Agathokakology in Buddhism

What the hell is “agathokakology”? This word is not found in the Merriam-Webster online. But “agathokakological” is listed as one of the twelve “oversized words.” It is said to mean “composed of both good and evil.” And I cite here what is said about the word: “Agathokakological is likely the creation of Robert Southey, a reviewer and poet who was born in Bristol in the late 18th century. This thorny mouthful is made by combining the Greek roots agath- (good), kako- (a variant of cac-, meaning bad), and -logical (the adjectival suffix based on logos, meaning word). Southey was exceedingly fond of peppering his writing with new coinages (The Oxford English Dictionary lists him as the earliest known author for almost 400 words), very few of which have caught on. The reason for this is that most of them tend to be rather unwieldy, and we haven’t much need to adopt such specimens as futilitarian (a person devoted to futility), batrachophagous (frog-eating), and epistolization (letter writing) in our everyday discourse.” I would like to understand “agathokakology” as the theory of two opposite poles of good and evil that are considered contradictory and are yet natural in a person, place, or time. Recently, I happened to tell my students that the Tibetan Buddhist term rten ’brel (short form of rten cing ’brel bar ’byung ba) seems to be used in the Tibetan cultural context at least in three ways. The first usage is in the sense of “dependent arising.” This is the primary usage. The second usage is in the sense of “auspicious or inauspicious coincidence” (e.g. coming across a person carrying a pot full or empty of water). One can say it was a good rten ’brel or a bad rten ’brel. The third usage is in the sense of the co-existence of good and bad (or two opposed poles) in any time or place. It is a rten ’brel that Devadatta co-existed with Buddha, and that Tīrthikas and Bauddhas in India, Bon and Buddhist in Tibet, profound Dharma and staunch Māra, and the like, co-existed. Perhaps also the idea that a human being is born with lhan cig skyes pa’i lha and lhan cig skyes pa’i ’dre may be relevant here. I also wonder about the history of the idea of lhan cig skyes pa’i lha and lhan cig skyes pa’i ’dre.

Three Types of Historian

Some of my friends and students must be tired of hearing this: “We do philology because we have to. We do philosophy because we want to.” Those of us who love to do Buddhist philosophy of the past have no choice but to do Buddhist philology as well. Because, in my view, there can be no (textual) Wortphilologie without (contentual-contextual) Sachphilologie, and no Sachphilologie without Wortphilologie, philology must necessarily be an academic discipline that deals with both and one that seeks to gain a diachronic and synchronic views of the texts and ideas. As such philology is inextricably linked his history. A philologist is necessarily also a historian of ideas. But what kind of a historian are we talking about? This reminds me of the typology of historian proposed once by Edward Conze. According to him, there are three types of historian: scientific, humanistic, and transcendental. I quote (Conze 1967 = 2000: 28): “The first studies a butterfly after killing it and fixing it with a pin into a glass case, where it lies quite still and can leisurely be inspected from all angles. The second lets it fly in the sun, and looks wonderingly at its pretty ways. The third assures us that a man will know a butterfly only if he becomes one.” Using the idea of intellectual deconstruction (i.e. rigs pas gzhig pa) and physical destruction  (i.e. gnyen pos gzhig pa), I would like to propose that what a historian of ideas usually seeks to do is to pursue analytical dissection but not a physical one, and hence one actually does not have to kill the butterfly. Or, after having analytically dissected the object of study with one’s prajñā, one can, out of one’s karuṇā, assemble all the parts and put them back to its original form.

Buddhist Philosophy on actus reus and mens rea?

