Buddhism under Capitalism 9781350228320, 9781350228337, 9781350228368, 9781350228351

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BUDDHISM UNDER CAPITALISM

Also Available from Bloomsbury: Buddhism and Waste Edited by Trine Brox and Elizabeth Williams-Oerberg Monks, Money and Morality Edited by Christoph Brumann, Saskia Abrahms-Kavunenko and Beata Switek Neoliberal Religion Mathew Guest

BUDDHISM UNDER CAPITALISM

Edited by Richard K. Payne and Fabio Rambelli

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2023 Copyright © Richard K. Payne, Fabio Rambelli and contributors, 2023 Richard K. Payne and Fabio Rambelli have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editors of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgments on p. viii constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: Rebeca Heselton Cover image: Buddhist temple in Bangkok at Wat Trimitr during twilight © Goldquest / Alamy Stock Photo All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Control Number: 2022936791 ISBN: HB: 978-1-3502-2832-0 PB: 978-1-3502-2833-7 ePDF: 978-1-3502-2835-1 eBook: 978-1-3502-2834-4 Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www​.bloomsbury​.com and sign up for our newsletters

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations vii Acknowledgments viii The Economic Study of Buddhism  Richard K. Payne and Fabio Rambelli 1 Part I  Historical Perspective 1

Monastic Capitalism? On the Inclusiveness of Tibetan Monastic Institutions  William K. Dewey 25

Part II  Contemporary Studies 2

Selling Buddhism by Branding Mindfulness and Reiki as Valuable, Secular Services: Three Interacting Economic Models  Candy Gunther Brown 47

3

Consciousness Raising, False Consciousness, and Freud: Buddhist Traditions in Contemporary Mental Health Economies in the United States  Ira Helderman 62

4

Buddhist Technoscapes: Interrogating “Skillful Means” in East Asian Monasteries  Courtney Bruntz 83

5

Perceiving Authenticity: Online Tourism Reviews of Buddhist Tourist Destinations  Kendall Marchman 98

6

Ethics in Small Business Capitalism of Women Kuan Im Followers in Thailand  Mark Speece and Jitnisa Roenjun 116

7

The Business of Buddhism: Creating Karmic Connections in Ladakh and Europe  Elizabeth Williams-Oerberg 132

8

Gross National Happiness: Capitalism under Buddhism in the Kingdom of Bhutan  Barbra Clayton and Della Duncan 147

Contents

Part III  Theoretical Reflections 9

Drawing Blood: At the Intersection of Knowledge Economies and Buddhist Economies  Scott A. Mitchell 169

10 A Part of or Apart from Globalization? The Ambivalent Relationship between Buddhism and Modern Capitalism  Lionel Obadia 184 11 Prolegomena to a Buddhist(ic) Critique of Capitalism  James Mark Shields 197 Notes 215 References 230 List of Contributors 263 Index 267

vi

ILLUSTRATIONS

Figures 6.1 6.2 6.3 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4

Kuan Im’s position in Thailand’s Buddhist reform currents Summary of regression results Schematic of paths Sand mandala ritual performed in a Tibetan restaurant in Copenhagen Chöd performance at the Black Diamond performance hall in Copenhagen Chamba statue in Thiksey monastery, Ladakh Chamba hotel and restaurant sign in Thiksey, Ladakh

117 128 129 137 139 142 144

Tables 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 6.1 6.2

Quantitative Review of Buddhist Tourist Destinations Mafengwo Quantitative Evaluation Top Fifty Most Frequent Words in Mt. Emei OTRs Top Fifty Most Frequent Words in Mt. Wutai OTRs Top Fifty Most Frequent Words in Nanshan Scenic Spot OTRs Summary of Composite Variables Summary of Hypothesis Results and Implied Mediation

107 107 109 111 113 127 128

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Our thanks go to all of the participants, presenters, respondents, and committee members of the American Academy of Religion Seminar “Economics and Capitalism in the Study of Buddhism,” which ran from 2015 to 2019. The annual themes of the seminar included “Health Care Institutions and Economics: Transforming Buddhist Practice” (2015, Atlanta), “Authenticity and Authority: Tradition and Novelty” (2016, San Antonio), “Buddhist Practice During Collapse: Economic, Cultural, Institutional, and Political” (2017, Boston), “Buddhist Response to Capitalist Situations, Wealth and Excess, and Institutional Changes” (2018, Boston), and “Authenticity and Merit: Institutions and Economic Actors” (2019, San Diego). Each year four or five papers were presented, some of which are found in revised form in this collection. When we started the seminar, the field of the economic study of Buddhism was in its infancy. In the course of the seminar’s duration, several international seminars, conferences, and workshops were held, such that today the field is a recognized area of research and publication. Our thanks also to the editors of Bloomsbury Academic for their assistance and guidance through this project. Richard K. Payne and Fabio Rambelli

THE ECONOMIC STUDY OF BUDDHISM

Richard K. Payne and Fabio Rambelli

Introduction Self-reflection by religious studies scholars has highlighted the importance of social, political, and economic contexts for deepening our understanding of religious texts, beliefs, and practices. Focusing specifically on the role of imperialism, Richard A. Horsley notes that “The imperial power relations involved in the very settings, plots, and characters of canonical texts have seemed unimportant. Indeed, political-economic relations in general have been ignored, seen as irrelevant to the aesthetics, the cultural content, and the theology to be mined from our special texts” (Horsley 2003: 13–14; see also Kwok 2012). Reflexive scholarship has already brought attention to the colonialist and missionary context of the origin of Buddhist studies as a field (Lopez 1995). This scholarship has focused for the most part on the period from about the middle of the nineteenth century through the first quarter of the twentieth. The dynamics of power relations since that time, however, have shifted from overt imperialism and colonialism to less obviously direct forms of political, economic, and social control. At the same time, neoliberal philosophies have permeated capitalist societies, affecting discourses of the self and other societal structures. The present global context for the study of Buddhism is one in which economic relations are the predominant ways in which power is exercised. This is exemplified by corporations existing as multinational entities and by the global forms of capitalist production and consumption. Reflexive scholarship in the present, therefore, needs to consider the role of capitalism in the formation of Buddhist institutions and representations, as well as critical self-reflection on the way in which Buddhism is apprehended as an object of study in the present. “The networked capitalist world is a framework, or scaffolding, for almost any serious inquiry into contemporary cultural and social dynamics” (Eriksen 2010: xiii). “Buddhism under capitalism” is consciously modeled on the subtitle of Donald Lopez Jr.’s collection Curators of the Buddha: Buddhism under Colonialism. The goal of the phrasing is to move the conversation in Buddhist studies forward into the twentyfirst century, such that the complexity of the Buddhist institution—sasana, sangha, monastery, lineage, temple, not-for-profit religious corporation—is recognized, along with the societal roles of Buddhist institutions. Although no longer academically fashionable, representing Buddhism by the image of the isolated meditator, preferably in some rustic wilderness or sun-bathed seashore, still pervades popular understandings of the tradition. Even an archetypal isolated meditator, such as Milarepa, needed a society to make their practice possible. This book brings to the fore and tackles upfront capitalism’s impact on Buddhism in its various ramifications—Buddhist organizations, beliefs, practices, practitioners,

Buddhism under Capitalism

scholars, and scholarship. In an important sense, capitalism as a diffuse economic, social, and political system is so pervasive in the lives of most people across our planet that it has become practically invisible in its multiple effects, almost entirely naturalized. At the same time, this invisible pervasiveness tends to blind people to the facts that even though (i) the nature, practice, and study of Buddhism have been shaped by it, (ii) capitalism is not a monolith but comes in different forms and degrees, (iii) noncapitalist formations still exist, and (iv) Buddhism could offer ways to think and act differently from the dominant capitalist models. The contemporary conceptual system providing social acceptance of capitalist economics is neoliberal ideology—the system of ideas that promotes unconstrained free-market capitalism (in other words, laissez-faire) as the best system for individual flourishing. Economists identify different types of capitalism, such as “oligarchic capitalism, state-guided capitalism, big-firm capitalism, and entrepreneurial capitalism” (Baumol, Litan, and Schramm 2012, abstract). In 2001, cultural critic Slavoj Žižek published a brief article, “From Western Marxism to Western Buddhism,” in which he argued that what he calls “Western Buddhism” is in fact the ideology of global advanced capitalism (Žižek 2001). He returned to this idea several times, including in a 2011 lecture entitled “The Buddhist Ethic and the Spirit of Global Capitalism”1 and in the book Event (2014). Žižek argues that Buddhism provides the best support of capitalism precisely because of its emphasis on detachment and laissez-faire. In Žižek’s words, “Western Buddhism” is the “fetish that enables you to (pretend to) accept reality ‘the way it is’” (2001: 2). In other words, “Western Buddhism” “enables you to fully participate in the frantic pace of the capitalist game while sustaining the perception that you are not really in it; that you are well aware of how worthless this spectacle is; and that what really matters to you is the peace of the Inner Self to which you know you can always withdraw” (2001: 2). In short, “The ‘Western Buddhist’ meditative stance is arguably the most efficient way for us to fully participate in capitalist dynamics while retaining the appearance of mental sanity” (Žižek 2001: 1).2 However, it appears that Buddhism’s stance toward capitalism is not limited to the contemporary West; one could argue that, since a very early stage, Buddhism already contained and promoted quasi- or proto-capitalist attitudes. Contrary to received assumptions, Buddhism has never been a world-denying religion, unconcerned with, or clearly inimical to, economic activities. Buddhist institutions have always functioned also as large economic hubs: they required a significant amount of labor, both skilled and unskilled; they purchased a vast array of different materials, goods, and services; they reclaimed and developed noncultivated lands; they functioned as centers for industry (mills, presses), finance, commerce (market places), travel, professional guilds, and entertainment and performing arts (Elverskog 2020). At the same time, quasi- and proto-capitalism are not exactly what we generally imagine when we think of today’s neoliberal capitalism, which in turn is not the only existing (or possible) type of capitalism. And it is not very clear to what extent Žižek’s “Western Buddhism” represents the dominant economic positions of the various forms of Buddhism in Asia. 2

The Economic Study of Buddhism

Although “capitalism” constitutes the organizing center point, this collection circles both inward and outward from that specific economic system. Not all systems of exchange are capitalist, and in exploring some of the histories of Buddhist institutions as economic agents precapitalist forms are included. Also, not all forms of capitalism are neoliberal corporate capitalism, though several of the contributions here do focus on the interaction between it and the Buddhist tradition. Not only does Buddhism engage globalized capitalism with its seemingly unlimitable powers but also small business capitalism, as practiced by owner/operators. This book is, therefore, both an extended and a focused examination of the effects of global, or late, capitalism with its ability to transcend traditional national boundaries, which were the defining condition of colonialism, the previous global socioeconomic system. As indicated by Eriksen in the previously mentioned quote, there is an integral connection between the ability of contemporary consumer capitalism to make a presence in societies over the entirety of the globe and the technological changes that have contributed to increasingly globalized systems of communication and travel. Instances of this include post-socialist countries such as Vietnam in which newly (re-)introduced capitalist ideologies may be visible in religious aspects of the societies, such as monastic economies, or alternatively in forms of resistance.

The Historical Study of the Economics of Buddhism The economics of Buddhism has a history that is, of course, as long as the tradition itself. The economic exchange of lay donations (dāna) and merit (punya) was fundamental to the existence of the early sangha and is an economic model employed into the present by some Buddhist groups. However, the economic study of religion, although rooted in sociological reflection and dating back to Adam Smith (1723–90) (McCleary 2011: 3), is itself a relatively new academic field. And, the study of the economics of Buddhism is even more recent. The anti-communist rhetoric of the post-Second World War era presented a view of religion as a domain separate from both politics and economics. Any discussion of the economics of religion was easily labeled as a kind of dangerous Marxism, an attempt to undermine the foundations of Western civilization. Consequently, there has been little focus on the history of the economic dimensions of the Buddhist tradition, and this collection focusing as it does on the relation between Buddhism and capitalism can provide only some consideration of that history. One of the best descriptions of the economic impact of Buddhism in any society is still Jacques Gernet’s classic book on Buddhism in medieval China, originally published in 1956, translated into English as Buddhism in Chinese Society (Gernet 1995). Gernet strongly criticizes Buddhism for being both an economic burden on the masses and a capitalistic enterprise. He talks about the “cost of Buddhism to China,” such as “the appalling misery for the peasant class” that Buddhism created; “the imbalance between production and consumption caused by the Buddhist movement” and the “fiscal problems caused by Buddhism.” In his treatment, Gernet takes at face value the positions 3

Buddhism under Capitalism

expressed by Chinese medieval anti-Buddhist state officials (and, perhaps, also those of contemporary Maoism) and reiterates their arguments. In short, Gernet presented Buddhism as a burden for the state because it reduced manpower (monks were unproductive) and tax revenue (monasteries were tax-exempt), thus causing a huge depletion of state wealth (as resources were deflected into Buddhistrelated “unproductive” expenditures). In this way, Buddhism was a harm to the state and the peasants. It is worth noting here that these old Confucian arguments were rehashed in Korea first and later in Japan during the Edo period by anti-Buddhist authors and groups and contributed to various anti-Buddhist policies from the mid-1600s culminating in the Meiji persecutions (1868–71). Still, Gernet also tells us a different story, albeit in a fragmentary and almost surreptitious way. Aside from the fact that state officials and their families were engaged in huge and useless expenses for themselves (“embroidered garments,” luxurious “kitchen stoves,” lavish “makeup” (Gernet 1995: 36)—with the implication that Buddhist temples did not have the monopoly over unproductive expenses), we get the sense that Buddhist institutions were also important economic hubs. They hired a significant amount of labor, both skilled and unskilled; purchased a vast array of different materials, goods, and services (materials and goods which had to be produced for and delivered to the temples, thus involving other professional services and larger economy networks: Gernet 1995: 18–19); and reclaimed and developed noncultivated lands (Gernet 1995: 119); Buddhist temples were even involved in supporting the state’s colonization endeavors (Gernet 1995: 98–100). In addition, temples were “industrial installations” (they operated mills, presses, and other activities: Gernet 1995: 142); commercial and financial centers: “craft and commerce for the supply of devotional objects in the vicinity of monasteries” (Gernet 1995: 167); “the great monasteries too had shops in the marketplaces . . . These served, it seems, at once as inns for travelers, as shops, and as pawnshops” (Gernet 1995: 168). Even though Gernet refers to financial activities with the derogatory word “usury,” no other agency at the time gave any amount of loans to all kinds of people; if nothing else, loans could be an incentive for entrepreneurship that no state agency would support. Gernet also does not say that the peasants would have been taxed anyway, and that the resources extracted from them would have gone, instead of temples—and through them, at least in part, back to their communities—to the vast imperial bureaucracy and the military. He also does not emphasize enough that temples did provide services for the population that the state was mostly unable or unwilling to provide: among other things, education, health, technological innovation, and economic support. His focus on the “cost” of religious institutions ignores that these “costs” involved attracting workers and trades in the areas around the temples, wages being paid to workers and professionals, and a general diffusion of economic benefits in those areas. The picture described by Gernet was unique to China. In medieval and early modern Japan as well, Buddhist temples were hubs of innovative economic activities. They served as catalysts for marketplaces, centers of professional guilds, places for entertainment and performing arts, entrepreneurial agencies involved in land reclamation and agricultural developments, technological and industrial innovation, financial activities, and trade 4

The Economic Study of Buddhism

(including foreign trade until the early seventeenth century). This is true even in the Edo period (1600–1868), a time generally considered as one of decline for Buddhism. Indeed, it is well possible that images of decline and degeneration of Buddhism were artfully spread by authors and groups who were keenly aware of the wealth and economic power of Buddhist institutions and had a direct or indirect interest in appropriating them.3 As noted above, Buddhism has never been a world-denying religion, unconcerned with, or clearly inimical to, economic activities. On the contrary, Buddhist practice has always been predicated upon a decent living, as is clear in the case of merit-making, with its goal of improving material life in the present as a way to gain security, peace of mind, and therefore the leisure to engage in Buddhist practice. Despite the massive economic presence of Buddhist institutions and their entrepreneurial role, the scarcity of theoretical discourses about the economy and economics in canonical literature is astonishing. Wealthy patrons of the Buddha and his sangha such as Vimalakirti are extolled for their generosity, but the source of their wealth is never explained in detail. An account of the origin of social and economic differences is included in the Aggañña suttanta and other later sources (these scriptures are also included in the East Asian canons); this is uncannily Marxian in its description of the process that led to the formation of private property, primitive accumulation, and labor division and class/caste distinction. It is, however, doubtful that this sutra had any direct impact on Buddhist social practices at large; perhaps, it pointed to a need to curb what it sees as socially degenerate practices through the establishment of alternative social and political systems for the sangha (see Rambelli 2014). The lack of canonical sources on economic matters should not be interpreted as an indication that the latter were not important for monastic communities or temple organizations; rather, it suggests that much of Buddhist economic knowledge was developed in other sources and contexts, what we could call the “practical canon”—a set of teachings, instructions, and rules about practical, everyday matters, that were not addressed in canonical sources (Blackburn 1999). It is thus necessary to examine actual economic practices at temples and the documents that described them for clues regarding the principles behind them. In addition to Gernet’s groundbreaking study, we note the work of five scholars who have provided insights into both the economic history of Buddhism and how it may be studied. In rough chronological order these are: Gregory Schopen, Michael Walsh, Johan Elverskog, Alex John Catanese, and Tansen Sen. In a series of essay-length studies, Gregory Schopen has demonstrated the importance of both archaeological and epigraphic research as providing a critical corrective to studies focusing on elite doctrinal texts that continue to dominate Buddhist studies. In addition, Schopen has engaged in a close reading of the vinaya monastic codes, particularly the Mūlasarvāstivāda vinaya which was the primary set of rules employed in Tibetan monasteries. One of the key consequences of Schopen’s work is the increasingly widespread recognition that the representation of Buddhism as an “otherworldly” religion, one in which practitioners lived free from economic concerns of any kind, is an artifice created by distorted readings of the textual record (see also Schedneck 2019). 5

