan or the West, easily being the product of much westernization and reinvention, would have a much different position than, say, Xuyun. Xuyun may have a much different position than a Song dynasty Chan Buddhist. A Song dynasty Chan Buddhist would have a much different position than a Tang dynasty Chan Buddhist, and a Tang dynasty Chan Buddhist in northern China might easily prove to have a vastly different position than a counterpart in southern China. And a Chan student in a Tang dynasty southern Chinese school might even have a much different position than a fellow disciple of the very same teacher (especially after that teacher passes away and the disciples part ways).

Basically, this is a pretty good reason to ignore the many blanket claims about "Zen" that, if you're reading this, you've probably come across multiple times. Also, another reason that knowing Chan history is so important.

[1] Even a widely influential feature of one particular Chan school in one particular era of Chan history is unlikely to remain identical or have the same purposes for more than a few years: see, for example, the evolution and changing function of gong'ans/koans.

[2] Just like there isn't one Buddhist meditation (or just 5, 10, 20...), there also isn't one "Zen meditation". In fact, there was never one "Zen meditation" even during Chan's earliest periods: every school had multiple meditations, with many of these specific meditations even favored or denounced by individual teachers within the same school. Doctrinal positions on discipline, or philosophical statements about certain concepts were also subject to much multiplicity, change, and dispute, as the frequent accusations of heresy in Chan's history prove.

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I should note that I sometimes tend to under-emphasize commonalities: yes, there are doctrines/philosophies/practices that were widely influential across thousands of miles and thousands of years, transferred and passed down in relatively good shape between the diverse Buddhist traditions of various regions: for example, the three marks of existence in Theravadan Buddhism and Madhyamaka philosophy in the Mahayana. That said, none of these things, no matter how grand or far-flung, can be hoped to contain and unite all of Buddhism, past or present; which, of course, is precisely my point about the lack of a universal orthodoxy. Great caution must also be taken when trying to discern exactly how influential something really was, or to what degree it may have been changed (or not).

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Buddhist Without Superstition/Supernatural Beliefs: but what constitutes a Buddhist?

I never mean to imply that some particular self-professed Buddhist isn’t Buddhist; in fact, to do such a thing, one has to be working within the framework of explicitly religious assumptions, specifically including a major assumption about the existence of a canon (i.e. a measuring stick of of what is and isn’t genuinely Buddhist) and what constitutes it. As I don’t believe in any Buddhism-uniting (or even branch-uniting, school-uniting, disciples-of-same-teacher-uniting, etc.) historical canon, it would be very difficult for me to declare who is and isn’t Buddhist [1].

That said, one must also always remember that Buddhism isn’t a monolith. It is vast and varied in almost every way, having existed (and existing) less as a whole tradition and more as a diverse multitude of splintered traditions that, at most, are universally unified only by giving lip-service to the historical Buddha or the (itself varied) ideas of a Buddha/Buddhas [2] (in other words, someone who simply professes to be a Buddhist is in this category by default). While it seems paradoxical, such superficial lip-service seems to be the only feature of Buddhism(s) that is broad and inclusive enough to be the much sought after criteria for defining the category of “Buddhism”.

All of this is stated to address a popular assertion in western convert Buddhism: ONE DOES NOT NEED TO BELIEVE IN THE SUPERNATURAL OR SUPERSTITIOUS ELEMENTS OF BUDDHISM TO BE A BUDDHIST.

Well, yes. I agree, which may come as a surprise to readers who have picked up on my frequent critical tone when addressing modern Buddhism. In fact, the only thing you have to do to be a Buddhist in my book is profess yourself to be Buddhist. You can even invent a totally new philosophy and praxis if you like (some have...), remark that it and you are both Buddhist, and hey, you’re a Buddhist!