Here is a random thought that just popped up in my mind. It is said that the expressions actus reus and mens rea were developed in English Law and were derived from the principle stated by Edward Coke, namely, actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea (“an act does not make a person guilty unless (their) mind is also guilty”). Hence the general test of guilt is said to be one that requires proof of fault, culpability or blameworthiness both in thought and action. I know that we have been repeatedly warned of the pitfalls and perils of comparing Eastern and Western ideas. Nonetheless, I cannot help thinking of the Buddhist idea that the wholesomeness, unwholesomeness, or neutrality of an action is always determined by the wholesomeness, unwholesomeness, or neutrality of intention or motivation. It also seems worth bearing in mind that an action or deed (which, by the way, must be by definition volitional) can only then be considered karmically efficacious or potent if it has been committed with the right gzhi, bsam pa, sbyor ba, and mthar thug. Thus one speaks of byas la bsags pa’i las (“committed-and-accumulated karmic deed”) and byas la ma bsags pa’i las (“committed-but-not-accumulated karmic deed”). There is thus the possibility (also in Buddhism) for making a difference between, for example, “murder” and “manslaughter.” Suppose I have accumulated tons of negative karmic deeds but what would happen to my karmic loads if I were to suddenly attain Arhatship and pass way into the restless nirvāṇa? (Note that negative karmic deeds need not necessary bar one to attain Arhatship.) That would be a bad luck for my karma! In German, one would say: “Karma hat eben Pech gehabt!”

Buddhist Vegetarianology

Recently in a conference in Düsseldorf, a colleague protested every time someone employed a term already used in some Western intellectual culture and context, to such an extent that one began to feel that Buddhist ideas should be transported in its target language without employing the target language at all. Or, one can only try to express Buddhist ideas in English, for example, by leaving all the technical terms in its source language (e.g. Sanskrit, Chinese, and Tibetan) un-translated. Or, as I often do for the sheer fun of it, create new terms. “Buddhist vegetarianology” is one such neologism. But in our digital age, one is bound to realize that whatever term one wishes to coin has already been coined by someone else although not in the same context that one prefers to employ. The term “vegetarianology” can already be found on the web though not in any standard literary or reference work. “Buddhist vegetarianology” is to be understood here as the “study of the idea of vegetarianism found in Buddhist literature and culture.” It would naturally also include the study of Buddhist attitude towards meat-eating. One the one hand, it is perhaps inappropriate for a non-vegetarian to talk about the topic of vegetarianism in Buddhism. On the other hand, I could still try to play the role of a śrāvaka who transmits the teachings of a bodhisattva. The analogy of a bodhisattva giving śrāvaka teachings would not work here. My interest here is in knowing the history of the idea of vegetarianism in Buddhism. Lambert Schmithausen has pursued in-depth studies on the topic from a historical-philological perspective and also, in my view, shown the possibility for contemporary Buddhists to make creative and innovative reorientation without having to deny the historical development of vegetarianism and non-vegetarianism in Buddhism. He is currently pursuing a major study on the topic. Anyone interested in the topic would greatly benefit from his hitherto pertinent and forthcoming publications. What follows is a small attempt to understand a fragment of the paper that he recently gave in Düsseldorf.

§1. The crux of the problem is that basically meat-eating is permissible for both ordained and lay Buddhists, whereas killing of animals, insofar as it is an unwholesome action, should be refrained by both ordained and lay Buddhists. The difficulty, in other words, is how to reconcile the permission of meat-eating and prohibition of (or abstention from) injuring sentient beings (ahiṁsā). Of the three kinds of Buddhists, it must have been the most difficult for Buddhists who were fishermen, hunters, butchers, and kings (like Aśoka) to eat meat and yet abstain from killing animals. For Buddhists who were merchants, artisans, and the like, it was possible to eat meat without having to kill an animal (i.e. by buying meat in the market). For ordained persons, it was much easier to eat meat (if offered as alms) without having to kill an animal. Initially (perhaps) both ordained Buddhists and Jain ascetics were supposed to live on the leftovers of meals of lay families. 

§2. Unlike Jain ascetics, Buddhist monks and nuns, however, were also permitted to accept food prepared specially for them and even accept invitations. This must have created a new difficulty. A Buddhist monk or nun could get indirectly involved in the killing if the animal was killed just him or her. Jains must have made this accusation against the Buddhist order. Thus in order to avoid a direct or close causal association with the act of killing and in order to avoid such an accusation by the Jains, ordained monks and nuns were permitted to accept meat (and fish) only if pure from three points of view (trikoṭipariśuddha: rnam gsum dag pa). 