Buddhism under Capitalism

Methodologically central to Schopen’s contribution is a reorientation of Buddhist studies that is most clearly articulated in Schopen (1991). This chapter examines the “Protestant” presuppositions underlying Buddhist studies, particularly the tendency to privilege the textual record, specifically scriptural texts that are “formal literary expressions of normative doctrine” (Schopen 1991: 5). The privileging is so strong that the archaeological and epigraphic record is dismissed or otherwise explained away. Schopen points out, however, that the textual record was intended to inculcate an ideal, a representation of how Buddhists (or more specifically Buddhist monks) should behave (Schopen 1991: 3). In contrast, the archaeological record reveals what Buddhists, both monastic and lay, actually did and believed. Several of Schopen’s essays highlight the economic aspects of the Buddhist monastic institution in medieval India. These can be grouped under several rubrics, some items appearing under more than one: slave-holding by monasteries (Schopen 2004b; Schopen 2014b); monasteries and monastic property (Schopen 1990; Schopen 2004b; Schopen 2004c; Schopen 2004d; Schopen 2014c); money lending and debt (Schopen 1994; Schopen 2001; Schopen 2014a; Schopen 2014b); private ownership of property by nuns and monks (Schopen 2001; Schopen 2004c); and monastics inheriting property (Schopen 1995; Schopen 2001). Schopen’s work has made it clear that medieval Indian Buddhist monasteries and nunneries were economic institutions—not simply in a general sense that may be dismissed as trivially obvious but in a highly detailed fashion. The material studied by Schopen not only questions the Romanticized conception of the Buddhist monastic as a solitary renouncer but lays groundwork for a structured analysis of Buddhist institutions across the entire history of Buddhism right into the present. Next, focusing on the Monastery of Heaven’s Child (Tiantong si) in China from the fourth to the twentieth centuries, Michael Walsh asks, “How does a religious institution last that long?” (Walsh 2010: 3). He looks particularly to the thirteenth century and demonstrates that land ownership was central to both the ongoing economic viability of the monastery and its social status. These two dimensions—economic viability and social status— are in fact co-determinative because of the role of land donation to monasteries that were understood to be effective fields for the generation of merit. The idea that there is an economics of merit has provided an important tool for recent studies of the role of economics in Buddhism (see, for example, Ladwig 2021). Brooke Schedneck explains that “Buddhism has its own internal economy known as the economy of merit. This economy is linked by an exchange between layperson, who give clothing, food, and other support (dana) to the monastic community, and the monks, who serve as a field of merit for these practitioners” (Schedneck 2021: 46). Merit might be understood as “spiritual capital,” a version of the idea of social capital (Borup 2019). Such exchanges are perhaps at times cloaked as gift-giving, despite which they function as forms of economic exchange (Sihle 2015), and the ideology supporting economics of merit may be disappearing in the contemporary world (Wilson 2019). According to Walsh, the economics of merit involves the conversion of something intangible (merit) for something tangible (land). This means that, contrary to some representations of economics as a closed cycle of exchange based on calculations of value, 6

The Economic Study of Buddhism

transfers of land and other commodities to monasteries took place in the context of a specifically Buddhist ideological system. As Walsh states quite bluntly, “Strict economic capital is, in and of itself, meaningless” (Walsh 2010: 123). For example, land donation was understood to not only generate merit toward salvation but also enact what it meant to be a “good Buddhist,” that is, supporting the sangha. Such exchanges were not purchases, where there is no social engagement beyond the economic operation. Instead, exchanges created social capital for both parties involved (Walsh 2010: 20). Walsh emphasizes the importance of understanding monastic institutions as existing within a network—more specifically, a system of social and economic relations. The nature of this network is revealed by how merit becomes an “object” that can be exchanged. “Merit as an object of exchange in the Chinese Buddhist context was (and is) a product of labor, a direct result of a donor’s effort to produce the donation and the recipient’s awarding the merit and explicating its meaning to a wider society” (Walsh 2010: 123). The commodification of merit in medieval China resonates through several different kinds of systems of exchange, as consequently the definition of a “commodity” in premodern eras does not necessarily match the definition of a commodity as available on an “open market” (see Catanese 2019: 9, introduced later). Johan Elverskog has examined the environmental impacts of the expansion of Buddhist monastic institutions across the entirety of Asia (Elverskog 2020). His goal is to delineate the actual teachings and history of Buddhism so as to untangle them from contemporary interpretations “that reflect the successful influence of modern environmental discourses on Buddhism and not vice versa” (Elverskog 2020: xiii). He argues that this separation is necessary because failing to do so creates two problems. First, it obscures from our awareness the environmental consequences of Buddhist activities across Asia historically. Second, because ahistorical claims of eternal environmental awareness have been roundly disproven by twenty years of Buddhological scholarship, maintaining this eco-Buddhist fantasy diminishes the moral authority of contemporary Buddhist environmentalism. (Elverskog 2020: xiii) Also addressing Buddhist institutions is Alex John Catanese’s study (Catanese 2019), which is largely concerned with the commodification of Buddhist objects in contemporary Tibet. His work provides an historical dimension to discussions of the issues of property and ownership. Early prohibitions on the sale of religious items were of two kinds. Either the prohibition was against a monk selling something belonging to the monastery, and therefore engaging in theft, or against the selling of religious items as a practice that was not in accord with the strictures on “right livelihood” (samyagājīva) (Catanese 2019: 12). Catanese employs Arjun Appadurai’s emphasis on the social nature of objects, which can be understood as having an ongoing developmental path. As social objects, they move along certain established paths but may be diverted, as, for example, when a religious object is commodified (Catanese 2019: 9). The commodification of Buddhist 7

Buddhism under Capitalism

religious objects, that is, “the process by which such objects have become items for sale on the open market” (Catanese 2019: 3), appears to have been a regular occurrence at certain periods and between certain cultural zones. Catanese finds the commodification to have been prevalent in China’s trading relation with Indian Buddhist monasteries, but not in Tibet prior to the Cultural Revolution (1966–76). The destruction of religious items in Tibet that occurred at that time inversely created a large international market for those same items, increasing the diversion into commodified form. Tansen Sen identifies the periods of the fourth to sixth century and the late seventh to early eighth centuries as particularly active for the exchange of Buddhist goods between India and China (Sen 2003: 186). Sen records one case in which agricultural technology was passed from a Buddhist monk to a local farmer, enabling the farmer to produce sugar candy from sugar cane (Sen 2003: 204–5)—congruent with the work of Elverskog. Much of the exchange between China and Indian Buddhist monasteries was in the form of gift exchange, rather than mercantile (Sen 2003: 205). One of the noteworthy vehicles for the exchange of religious items between China and India was Buddhist pilgrims. Despite the familiar academic focus on the texts that Xuanzang 玄奘 (fl. 602–64) brought back from India, Sen points out that he also brought Buddha relics and several statues in gold, silver, and sandalwood (Sen 2003: 206). Also important in the late seventh to early eighth centuries was the increase of Buddhist activity on Mount Wutai, a popular pilgrimage site for Buddhists. This entailed the acquisition of religious items for use there. During the reign of Empress Wu (Wu Zetian 武則天, r. 690–705), many Buddhist monuments and images were constructed, and tantric (Esoteric) Buddhist rites also became increasingly popular. The latter required materials and products unlike those used in other Buddhist rites, including the seven jewels familiar from many Buddhist texts. (We also note that the introduction of tantric ritual to Japan by Kūkai 空海 (774–835) had a similar effect of transmitting technological advances and creating needs for religious items.)

Buddhism, Economics, Buddhist Economics Research in the West on the connections between Buddhism and the economic sphere began in the 1950s, with Jacques Gernet’s seminal work originally published in 1956 (Gernet 1995). As Rambelli (2019) discusses, Gernet was more or less consciously informed by a mix of Confucian, Marxist, and secularist ideas about religion in general and Buddhism in particular. His emphasis throughout the book is, therefore, that any economic activity by Buddhist organizations was bad (exploitative, unproductive, superstitious, feudal, etc.). Over the last half century or more, efforts to confront the consequences of European and American imperialism in South, Southeast, and East Asia have included confronting the economic legacy that still continues. This effort has included both critiques of capitalist economies and offering alternatives to that economic system. An important part of this confrontation has been the analysis of theoretical assumptions underlying 8

The Economic Study of Buddhism

the economic systems, first the system of imperialist colonialism and then that of global consumerist capitalism. Much of this analysis has been based on perspectives self-identified as Buddhist and informed by Buddhist doctrine. The proposals for change of economic behaviors to better accord with Buddhist principles are known as Buddhist economics. It is, however, important to distinguish between “Buddhist economics” and the “economics of Buddhism.” Buddhist economics is primarily an ethical project; that is, it seeks to change people’s behavior in light of Buddhist ethical principles. While that project is itself open to critical reflection on the constraining presuppositions of Euro-American philosophical ethics with its focus on the individual, that direction is already being undertaken by other scholars and is outside the scope of this introduction and this book. The seminal text for this new Buddhistically informed economic ethics is perhaps E. F. Schumacher’s Small Is Beautiful (1973), which mobilizes some Buddhist tenets (see esp. pp. 38–46) to propose a new economic system based on “smaller working units, communal ownership, and regional workplaces utilizing local labour and resources” (Schumacher 1993, back cover)—something akin to Gandhian economic thought and early anarchist utopias. Schumacher’s ideas have been adopted, more recently, by exponents of Engaged Buddhism such as Sulak Sivaraksa, whose The Wisdom of Sustainability (2009) is a wide-ranging call for a new, non- (or post-) capitalist economic system which entails different modes of governance based on rural communities, education policies, and an overall emphasis on peace (Sivaraksa 2009). The economic visions of Engaged Buddhism have already been discussed in several publications (such as Zsolnai 2011), and there is therefore no need to summarize them here (see Payne 2010, and 2020). In many of those interventions, however, the dominant ideology is that of American and European “White Buddhist” positions. These tend to represent Buddhist practice as separate from social entanglements, rituals, and customs, focusing instead on the individual practitioner’s interiority attained through meditation and/or mindfulness. Another thread is the emphasis on images of “wilderness” (for American White Buddhists) and “rural communities” (for Asian Engaged Buddhists). In the former, wilderness is merely a weekend escape from a busy (capitalist) lifestyle in a metropolis; in the latter, rural villages are idealized, unchanging, and monolithic communal utopias very different from the actual situation on the ground (exploitation, poverty, environmental damage, etc.). In both cases, it is obvious that these are not viable models for actual economic policies in the highly urbanized, capitalist world of today (whether in Asia or in the West), which is threatened by social inequalities and climate change. Distinct from the ethical project of a Buddhist economics is the study of Buddhist thought, practice, and institutions from the perspective of economics. The economics of religion is perhaps the most recent development in the social scientific study of religion, long behind such fields as the psychology of religion, the sociology of religion, and the anthropology of religion (McCleary 2011). Even more recent within this new field of the economics of religion is the economic study of Buddhism. While Buddhist economics is primarily an ethical project, the economics of Buddhism is primarily an academic one. 9

Buddhism under Capitalism

Academic projects are not, however, simply value free. The earliest inception of Buddhist studies as an academic discipline in the mid-nineteenth century meant that Buddhism was defined as a religion, one of the world’s religions. The model of what it meant to be a religion was the Christian tradition, and in the Anglophone world that meant that Protestant Christianity was presumed to be the norm for what a religion is. More specifically, as the fields of “comparative theology” and “comparative religion” developed at the end of the nineteenth century, liberal Protestant thought, with its emphasis on individual moral development and social activism, became the norm for what constitutes a religion. One of the most important developments in the study of Christianity at the time was the advent of the “higher criticism,” that is, the recognition of the Bible as a text with a history, which initiated the philological inquiry into the authoritative text central to Christianity. And, just as Protestant Christianity was naturalized as the normative form of religion, philological study of ancient and putatively doctrinally authoritative texts became naturalized as the method for Buddhist studies as well. Reflection on the Protestant presuppositions of religious studies as a field has motivated the most significant changes to Buddhist studies since its inception in the nineteenth century, recently expanding the field beyond the methodological boundaries of philology, textual studies, and translation. As a departure from established methodologies, it is incumbent for the development of the economics of Buddhism as a field to be self-reflectively critical. This means both viewing Buddhist thought, practices, and institutions as enmeshed in economic systems and in parallel reflecting on the theoretical presuppositions of an economic approach to the study of religion. For example, an influential instance of the economic approach to the study of religion has been rational choice theory, which is perhaps currently the most theoretically wellarticulated approach. Lived religion scholars have critiqued rational choice theory as being based on an overly narrow conception of the person as purely economically motivated. According to these scholars, since rational choice theory only sees people in terms of statistical abstractions, it cannot bring the narrative dimension of human existence into its analyses. There is also reason to question rational choice theory for its conservative bias. For example, religious “needs” are defined in such a fashion that those needs are met by the religion that is most successful, and at the same time that religion is shown as meeting those needs by the fact that it is successful. These historical analyses seem to be subject to the same three-part critique as all functionalist analyses. They are seen as being overly focused on social stability, as failing to recognize the importance of contestation and change, and as obscuring the role of personal agency. The theoretical project being proposed in this book does not only apply to a critique of rational choice theory. Instead, it seeks to develop an economic perspective not constrained by the same presuppositions that are perhaps most evident in rational choice theory. We would like to propose that the theoretical bases for an economics of Buddhism need to be able to take into account both personal and societal levels of analysis. To do so will mean going beyond those presuppositions of economics as an academic field 10

The Economic Study of Buddhism

that conceptualizes persons abstracted as producers and consumers and sees economic forces as the sole agencies. An economics of Buddhism will need to see both the social dynamics evidenced in economic relations and individual Buddhists as socially and historically located agents. Indeed, an even more complex analytic goal is seen in the work of Gernet, who is certainly one of the founders of an economic study of Buddhism (see Helderman in this volume, and Rambelli 2019). For Gernet, “economics are only one aspect of the whole social system” (1995: xii). The study of the economy/economics of Buddhism has recently become a flourishing subfield, with many publications that have opened up new perspectives and provided a wealth of important information. The dominant focus, however, is on the present; very little is known about economic practices (and their philosophical and doctrinal underpinnings) in premodern times across Asia (see, for instance, Jones 2007; Pace, 2013; Pryor, 1990; Brox and Williams-Oerberg 2020; Brox and Williams-Oerberg 2022; and Williams-Oerberg 2019). It is obvious that a study of Buddhist economic practices—and an investigation on what is “Buddhist” about them (if anything)—requires a historical perspective and an assessment of continuities and discontinuities. Recently, for example, discussions on the relevance of the “corporate form” for the study of religion have attracted the academic interest of religious studies scholars (McLaughlin et al. 2020; see also Booker, Oraby, and Schneider 2021). From our perspective, it is crucial to distinguish between the operations of corporations as large capitalist companies (let us call them “Corporations C”) and corporations as professional guilds (“Corporations G”). Buddhist organizations (temples, sects, lineages, etc.) have always been examples of Corporations G; in recent times, they may have attempted to become closer to Corporations C, but that would require enormous transformations in organization, hierarchy, ideology, practices, and other factors (such as offering shares of a temple on the stock market? see Cheung 2021, or the creation of Buddhist theme parks, see McDaniel 2016). Corporations G often operate in ways that are similar to Corporations C (marketing and public relations, competition, development of new products/services, synergies with other organizations, need for capital, etc.), but they are not the same thing. In fact, just to make a concrete example, corporatism (in the sense of Corporations G) was one of the crucial components of Italian fascism and was touted explicitly as an alternative model to capitalism. The Italian Parliament under Benito Mussolini’s regime was called the Chamber of Fasces and Corporations; it was composed of representatives from both a number of fascist organizations (Fasces) and various professional orders and trade guilds (Corporations). Aspects of this kind of corporatism (which harkens back to precapitalist, premodern times and their social organizations and economic practices) are still present today in the organization and legal status of various professional groups (including, in many ways, the academia and religious organizations), and their uneasy coexistence with dominant and pervasive capitalist systems is worth exploring more in depth (Mitchell’s chapter in this volume initiates just such an inquiry). One more consideration. Very little is known regarding Buddhist reactions to modernization and the introduction of capitalist economic systems and modes 11

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of production in different parts of Asia. In this case, it would appear that both religious institutions and scholarship have accepted this transition as “natural” and unproblematic, unworthy of discussion and assessment. However, that does not seem to have been the case when those new policies were introduced at a national level, which severely impacted Buddhism, its institutions, practitioners, doctrines, and practices. For instance, Fabio Rambelli has studied Sada Kaiseki (1818–82), a maverick traditionalist monk who lived throughout the transition between the premodern and modern periods in Japan. Sada vehemently rejected modernization and the adoption of Euro-American economic ideas and practices and organized a successful boycott by many of his numerous followers against the purchase of foreign items. Even though Sada has been constantly disparaged by scholarship as a reactionary and even a fundamentalist deadender, many of his arguments turned out to be prescient. He argued that capitalism may be good for Western countries, which have a different social and political organization, but could be lethal to Japan; like Gandhi, he warned the public against overdependence on imported goods, since it would result in the loss of traditional ways of making things and the consequent loss of technologies and sensibilities; he even rejected the import of oil lamps on the basis that oil fields cause irreparable environmental damage (Rambelli 2011). Another Buddhist activist, the Zen monk Uchiyama Gudō (1874–1911), saw the capitalist transformation of Japan as yet another way in which the ruling elites could subjugate the masses and he became an active proponent of communist anarchism; he was sentenced to death in a rigged trial for allegedly plotting with others to kill the emperor (Rambelli 2013). One wonders what other Buddhist authors in other countries thought about modernization and the capitalist transformations of their countries, processes that were often accompanied by war, civil unrest, colonization, and radical social transformations.