This, of course, is what you get when you admit that a., Buddhism has no universal canon, and b., Buddhism isn’t a monolith. As far as self-identity goes, what’s Buddhist is supremely malleable. What isn’t malleable, however, is historical precedent. This is perhaps why, despite the fact that one can certainly call oneself Buddhist without having superstitions, western converts still go to vast lengths to fabricate the myth of a pure rational core at the heart of early historical Buddhism: the same core having since been obscured by the unfortunate build-up of filthy Asian cultural superstitions and folk religion. Clearly, there is a recognition that history is a weak-spot: a weak-spot which is important enough to lie about.

In fact, the earliest canon records the historical Buddha having lengthy conversations with the god Indra, as well as shooting fire out of his limbs and flying around to prove that he is actually the Buddha. To prove his status as an arahant, one of the Buddha’s disciples flies to his place in the gathering of the sangha to show his achievement of enlightenment. Archaeological evidence shows that that supernatural belief and praxis accompanied Buddhism from its earliest years in India, following it to China and beyond; these are just a few examples. What makes a modern western Buddhist able to be both Buddhist and non-superstitious is emphatically not any early historical precedent vs. later historical corruption, but rather due to Buddhism’s supreme ill-definition and “name-brand” malleability (proven again and again every new day): that’s an uncomfortable prospect for any self-professed convert Buddhist who wants to justify their beliefs as being dictated by more than just what modern white westerners are or aren’t comfortable with. For example, instead of admitting that “I don’t like that”, one can say instead that the original true “core” of Buddhism is rational, and, unlike the ignorant Asian peasants, they are simply returning to that “pure essence”. Compelling!

In short, my gripe with the stated assertion is not as to whether it is true or not; rather, it is founded in a fundamental investigation of what exactly constitutes a Buddhist, and what exactly is implicit in that statement when a self-professed “non-superstitious” Buddhist makes it: typically, it would seem to be a return to the same boring, racist, colonialist-buddhologist/reinventing-missionary myth of the pure “core” of Buddhism, rediscovered by the western man: he, of course, is summarily awarded the very mantle of orthodoxy by Siddhartha Gautama himself. Without that myth, it’s just a simple and embarrassing case of ignoring aspects of a tradition/traditions, as mandated by the sheer discomfort with an ancient religion from an alien culture.

[1] Religious studies scholars face the same issue when making the mistake of trying to decide who is or isn’t Christian, Muslim, etc.

[2] Comparable, perhaps, to the spread of “sky-god” veneration across Eurasia, but with much more doctrinal/philosophical/ritual/etc./ baggage (although all of these things were certainly subject to drastic change or even reinvention/outright loss...see the vast discrepancies in monastic discipline between different Buddhist regions, for just one example).

Image: The Paradise of Indra, the divine home of a recurring character in the Pali Canon.

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[Today] Buddhist insight is touted as the very antithesis of depression. Rather than cultivating a desire to abandon the world, Buddhism is seen as a science of happiness—a way of easing the pain of existence. Buddhist practice is reduced to meditation, and meditation, in turn, is reduced to mindfulness, which is touted as a therapeutic practice that leads to an emotionally fulfilling and rewarding life. Mindfulness is promoted as a cure-all for anxiety and affective disorders including post-traumatic stress, for alcoholism and drug dependency, for attention-deficit disorder, for anti-social and criminal behavior, and for the commonplace debilitating stresses of modern urban life.

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”,Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 471-472

It also shouldn’t be surprising that all of this is very profitable marketing (selling both [promises of] mental health and lifestyle branding), bringing with it much self-aggrandizement, wealth, and power for “dharma-adapting” (read: westernizing, reinventing) missionaries and their heirs: western Buddhist cult leaders (as well as secular “meditation teachers” inspired by the success of western Buddhism).

If modern Buddhists remained completely true to the sizable section of historical Buddhism that looks a lot like depression-valorizing nihilism (although it certainly isn’t identical to such a thing), modern Buddhism probably wouldn’t be the industry it is today.