§3. Meat-eating, in whatever form, had yet another difficulty. It did not conform the norms of asceticism inasmuch as meat and fish (like ghee, butter, milk, sesamum oil, honey, and molasses) were considered exquisite food and hence as luxury. Unlike non-Buddhist radical ascetics, who abstained from meat and fish as elements of severe austerities, Buddhists renunciants were permitted to accept any food and consume it in moderation, be it exquisite or frugal. Unless ill, they were not permitted to ask for exquisite food. For early Buddhism, the emphasis was not so much on external asceticism but rather on inner asceticism (as a kind of inner detachment). There are indications in early Buddhism that there has been certain shift in setting the degree of the stringency of asceticism. On the one hand, there has been a tendency of certain laxation in asceticism (e.g. invitations were acceptable and alms-tour reduced to optional). On the other hand, there was an opposite tendency of rigidization of asceticism (e.g. calling for a strict and obligatory adherence to severe practices). In the various versions of the Vinaya (except that of the Mahāsāṃghikas), there is a report of an attempt of categorical prohibition of meat and fish (and, in some sources, even ghee, milk and salt), which is, however, associated with Devadatta and explicitly rejected. According to one version of the Mūlasarvāstivādavinaya, Devadatta calls for a ban on meat-eating not on the grounds of ascetism but on the grounds of ethicism (i.e. meat-eating presupposes the killing of animals). 

§4. Eating special kinds of meat (e.g. of human, dog, horse, elephant, snake, etc.) was problematic for reasons of tabooism or social in-acceptability, which could jeopardize the social prestige of the Buddhist order. 

§5. Eating special kinds of meat (e.g. of predators) and eating of meat and fish by certain monks such as those who practice in the cemeteries have been seen as problematic for security reasons and hence should be abstained for the sake of self-protection. 

§6. In short, in early Buddhism, there was no total prohibition of meat-eating for the ordained as well as lay persons. There were only certain restrictions, especially for ordained persons, mainly to anonymize and dissociate them from responsibility for the killing, to avoid loss of social prestige, and for self-protection. But there was a tendency to rigidify ascetism by calling for the prohibition of meat-eating and also on the ground of ethicism. 

§7. But there was also tendency of an idealization of a world or epoch without meat-eating, and thus, so to speak, towards vegetarianism. 

§8. Only one (and not even a strong) strand of Indian Mahāyāna Buddhism calls for abstention from meat-eating. 

§9. Mahāyānic scriptures such as the Ratnameghasūtra, Hastikakṣyasūtra, Mahāmeghasūtra, Mahāparinirvāṇamahāsūtra, Aṅgulimālīyasūtra, Laṅkāvatārasūtra, and the like are said to propose vegetarianism to varying degrees and with shared or specific arguments. On the one hand, one can find inauguration of new ideas in accordance with the fundamentals of Mahāyāna spirituality and on the other hand practical adaptations to social developments. This was considered necessary for the social reputation of the bodhisatvas and the Buddhist Order. Some of the arguments for total abstention from meat-eating found in these sources may be called “self-protection argument,” “altruism-argument” (DW), “all-beings-are-my-relatives argument” (LS), in which case meat-eating would amount to endo-cannibalism, tathāgatagarbha (or “one-and-same-element argument” (DW), in which case meat-eating would amount to autophagy, “physical-social-impurity argument” (DW), “complicity-argument” (DW) or “consumer-argument” (LS), and so on. 

§10. Schmithausen has not dealt with the abstention of meat-eating in the Kriyā system of Mantrayāna. One possible implicit argument would be the “physical-impurity argument.” Meat-eating would render one impure and unfit as a recipient of the mundane and supra-mundane siddhis. 

§12. Vegetarianism has been propagated strongly by several past and present prominent Tibetan Buddhist masters, occasionally even to the detriment of the health of some nomadic people (e.g. pregnant women) in Tibet and in Tibetan cultural sphere. A systematic study of their arguments for the abstention of meat-eating would be worth a study. 