This Book As indicated earlier, there are two major areas of inquiry that this book explores. The first is the capitalist formation of Buddhism as an institution and the ways in which Buddhism is represented, commodified, and marketed in capitalist society. This would include, but not necessarily be limited to, such phenomena as the marketing of established Buddhist institutions, as in religious tourism; changing monastic roles modeled on service or hospitality industries; the creation of new Buddhist institutions, as in training and certification of mindfulness teachers outside traditional Buddhist institutions; dialogical formations, such as the use of Buddhist psychological concepts; and movements to create nonreligious Buddhisms. One consistent pattern that has been noted already, but deserves further study, is the shift from gift-merit exchanges (dāna, puṇya) to commodification in a money economy. The second area of inquiry is less readily evident but is perhaps more significant in its consequences for scholarship. That area is the ways in which capitalism has influenced the conception of Buddhism as an object of academic study. This dimension takes into 12

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account the reflexivity of the relation between the scholarly study of contemporary Buddhism and the social formation of the contemporary scholarly study of Buddhism. This is Niklas Luhmann’s “observer of second order,” that is observing “both the social scientists observing the social world as well as the effects that this has on this world and how, at the same time, the forces of the social world shape the outlook of the social scientists” (Wimmer and Schiller 2002: 302). Here are two possible examples: Is there a significant or causal relation between the contemporary scholarly emphasis on local forms of Buddhism and the consumer capitalist emphasis on individual choice? Is there a significant or causal relation between interest in the idea of there being no permanent self (anātman), as found in discussions of the similarities between Buddhist thought and contemporary neurosciences, and movements toward decentralization in political economy?4 Chapters’ Overview Not all forms of capitalism are the same. Our collection here includes an historical perspective, so first, we note that as a social institution capitalism itself has a history. Broadly, this has involved a movement from gift and exchange economies to early forms of capitalism made possible by the rise of money-based economies (Payne 2021). Additionally, regarding capitalism in the present, some economists distinguish four different types: oligarchic, state-guided, big-firm (or corporation), and entrepreneurial (Baumol, Litan, and Schramm 2012). Among these, neoliberal ideology in the Western world naturalizes contemporary globalized corporate capitalism. For our purposes here, however, it is sufficient to emphasize that not all systems of exchange are capitalist, and not all capitalisms are globalized corporate capitalism. Dewey: Monastic Capitalism? On the Inclusiveness of Tibetan Monastic Institutions The image of Buddhist monks as having no possessions other than a robe, a bowl, a needle, and medicines represents a particular ideal that seems to have appealed, and continues to appeal, to romantic and neo-romantic strains of popular Western religious culture. Scholarship over the last half century has increasingly problematized this image, however. William K. Dewey’s study of the monastic institution in Tibet contributes to this newer understanding. Importantly, he calls attention to the role of different vinayas. Because of its early introduction to Western scholarship, the vinaya of the Theravāda school tends to be taken for granted, often treated without qualification as “the vinaya.” Throughout Dewey’s chapter, the prescriptions of the Mūlasarvāstivādin vinaya demonstrate a sensibility regarding monastic economics quite different from the Theravāda vinaya. Also methodologically important is the distinction between the economics of monasteries and the economic activities of individual monks—a distinction 13

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sometimes overlooked in previous studies. What this distinction then allows is examining the economics of monastic institutions as such. Dewey employs the categories of limited access institutions, and extractive institutions to examine Tibetan monasteries. Limited access institutions are ones that constrain access to positions of authority to some group, such as an aristocracy. While Tibetan monasteries were hierarchical, Dewey finds that they also were democratic and inclusive, instead of being strictly limited access institutions. Extractive practices are those that seek to maximize wealth from the sources available, including coercion of labor. That monasteries engage in extractive practices is rooted in the institutional practices of Indic Buddhism.

Brown: Selling Buddhism by Branding Mindfulness and Reiki as Valuable, Secular Services: Three Interacting Economic Models Candy Brown looks at two movements, mindfulness and Reiki, considering issues of branding and self-representation as means by which they each locate themselves on the secular side of a socially and legally important divide from religion. The choice to present the practices as secular then also implicates an economic decision to charge for services, just as other secular, fee-for-service providers do. This operates as a very visible marker because the social identification of secular ventures locates them in the realm of for-profit enterprises, while religion is understood as being in the realm of nonprofit activities.5 In her contribution to this collection, Brown describes the modern capitalist market as one that “encourages shopping for, and mixing and matching, decontextualized techniques.” Marketing in this economic context emphasizes convenience and simplicity of use, as well as pragmatic outcomes. Some of the benefits suggested are intangible ones that are strikingly similar to those offered by religion and spiritual traditions. Philanthropic giving in the form of providing services for free enables these movements to present themselves as socially beneficial, while at the same time reinforcing the economic value of the services provided. This economic value is more quantifiable and therefore more useful for accounting and reporting purposes, than the intangible benefits that individuals are said to receive. Being economically valuable, the provision of services as part of a philanthropic venture in turn justifies a relation framed in terms of investment, in which the movements are understood as providing an investment into a secular institution. Representing the services provided as an investment not only provides leverage for access; it also encourages joint “cost-sharing,” in which the institutions provide either direct financial matches or in-kind contributions such as meeting space. The institutions are now partners with the movements, giving the latter further secular identity and access to an existing population.

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The Economic Study of Buddhism

Helderman: Consciousness Raising, False Consciousness and Freud: Buddhist Traditions in Contemporary Mental Health Economies in the United States Discussion of the relation between Buddhism and psychotherapy constitutes something more than a cottage industry today. While some participants are positive, supportive, and even enthusiastic, others express doubts, hesitations, and criticisms. Ira Helderman points out that many of these discussions frame the discourse as one between practitioners on the one hand and scholars in the fields of religious and Buddhist studies on the other—with both advocates and critics on each side. What is missed in these representations, however, is that concerns regarding the relation between psychotherapy and Buddhist practice have been a topic of extensive and long-standing discussion within the psychotherapeutic community itself. Helderman further points out that the reality of multiple identities means that engaging as psychotherapist, practitioner, and academic are all simultaneously possible. Consequently, such discussions are in fact overlapping, despite the differences in foundational theoretical orientations regarding such matters as the causes of suffering and its alleviation. Helderman’s exploration of economic constraints parallels Brown’s, in that both point to concerns about the boundary between the religious and the secular. In the case of a medical context, concerns are raised regarding the evidence upon which treatments are claimed to be effective. It is this idea of evidence-based treatments that then determines how treatment is paid for by both private insurers and public agencies. Compensation for the individual practitioner and the economic sustainability of institutions thus determine whether and how Buddhist practices may be introduced or adapted into psychotherapeutic settings. Bruntz: Buddhist Technoscapes: Interrogating “Skillful Means” in East Asian Monasteries The use of modern technologies by Buddhist temples is the focus of Courtney Bruntz’s chapter. It is certainly true that Buddhists have long employed technologies, such as the use of printing blocks for copying texts—the first printed book in history being a Buddhist sutra. In a sense then speakers concealed in artificial rocks that chant mantra may be seen as simply part of a continuum of institutional practices dating back centuries. What Bruntz points out, however, is that current uses of technology by Buddhist institutions are taking place in the context of the “Intelligence Revolution,” making use of artificial intelligence, and constituting what some consider to be the “fourth industrial revolution.” Bruntz specifies her methodology as one reflecting the dialectic between sociology and economics as foundational points for analysis. Buddhist institutions are molded by economic pressures created by changes in social tastes, interests, preferences, demands, and needs. In other words, they respond to the systems of values active in a society at a particular time. Conversely, Buddhist institutions are also agentive and can affect

15

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the attitudes, values, and choices of their audiences—whether the general public, casual visitors, or active supporters. Thus, temples’ use of modern technologies can be analyzed from two perspectives. From one perspective these uses are in response to the expectations of their audiences, while on the other they provide a vehicle for influencing the attitudes and values held by audience members. Bruntz points out, however, that these technologies as such can only provide a “thin” engagement with the Buddhist tradition. Used skillfully, however, they may provide entrée to “thicker” kinds of engagement, such as participation in group activities or study sessions. Marchman: Perceiving Authenticity: Online Tourism Reviews of Buddhist Tourist Destinations Kendall Marchman’s chapter examines the sense of authenticity that tourists record in reviews of three different religious sites in China: Mt. Emei, Mt. Wutai, and Nanshan Scenic Spot. His analysis highlights the role of modern preconceptions regarding the relation between religion and economics in contemporary debates about the commercialization of Buddhist sites. The history of Buddhist institutions as having “long been involved with commerce and state support” is made invisible by modern ideas that when religion and economics are brought together, religion loses its status as a pure and otherworldly project. However, the historical status that makes mountains appealing as sites of religious tourism results not only from the spiritual attainments of the mountain’s residents but also from a long economic history and social support systems that enabled them to undertake practice at those sites. Marchman employs the concept of authenticity as an important criterion for understanding visitors’ reports of satisfaction, recognizing the difficulty of using such a multivalent concept. He identifies three different approaches to defining authenticity, each of which contributes to a fuller understanding of the reviews posted on tourist websites. For his study Marchman uses reviews of the three tourist destinations as found across four different review websites. Employing automated textual analysis to categorize responses, he reports statistics for each of the three tourist sites. He argues that reviews that report satisfaction, for example, describing a site as worth the visit, reflect the reviewers’ sense that the site is authentic. Some of the critical literature on Buddhism and economics employs a dichotomy between commoditized and genuine as code for inauthentic and authentic respectively. On the basis of his analysis, however, Marchman suggests that the dichotomy breaks down when one attempts to apply it to the lived experience of visitors to the three Buddhist destinations he examines. Speece and Roenjun: Ethics in Small Business Capitalism of Women Kuan Im Followers in Thailand In contrast to the attention often given to global corporate capitalism in discussions of Buddhism and capitalism, Mark Speece and Jitnisa Roenjun examine the role of religious 16

The Economic Study of Buddhism

commitment among women adherents of the bodhisattva Kuan Im (Ch. Guanyin), who are also owners and operators of small businesses. According to Speece and Roenjun, Thai Buddhist institutions operating at the national level have not been perceived by laity as providing meaningful responses to the stresses created by modernization. The popular movement centered on the figure of Kuan Im is noteworthy not only because it is not Theravāda but also because of its highly decentralized nature. Followers of Kuan Im give priority to a set of Buddhist values in the operation of their businesses, rather than giving profit primacy (see also Clayton and Duncan in this volume). One such value is to be proactive in adhering to the standard of right livelihood. Applications of this standard of ethical behavior extend to all aspects of their businesses—customers, employees, and suppliers. Right mindfulness (P. sammāsati, S. samyaksṃrti) is understood as providing the means by which otherwise abstract values can be put into action in daily life. In this case, mindfulness does not mean a formal sitting meditation practice, but rather takes the form of thinking about the consequences of one’s decisions and actions. This reflection on karmic consequences involves Kuan Im’s compassion as the ideal model, rather than some specific set of moral rules. Speece and Roenjun also point out that this movement neither entails formal membership nor is it text-based, in contrast to Western conceptions of religion. Analogously, Kuan Im followers are not exemplary of big-business capitalism that often dominates both national and global economies, as well as dominating discussions of religion and economics. Williams-Oerberg: The Business of Buddhism: Creating Karmic Connections in Ladakh and Europe The work of establishing karmic connections, or what Elizabeth Williams-Oerberg calls “connectionwork,” is an approach to understanding the economic decisions of Buddhist organizations in Ladakh. This idea of establishing karmic connections is an emic understanding of how actions provide benefits—not necessarily immediately and not necessarily financial. In the view of Himalayan Buddhists such karmic connections are established by ritual. The case in point for Williams-Oerberg’s study is the 2017 “Heart of the Himalayas” tour of Ladakhi monks in Europe. For this tour the group of seven monks performed masked dances, and meditative death rituals, in forms that were simplified and shortened for their European audiences. As is implicit in the name, connection work requires the participation of both the performers of these rituals and their audience. The value placed on the connections being made between Europe and Ladakh is evident in the tour leader’s lack of concern about the profitability of the tour. Even without generating a financial profit from the tour itself, making connections meant that the tour was a success. This attitude is in part a consequence of the history of Ladakhi Buddhism, which involves connections between lay families and temples. And these values may be reinforced by the idea that even if the connections established between Europe and Ladakh do not come to fruition in this lifetime, they will in a future one. 17

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Clayton and Duncan: Gross National Happiness: Capitalism under Buddhism in the Kingdom of Bhutan Because of the hegemony of neoliberal capitalism, the idea that capitalist values of growth and profitability necessarily dominate social decision making is widely thought to be “natural.” Barbra Clayton and Della Duncan call that presumption into question. They introduce the phrase “capitalism under Buddhism” to highlight the possible role of Buddhist values in economic decisions, an analytic shared by Speece and Roenjun (this volume). Clayton and Duncan examine the formation of the idea of Gross National Happiness (GNH) in the Kingdom of Bhutan and its continuing development and application. Often represented in overly simplified characterizations, Clayton and Duncan provide an in-depth and nuanced understanding of the concept. While capitalist conceptions of economics accept unlimited growth and ever more efficient extraction of value as necessary, GNH purposely orients decision-makers toward evaluations based on sufficiency. And, in contrast to the neoliberal ideal of laissez-faire capitalism, GNH emphasizes the validity and importance of government intervention in the economic processes of the nation. Further, the natural world is held to be valuable in itself, rather than just the location of resources to be extracted, or a dumping ground for waste. Because GNH takes into account social and environmental issues, as well as personal ones, the term rendered in English as “happiness” would be better rendered as “flourishing,” and while typically happiness is thought to be an individual matter, GNH points to collective well-being. Over the course of the last century, Bhutan has moved from basically a feudal society to a rapidly developing nation. Many of the stresses familiar from the experience of other developing nations are also problems for Bhutan—low rates of employment among young people and inequality between urban and rural populations, for example. The system of evaluating societal decisions according to the standards established by GNH is not intended to make people happy. It is, instead, intended to promote the conditions by which people can increase their happiness. Mitchell: Drawing Blood: At the Intersection of Knowledge Economies and Buddhist Economies For many years the question of the religious identity of scholars working in the field of Buddhist studies has been a matter of some discussion. This has often been framed in terms of an artificial and politicized epistemological distinction between insiders and outsiders—a fruitless debate that has long plagued the field of religious studies. Scott A. Mitchell questions the relevance of personal religious identity in an academic marketplace that exists in the intersection of neoliberal capitalist and Buddhist economies. Mitchell examines the function of professionalization, understood as the acquisition of a set of objectively measurable skills, comparable to a chef being able to scramble eggs or a phlebotomist being able to draw blood. While academic professionalization emerged within the knowledge economy of the nineteenth century, Mitchell notes 18

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that the present knowledge economy is now subsumed within the system of neoliberal globalized capitalism. This context places a set of fiduciary expectations on both educational institutions and academic faculty. Academic economies are influenced not only by commercial capitalist considerations but also by those of agents in the Buddhist economy. For educational institutions this can include philanthropic support from Buddhist organizations (see Brown this volume), as well as more specific projects directed to faculty, such as support for research and publication. Scholarly products include not only books and academic essays but also publications in popular Buddhist magazines and interviews. These are all already commoditized not only in the obvious sense of being marketable products but also in terms of the knowledge economy’s evaluation of academics and institutions. Mitchell maintains that in this complex set of economic settings in which the postmodern academy finds itself, the question of the personal religious identity of a scholar of Buddhist studies is ultimately irrelevant. Obadia: A Part of or Apart from Globalization? The Ambivalent Relationship between Buddhism and Modern Capitalism Use of Buddhist symbols for marketing has a long and tarnished history. Sanskrit words with Buddhist connotations have crept into common parlance so as to become brand names for upscale products—a line of cosmetics called Nirvana, as well of course as a now-defunct rock band, and a perfume called Samsara—and imagery such as the infamous “Buddha bikini” marketed by Victoria’s Secret at the beginning of this century (see Shields 2010). Lionel Obadia opens his examination of the significance of the relation between Buddhism and capitalism by examining the sensibilities involved in responses to such uses of Buddhist imagery. One instance he examines is the Knowing Buddha Organization in contemporary Thailand, which rejects any use of Buddhist imagery for marketing or for other non-devotional purposes, such as home decorations. At the other extreme is the Buddha-Bar, a restaurant, bar, and lounge that first opened in Paris, but which is now— along with a number of derivative enterprises—franchised internationally. The clientele for the Buddha-Bar and its affiliates is clearly cosmopolitan elites who feel a positive, if perhaps, vague association with Buddhist imagery. In the tension between these two extremes, Obadia rethinks the close interconnections between the propagation of Buddhism on a global stage and the processes of globalization, both cultural and economic, that have enabled that propagation. Thus, rather than casting Buddhism as the pure victim of global capitalist exploitation, Obadia suggests that some Buddhists have availed themselves of opportunities that would not have existed previously (see Williams-Oerberg this volume). In particular he argues for greater clarity regarding economic terminology used to describe the relations between Buddhism and capitalism. Thus, in keeping with the chapters by Speece and Roenjun, and Clayton and Duncan in this volume, Obadia’s argument may be taken as part of a decolonialization 19

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of Buddhism. That is, rather than treating Buddhism as a passive object of capitalist manipulation, Buddhists acting as Buddhists are understood to have an active part in the ongoing processes of global capitalism, whether taking advantage of those or resisting them. Shields: Prolegomena to a Buddhist(ic) Critique of Capitalism James Mark Shields argues that the received Buddhist critiques of capitalism actually date from the late nineteenth century and were informed by a Marxist sensibility. The conditions of society today, however, differ significantly from those of a century and a half ago, and a critique relevant to postindustrial capitalism is needed. His chapter is an attempt to provide an outline by which a Buddhist anti-capitalism can be developed. Shields proposes that capitalism needs to be understood not simply as an economic system but more broadly as a social system, including, for example, a class structure and a system of values. He points out a central instance of the latter in the neoliberal assertion that success is solely dependent on individual effort. Conversely, we may point out, a lack of success is taken therefore as an indication of a failure of individual initiative. Acknowledging the value of critiques focusing on the social, Shields suggests that a more critically relevant application of Buddhist thought may be in the realm of the everyday. It is here that the “habits of mind and body” can be most directly influenced. This location becomes more clearly significant as he examines models of social transformation. Shields concludes that a Buddhist transformation of society may best be achieved neither by revolutionary overthrow of the capitalist system nor by gradualist, ameliorative changes. Working instead in the interstices—the “niches and margins”—of capitalist society, change can be effected in ways that avoid its either being suppressed because it is disruptive or being coopted in its attempts to work within the system (see Speece and Roenjun, this volume). Conclusion The chapters in this book are case studies or critical reflections on the multiple dimensions of the interactions between Buddhism and various forms of capitalism. They highlight a number of issues that all deserve deeper and broader study—historical, anthropological, and theoretical. These issues include:

(i) The role of different systems of monastic rules and varying applications of doctrinal tenets to specific practices.

(ii) A distinction between the economy of religious institutions (sects, monasteries, communities) and the economic activities of individual practitioners (whether tonsured or lay). (iii) The multiple roles of Buddhist primary sources that deal with economic matters; it is easy to understand historical sources as somewhat descriptive, 20

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while in many cases they were prescriptive or even performative, thus hiding rather than revealing the social and economic processes they purport to describe. This may be true not only in the past but in the present as well. (iv) Important aspects of both continuity and discontinuity between traditional Buddhist economic practices and those of contemporary capitalism, something that forces the interpreter to nuance and finely articulate their discussions.