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A woman’s three sons had offended against the king, it seems. The king ordered their heads to be cut off. She went with her sons to the place of their execution. When they had cut off the eldest one’s head, they set about cutting off the middle one’s head. Seeing the eldest one’s head already cut off and the middle one’s head being cut off, she gave up hope for the youngest, thinking, “He too will fare like them.” Now, the meditator’s seeing the cessation of past formations is like the woman’s seeing the eldest son’s head cut off. His seeing the cessation of those present is like her seeing the middle one’s head being cut off. His seeing the cessation of those in the future, thinking, “Formations to be generated in the future will cease too,” is like her giving up hope for the youngest son, thinking, “He too will fare like them.” When he sees in this way, knowledge of appearance as terror arises in him at that stage.

Buddhaghosa, Path of Purification (Visuddhimagga)

If one has any doubts [as to the similarity between good Sri Lankan Buddhists and American depressives], consider the advanced stages of insight described in the Path of Purification (Visuddhimagga), an authoritative Pali compendium composed by the 5th-century monk Buddhaghosa in Sri Lanka. After an exhaustive account of the various practices and meditative states discussed in the scriptures, Buddhaghosa turns to the ascending “stages of insight” that immediately precede the attainment of liberation. The eight stages of insight include “knowledge of dissolution,” “knowledge of appearance as terror,” and “knowledge of danger,” and Buddhaghosa resorts to vivid similes to capture the affective tone that accompanies these rarefied states. One of the most harrowing is found in the description of “knowledge of appearance as terror”

...

In other words, the emotional valence of this advanced stage of insight is likened to that of a mother being forced to witness the execution of all three of her sons. Could one imagine a more disturbing image of human anguish? Yet, according to Theravada teachings, it is necessary to experience such despair—to confront the unmitigated horror of sentient existence—so as to acquire the resolve necessary to abandon the last vestiges of attachment to things of this world. Obeyesekere would seem to have a point: states akin to what we identify as “depression” would seem to be valorized, if only for the insight they engender, on the Buddhist path.

— Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”, Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 471-472

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One might want to quibble with Obeyesekere; one might demand more evidence—both psychological and ethnographic—for the similarities he sees between good Sri Lankan Buddhists and American depressives. Do Sri Lankan Buddhists really aspire to a state that we would associate with depression? Or is the very idea of depression so culturally and historically constructed as to mitigate its cross-cultural utility? However one parses these issues, on purely doctrinal grounds Obeyesekere has a point: early Buddhist sutras in general, and Theravada teachings in particular, hold that (1) to live is to suffer, (2) the only genuine remedy to suffering is escape from samsara (the phenomenal world) altogether, and (3) escape requires, among other things, abandoning hope that happiness in this world is possible.

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”, Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 470-471

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In a chapter in an edited volume on the role of culture in depression, Gananath Obeyesekere begins by quoting from Brown and Harris’s influential 1978 study on the social origins of depression in women: 'The immediate response to loss of an important source of positive value is likely to be a sense of hopelessness, accompanied by a gamut of feelings, ranging from distress, depression, and shame to anger. Feelings of hopelessness will not always be restricted to the provoking incident—large or small. It may lead to thoughts about the hopelessness of one’s life in general. It is such generalization of hopelessness that we believe forms the central core of depressive disorder.' To this Obeyesekere responds: 'This statement sounds strange to me, a Buddhist, for if it was placed in the context of Sri Lanka, I would say that we are not dealing with a depressive but a good Buddhist. The Buddhist would take one further step in generalization: it is not simply the general hopelessness of one’s own lot; that hopelessness lies in the nature of the world, and salvation lies in understanding and overcoming that hopelessness.

Robert Sharf, “Is mindfulness Buddhist? (and why it matters)”, Transcultural Psychiatry, pg. 470-471

In short, this article leads up to this question: what if the modern western picture of mental health doesn’t match up to a religion born in an archaic and alien culture? This has huge ramifications for the common assumption (and frequent declaration) that Buddhism and modern western mental health go hand-in-hand, even serving as an appropriate branding for self-help books.