§13. Lastly a point from a certain Tibetan Buddhist (Tantric) perspective may be made. “Meat is eaten by one who has compassion. Alcohol is drunk by one who has Tantric commitment” (sha snying rje can gyis bza’ || chang dam tshig can gyis ’thung ||). So it is said. This might sound like an excuse for one’s greed. I have heard some Tibetan masters say that one may eat meat only if one can eat it as if one were forced to eat the meat of one’s only child. That is, with so much compassion and remorse, and with no greed or pleasure whatsoever. The bottom-line, for some Tibetan masters, would be, if you eat meat, eat it with compassion. If you abstain from it, do so out of compassion. An Atiyogin would, however, neither demand meat nor reject it.

My Short Experiment with Vegetarianism

Until high school, I never ate chicken and mutton (i.e. goat’s meat). This has partly to do with my direct witness of how some Indian teachers slaughtered goats or cocks or hens. Once they even demanded that I helped in the act. I refused and locked myself in in an empty classroom. Our family did eat dried beef, pork, and fish but often only on special occasions such as the New Year. We also used to eat meat of a cow, for example, that died a natural death. We never reared animals for meat. As children we were forbidden to mention the word “meat” in front of our domestic animals, especially cows. “Meat of killed animal” (bsad sha) used to be a taboo and meat of a just-killed animal even a greater taboo. Once my mother almost killed me for daring to eat sausage made from such a kind of meat. 

In the high school, I ate meat (probably buffalo meat) on Tuesdays and Fridays because the school provided it. As a monk in a Tibetan Buddhist monastic seminary, I tried to be a vegetarian for a few months. In those days, monasteries and monks were very poor and resources very scarce. An ex-monk of Paṇ-chen-bla-ma cooked for the monks in the seminary. He used to smoke biḍī (a kind of cheap Indian cigarette). As a dGe-lugs ex-monk he had no sense of guilt in consuming the intoxicant. “The Buddha did not prohibit smoking,” he would say. “It was Slob-dpon Rin-po-che who did.”  He did not feel obliged to heed to the instructions of Slob-dpon Rin-po-che because, according to him, he had “women” (skye dman). He despised all bla mas who had “women.” He would show his little finger to vent his detestation for them. Dil-mgo-mkhyen-brtse Rin-po-che was no exception. He despised him too. He used to say that “a Bhutanese bla ma with woman scratched everything away from Pad-nor Rin-po-che and that monks were left with nothing to eat.” He was referring to the offerings Pad-nor Rin-po-che made after Dil-mgo-mkhyen-brtse Rin-po-che bestowed initiations and transmission of Mi-pham’s works. In order to tease him, I would tell him “Paṇ-chen Rin-po-che, too, had woman.” He would stand there fuming with biḍī and anger. He had tremendous respect for Pad-nor Rin-po-che not the least because he was a a fully-ordained Buddhist monk (bhikṣu: dge slong). So he volunteered to cook for Pad-nor Rin-po-che’s monks in the seminary. Of course, provisions were provided by Pad-nor Rin-po-che. Most monks dedicated to acquiring Dharmic knowledge were full of gratitude for receiving knowledge, accommodation, and food for free. Mi-la-ras-pa could have only dreamt of such a facility! Note that Mar-pa told him very sternly that he can expect from him either Dharma (chos) or food-and-clothes (lto gos) but not both! The cook turned out not to be the kindest person or the most competent cook on earth. The tea he would prepare would smell and look smoky. Its temperature would be either cold or lukewarm. The tea and the rice porridge he made would contain biḍī butts. Rice would often be half-cooked or burnt. The roasted maize-flour would be full of sands. Two monks were assigned to assist the cook for two weeks. If those two monks made better food or tea, he would become jealous. To spoil their work, he would, for example, even pour a bucket of cold water into a caldron of ready-to-eat rice porridge. To minimize the damage, the two monks had to somehow keep the cook happy. Only two things could make him happy. (a) Let him cook as he wished. (b) Buy him a bottle of ara (i.e. alcohol) and a packet of biḍī. Hardly anyone would complain. Even teachers would mix some sandy tsam pa with some lukewarm biḍī-smelling tea, turn into a brew and sip at it. If one slightly shook the dented steel-bowl with the concoction, one could hear the sound of sand-sediments rubbing against the steel. Only once I heard a senior teacher reprimand the cook saying the Rin-po-che is providing the provisions for the saṃgha and that these should by no means be wasted. Another teacher, however, would reprimand any monk who complained. “The door is open in both ways,” he would say. “Nobody invited you to come. If you are displeased, you may leave the seminary any time.” He was right. Some monks would leave; others would stay behind biting their lips and biting sandy tsam pas. I stayed. Occasionally there would be meat. If one is lucky one might be able to fish out a piece of meat or bone in the porridge or cabbage or potato dish. There would be no vegetarian alternative. Once I told the cook that I don’t eat meat. He told me that I should then only take the soup or put aside the meat pieces (in any). Under such circumstances, the only way one could be a vegetarian was to buy one’s own vegetarian food. I had no money and so vegetarianism was a luxury for me. So I relinquished my short-lived vegetarian diet. Since then I eat meat but I try not to eat meat so often. I know I have no other excuse for my meat-eating except my greed and my inability to relinquish “exquisite” food. I am often guilt-ridden for eating meat and have much respect for those who relinquish meat for whatever motives. One thing seems clear: If I had to kill an animal myself to obtain its meat for myself, perhaps I would never eat meat.