(v) Acceptance of capitalist models involves the commodification of products and services associated with Buddhism, which can then be purchased for a fee. This applies today to both religious institutions and secular organizations. In the past, however (and in more traditional/traditionalist settings), ritual services and ritual artifacts are technically not sold but are given by the practitioners in exchange for a gift (which may or may not be quantified and monetized). It is obvious that a monetary economic transaction is very different, in principle and in practice, from a gift exchange; more attention should be paid to economic practices taking place along these two primary axes.

(vi) Commodification and monetization also encourage the purchase of decontextualized practices, treated as any other commodity and service available on the marketplace. Whether that affects their spiritual values (meritmaking, soteriological efficacy, etc.), and if so, how, is still open to discussion. (vii) With the expanding adoption of capitalist attitudes within Buddhism, “authenticity” acquires new relevance and new significations. A quest for authenticity has always been part of Buddhism, as teachers and lineages have traced their origin and prestige to “original” masters in India, or to more proximate sources of authority. Today, “authenticity” is understood in terms of a quite different set of values, such as tourism, tradition, and cultural heritage. It is not clear how this shift affects Buddhism and Buddhists. (viii) The influence of capitalism involves the quest for higher efficiency, which has recently come to be pursued by increased reliance upon new digital technologies. While these technologies offer practitioners easier “access” to temples and monastics, they only allow for a superficial, and often indirect, engagement with Buddhist practice, the impact of which in the long run is not clear. (ix) Capitalism also affects how the academia studies Buddhism, in terms of basic assumptions of scholarship and funding (which often comes from Buddhist organizations with their own agendas). While this may not be a new phenomenon, growing support from organizations based in totalitarian countries may result in significant shifts in the ways Buddhism is presented and understood.

(x) Finally, how Buddhism operates under capitalism is not the only viable perspective; it is crucial to also look at how Buddhist ways of doing things limit and modify capitalist ways of operating: emphasis on right livelihood 21

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as opposed to the primacy of profit, on community service rather than shareholders’ benefits, long-term environmental and social impact rather than immediate gratification—these are all aspects that some Buddhist-oriented business are adopting (or can adopt). A further possible way to Buddhistically tame the advances of capitalism in its forms is ritualization—the proliferation of rituals accompanying all stages of the production and use of objects and services, typical of traditional Buddhist societies, might slow down (as in the past) the incessant chase for growth and extraction of resources, and force all involved (users, producers, investors, ritualists) to acquire awareness of the impact of their actions. At the opening, we drew a sharp distinction between Buddhist economics as an ethical project and the economics of Buddhism as an academic one. While conceptually valid, it is also important to note that those who engage in Buddhist economics engage in scholarly discourse in order to ground their claims in the teachings. Conversely, while the ethics of scholarship encourage accuracy and impartiality in representing the economics of Buddhism, at the same time the results of that inquiry provide an essential grounding for the ethical reflections of a Buddhist economics.

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PART I HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE

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CHAPTER 1 MONASTIC CAPITALISM? ON THE INCLUSIVENESS OF TIBETAN MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS

William K. Dewey

In this chapter, I examine historical Tibetan Buddhist monasticism from an economic perspective, considering the position of monks and monasteries in the political economy of Tibet. Neither monasteries nor individual monks were isolated from the economic sphere, but they supported themselves through commerce, investment, and landholding. For this reason, monasteries are sometimes described as capitalist institutions. George Dreyfus notes that his teacher at Sera, Gen Losang Gyatso, “used to remark with great pride on the ‘capitalist’ and ‘democratic’ nature of the large Tibetan monasteries, which are powerful self-governing associations with large financial assets” (Dreyfus 2003: 43). This language is surely influenced by a Cold War context and Tibetan exile opposition to communist China, but it also calls attention to important economic and political characteristics of Tibetan monasteries. The question of “monastic capitalism” can be placed on more rigorous ground by turning to economic historians who have investigated the institutional and cultural causes of the rise of capitalism. Douglas North and his collaborators have theorized about limited and open-access orders (OAOs), Daron Acemoglu and James Robinson have a broader and more global theory of inclusive and extractive institutions, and Deirdre McCloskey emphasizes bourgeois virtues. I will interpret Tibetan monasticism based on the work of previous scholars on monastic economics, and my own research on Ngawang Tsültrim (1721–91), who was regent of Tibet, and Ganden Tripa, chief monk of the Dalai Lama’s Geluk order. He exemplifies the close connections between Geluk monasteries and central Tibet’s Ganden Podrang (or Ganden Palace) government headed by the Dalai Lamas.1 It was common for monasteries to depend on extractive institutions based on land rents, bolstered by a state like Ganden Podrang. However, there were elements of inclusive institutions in Tibetan monasteries’ investment in communities, monks’ independence, and monastic governance. Finally, I argue for the usefulness of institutional history in explaining Tibetan Buddhism beyond the economic sphere, as institutions could encourage stagnation or flourishing in religious culture. Monks and Monasteries in Commerce Buddhist monks and monasteries owned wealth and invested and traded it from the religion’s early days in India, and consequently they are sometimes called

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“capitalist.” Richard Gombrich portrays early Indian Buddhism as a bourgeois religion, analogizing it to Calvinism, which encouraged a capitalistic ethic according to Max Weber (Gombrich 2006: 197). Buddhism arose in a context of Indian urbanization and trade (Gombrich 2006: 50–1). Like Puritanism, it had many aspects that would appeal to merchants. Its practice did not depend on location, and it accepted wealth in moderation and replaced caste obligations with a rationalized system of karmic morality, analogous to a money economy (Gombrich 2006: 80–3). Although monks had a stricter though not absolute standard of asceticism, the vinaya contained traderelated provisions, for instance when monks traveled with trade caravans (Gombrich 2006: 79). Gombrich might be accused of putting too much of a Weberian spin on early Buddhism, but the connection between Buddhism and traders is undeniable, and the influence extended beyond laypeople, especially as the monasteries became endowed with more wealth. Tibetan Buddhism appears less tied to merchants and traders, with its monasteries endowed with landed estates. But the connection also existed in the Tibetan world: monks and traders often traveled together on pilgrimage routes (Jansen 2018: 101). As monasteries attracted more donations from laypeople seeking merit, they acquired wealth and financial responsibilities. Max Weber speaks of Indian Buddhism’s transition from propertyless asceticism to one “endowed with real estate, buildings, permanent rents, possession of grounds, slaves, bondsman, in effect, monastic landlordism,” identifying the latter with Sri Lanka and Tibet (Weber 1958: 222–3). Whether or not these forms of capital and production were capitalist, it was clear that monasteries owned and directed large amounts of capital.2 Westerners usually see a contradiction between asceticism and monastic wealth, which is supported by a superficial reading of vinaya texts, especially the Theravāda. It is true that most Prātimokṣa codes have a rule forbidding monks from “buying and selling” (Schopen 2001: 120; 2004f: 529). But the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya, which was adopted in Tibet, has a more pragmatic approach to wealth. Buddhists often saw the wealth of monks as desirable for religious practice and being a suitable field of merit (Jansen 2018: 113). Gregory Schopen points out that the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya does not strictly prohibit monks from handling money or trading, as Westerners suppose (Schopen 2000: 101–2). He explains that the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya reflects a later stage in Indian Buddhism, no longer one of wandering mendicants but one of settled monasticism and financial entanglements (Schopen 2004f: 1–2). It depicts monks who handled money on behalf of the sangha and even cases where monks owned individual property (Schopen 2000: 7). The Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya contains complex provisions of property law for monks (Schopen 2001). It depicts monasteries as corporate institutions that funded themselves with investments; they kept endowments and lent out the money at interest (Schopen 2004f: 529–30). Indian monasteries distinguished different kinds of property for accounting purposes, including offerings to the temple, offerings dedicated for teaching dharma, offerings intended for the general possession of the sangha, and offerings to be divided among the individual monks (Schopen 2001: 131; Jansen 2018: 88). When Tibetans adopted the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya, they inherited a tradition of monks and monasteries entangled with property. 26

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Monasteries continued to be powerful financial entities as Buddhism spread beyond India. Speaking of early Sri Lankan monasteries, Gombrich says that they “behaved like normal business corporations in buying land, in selling its produce, in deriving income from commerce, and in particular in receiving interest on deposits made in money or in kind with the merchants’ guilds” (Gombrich 2006: 163). Berthe Jansen likewise compares the Tibetan Buddhist monastery to a corporation, pointing to features like a limited liability system which distinguished the debts of individual monks from those of the monastery, and monks’ participation in investments and trade (Schopen 2001: 111; Jansen 2018: 42). Modern monasteries have turned to tourism and retail to support themselves, but even historic monasteries did not exclusively rely on land rents. They also acted as banks by lending money to the surrounding community (Jansen 2018: 101). Of course, there are important differences between a monastery and a corporation, as its overarching goal is not profit but “the betterment of all beings, and more specifically, the continuation of the Dharma” (Jansen 2018: 42). Monastic governance also contained some of the democratic features praised by Gen Losang Gyatso: Ter Ellingson describes the monasteries as democratic in contrast with the hereditary rule of Tibetan states (Ellingson 1990: 217), and according to Schopen, Indian vinaya texts encouraged communal decision making (Schopen 2007b: 107–36). Tibetan monks were likewise involved in commerce, sanctioned by the vinaya and local regulations. Westerners going back to the missionary Ippolito Desideri (1684– 1733) have often seen Tibetan monks as violating Prātimokṣa provisions against buying and selling and handling money, but the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya is tolerant of many forms of trade (Jansen 2018: 101). One thing that should be remembered is that Tibetan monastic law made distinctions between individual monks, the monastery collectively, other economic units like the stupa (Jansen 2018: 42). Vinaya restrictions and monastic guidelines (T. chayik) did inconsistently restrict monks’ involvement in trade but unequivocally encouraged the monastery to be involved in commerce (Jansen 2018: 103). Because of this, whether monasteries were capitalist may depend on whether one considers individual monks or monasteries as institutions, as they undertook different economic activities and were treated differently under Buddhist monastic law.

From “Capitalism” to Institutions Capitalism can be defined in many ways, but I would like to focus on three theories that place the rise of capitalism in a global historical perspective: North, Wallis, and Weingast’s theories of limited and open-access institutions, Acemoglu and Robinson’s theories of extractive and inclusive institutions, and McCloskey’s theory of bourgeois virtue. These theorists can broadly be placed in the liberal tradition, bearing at least the distant influence of Adam Smith, and focus on the ideas and institutions that support market economies (McCloskey 2016: 5–13; Acemoglu and Robinson 2012: 1). While seeing well-functioning markets as fostering open access, rather than exploitation, they deemphasize the term “capitalism,” as they do not see capital accumulation as 27

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important. All these theorists focus on institutions, except McCloskey who looks at societies’ attitudes toward merchants and commerce, and they look beyond formal economic policies and transactions to social values and power structures (McCloskey 2016: 511–19; Acemoglu and Robinson 2012: 2–3). Focusing on institutions is obviously useful for analyzing monasticism and can explain not only monasteries’ economic basis but also governance and intellectual thought. It is also useful that Acemoglu, Robinson, and McCloskey reject culturally deterministic explanations that Western Europe was predestined to be capitalist, emphasizing historically contingent factors (McCloskey 2016: 85–6). If societies outside Europe, or prior to the Industrial Revolution, had some of the roots of capitalism (Acemoglu and Robinson, 58–63; McCloskey 2016: 221, 427– 85), it is meaningful to look for their presence and absence in Tibetan institutions. The work of Douglass North and his collaborators on limited and open-access orders has shaped the field of institutional economics (North, Wallis, and Weingast 2006). North et al. define an institution as the “rules of the game,” defined to include “written laws, formal social conventions, informal norms of behavior, and shared beliefs about the world” (North, Wallis, and Weingast 2006: 22). Institutions underlie a formal organization like a state or business (North, Wallis, and Weingast 2006: 21–3). A limited access order (LAO) is one that “solves the problem of containing violence by political manipulation of the economic system to generate rents by limiting entry to provide social stability and order” (North, Wallis, and Weingast 2006: 4). North et al. see these orders as globally dominant since the rise of states 10,000 years ago; they give examples ranging from ancient Mesopotamia to Putin’s Russia (North, Wallis, and Weingast 2006: 9, 15). An LAO is not a simple autocracy, but rather an agreement among a coalition of elites who might otherwise fight among themselves (North et al. 2007: 7–8). Creating and distributing rents maintain peace and ensure that potential competitors remain loyal to the system. The LAO controls not only material resources but also access to goods like law enforcement, education, and religion (North et al. 2007: 8). Patron-client relationships are pervasive in both its economics and politics, as is corruption (North et al. 2007: 9; North, Wallis, and Weingast 2006: 35, 62–3). The system protects incumbents from competition and Schumpeter’s “creative destruction” and consequently discourages innovation (North, Wallis, and Weingast 2006: 19). Although the LAOs encourage peace and some economic development, it also limits growth and denies opportunities for nonelites (North et al. 2007: 15, 33–4). In contemporary times, they see a sliding scale from unstable LAOs, through autocratic “basic LAOs,” to “mature LAOs” that have some pluralism under the control of the ruling coalition (North et al. 2007: 11–16); states can progress or fall down this ladder, or transition toward OAOs (North et al. 2007: 21). OAOs according to North et al. “reduce or eliminate the use of violence as a means of political and economic competition, and by doing so, open up the ability to compete on other [nonviolent] margins,” as by democratic elections and entrepreneurship (North, Wallis, and Weingast 2006: 19). They explicitly connect open access to “capitalism” as defined by Karl Marx and Adam Smith and identify it with mostly Western democracies, with some development toward open access elsewhere (North, Wallis, and Weingast 2006: 9; North et al. 2007: 21). Open access need not be absolute; they believe that if 28

Monastic Capitalism?

institutions are open to a sizable minority of society, it can create open access (North et al. 2007: 17–18). Open Access creates successful economies by promoting competition and innovation and allowing the benefits to be spread widely (North, Wallis, and Weingast 2006: 47). Neither political nor economic open access, in their view, can exist without the other (North et al. 2007: 21). Tibet by North’s definition was a LAO, especially under the centralized Ganden Podrang government of the Dalai Lamas which sponsored a centralized Geluk monastic polity. But conditions varied across greater Tibet. Monks often had relatively open entry into economic and religious spheres, and some Tibetan states were less sectarian. Acemoglu and Robinson expand on North et al. to describe institutions from a more global perspective, one not limited to economics. They see a fundamental contrast between inclusive and extractive institutions in both economic and political spheres. Inclusive economic institutions provide opportunities to ordinary people, allow for free entry into the marketplace, and have honestly applied laws that protect contracts and workers’ rights (Acemoglu and Robinson 2012: 74).3 Extractive institutions rely on coercion and extract resources from the masses to benefit the elites, two examples being North Korea and Latin America under Spanish colonial rule (Acemoglu and Robinson 2012: 76). Not only economic institutions but political institutions can be extractive or inclusive, concentrating power in a few hands or sharing it democratically (Acemoglu and Robinson 2012: 79–80). Extractive institutions allow for growth, if the elites benefit, but it is unsustainable without further transformation in society (Acemoglu and Robinson 2012: 92–4). Like North, Wallis, and Weingast, they see inclusive institutions as key to economic opportunities (Acemoglu and Robinson 2012: 76–8). Under extractive institutions the elite prefers to keep their country stagnant rather than risk the rise of competitors to power (Acemoglu and Robinson 2012: 82–7). Acemoglu and Robinson see many examples of inclusive institutions beyond the contemporary West, identifying countries in other parts of the world or in antiquity, developing institutions that expanded economic and political inclusion.4 One particular value in Acemoglu and Robinson is that their work on institutions applies not only to economics but also to intellectual and religious culture. Monasteries can be inclusive of new ideas and different traditions, or else be intellectually extractive (i.e., autocratic and sectarian). Deirdre McCloskey, a Chicago school economist with a humanistic approach to intellectual history, describes the rise of capitalism in terms of bourgeois ideology and mentalities. She criticizes institutional economics for being too materialistic and mechanistic (McCloskey 2010: xi–xii, 296–309). She even rejects the term “capitalism” for overemphasizing capital accumulation and “piling brick on brick” (McCloskey 2010: xii, 75–7). Rather, it is more important for a society to have “liberty and dignity for the bourgeoisie”: liberty meaning that laws grant equal rights and allow entrepreneurs to do business, and dignity being about whether society sees commerce as a respectable activity (McCloskey 2010: 10–12). In what McCloskey sees as an “ancient prejudice,” most societies considered traders as low in status and moral character, compared with the rulers, clergy, or military (McCloskey 2010: 7). Although she thinks that England led the modern reconsideration of that prejudice, she does see some revaluations of traders 29

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in medieval Venice, Song China, and the Islamic world (McCloskey 2016: 98, 435). Her disagreements with the institutionalists are overstated, because institutions include informal practices and cultural attitudes. In any case, McCloskey provides good reasons that monasteries’ business dealings do not necessarily have a capitalist ethos. On the other hand, merchants and markets exist in most societies throughout history, leading Weber to speak of “ancient capitalism”; they are not an invention of Western modernity (McCloskey 2016: 93–4). McCloskey also suggests that (medieval Christian) monks had a proto-bourgeois work ethic, despite monastic founders’ rejection of wealth (McCloskey 2016: 451). Tibet never had a large bourgeois class, but monks have some surprisingly “bourgeois” characteristics, given their relative independence and involvement in trade.

Tibetan Monasteries as Extractive Institutions Monasteries as Beneficiaries of Political Limited Access Orders A starting point in interpreting Tibetan monasteries in terms of institutional orders is to consider Tibetan political thought, which derives largely from Indian nītiśāstra (treatises on ethics and statecraft). These works presuppose a LAO in which a king made all the decisions. The original nītiśāstra text Arthaśāstra advocated what Acemoglu would call “growth under extractive institutions,” through investments in diverse industries (agriculture, mining, forestry, manufacturing, and trade), aiming at state wealth (Rangarajan 1987: 55–63). Tibetans would have been familiar with later nītiśāstra works, such as the Rājanītiśāstra and homegrown works like Mipham’s Treatise on Ethics for Kings (1846–1912). These works argue for the importance of national wealth, exhort rulers to distribute wealth and collect taxes fairly, and warn of the dangers of corruption and excessive taxation (Sternbach 1963: 24–9; Cabezón and Mi pham 2017: 49–50, 114– 17, 125; Dewey 2020: 131–3). Hints of more inclusivity than Arthaśāstra can be seen, although the primacy of the ruler is not questioned. Tibetan governance followed a limited access pattern. Geoffrey Samuel contrasts it with a Weberian bureaucracy: “Tibetans tended to approach government in terms of patronage and influence rather than impartial bureaucratic rule-making” (Samuel 1993: 123). Samuel also rejects the idea of Ganden Podrang being a centralized polity, given the independent power of monasteries and local rulers (Samuel 1993: 142–6). Even with decentralization, the government consisted of a ruler (the Dalai Lama, regents, and later the Qing imperial residents) and lesser powers, aristocrats and nobles, who were loyal to him. In central Tibet, the main source of wealth was land and its produce, and most peasant farmers (T. miser) owed obligations of labor or crops to landlords (Kapstein 2006: 175; Goldsten 1973). They have therefore been called “serfs,” although that label is disputed due to its use by the Chinese government and differences from European feudalism, including the prosperity of Tibetan farmers (Goldstein 1971: 521–34; Miller 1987). Farmers were still not free to produce as they saw fit but were subject to extractive taxation and lacked freedom of movement. 30

Monastic Capitalism?

The nītiśāstra tradition advocates that the king prioritize not wealth but practicing and spreading the dharma, including through financial support (Dewey 2020: 131–3). The Rājanītiśāstra recommends supporting religious professionals like paṇḍitas and acāryas, and the Treatise on Ethics encourages respect for monks and (according to the interpretation of commentaries) maintaining the landholdings of Tibetan monasteries (Sternbach 1963: 24–7; Cabezón and Mi pham 2017: 166, 277–8). Ngawang Tsültrim and his biographer (a Sera monk) cited texts like these as justification for the regent’s legislation (Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 221b).5 The Dalai Lamas, regents, and the Geluk monasteries should not be seen as independent powers, as they were closely intertwined in Tibet’s institutional order. Geluk monks were always dominant in Lhasa’s Ganden Podrang, especially in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when the regents were selected from monastic abbots and high incarnations (Dewey 2017: 29–36; Goldstein 1973: 447). Tibet’s foreign patrons, the Mongolians and the Qing, also supported a clerical government for religious and diplomatic reasons (Dewey 2017: 198–205). The monasteries benefited economically from state policies, accumulating more wealth over time, and eventually became the dominant landowners in Tibet (Dewey 2020: 137, 141).6 Melvyn Goldstein argues that aristocrats gradually lost ground to monasteries because regents confiscated land from disfavored nobles and gave it to their home monasteries (Goldstein 1973: 449). Monasteries as Extractive Actors Beyond benefiting from state patronage, monasteries engaged in extractive practices of their own. This can be especially seen in monastic treatment of labor, where coercive practices go back to Indian Buddhism. The vinaya approves of monasteries owning slaves or domestic servants (Schopen 1994b: 148). In the Theravādin version of the story, King Bimbisāra of Magadha asks consent of the Buddha to give the monastery a village of “monastery attendants” (Schopen 1994b: 149–50). The Mūlasarvāstivādin version speaks of “proper bondmen” and “slaves” and distinguishes those assigned to serve the king and the monastery (Schopen 1994b: 156–8).7 In Tibet, miser who worked the monastic lands, like those on other estates, were obligated to produce and deliver certain goods and perform certain services (Goldstein 1971: 521–4; Carrasco 1959: 3–4). Tibetan monastic estates were more extensive than aristocratic or government estates, the other two major landowners (Goldstein 1973: 449). Extractive economic practices extended beyond monasteries’ position as landlords. As Rolf Stein argues, “[large monasteries] tended to hoard and accumulate wealth and political power” (Stein 1972: 148; see also Jansen 2018: 87). The Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya contains provisions that seem to encourage the monastery to hoard wealth, making sure that someone connected to the monastery would inherit from monks instead of laypeople or the government (Schopen 2008: 640). Monasteries acting as moneylenders, exploiting a monopoly position, might charge more than lay lenders and use force to reclaim debts. It should be noted, however, that their debtors tended to be more affluent, and they avoided lending to the poor (Jansen 2018: 109). Corruption was common 31

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among monastic managers. An 1820 chayik for Sera monastery, authored by the regent of the time, criticizes the estate managers for corruptly appropriating subjects’ land and possessions (Jansen 2018: 98). The regent intended his reforms to protect both the revenue and the reputation of the sangha (Jansen 2018: 99–100). Monks as independent traders also abused their position. Monks pretended to lend money for the monastery and claimed debts for themselves (Jansen 2018: 104). Because of the importance of supporting the sangha, the monasteries as corporations were allowed to engage in many trading practices prohibited to individual monks. The Sera chayik discourages “private enterprises” by the monasteries’ managers, while approving monastic enterprises (Jansen 2018: 98). These actions were also not considered to have karmic consequences, which could be accrued by individuals alone (Jansen 2018: 41–2). The relevant moral criterion was promoting religious practice rather than socioeconomic benefit and harm (Jansen 2018: 43). The ideology of supporting the sangha above all else caused many extractive aspects of Tibetan monasteries to be overlooked. Although monks were not strictly prohibited from commerce, Tibetan monastic leaders sometimes discouraged them. Primarily aimed at freeing up time for study and practice, these regulations also had the effect of making monks more dependent on the authorities. Tsongkhapa (1357–1419), the founder of the Geluk tradition, insisted that monks not keep goods for themselves but leave them for the communal property and gave monasteries the power to confiscate goods (Jansen 2018: 89). Monastic guidelines banned certain forms of property like livestock and horses. Monastic income from investments or monastery industries supported the upkeep of the monastery, but not individual monks (Jansen 2018: 89–90). Some chayik, for instance that of Ramoché temple, one of the oldest and holiest shrines in Lhasa, encouraged monks to be unconcerned with finance and trade, following Tsongkhapa’s dictates. Others restricted business and moneylending to monastic managers (Jansen 2018: 103). Tibetan monasteries often had a superintendent (spyi pa), a layperson, or sometimes a monk who managed the finances and productive enterprises of the monastery and handled donations (Jansen 2018: 75). Some commentators from the Fifth Dalai Lama (1617–82) to Gendun Chöpel (1903– 51) saw a “trend” (in fact a time-honored practice in Tibetan Buddhism) of monks engaging in commerce and considered it a distraction for scholars or a deviation from asceticism. This motivated Ganden Podrang to provide increased support for monks (Jansen 2018: 102–3). This policy began in the nineteenth century, or perhaps earlier in Ganden Palace, and was expanded by the Thirteenth Dalai Lama (1876–1933). The Chinese reintroduced a monastic payroll in the late twentieth century (Jansen 2018: 91). By the later Ganden Podrang era, monastic trade declined, and few monks owned the necessary capital. Monasteries tightened entry requirements because they could not support an increasing population of nontrading monks (Jansen 2018: 106). “Capitalist” monks were not always desired by the authorities or seen as consistent with Buddhist teaching, and one consequence of this was that monks became less independent. Jansen demonstrates that entry to the monastery was closed to many. Gender was a strict area of exclusion; women could not be fully ordained and a limited number of nunneries were open to them, and paṇḍavas, members of the “third sex,” were 32

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also excluded from taking robes (Jansen 2018: 45). The vinaya also excluded Indian “untouchable” castes, which Tibetans interpreted as barring Tibetan groups of low status such as blacksmiths, leatherworkers, and others whose work was considered polluting or karmically negative (Jansen 2018: 46, 51–3). There were effectively financial limitations to entering the monastery, including requirements of property or landownership, or costly customary ceremonies. When monks were expected to support themselves, being from a wealthy aristocratic family was an advantage (Jansen 2018: 86). (Ngawang Tsültrim was the son of a prince with Qing court connections.) Some restrictions were imposed to avoid disrupting the social order. Criminal fugitives, servants or peasants fleeing their lord’s authority, or beggars who were a financial burden were commonly forbidden from entry (Jansen 2018: 52–3). These restrictions seem to have been more common in central Tibet, where society was more hierarchical (Jansen 2018: 56). For these reasons, Tibetan monasteries under Ganden Podrang can be seen as an integral part of the LAO formed by the government. They were not “capitalist” in the sense of doing business in a competitive market and depended on modes of production and labor that are not usually associated with capitalism. The Marxists of the Chinese Communist Party interpreted Tibetan monasticism as feudal, and one does not have to be a Marxist to see some truth to this. As Jansen has shown (as has Schopen with their Indian predecessors), Tibetan monasteries acted as corporations, invested and loaned money, and participated in trade. But as shown by the economic historians, it is important to consider not only the financial instruments but also an extractive institutional context. Monasteries relied more on land rents than producing goods for the market. A system that depends on bonded agricultural labor did not encourage the formation of a bourgeoisie. According to Schopen, the vinaya literature emphasized conformity with local social norms (Schopen 1994b: 147), to the extent of accepting slavery and avoiding offense to the ruling powers (Schopen 2010: 231; Schopen 1995a: 478). Tibetan monasteries followed a similar policy in order to preserve the Buddhist teaching, but as Jansen argues, it actively reinforced social norms that limited economic livelihoods and mobility for many (Jansen 2018: 55). Ngawang Tsültrim’s Reforms: A Case Study in Extractive Institutions The dynamics of limited access institutions can be seen in the reforms of regent Ngawang Tsültrim, who fought extractive practices, without challenging the essential structure of the system and its support for monasteries. In 1777, as he began his regency, he issued a decree against corruption in management of government estates and the ulak (‘u lag, sometimes translated as corvée), an obligation to provide labor and pack animals to transport goods. It also addressed a dispute with Nepali merchants and the Nepali government over its currency (Dewey 2017: 165–6; Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:221b– 7). In response to continuing abuses, he issued another decree in 1780 to specify the penalties for corrupt officials and further regulate the grain tax and ulak (Dewey 2017: 166; Blo bzang thugs rje: 1798: 2:227b–37). In his introductions to his anti-corruption decrees, he explicitly argues that the purpose of the Ganden Podrang government is 33

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to support the dharma and the sangha (Dewey 2020: 136, 140–1). In the introduction to his 1780 decree, he explains that the government is the embodiment of the work of bodhisattva Avalokiteśvara (and their Dalai Lama incarnations) in Tibet, and that its purpose is Buddhist salvation: In this country, the limitless incarnations magically emanated by the Sublime Avalokiteśvara have shown the inconceivable kindness of setting sentient beings on the path toward higher realms. Especially, the King of Doctrine Songtsen Gampo . . . protected his disciples with the Ten Virtuous Laws. . . . In particular, assuming the form of a monk king, the omniscient Supreme Conqueror, the Fifth Dalai Lama .  .  . completely dispelled all the darkness of ignorance of all the sentient beings in the world’s realms, and, in particular, of those who live in the land of snows, with the light of the lamp of both sun and moon, religion and politics. . . . Gushri Khan, the fortunate dharma king, and all the succession of regents [sde srid] and rulers [srid skyong] offered morally upright service to support the deeds of the Dalai Lamas. Therefore, in this country, this marvelous tradition of the twofold religion and politics [chos srid gnyis ldan] known as the heaven mandated Ganden Palace is flourishing. (Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:228a–b) The holders of political power, the regents and rulers, derive their power from the Dalai Lama, and ideally religion and government should be united. This is a clear statement of how political and religious authority are linked in the same power structure. In the introduction to the 1777 decrees, he explains that the most important task of the government is to ensure the preservation of the sangha: The source of prosperity, and well-being in this world, the Buddha’s dharma, depends on it being spread through teaching and practice and lasting a long time; and upholding, protecting, and spreading that very dharma depend on the work of the supreme patron [the emperor] and the priest [Dalai Lama] [gong ma mchod yon]; and such things as the unity, pure discipline, study, teaching, and growth of the dharma-practicing sangha depends on the monasteries’ own regulations [bca’ khrims] remaining consistent with tradition. (Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:222a) Ngawang Tsültrim does not mention economic support of the sangha, but much of the decrees do deal with financing the government. If the government is the guardian of the sangha, they logically should receive their fair share of resources under Ganden Podrang. Corruption is not only unfair to the people but also deprives the government and the sangha of revenue. Ngawang Tsültrim’s legislation therefore denounces and attempts to rectify extractive practices by aristocrats and government officials (Dewey 2020: 149). Abuses by monks or monastic estates are not mentioned, although we have seen that they had similar powers over the peasantry and problems of corruption (Dewey 2020: 149–52). 34

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For example, many officials abused the ulak system as free labor for their own personal business, fraudulently including their own shipments alongside government goods (Dewey 2020: 142): Because the number of loads sent to central Tibet is required to be attached to the bottom by the district office, to have their own private loads sent along with [the legitimate loads], they sneakily write down a declaration of the number of loads along the bottom edge of the permit paper, and a large number of government and private loads mixed together is actually sent. Finally, when they arrive in Lhasa, they cut off the figures and seal on the bottom edge of the permit. (Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:224b–5a) Despite his recognition of its exploitative aspects of this system, Ngawang Tsültrim’s decrees accept the legitimacy of ulak that benefits high aristocrats and Tibet’s most important monasteries (Dewey 2017: 169). But if they originate from those who have the right permits, such as great lords and the monasteries great and small, including Samyé’s religious goods, these loads should be sent forth to the south and north. Apart from these, loads of salt and grain, which cause great hardship for the miser to carry, will not be permitted to be sent. (Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:224b) This shows that monastic trade was able to take advantage of government privileges and monopolies, key elements of extractive institutions. Another source of corruption was the grain tax, which provided opportunities for aristocrats and officials to line their pockets at the peasants’ (and the governments’) expense. Some used dishonest bookkeeping to collect more taxes than were due, while others embezzled the revenue (Dewey 2020: 143; Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:234b). Grain delivered to the government was supposed to be cleaned of chaff and rocks, and the government made allowance for this in determining what was due. Ngawang Tsültrim named several officials who used this process for embezzlement, enlisting the local peasants to help steal grain (Dewey 2020: 144; Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:234b, 238b). He also excoriated aristocrats and officials for selling monopoly goods at high prices and collecting excessive interest from loans (Dewey 2020: 147; Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:230a, 234b). His decrees are powerful accounts of extractive practices on the part of aristocrats and government agents toward the peasants. Ngawang Tsültrim’s legislation is critical of potential rivals, in keeping with Acemoglu’s theory that extractive institutions strive to maintain a monopoly on power, and his policies also supported the monasteries in other ways (Dewey 2020: 151n41). A large portion of Ngawang Tsültrim’s biography details the patronage he gave to various monastic projects, especially to his home institution of Sera (Dewey 2017: 128–34). He arranged investments including endowments and trust funds to support religious ceremonies or new monastic quarters (Dewey 2020: 130–2; Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:90a–b, 103b–4, 105a–b). 35

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Tibetan Policies Discouraging Commerce Ngawang Tsültrim’s attitudes toward commerce are on display in the decrees, representative of the Ganden Podrang government in other eras. We have already seen that ulak was not for personal use but approved for government and monastic enterprises. There often is language condemning officials who engaged in “private enterprise” (Dewey 2020: 146–8). For instance, they are forbidden from establishing workshops for private benefit, and this is sometimes described as injurious to the people (Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:224b, 227a, 230a). It is unclear whether the regent is hostile to all independent businesses, or only to those conducting business using the government’s property and time. But officials would have been among the few with any capital to engage in trade, and some of Ngawang Tsültrim’s language condemns business activities more broadly. Likewise, he discouraged monks from independently trading and even making loans to laypeople, consistent with the trend identified by Jansen that Ganden Podrang encouraged a stricter interpretation of the vinaya and tighter control of monasteries (Dewey 2020: 147–8; Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:232a). He arranged for monks to be supported directly, especially at regular tea ceremonies that were a common means of such direct support (Jansen 2018: 86; Blo bzang thugs rje 1798). Ngawang Tsültrim was little concerned with merchants as such (Dewey 2017: 185). Some Nepali merchants did live in Tibet under agreements between Tibet and Kathmandu’s Malla and Gupta rulers (Dewey 2017: 170; Rose 1971: 13–15). The decrees accuse them of greed and unjust dealings, including falsely rejecting currency as debased, and order them to conduct trade on terms favorable to Tibetans (Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 225b–6; Dewey 2020: 147n39; Dewey 2017: 170–2).8 According to Pedro Carrasco, Lhasa discouraged the formation of a middle class, and it remained small in Tibet (Carrasco 1959: 90–1; 213). Ngawang Tsültrim’s legislation is consistent with Carrasco’s judgment, as it does not promote commerce but often reflects McCloskey’s “ancient prejudice against trade” (Dewey 2020: 148; Dewey 2017: 184–5). Tibetan Monasteries as Open-Access Institutions You can also find some elements of inclusive institutions in Tibetan monasticism, including the social and economic independence of monks, democratic governance, and promotion of local economic development. Monks in Tibet benefited from these open-access elements and a less hierarchical social structure. Buddhism originally arose under somewhat inclusive conditions, in states that were arguably republican and chose leaders collectively, and flourished among a merchant class that had new freedoms (Gombrich 2006: 50). The Indian vinaya literature describes monks as independent in the economic sphere and having personal property. A theme in common between the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya and Indian Brahmanical dharmaśāstra (treatises on religious law) is that commerce is discouraged for those with a religious vocation (monks or brahmins), but it is allowed for the sake of the dharma, rather than personal profit (Schopen 2004f: 11). The Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya presupposes that individual monks 36

Monastic Capitalism?