Apropos, I am tempted to share this story. It is said that once a German lady witnessed the Dalai Lama eating a piece of steak onboard a plane. She went up to him and said: “I thought Buddhists do not eat meat.” The Dalai Lama retorted: “Those are the good Buddhists.”

Anti-Fatalism?

I have encountered the legend of how Pāṇini came to learn Sanskrit Grammar several times in Tibetan sources (e.g. Co ne’i bstan dkar, p. 179). I will leave to the Sanskritists to teach us whether the story has its Indian or Indic antecedent. I am, however, not so much interested in the story as such but rather in its implicit message of anti-fatalistic attitude or anti-fatalism or anti-determinism (karmic or otherwise). The story goes like this. Pāṇini wishes to learn Sanskrit grammar and goes to a palmist to let read his palm. The palmist flatly tells him that he is destined not to know Sanskrit grammar. He, however, is determined. He takes a sharp instrument and etches in his palm the palm-lines conducive to grammar knowledge and goes in search of a grammar teacher. He does not obtain one, and so invokes Mahādeva until the deity reveals to him and asks: “What do you wish?” “I wish to know grammar,” he replies. And he just utters “a, i, u” and lo! He comes to know Sanskrit grammar. The interesting point here is, on the one hand, the idea of intervening one’s fate or destiny through one’s sheer will, and on the other hand, the idea of divine intervention or help. The story reminds me slightly of the cutting of the “Gordian Knot.” There is nothing specifically Buddhistic in the story, but I have an impression that also some Buddhists would perhaps share the idea that one can change the course of one’s destiny through the sheer force of one’s will. Because karmic mechanism is defined by volitional impulses, one has the choice to set or upset one’s volitional impulses and thereby redefine the course of one’s destiny (even without the help of divine intervention). If one is not born with the right line of destiny on one’s palm, one corrects it and creates it! But please don’t try this yourself!

Padmaism or Padmology

According to the Tibetan lunar calendrical system, today (i.e. 26.6.2015) is supposed to be the birthday of Padmasambhava. Leaving aside the issue of the dateability of this figure, I wish to, on this occasion, reflect a little on the phenomenon of Padmasambhava, which Helmut Hoffmann (The Religions of Tibet, translated by Edward Fitzgerald. London: George Allen & Unwin, London 1961; cf. Seyfort Ruegg 2008: 170–171, n. 232) once called “Padmaism.” 

Except for some Tibetan Buddhists, for whom he is an iconic representation of heterodoxy and heteropraxy, Padmasambhava is, for many Tibetan Buddhists, the Second Buddha. (There are, by the way, many other Second Buddhas.) And to the utter disbelief, disdain, and disgust of those who are opposed to Padmasambhava phenomenon, Padmasambhava is accorded by their devotees with a status higher than that of the historical Buddha himself! While it might sound outrageous for any Buddhist to place anyone above the historical Buddha, the idea that one’s guru, though equal to the Buddha in terms of the qualities of elimination and realization, is higher than the Buddha in terms of the beneficial spiritual value that one can derive from one’s benevolent and competent teacher, is not unknown in Tibetan Buddhism. For Rong-zom-pa, one of my Tibetan mentors, one’s guru may be seen a semblance of the Three Jewels; as the embodiment of the Three Jewels; as the Fourth Jewel; or even one higher than the Three Jewels. Needless to say one is most grateful to one who benefits one the most. Occasionally, I tend to personally see my guru as my foster Buddha (Zieh-Buddha) not because I have less respect or appreciation for the historical Buddha but because I have been less fortunate in being a direct spiritual son of his. Although the word Lamaism is misleading for a number of reasons, it does seem to accentuate an important aspect of Indian and Tibetan Mahāyāna (and especially Mantrayāna) Buddhism. Many Tibetan Buddhists saw and still see Padmasambhava as a guru par excellence, and is often seen by some as superseding the historical Buddha himself. A possible factor for this elevation seems to be the primary association of Padmasambhava with Mantric form of Mahāyāna Buddhism, which is, all in all, accorded with a status higher than that of the Sūtric or non-Mantric form of Mahāyāna Buddhism. Padmasambhava’s domain of salvific activities, for example, is said to be larger than that of Śākyamuni’s. See, for example, Mi-pham’s line: mi mjed ’jig rten so drug la sogs par ||.

How much of the accounts of Padmasambhava is historically verifiable  or plausible and how much of it is legendary or fictitious? In this regard, I contend that we should clearly distinguish two issues, namely, the historicity of the person or figure Padmasambhava (i.e. Padmasambhava as a historical person or figure) and the historicity of the idea of Padmasambhava. Importantly, my position is that any attempt to trace the historical kernels behind the person or figure Padmasambhava, or any figure for that matter, enshrouded in mysteries and legends, should presuppose a nuanced understanding of the history of the idea of Padmasambhava. While we may never fully succeed in unraveling the historical facticity of the person or figure Padmasambhava, we are most likely to be able to explain when, why, and how the idea of Padmasambhava originated, developed, and proliferated and this might help us to understand the spiritual and intellectual world of a civilization impregnated with Buddhism.

Tibetan Buddhists—be they be covertly or overtly anti-Padmasambhava or pro-Padmasambhava—would presumably cognize and recognize that not every account of Padmasambhava is purely historical or purely ahistorical. Perhaps one could state that Padmasambhava is somewhat like the historical Buddha himself. One could reasonably propose that both were historical figures but in both cases legends came to enshroud their historical kernels. Just as the development of the various conceptions of the Buddha (i.e. Buddhology) can tell us a great deal about the history of Buddhism and the spiritual and intellectual world of those who associated themselves with the Buddha, so would the conceptions of Padmasambhava, so to speak, Padmology, tell us a great deal about the history of Tibetan Buddhism and the spiritual and intellectual world of those who directly or indirectly associated themselves with mKhan-slob-chos-gsum (i.e. Śāntarakṣita, Padmasambhava, and Khri Srong-lde-btsan). I hope it is fairly correct to state that the initially historical figure Padmasambhava (limited to a certain time and place) gradually became an ahistorical (i.e. atemporal and aspatial) Buddhaic icon and idol. Padmasambhava has clearly come to take the role of an iconized and idolized embodiment of all buddhas, bodhisattvas, mahāsiddhas, vidyādharas, and paṇḍitas. He came to be viewed as the All-in-One Buddha.