retain personal property and are responsible for debts and taxes and even forbids entry to the monastery for those who cannot pay their debts (Schopen 2004f: 1–3; Schopen 2000: 88). Compared with the Theravada Vinaya, the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya gives a clearer account of property rights of the sangha and its donors alike (Schopen 2004f: 210). For instance, it contains a requirement to compensate the owner of a damaged mat and to carry seals to mark property as belonging to the sangha or to individuals (Schopen 2004f: 3–4). Indian monks traded goods like rice (Schopen 2000: 14; Schopen 2004f: 32). Even if they own property or trade, monks are not to seek gain or take from the collective monastic property (Schopen 2000: 103). Monks could also inherit property in India (and Tibet), although there is some debate over what exactly they could inherit. They could not own land as individuals but typically owned moveable property (Jansen 2018: 100; Schopen 1995a; Schopen 2001). While in some parts of the Buddhist world, such as Sri Lanka and Thailand, laypeople are employed to handle money on behalf of monks, the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya does not make this necessary in Tibet (Jansen 2018: 80; Schopen 2006: 225–45). Although not a true merchant class, Tibetan monks had characteristics of McCloskey’s bourgeois archetype: they had liberty, dignity, and engaged in commerce to a surprising degree. As Dumont has argued in the context of Indian Buddhism, based on its independence in economic livelihood and spiritual path, Beatrice Miller and Goldstein describe Tibetan monasticism as “individualistic.” Other scholars like Jansen consider this an inappropriate description. Tibetan monks were certainly not individualistic in a Western sense, and cultural ideals of the sangha and the monastery were communal. It is more accurate to say the monastery gave monks some freedom but functioned as a social and economic whole (Jansen 2018: 40–1). Tibetan monasteries also varied in how closely they supervised and provided for monks. Collins sees duality between a monastic Gemeinschaft, an ideally close-knit spiritual community, and the everyday Gesellschaft of a collection of “separable individuals whose relations are governed by contract” (Collins 1988: 115). In theory, Tibetan monastic property was supposed to be communal, but in practice monks engaged in trade to support themselves. Following the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya, Tibetan monks were allowed to trade, within certain limits or through loopholes. Trade was considered necessary and desirable in some circumstances, as to sell inappropriate gifts from laypeople (Jansen 2018: 89). Regulations on trade assumed that it was an acceptable activity, while banning monks from drunkenness on trading missions and insisting trade be conducted without greed (Jansen 2018: 101–3). One factor encouraging monks’ independence was that monasteries provided them little direct support but allowed them to go into commerce. Monks were not bound to the land and did not usually depend on land rents as individuals. Most monasteries did not have enough resources to provide a livelihood for each individual monk, and they received only limited allowances at tea services (Jansen 2018: 86).9 Monks or else their families were responsible for their upkeep, and therefore the rules needed to allow trade. Although scholarship was an important function of the monastery and the pathway to advancement in leadership, scholarly monks were especially hard pressed to support themselves (Jansen 2018: 86–7). Monasteries in these circumstances became dependent 37

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on local economic conditions, rather than controlling them (Jansen 2018: 108). Not all Tibetan monasteries depended on extractive land rents. According to Tibetan scholars like Dungkar Lozang Trinlé, monasteries were once dependent on the state (as in the imperial period), and then become independent through the unplanned acquisition of lands from donors (Jansen 2018: 91). Jansen agrees with Barbara Miller that the degree of economic centralization of the monastery has been exaggerated, and that there is much unrecognized diversity, as not all Tibetan monasteries were the great Geluk ones (Jansen 2018: 85). Larger monasteries were connected to smaller village monasteries from which they often recruited monks, but they did not necessarily provide financial support and some did not own land at all (Jansen 2018: 87). Do these conditions make monks more independent? Jane Bunnag, writing about Thai Buddhism, writes: “the ascetic regime of the monk, though intended to remove him from lay society, in fact renders him dependent on that very society for material support” (Jansen 2018: 90, quoting Bunnag 1973: 30). But Thai monks ideally support themselves through begging, whereas, in Tibet, monks historically had a wider range of relationships with laypeople (Jansen 2018: 90). According to the chayik of Tashilhunpo, monasteries are considered independent because they are exempt from taxes and services to landlords and are landlords in their own right (Jansen 2018: 91). (Admittedly, this definition of “independence” places monks in an extractive position over others.) Although economic self-sufficiency posed challenges for monks and monasteries, it reduced their dependency on central authorities. Inclusivity in Monastic Recruitment and Governance Despite Jansen’s caveats, monasteries were open to most male Tibetans, beyond an aristocratic elite. British ambassador Charles Bell (1870–1945) thought that Tibetan monasteries offered unlimited opportunities: “a monk, however humble his parentage, may attain to almost any eminence,” and it was true that there were few other routes to upward mobility (Jansen 2018: 44; Bell 1931: 169). What restrictions existed to enter the monastic system did not exclude the mass of the Tibetan peasantry (Jansen 2018: 44, 56). Scholarship on “mass monasticism” has exaggerated monasteries’ openness to entrants, but Tibetan monasteries recruited many more monks than elsewhere in the Buddhist world (Goldstein and Tsarong 1985: 16; Ellingson 1990: 210). Estimates range from 10 to 25 percent of Tibetan males (Samuel 1993: 578–82). In principle, advancement within the great Geluk monasteries (Sera, Drepung, and Ganden) was meritocratic, based on scholarship rather than circumstances of birth. A common saying regarding the position of Ganden Tripa was “the Ganden Throne has no owner” (Cabezón 2004). Any monk might do well in his studies, complete the examinations for the geshé (dge bshes) degree, and advance through hierarchy of monastic positions that led to Ganden Tripa (Dewey 2017: 99–106; Sopa 1983: 67; Powers 1995: 481). Ngawang Tsültrim’s advancement partially fits this model. He came from an aristocratic background in a remote kingdom in Western Tibet, so he was not destined for monastic or political leadership in Lhasa, although the Dalai Lama’s favor did matter for one 38

Monastic Capitalism?

key monastic abbacy (Dewey 2017: 60–1, 67; Grags pa mkhas grub 1820: 1b, 4b–5a). He owed the regency to the Qing Qianlong Emperor (1711–99, r. 1735–96), to whom he was a court religious teacher, but he did not attract the emperor’s attention until he climbed the monastic hierarchy (Dewey 2017: 66–8; Grags pa mkhas grub 1820: 5a; Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:14a). His biography describes his ascension to the regency as spiritually predestined but also extraordinary since he began as an ordinary monk (Dewey 2017: 68, 106–7; Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:14a, 33a–b, 39b–40a). All meritocratic systems are necessarily subject to some inequities, and Dalai Lamas and other tülkus (sprul sku, recognized incarnations of religious masters) tended to advance easily. Advancement in Geluk monasteries, nonetheless, was open to monks with no hereditary entitlement. What Ellingson calls the “constitutionalism” of Tibetan monastic law, as found in the chayik, is another indication of open access. He characterizes constitutionalism as “the deliberate institutionalization of restraints against arbitrary uses and abuses of political power” (Ellingson 1990: 216).10 Rule of law capable of holding leaders to account is one characteristic of inclusive institutions (Acemoglu and Robinson 2012: 305–6). A constitution as a polity’s “fundamental governing principles, institutions, and traditional practices, whether or not codified in a single written document,” and a chayik similarly provides governing principles and norms, based on local custom, tradition, the vinaya, and secular law (Ellingson 1990: 204–9). It describes both individual and communal responsibilities (Ellingson 1990: 217). In addition to describing how power is exercised, it limits the power of the authorities (Ellingson 1990: 205–7). Arguably, such aspects of Tibetan monastic governance go back to the vinaya texts, but Ellingson describes chayik as an application to real-world conditions (Ellingson 1990: 209–10). Such formal guiding principles accord with Samuel’s observation that clerical Buddhism has elements of Weberian bureaucracy (Samuel 1993: 361). The impartiality of bureaucracy can support inclusive institutions, since it counteracts personal rule and patronage, although bureaucracy certainly does not preclude extractive institutions. Of course, chayik do not establish inclusive institutions on their own, but they do show monastic governance was not intended to be autocratic. The organization of a Tibetan monastery involved some hierarchy but was also inclusive and democratic (Ellingson 1990). At most Tibetan monasteries, an assembly (tshogs ‘du) of representatives of the general monastic population had power, choosing officials by consensus (Ellingson 1990: 214–15; Cabezón 1997: 43). The assembly also commissioned an outside arbitrator to write the monastery’s chayik (Ellingson 1990: 209). Each monastic office had strict qualifications, based on levels of education and having full vows. The abbot was the highest official and due the most respect but must respect the monastic tradition and community opinion rather than exercise unlimited power (Dreyfus 2003: 43). Sometimes he had a figurehead role while others really governed (Jansen 2018: 81). Tülkus were influential at monasteries and had great prestige, but they were often economically and politically independent of the institution. It was not uncommon, but not the rule either, for them to formally hold positions like the abbacy (Dewey 2017: 42–5).11 Abbots for the largest Geluk monasteries were appointed 39

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by the government, but this was not the case for many monasteries of other traditions or outside central Tibet (Ellingson 1990: 317).

Monasteries as Agents of Economic Investment The Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya describes Indian precedents for the investments of Tibetan monasteries and their relationships with lay donors. The vinaya encouraged monasteries to engage in moneylending to promote stewardship of merit-making donations (Schopen 2000: 91–3; Schopen 2004f: 32–3). In a passage translated by Schopen, the Buddha overrides his earlier statements discouraging trade and tells donors who are concerned about monastic upkeep, “for the sake of the community a perpetuity for building purposes is to be accepted” and “perpetuities for the sake of the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha are to be lent on interest” (Schopen 2004f: 529–30). The Sanskrit term for perpetuity (akṣaya-nīvī) refers to an endowment that cannot be spent but lent out on interest or otherwise invested (Schopen 2004f: 532–3). Monasteries used a wide range of “sophisticated financial instruments” including “oral and written wills, written loan contracts, permanent endowments, monetary deposits, interest-bearing loans, negotiable securities, and even what might be called a form of health insurance” (Schopen 2000: 92). The Kṣudrakavastu section of the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya describes an arrangement where merchants used monastic donations as capital and gave a cut of the profits to monks (Schopen 2004f: 9). Vinaya texts encouraged monastics not to be a burden to the lay community, as by taking laypeople into court to collect debts (Schopen 2000: 94). Guṇaprabha, in his attempt to render the sprawling Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya corpus as a legal code, gave much emphasis to the economic passages (Schopen 2004f: 542). His works were used in Vikramaśīla, an Indian monastery that influenced Tibet through figures like Atiśa, and they came to define the Tibetan understanding of the vinaya (Schopen 2004f: 544). Ivan Strenski calls attention to Buddhist monasteries as economic agents, and the vinaya literature and the economic practices of Tibetan monasteries support this theory (Strenski 1983: 463–77). Tibetan monasteries used similar investment vehicles in ways that were not merely exploitive but encouraged trade and community development. As in the vinaya, chayik encouraged the monastery to lend out money, using the proceeds to support the buildings and its inhabitants. This relationship was understood in both karmic and economic terms (Jansen 2018: 108). Traditionally, Western Christian thought approved of trade but disapproved of usury, but Tibetans made no such distinction, and vinaya texts even encouraged lending at interest to multiply the merit of donations (Jansen 2018: 110–11). Indian texts, non-Buddhist and Buddhist, approved of such lending so long as religious organizations benefited (Schopen 2004e: 57–8). Although it could result in indebtedness, monastic moneylending was viewed by the laity as beneficial in two ways: it could be a source of credit in tough times, like a bank, and repaying the monastery produced merit (Jansen 2018: 111). Historians have argued the moral discourse around finance in Christianity held back economic development in medieval Europe, but it was 40

Monastic Capitalism?

no such impediment in Tibetan Buddhism (Jansen 2018: 113; McCloskey 2016: 434–5, 441–2). Monastic reciprocity with the community extended beyond money matters. As a “field of merit,” their relationship of exchange with lay donors was karmic, and this had further implications for property rights in the monastery. The donor’s wishes must be respected, for instance to support a certain ritual or tea service, so that they can get the full merit of their donation (Jansen 2018: 90). The idea of property rights in the merit economy was suggested by Schopen in his analysis of the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya, as monks were implored to use donated goods as much as possible, so long as donors took responsibility for their upkeep (Schopen 2004: 244–5f; Schopen 1996: 115). According to him, “The monks’ obligation to use what is ‘given’ to them is, in fact, their obligation to make merit for the donors—they are one and the same” (Schopen 1996: 112). It could be argued that the obligation not to waste donations led to greater leeway for monks to own property (Schopen 1995b: 107). It also encouraged monasteries to hoard wealth rather than giving or trading it away (Schopen 1995b: 108). “Use” did not just entail monks handling the donated objects, but also using donations productively to make a profit and sustain the monastery financially (Schopen 2004f: 546). Tsering Shakya argues that Tibetans did not see the monasteries as exploitative, but “they were willing to accept the special position enjoyed by the religious institutions and in fact much of the wealth of the monasteries was accumulated over the centuries from voluntary contributions from the masses” (Jansen 2018: 86 quoting Shakya 1999). Jansen raises the possibility that monasteries were in fact better landlords, willing to invest in communities rather than simply collect as much rent as possible like aristocrats. Rather than the “exploitation” often seen by Western or Chinese critics, monasteries could offer a source of stability and economic development for the people that other institutions could not (Jansen 2018: 112). Tibetan rulers took care to maintain such a cooperative relationship because mistreated laborers might run off and deprive the monastery of revenue (Jansen 2018: 99). Although cases of forced labor were recorded, monasteries in India and Tibet were known for employing people on generous terms, providing food, clothing, and medicine (Jansen 2018: 112; Schopen 1994b: 158). Monks also arranged medical care for laypeople (although they could not practice medicine themselves) (Jansen 2018: 141; Schopen 2008: 625–40). As economic actors in the community, Buddhist monasteries had some elements of open access. As described earlier, the regent Ngawang Tsültrim tried to make reforms so that the peasants would not be unduly burdened by excessive taxation or corrupt officials, proscribing all the corrupt practice he detailed (Dewey 2020: 137–49). In order to reduce corruption in the grain tax, his decrees created detailed procedures of tax collection, including monetizing the tax to reduce incentives for cheating (Dewey 2020: 144; Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:238b). He also punished corrupt officials by public shaming and levying fines to compensate for what was stolen and held out the possibility of exile (Dewey 2020: 144–5; Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 231a–b). According to his biography, he always implored official delegations, including those of high tülkus, not to lay oppressive burdens on peasants when traveling (Blo bzang thugs rje 1798: 2:39a–b, 55b, 66a–b). 41

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These reforms did not change the essentially extractive character of monastic landlordism, but Ngawang Tsültrim and others did try to reduce abusive practices and create regulated standards of conduct.

How Extractive and Inclusive Institutions Shaped Tibetan Buddhism The theories of inclusive and extractive institutions are useful beyond understanding the economic role of Tibetan monasteries—how is Buddhism shaped by monks’ economic and intellectual independence, or else by their subjection to state and sectarian authority? The conservative effect of central Tibet’s extractive institutions on Tibetan Buddhism has been noted by many authors, especially Geoffrey Samuel who ties Lhasa’s centralized state control and patronage to the conservatism of “clerical Buddhism” in the Geluk tradition. According to him, state centralization encouraged settled monasticism, which in turn gave rise to a “Karma Orientation” of a strict moral code and merit understood in economic terms (Samuel 1993: 6–7, 559–60). Practices of “shamanic Buddhism” (by which Samuel means tantric and visionary practices) dominated in other schools of Tibetan Buddhism but were restricted by the Geluk tradition to a small elite (Samuel 1993: 499, 506–15). The original Geluk scholarship of Tsongkhapa and Khedrupjé broke new ground, but later Geluk scholarship, however learned, mostly restated the founders’ orthodoxy through commentaries (Samuel 1993: 462, 506–16, 538, 545–6). The Ganden Podrang government patronized the Geluk tradition and guarded its orthodoxy, so that a clerical form of Buddhism came to dominate central Tibet. Under its rule, schools other than Geluk did not flourish, unless they had the Dalai Lama’s favor. The Kagyu and Jonang traditions were persecuted under the rule of the Fifth Dalai Lama (Dreyfus 2003: 146–7; Samuel 1993: 525–52). Samuel sees increased centralization and ossification as the high lamas of the regency and the Qing solidified control of Tibet in the eighteenth century (Samuel 1993: 525–33).12 The scholasticism of the Geluk monasteries became closed to new influences (Drefyus 2003: 28–9). There was still a strong culture of debate and inquiry in Geluk education, but it was only allowed to be conducted orally as means of maintaining orthodoxy, so that little innovation made it into writing (Dreyfus 2003: 123–8).13 Monastic colleges had manuals that defined the college’s curriculum and its official philosophical positions, and traditionally Tibetan teachers were reluctant to deviate from them (Dreyfus: 243–6). When monasteries operated under limited access institutions, with both economic and sectarian monopolies, it led to conservatism and stagnation in the field of religion. The regency of Ngawang Tsültrim, with his insistence on Geluk orthodoxy and policies that favored monasteries, confirms that eighteenth-century Tibet was dominated by limited access institutions and conservative clerical Buddhism (Dewey 2017: 139). The Thirteenth Dalai Lama failed to centralize control and sideline the monasteries, and they successfully resisted moves toward reform, sometimes violently, up until the demise of Ganden Podrang (Samuel 1993: 544; Goldstein 1989). This also shows where the real power lay within the system; North, Wallis, and Weingast note that in a LAO, 42

Monastic Capitalism?

leaders may make well-intentioned reforms, while their underlings continue to profit from extractive practices (North et al. 2006: 31). Late Geluk scholarship was exemplified by Pabongkha Rinpoché (1878–1941), who was uncompromisingly sectarian and sought to revive the orthodoxy of Tsongkhapa (Samuel 1993: 545–6). Gendun Chöpel’s life is a good example of how the conservative Geluk establishment dealt with dissenters; he died after being imprisoned for his heretical views, which responded to Western thought and colonialism and incorporated ideas from non-Geluk traditions of Buddhism (Samuel 1993: 546). Because of its extractive institutions, Ganden Podrang failed to adapt in the face of vast world changes with the rise of the British Empire and the People’s Republic of China. Inclusive institutions, by contrast, can promote innovation. Buddhist monasteries were not primarily aimed at economic innovation (although there was some, documented by Schopen) but became centers of cultural and religious innovation. Not all Tibetan monasticism was as conservative as the Geluk tradition in the late Ganden Palace era, and the open and inclusive aspects of Tibetan monasteries helped make them the crown jewel of Tibetan society and promoted the flourishing of religious scholarship. Imperial period Buddhism was closely tied to the palace and was known mostly for translating the Indian canon rather than any original developments. However, it was followed (after the “Dark Age” of imperial collapse) by an innovative period of revival from the tenth to the twelfth centuries, which Ronald Davidson labels the “Tibetan Renaissance.” Tibetan Buddhism became a distinctive religion that built upon Indian philosophy and created new forms of practice. This occurred in an open environment that allowed different translators and tantric adepts to compete for local patrons (Davidson 2005: 18– 21). The initial reintroduction of monastic Buddhism involved monks accompanying merchant caravans into central Tibet (Davidson 2005: 94). Its network of temples became convenient centers for monks and traveling merchants alike (Davidson 2005: 87). Although Davidson does not see decentralization as a factor encouraging the Tibetan Renaissance (Davidson 2005: 19), it allowed for multiple traditions to be patronized without a Ganden Palace to enforce orthodoxy and created a kind of open access order. The early history of Geluk shows similar benefits to decentralization, as Tsongkhapa created this new tradition in an environment where he could seek out teachers of diverse traditions in the course of his religious instruction (Sangs rgyas rgya mtsho 1989). Geoffrey Samuel persuasively argues that there was more freedom in Tibetan areas outside the control of Lhasa, where centralized government was weaker or nonexistent (Samuel 1993: 142). The Rimé (nonsectarian) movement flourished in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in Eastern Tibet among its smaller states and stateless regions (Samuel 1993: 525–52). It was deliberately nonsectarian, embraced innovation through the ongoing revelation of terma (gter ma, treasure texts) and incorporated different ideas from across the Tibetan tradition. It synthesized Geluk scholasticism and mass monasticism and the more esoteric guru-disciple practices of Nyingma and Kagyu tantric masters (Samuel: 537–43, 550–1). The decentralized polity of Eastern Tibet had elements of open access, including a variety of organized states that could offer religious patronage in competition, and the monastic institutions of the rimé schools, with w ­ ell-developed 43

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curricular structures but less strongly enforced orthodoxy than the Geluk tradition. Note, however, that Samuel attributes these qualities to decentralization and even statelessness (Samuel 1993: 550–1), a challenge to the institutional economists who see open access within a centralized order. While not necessarily innovative, the continued quality of Geluk scholarship and debating culture through the twentieth century (Dreyfus 2003), benefiting of course from state patronage, also shows evidence of the benefits of the inclusive and meritocratic aspects of monasteries. While I have not examined the modern era, the conditions of exile have created greater open access for monasteries that have relocated abroad, and new sources of funding (wealthy donors and patron states) that create dependence or independence. Meanwhile the authoritarian rule of the People’s Republic of China, imposing unprecedented restrictions on religious practice, has shown what damage extractive institutions can do to the religious tradition of Tibetan Buddhism.

44

PART II CONTEMPORARY STUDIES

46

CHAPTER 2 SELLING BUDDHISM BY BRANDING MINDFULNESS AND REIKI AS VALUABLE, SECULAR SERVICES: THREE INTERACTING ECONOMIC MODELS

Candy Gunther Brown

In US and global neoliberal capitalist contexts, there is market demand for secular therapeutic services that cultivate healthy, productive, and moral patients, employees, and students. Mindfulness and Reiki are examples of services that have entered the marketplace as nominally secular commodities that function to spread Buddhistderived beliefs and values among those who have not converted, nor wish to convert, to Buddhism (Brox and Williams-Oerberg 2017: 508). The “secular” reputation of such services does not reflect an inherent quality so much as the success of branding strategies in articulating with larger structures of capitalism, globalization, and neoliberalism. This chapter examines the branding of mindfulness and Reiki as scientific, secular, and spiritual-but-not-religious services that sell Buddhist ideals through three interacting economic models: fee-for-service, philanthropic giving, and investment. An examination of these processes illuminates how the economics of Buddhism and the economics of secular marketing mutually reinforce one another.

Fee-for-Service Americans tend to distinguish free religious services from fee-based therapeutic services. This is in part because Christianity has long permeated large swaths of American culture (Pew Research Center 2015). Many Christians—as well as critics of wealthy Christians—have foregrounded teachings like Jesus’ admonition to his followers upon sending them out to preach and heal: “Freely you have received; freely give” (Mt. 10:8 NIV). In actuality, Christian—like Buddhist—teachings on economics are quite complex (Eskridge and Noll 2000; Brox and Williams-Oerberg 2020). Nevertheless, the assumption that religion should be free has structured American expectations about both religion and commerce. US law—notably Section 501(c)(3) of the Internal Revenue Code—distinguishes nonprofit “charitable” organizations—many of which are religious—from for-profit corporations for taxation purposes (Internal Revenue Service 2022). Many Americans are suspicious that “free” gifts may have religious strings attached, for instance as “sales collateral” or recruitment gimmicks (Actually

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Free 2018). Americans are, by contrast, accustomed to paying for services necessary to their physical and mental health. In such an assumptive world, the practice of charging a fee marks a service as “therapeutic,” “secular,” “scientific,” and/or “spiritual”—but not “religious.”

Marketing Mindfulness Fee structures strengthen the credibility of rhetorical efforts to distance commercial products from religion. For example, when, in 1979, Jon Kabat-Zinn (1994: 7) got the idea of popularizing Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) sans Buddhism, he framed what developed into the Center for Mindfulness in Medicine, Health Care, and Society (CfM) “as a part of ‘clinical behavioral medicine.’ . . . From the outside, it looks like a clinic, bills like a clinic, operates like a clinic,” though Kabat-Zin’s goals were never merely clinical. Kabat-Zinn’s attempt to create a nominally “secular,” economically valuable, MBSR brand—that nevertheless embodies the “essence of the Buddha’s teachings”—was wildly successful (Williams-Oerberg and Brox 2020: 9, 19; Prohl 2020: 111; Kabat-Zinn 2011: 282). As of 2022, enrolling in an eight-week MBSR class at CfM (online due to Covid-19) cost $650, with discounts available to UMass Medical School affiliates (Center for Mindfulness 2022). Once fees have marked a service as valuable, reducing, or foregoing the charging of fees communicates to consumers that they are getting a good deal. MBSR graduates are sold books and recordings, but also given free admission to all-day mindfulness sessions (Santorelli, Meleo-Meyer, and Koerbel 2017: 39). This marketing approach has been remarkably effective. In forty years, CfM had enrolled 25,000 patients, certified 1,000 instructors, spawned over 750 MBSR programs in medical settings across several dozen countries, and become a model for innumerable mindfulness-based programs in hospitals, public schools, prisons, government, media, professional sports, and businesses (UMass Memorial Healthcare 2022). In a market that has become glutted with difficult-to-distinguish “mindfulness” products, providers gain a competitive edge by claiming allegiance to the MBSR parent brand and thereby sharing in its halo of positive associations (Morrin 1999: 517; Nisbetter and Wilson 1977: 250). Kabat-Zinn proved an astute judge of what would and would not sell in the American therapeutic market. Most Americans were not at the time of Kabat-Zinn’s innovations— and are still not today—interested in a religious conversion to Buddhism. Even as polls indicate a decline in the percentage of Americans identifying as “Christian” and a corresponding rise in the “spiritual-but-not-religious,” less than 1 percent of the US population identifies as “Buddhist” on surveys (Pew Research Center 2015). Yet, a growing number of Americans—arguably in part due to Kabat-Zinn’s marketing success— might be described as Buddhist “sympathizers” who combine Buddhist-influenced aspects with other self-help products (Tweed 1999: 74). Thus, nominally nonreligious “self-help Buddhism” emerged as a commercial product, and “universal” dharma teachers like Kabat-Zinn (2011: 290) began, as scholar Richard K. Payne (2019: 78, 79) 48

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explains, to “think in terms of market opportunities and customers” who have the power to choose from among many self-help products. The MBSR product line fits right into a modern capitalist market that encourages shopping for, and mixing and matching, decontextualized techniques that are marketed using promotional literature that de-emphasizes religious doctrines, instead highlighting simplified instructions for use and lists of practical benefits. The basic appeal of MBSR is that it is presented as a set of simple techniques—body scan, hatha yoga, sitting meditation—that anyone, regardless of religion, can learn in just eight weeks and thereby feel better—not only physically but, more fundamentally, better about oneself (Prohl 2020: 115, 118; Santorelli, Meleo-Meyer, and Koerbel 2017: 11). It was not enough to offer to supply a novel product; prerequisite was market demand for something not already available—a felt need. Late-capitalist American society presented no shortage of felt needs, variously identified as bankrupt institutional religion; high-cost, low-touch modern medicine; heartless business cultures; and a palpably failing educational system (Naisbitt 1982: 48). People wracked by pain, loneliness, alienation, boredom, or hopelessness constituted a ready market for therapeutic services that promised the “intangible assets” of positive affective experiences such as calm, self-acceptance, loving-kindness, and the possibility of touching something spiritual, transcendent, or deeply meaningful (Williams-Oerberg and Brox 2020: 9; Prohl 2020: 119, 120). The MBSR marketing story is that stressed-out, unhappy modern Americans can replace unpleasant emotions with compassion and equanimity; sensory experiences of relaxation; and an identity of belonging within a community of the mindful. This can purportedly be done by recovering ancient wisdom, unmoored from foreign cultures or religions, and newly bolstered by American scientific authority (Hedegaard 2020: 97). Such a narrative trope taps into vague, orientalist imaginaries—of the “ancient” and “mystic East” as uniquely “wise,” “spiritual,” and “compassionate”—without being so explicit about the “Buddhist” or “religious” underpinnings or soteriological aims of MBSR that it offends potential consumers (Kabat-Zinn 2011: 282). Offering MBSR in secular institutional settings such as hospitals, writing up research studies in clinical language and publishing them in peer-reviewed scientific journals, establishing standardized curricula, training certifications, and credentialing requirements, successfully applying for continuing education credits and insurance coverage, and adopting commercial language to market MBSR as an American selfhelp therapy all lent MBSR the appearance of being like any other fee-based therapeutic service (Williams and Kabat-Zinn 2011: 14). Clients might be expected to assume that fee-based and/or insurance-covered services offered by credentialed therapists— not clergy—in secular venues are scientifically validated “medical” therapies rather than religious rituals. When secular institutions or providers offer services, this lends credibility to claims that the services are themselves secular, creating a positive feedback loop that increases demand for secular institutions and providers to offer these services (Cohen 2006: 114–35). Although a popular brand of mindfulness, MBSR is far from unique in marketing Buddhist-derived practices by self-consciously replacing religious with secular, 49

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and especially scientific, language. Sonia Jones, wife of hedge-fund billionaire Paul Tudor Jones, founded the K. P. Jois USA Foundation (later rebranded as the Sonima Foundation, and then as Pure Edge, Inc.) in 2011 to promote Hindu-inspired Ashtanga yoga and Buddhist-influenced mindfulness in education (Pure Edge Inc. 2011). The curriculum, which draws from Buddhist meditation teachers Sharon Salzberg and Rick Hanson, replaces religiously valenced terms such as loving-kindness (mettā) with the more neutral-sounding “Silent Shout Outs”—to teach “May you be healthy” scripts parallel to those used in Buddhist contexts (Stern et al. 2016: III:53; Sonima Foundation 2014a). Similarly, the creator of the trademarked MindUP mindfulness curriculum for K–8 students, actress and movie-producer Goldie Hawn (2013), explains: “We have to be able to bring contemplative practice into the classroom under a different name because obviously people that say, ‘Oh, meditation,’ they think, ‘Oh, this is Buddhist.’ [. . .] I call it a script.” Hawn’s curricular script replaces the terms “meditation” and “Buddhism” with “Core Practice” and “neuroscience.” There is no substitute, however, for the term “mindfulness.” This key word signals the desirability of pursuing something “deeper” than mastery of simplified techniques. Much like a well-labeled free sample, “mindfulness” advertises the availability of related, more overtly Buddhist, products. The MindUP curriculum emphasizes repeatedly that “to get the full benefit of MindUP lessons, children will need to know a specific vocabulary”— chiefly the term “mindfulness” itself (Goldie Hawn Foundation 2011: 11, 40). The British Mindfulness in Schools Project (2020) articulates its goal to “give all students a taste of mindfulness, so they know about it, and can return to it later.” The program’s website (2013) includes a booklist prefaced by a note indicating that “mindfulness can be presented as an entirely secular practice or as a more ‘spiritual’ one” and specifies that several of the books listed are “more ‘Buddhist.’” The website (2014) also links to other mindfulness programs and centers, several of which, such as Jack Kornfield’s Insight Meditation Center in Massachusetts and Spirit Rock Meditation Center in California, are explicitly Buddhist. Thus, the secular mindfulness brand indirectly advertises the more Buddhist parent brand (Morrin 1999: 517).

Raising the Value of Reiki Reiki entered the American commercial market decades before mindfulness. Hawayo Takata, a second-generation Japanese American living in Hawaii, learned Reiki while visiting relatives in Japan in 1936; she became the first certified American Reiki Master. Accommodating US legal requirements, Takata obtained a license to practice massage by training at the National College of Drugless Physicians in Chicago. Takata transformed Reiki into a valuable therapeutic product—though occupying a market niche distinct from massage—by charging for therapy sessions, trainings, and certifications (Streich 2007: 11). Notably, Takata’s own sensei did not charge for Reiki treatments; this was her innovation (Rand 2020). In so doing, Takata blended religious and commercial 50

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logics. She insisted that Reiki healers would be doing clients a disservice by failing to charge fees, on the premise that receiving something as valuable as life energy without exchanging something in return would accumulate karmic debt (Rand [1995] 2015; Borup 2019: 55). Pragmatically, charging allowed healers to invest time in their practice, since Reiki revenues reduced economic needs for income from another job (Miles 2010). Reiki could, in turn, be introduced to a larger number of clients and trainees (Wilson 2019: 88). Takata recognized that Americans tend to associate relatively higher fees with more valuable products. Dividing Reiki training into three levels, she charged several hundred dollars each for Reiki I and Reiki II training, but $10,000 for certification as a Reiki III Master—a practitioner authorized not only to treat but also to train others (Rand [1995] 2015). Takata certified the first twenty-two American Reiki Masters. Once Reiki had been identified as valuable by its high fees, it was possible to lower fees yet increase revenues while spreading Reiki to more people. The 2012 National Health Interview Survey found that 1.1 million American adults—0.5 percent of the population (compared with 8 percent who meditated)—had used Reiki or another energy therapy in the past year (Clarke et al. 2015: 10). The practice of offering Reiki on the open market encouraged competition and drove down training requirements and fees for treatments and certifications. Nationally, the average cost for a Reiki therapy session in 2020 ranged from $60 to $80. As with other types of service, urban dwellers can expect to pay more. For example, a forty-five-minute Reiki session in Takoma Park, Maryland, runs $100 (Thumbtack 2020). Some Reiki Masters use a sliding scale, estimating the value of a single Reiki session as one day’s wage. Others may offer Reiki for a “donation,” but free Reiki treatments remain controversial due to Takata’s legacy (Rand 2020a). The US market intensified competition among Reiki Masters, driving down prices for training and the length of time required to progress through the levels of Reiki. This resulted in a larger number of Reiki Masters offering training, which further pushed down prices and training times. Growth in the number of service providers in some areas exceeded demand for training, forcing providers to compete for clients in the twofold commercial and religious market (Brox and Williams-Oerberg 2017: 509). In the late twentieth century, students had to wait at least six months between Reiki I and II and at least a year between Reiki II and III (Charlish and Robertshaw 2001: 84). By the 2000s, Reiki Level I through III degrees could be obtained in a single weekend seminar for as little as $500 total (Stein 2007: 3, 29). Some instructors added a fourth degree (and fee), Reiki Teaching Master, in an attempt to limit the number of new Reiki Masters offering trainings, while recouping lost revenues (Charlish and Robertshaw 2001: 86). Nevertheless, as training and certification fees fell, the number of Reiki Masters rose. In 1995, there were 750 Reiki Teaching Masters worldwide, one-third of whom lived in the United States. By 2015, the number of Reiki practitioners globally exceeded four million, one million of whom had been certified as Reiki Teaching Masters (Rand [1995] 2015). Once a closely guarded guild, market pressures democratized access to Reiki. For most of the twentieth century, “sacred” Reiki symbols were not revealed to anyone uninitiated into Reiki II. Certain Reiki Masters availed themselves of the free market to publish 51

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inexpensive books and no-pay-wall websites that disclosed secret Reiki symbols and instructions for how to draw them. Access to this information encouraged the practice of self-teaching and, more importantly, of “self-attunement” to Reiki energy by drawing the symbols over oneself. This diminished the importance of training and attunement by Reiki Masters—and reduced the revenues from in-person trainings and attunements (Stein 1995: 57–8; Jentoft 2005). Although developed out of Buddhist and other religious traditions, Reiki, like mindfulness, is commonly marketed as a therapeutic, rather than a religious, service. Promotional literature minimizes the use of religious terms such as “Buddhism,” “spirit guides,” “channeling,” and “auras,” instead preferring neutral-sounding concepts such as touch therapy and energy nutrition. Reiki promotional materials include speech acts of denial and affirmation: “Reiki is not a religion and can therefore be practiced by people of different faiths” (Charlish and Robertshaw 2001: 17), “There is no dogma involved with Reiki. [. . .] Being attuned to Reiki does not entail any conversion or adoption of spiritual beliefs or practices from any religion” (Jentoft 2016), or “Buddhism is more a way of thinking, a philosophy of how to live, than it is a religion” (Stein 2007). In this narrative, Reiki either is not Buddhist, or Buddhism is not religious. Brochures prepared for secular medical contexts typically focus on how, rather than why, Reiki is administered. For example, “The client lies down or sits comfortably, fully clothed. The practitioner’s hands are placed lightly on or just above the client’s body, palms down, using a series of 12 to 15 different hand positions.” References to “energy” are sandwiched between logistical descriptions: Each position is held for about 2 to 5 minutes, or until the practitioner feels that the flow of energy—experienced as sensations such as heat or tingling in the hands— has slowed or stopped. The number of sessions depends on the health needs of the client. Typically, the practitioner delivers at least four sessions of 30 to 90 minutes each (National Center for Complementary and Alternative Medicine 2009: 2). The term “energy” is vague enough that it can encompass material or spiritual concepts— whichever the consumer prefers to envision. Reiki training seminars introduce religious concepts gradually to avoid offending potential trainees. Reiki I includes a brief history of Reiki—which sometimes reframes Reiki’s origin story as Christian—and basic hand positions and instructions (Brown 2013: 179–99). Peggy Jentoft’s Reiki Level One Manual (2016: 3) introduces the practice simply as a “natural system of energy healing” that “helps to cleanse the body of energetic and physical toxins.” Once novices have become convinced of the benefits of Reiki, openness to more controversial ideas is more likely (Zaidman, Goldstein-Gidoni, and Nehemya 2009: 616). Reiki Masters who are themselves Buddhists or Buddhist sympathizers tactically reframe Reiki as a medical therapy in order to obtain a foothold in the therapeutic market. The website of the Center for Reiki Research Including Reiki in Hospitals exemplifies this marketing approach. The website—developed by William Lee Rand, an especially 52