In my view, just as it seems utterly futile for a student of the history of ideas to try and prove or disprove the existence of the creator God, it seems to make no sense in trying to verify or falsify, vilify or glorify, the doctrinal claims made by the Buddhist sources. But it does not mean that one should not try and understand the history of the idea of the Creator God and mutatis mutandis also the history of the idea of the Buddha or of Padmasambhava. Should such an idea be reproachable from a Mahāyāna doctrinal point of view? In my view, not really unless a Mahāyānist would boldly claim that all buddha and bodhisattva figures occurring in the Mahāyāna scriptures are historical figures (e.g. Amitābha or Avalokiteśvara), that is, in the same way, Tsong-kha-pa, for example, is. While one can defensibly claim that the idea of Avalokiteśvara is historical, one can hardly and defensibly claim that Avalokiteśvara was a historical figure born in a certain time and place. I am sure some of the most respected Tibetan Buddhist masters would agree in explaining that Avalokiteśvara is nothing but an embodiment, a representation (and hence a crystallization) of the compassion of buddhas and bodhisattvas! The very thought of Avalokiteśvara should invoke or provoke one’s compassion. The very sound of oṃ ma ṇi padme hūṃ should recall one of compassion. How can such a noble idea be reproachable? I would contend that such an understanding or interpretation of Avalokiteśvara or Padmasambhava is not a New-Age interpretation based on no historical-philological grounds but one that seems to make, historically and philologically, the most plausible sense. Also traditional scholars such as Mi-pham seem to view Padmasambhava in the same light, for which, see his Tshig bdun rnam bshad padma dkar po. We know that for centuries long, Tibetan scholars have debated regarding the mode of Padmasambhava’s birth. Was he lotus-born (i.e. born miraculously) or was he was born ordinarily from his mother’s womb? On the one hand, it is true that mystification, glorification, and amplification of the accounts of the Buddha and Padmasambhava have greatly undermined their reliability and credibility. While mystifications, glorifications, and amplifications certainly have their instrumental values, they seem to have little epistemic or historical value. Precisely because I have great respect and admiration for them, I must also say that one of the greatest weaknesses of the anonymous Buddhists in India and Tibet who were presumably behind the mass production of Buddhist scriptures might have been that they had little sense of (or interest in) history and they, in a way, did some disservice to the Buddha and Padmasambhava by mystifying, glorifying, and amplifying them and thereby veiling or obscuring them. The bottom line of Tibetan expression bstod mi shes pas smad pa rings a familiar tone in my ear. That is, one might dishonor someone by not knowing how to honor him or her. Similarly, like many Buddhologists, I do not believe that all those works ascribed to Nagārjuna were composed by the one and the same person.  A problematic question that keeps me bugging is: Assuming that there were more than one Nagārjuna, Vasubandhu, Āryadeva, Candrakīrti, and so on, did Nagārjuna II, Vasubandhu II, Āryadeva II, Candrakīrti II, and so on, pose themselves as Nagārjuna I, Vasubandhu I, Āryadeva I, Candrakīrti I, and so on? I hope that they did not and that they simply happened to bear those names just as we would have several persons with the name Hans Mayer. If they did, however, indeed make an attempt to pass themselves on as their earlier namesakes, one would doubt their sincerity or honesty. In short, the point I am trying to make is, strictly speaking, we have difficulties even with those figures which we consider historical, let alone with semi-historical and ahistorical figures!

But despite all the difficulties, the textual sources dealing with historical, semi-historical, and ahistorical figures ought to be studied carefully. Most of the scriptures or literatures that have been transmitted to us were perhaps never meant as historical sources, at least not in the sense that we might understand “historical sources” today. But it does not mean that these are completely useless. Even seemingly ahistorical and non-historical sources and ideas have their own histories and they might even offer valuable clues for the historical events and entities.  

Returning to the Padmaism or Padmology, from a Mahāyānic perspective, Padmasambhava has assumed the roles of both figures such as Mañjuśri and the historical Buddha. All conceivable deities have eventually been, so to speak, “Padmaized” or “O-rgyanized” (e.g. O-rgyan-sman-lha and O-rgyan-lor-lha). Those Buddhists who cannot come to terms with mundane and supramundane deities found in Sūtric and Mantric Mahāyāna would and should find Padmaism strange. But those who feel at home with mundane and supramundane deities found in Sūtric and Mantric Mahāyāna should be, at least in principle, able to tolerate Padmaism.

PS. There are other names and forms of Padmasambhava in the Tibetan tradition but the name and monkish form of Padmasambhava is not particularly common in Tibetan tradition. How come then that in secondary sources the monkish form Padmasambhava seems to be the most standard name? I was told that Drung-pa Rin-po-che once gave an explanation. Tibetan clerics who were indisposed to Padmasambhava’s other non-monkish forms may have exercised some influence in this trend.