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prolific Reiki promoter who runs multiple websites to reach diverse clienteles—features general information pages that are easily accessible to the public. In order to view other pages—including articles written by Reiki healers for other Reiki healers—it is necessary to register for a membership and log in (Rand 2010a). Membership is free, but this hurdle probably discourages the casual browser, making it less likely that unsympathetic audiences will “listen in” on in-group conversations. In the Center for Reiki’s password-protected article “How We Got Reiki Into the Hospital,” Reiki healers, Ava Wolf and Janet Wing, explain their success in introducing Reiki into Women & Infants Hospital in Providence, Rhode Island. Wolf and Win crafted a polished introductory letter, dressed smartly for interviews, and submitted reference letters from satisfied clients. Unbeknownst to hospital administrators, Wolf and Wing also employed a psychic approach of “visual affirmation to strengthen our inner intention to become active members of the Complementary Care Team. We each made a collage that included photographs of our faces, which we glued onto a photograph of the hospital staff. We also included images of material ease and abundance, directing our energy toward fair compensation for our services.” Even as Wolf and Wing presented themselves as medical professionals, they sought to “follow the energy,” go where “the energy calls,” and “trust the energy.” This intuitively led them to develop “vocabulary so we could express our healing concepts in medical terminology. […] We spoke of Reiki’s value as a technique for stress reduction, defining it as ‘energy nutrition’ and an effective touch therapy. We found that the concept of Mind/Body/Spirit connection was acceptable, but avoided references to channeling, auras, energy fields, guides, and spirituality.” Wolf and Wing “endeavored to ‘normalize’ Reiki, to meet pragmatic scientific people on their own terms” and “enhanced our credibility” with continuing education units. When describing Reiki to patients, they “kept it simple. We introduced ourselves, explained briefly that Reiki might help them with pain, fatigue, anxiety, postoperative recovery, and the side effects of chemotherapy”—while saying nothing about Buddhism, religion, or spirituality (Wolf and Wing 2010). Wolf and Wing’s approach is not unique. Multiple password-protected articles on the Center for Reiki website offer similar advice on how to reframe Reiki to attract medical clients. In an article on “Reiki in Hospitals” posted by Rand in the members-only section, Patricia Alandydy (2013), a Reiki master, registered nurse, and assistant director of surgical services at Portsmouth Regional Hospital in New Hampshire, specifies that “in the hospital setting Reiki is presented as a technique which reduces stress and promotes relaxation, thereby enhancing the body’s natural ability to heal itself.” Patricia Keene (2013), who succeeded in getting Reiki into the Maine Medical Center, notes that in describing Reiki to patients, “simple explanations, rather than technical, were often warranted; one nurse, who offers Reiki whenever she is able, might say to a patient, ‘I’ve been trained in a technique that can help you to relax and de-stress and could even help the healing process. It is a gentle hands-on method.’” Rand (2013) advises that in hospitals, “if the issue comes up, it is important to explain that while Reiki is spiritual in nature, in that love and compassion are an important part of its practice, it is not a religion and that members of many religious groups including many Christians, 53

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Muslims, Hindus and Jews use Reiki and find it compatible with their religious beliefs.” The fact that individuals with multiple religious affiliations use Reiki implies that Reiki should be classified as therapy rather than religion. Reiki practitioners reassure one another that it is possible to market Reiki using nonreligious terminology without diminishing the spiritual value of Reiki. Pamela Miles (2006: 193), a pioneer in offering Reiki in prominent hospitals, proposes to fellow Reiki practitioners that “every time you see the word ‘spiritual,’ substitute ‘vibrational’ and see if it makes sense.” Miles affirms that changing terms will not make the actual practice of Reiki less spiritually powerful, since “these vibrations, pulsations, or oscillations— whatever you want to call them—are the subtle form through which we experience Reiki. They are the spirit in spirituality.” Jane van de Velde (2009a: 35; 2009b: 50), who has a doctorate in nursing, offers advice for how to publish case reports of Reiki’s effectiveness for medical journals. The practitioner should “tap into inner guidance when documenting” but restrict one’s terminology to that “commonly used within health care.” The examples of mindfulness and Reiki both illustrate how charging fees for services provided in secular institutional contexts marks these services as valuable therapies, thereby generating demand. However, this fee-for-service model simultaneously limits access to those who can afford to pay. This twofold process lays a bedrock for the philanthropic giving model to grow market share for Buddhist-inspired services and associated ideals.

Philanthropic Giving Once fee structures have generated demand by identifying services like mindfulness and Reiki as valuable commodities, philanthropists can step in to meet this demand—and generate additional demand. Philanthropists offer grants to institutions in exchange for commitments of physical space, staff time, and staff training so that the institutions can offer services for reduced or no fees to employees and/or clients; philanthropists also offer scholarships to individuals to receive services or for training and certification. It is significant, moreover, that offering services such as mindfulness and Reiki requires funds. Developing and maintaining a website—and updating it with content that will attract views in a competitive market for attention, authoring curricula, building or renting practice space or equipment (such as professional massage tables), and hiring and training staff all cost money (Wilson 2019: 88). Those who have money also have power to shape the therapeutic options available for consumption. Fee-for-service programs can, and do often, use revenues generated by paying customers to subsidize services for low-income clienteles, which in turn generates positive PR that is good business. For example, CfM uses its fee-for-service programming to offset the costs of having “embedded an MBSR Clinic into a large community health center caring for underserved, underrepresented populations in Worcester, Massachusetts,

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providing access via free childcare and transportation.” CfM director Saki Santorelli calls attention to the fact that clinic “participants included African Americans; Latinos [. . .] below the national poverty line” (Santorelli 2016). Although the avowed issue is the ability to pay, race figures prominently in the narrative. In advertising donated services, mindfulness marketers typically emphasize not only the economic needs of those benefited but also their racial and ethnic characteristics. The promotional video Room to Breathe (2012) features Mindful School’s European American cofounder Megan Cowan teaching mindfulness to predominantly African American and Latino middle schoolers in San Francisco; the video narrates how mindfulness transforms an atmosphere of “defiance” into an oasis of non-stressful academic achievement, kindness, and optimism (Long 2012). Promotional materials from the Jois/Sonima/Pure Edge Foundation similarly highlight outreach to school districts that serve “primarily minority youth,” for instance, the Houston Independent School District—where “80 percent of HISD’s students were low-income, and 87 percent were black or Hispanic” (Pure Edge 2013; Foster 2014). Giving away services potentially increases the number of paying clients by advertising that the services offered are not luxuries that might be foregone, but rather essentials, needed by everyone regardless of ability to pay—perhaps needed most by those who cannot afford them. Bolstering this narrative is a neoliberal undercurrent that structural inequalities can be resolved through self-regulation and racial disciplining (Hsu 2014). Underfunded public institutions, such as schools, that accept donated services may do so because they cannot afford to pay for another alternative, or because grants underwrite other curricular and staffing expenditures. Philanthropic foundations often leverage giving for influence. Sonia Jones incorpo­ rated the K. P. Jois USA Foundation in 2011 with a mission of providing “grants to public schools (K–12)” willing to integrate “yoga, meditation and proper nutrition” into school curricula. Between 2011 and 2016, the Jois/Sonima Foundation and Paul Tudor Jones Family Foundation awarded the Encinitas Union School District (EUSD) in San Diego County, California, $4,228,663 in grants. In exchange, EUSD introduced Ashtanga yoga and mindfulness meditation district-wide and coauthored a curriculum that the foundation could roll out nationally and internationally (Pure Edge 2011–2016; Brown 2019: 68–157). As a condition for funding, EUSD agreed to “assist the Sonima Foundation in Research and Design support for the program which will include refining the existing program curriculum and materials and providing planning and implementation support to other grant funded Sonima Program districts” (Encinitas Union School District and Regur Development Group 2016). Funding to other school districts likewise came with strings attached. Schools had to agree to use the Foundation’s curriculum and to submit to “mandatory” training and supervision to ensure “uniformity” and a “systematic expansion” of Sonima programs (Shook and Johnson 2015: 1–2). By 2016, the Sonima Foundation had funded yoga and mindfulness programs serving 40,000 students from 114 schools in 9 districts and 6 US regions, plus schoolchildren in Nairobi, Kenya, Africa (Sonima Foundation 2016).

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Grantmaking gave the Joneses influence not only over K–12 schools but also at the university level. In 2012, Paul Tudor Jones donated $12 million to his alma mater, the public University of Virginia (UVA), to found and endow a Contemplative Sciences Center (CSC) to study and promote mindfulness and other contemplative practices (Bauder 2015). By 2016, Sonia Jones was able to announce that “A New Online Course Teaches Buddhist Meditation for Free”; offered through UVA’s Religious Studies Department and CSC, the course assigns traditional Buddhist texts and participation in “secular” meditation “labs.” The Sonima Foundation offered additional grants to the CSC, as well as the University of San Diego’s Center for Education, Policy, and Law, to conduct scientific research on the educational benefits of yoga and mindfulness, so that this research could be used in marketing (Pure Edge 2011–2016). Although precluded from political campaigning and most lobbying by its 501(c)3 status, the Jois/Sonima Foundation hired politically well-connected individuals to influence educational policies. Through arms-length funding, the foundation facilitated the “education of members of the legislative and local school boards” and the California “Curriculum Commission to gain support” for “public relations/public policy changes on the state and local levels” that would make training in Jois yoga and mindfulness meditation into requirements for “certification and/or degrees for educators” and an “integrated component of the public education system” (Pure Edge 2011–16). Foundation employees likewise coauthored a resolution passed by New York’s legislature in 2015(a) establishing a state “Health and Wellness Week.” The Jois/Sonima/Pure Edge Foundation is not unique in using philanthropy to influence public education. Another influential example is the Goldie Hawn Foundation, created in 2005 by actress and self-described “Jew-Bu” Goldie Hawn (Leung 2005). This foundation funded development of the MindUP mindfulness curriculum, published by Scholastic Books in 2011, for grades K–8 (Goldie Hawn Foundation 2011). Hawn’s mission is for MindUP to be “absolutely mandated” in “every school” (Schnall 2011). By 2022, MindUP had introduced mindfulness meditation to seven million children in K–8 schools worldwide (Goldie Hawn Foundation 2022). In similar fashion, the George Lucas Educational Foundation (2011) established by the “Buddhist Methodist” creator of Star Wars funds nominally “secular,” though Buddhist-influenced, “social and emotional learning” programs for schools (McDowell 2007: 20). Philanthropists like Sonia and Paul Tudor Jones, Goldie Hawn, and George Lucas influence public-school curricula by offering grants to schools in exchange for teaching particular practices, such as mindfulness meditation (Reckhow 2012: 3, 11; Callahan 2017: 5, 9, 13, 160; Hess 2005: 4). Philanthropists likewise use grants to influence other fields, such as health care. The Urban Zen Foundation, created by “fashion icon” Donna Karan in 2007, brings Reiki, meditation, yoga, essential oils, nutrition, and art into both education and health care (Urban Zen Foundation 2021a, c, d). Urban Zen offers institutional grants and individual scholarships, for example for teachers and nurses, to participate in training programs (Mount Sinai Beth Israel Department of Integrative Medicine 2012; Urban Zen Integrative Therapy Program 2014). As of 2022, there were over 800 certified Urban Zen 56

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Integrative Therapists. As a result of such philanthropic giving, the power to influence institutions like schools and hospitals shifts from experts in education or medicine, or even religious professionals, to those with money to fund—and/or internet savvy and social connections to market—the types of services and attendant belief systems that the philanthropists favor. Indeed, wealthy philanthropists exert a disproportionate influence because they do not depend on the collection of fees in exchange for services (Wilson 2019: 89; Williams-Oerberg and Brox 2020: 11).

Investment Once the fee-for-service and philanthropic giving models have confirmed the value of services such as mindfulness and Reiki, individuals and organizations can be motivated to invest space, labor, and/or financial resources. By increasing access to these services, investors expect intangible and tangible returns, as improvements in health, productivity, and moral character generate new capital. Institutional investment often involves what Richard K. Payne (2019: 75, 80) describes as “denatured Buddhism,” that is, “Buddhist practices and teachings that have been decontextualized from their ‘natural’ location in a traditional system of belief and practice” and are now sponsored by an institutional mediator between service providers and clients. Such denatured applications tend to downplay ideological commitments, emphasize scientific validation, and involve economic exchanges. The fact that secular institutions mediate between providers and clients to make services available functions to validate the secular benefits of such services. The Association for Mindfulness in Education (2014) advertises that “Fortune 500 companies provide mindfulness instruction to their employees to reduce on-the-job stress, hundreds of hospitals refer patients to courses in Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction to develop skills to cope with physical and emotional pain, and dozens of schools (private and public) across the country are using mindfulness practices to help their students succeed.” Similarly, the Center for Reiki Research Including Reiki in Hospitals website lists seventy-six hospitals, medical clinics, and hospice programs that offer Reiki (Rand 2010b). For $25, health-care providers can purchase a “Reiki in Hospitals PowerPoint Presentation” that reviews research and benefits of Reiki and lists “prominent hospitals that have Reiki programs” (Rand 2009). Implicitly, secular institutions in business, education, and health care invest in services like mindfulness and Reiki because of their secular benefits. The implication is that other institutions will reap similar returns if they too invest in such services. Philanthropists couple grantmaking with cost-sharing in order to grow the personal commitment of beneficiaries and multiply influence. The cost to a school for the MindUP curriculum and Goldie Hawn Foundation (2017) training is $5,000 to $10,000. Donna Karan donates a portion of sales of the Urban Zen brand and stores to the Urban Zen Foundation and invites individual donations, thereby facilitating a “harmony of philanthropy and commerce” (Urban Zen Foundation 2021a, b). Urban Zen also 57

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charges for training. The “Super Early Bird” fee for the Urban Zen Integrative Therapy Program (2022a, b) is $3,500, or one can sample Urban Zen through a single-session taster workshop for just $30. Foundation seed-money generates additional investments. Initially, Sonia and Paul Tudor Jones infused the funds needed by the fledgling Jois Foundation. In 2012, the Jois Foundation received $125,000 in donations, most of which likely came from the Joneses. In 2013, Sonia Jones contributed $2,050,000, and the Dalio Family Foundation (whose founder advocates for Hindu-inspired Transcendental Meditation) gave $1.1 million (Pure Edge 2012, 2013). Jones’ vision was, however, to encourage a broader support base. The foundation’s three-part “mission” integrated efforts by the foundation, for-profit yoga shalas, or studios, and boutiques that sold a “spiritually conscious line of clothing, created in keeping with the Jois philosophy of non-violence. [. . .] Proceeds from the apparel boutiques will go to the Jois Yoga Foundation” (Jois Yoga 2013). Jones also succeeded in persuading celebrities and other wealthy and politically powerful partners—sports stars, government officials, university professors, and school superintendents—to leverage their reputations to support the foundation’s work. The Sonima Foundation website displayed a group portrait of Sonia and Paul Tudor Jones with Oakland Raider Justin Tuck, former San Francisco 49er Donald Strickland, California Lieutenant Governor Gavin Newsom, Stanford University professor of psychiatry Victor Carrion, University of San Diego’s Scott Himelstein, and Ravenswood City School District Superintendent Dr. Gloria Hernandez-Goff (Sonima Foundation 2015b). Sonia Jones likewise recruited Deepak Chopra (dubbed by The New York Times a “controversial New Age guru”) and Stedman Graham (Oprah Winfrey’s lifetime partner) as foundation board members (Sonima Foundation 2014b; Kaufman 2013). Promoters of mindfulness and Reiki market investments as cost-effective. Reiki researcher Mike Cantwell devotes time to “conducting clinical research in the hope of convincing insurance companies that complementary care is viable and will save them money” (Rand 2013). Investing in such services can be cost-effective—saving money for insurance companies, hospitals, and patients—if patients who utilize these services demand fewer high-cost, high-technology procedures and drugs. Because patients want such services, hospitals that are competing for patients need to provide what patients demand. Former CEO of Boston’s Beth Israel Hospital Matt Fink explains that “if hospitals don’t get involved in these kinds of programs they will lose patients because patients will go elsewhere” (Frontline 2003). Indeed, 85 percent of hospitals delivering integrative medicine cite patient demand as a primary rationale (Ananth 2011: 9). For-profit businesses offer services such as mindfulness to increase productivity and capital gains. Companies “sell” to their employees a mindful company culture and to their consumers goods and services that seem more meaningful, and thus valuable, because they are marketed as having been produced mindfully (Brox and WilliamsOerberg 2017: 510). The “work” performed by employees comes to include mindfulness meditation as an indirect means toward greater regular work productivity (WilliamsOerberg and Brox 2020: 10). Employees work on themselves in order to become more efficient in working for the company. Promised returns on workplace investments in 58

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mindfulness include more innovative and creative, more resilient, emotionally selfregulating, focused workers. According to this neoliberal narrative, workers become better able to take responsibility for themselves, reducing the company’s obligation to provide other, more costly programs (Hedegaard 2020: 98, 97). Investments in nominally secular services yield religious dividends. As the commercial and religious markets have both globalized, commercial and religious investments may be mutually reinforcing. In an article entitled “Stealth Dharma,” mindfulness promoter David Chapman (2013) observes that “concepts and methods from Buddhism are escaping into the ‘thought soup’ of our global culture. [. . .] What we can do is influence the process. We can actively work to introduce parts of Buddhism we consider essential to general consciousness.” Alongside explicitly Buddhist products, services marketed as “secular” communicate select Buddhist concepts to consumers uninterested in Buddhist and/or religious products (Brox and Williams-Oerberg 2017; Williams-Oerberg and Brox 2020). Buddhist ideas and values can thus be sold and consumed through the transfer of nominally secular services (Obadia 2020: 156). Programs like MBSR, in the vision of promoters like Kabat-Zinn (2000: 227), bring “Buddha-dharma” into “the world in a way that doesn’t dilute, profane, or distort it,” yet without a religious “framework that would make it absolutely impenetrable to the vast majority of people.” Jenny Wilks (2014), who teaches both Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT) and MBSR, explains that “explicitly Buddhist ethics could potentially offend participants who are atheist, Christian, Muslim.” Yet, “key Dharma teachings and practices are implicit,” making mindfulness-based programs (MBPs) “more of a distillation than a dilution”—a form of “highly accessible Dharma” repackaged to “make strong medicine palatable.” Wilks elaborates that “although we wouldn’t use the terminology of the three lakkhanas [marks of existence: anicca (impermanence), dukkha (suffering), anattā (no-self)] when teaching MBPs, through the practice people often do come to realize the changing and evanescent nature of their experiences.” Wilks notes that public-school teacher trainings “increasingly include some retreat experience and teaching on Buddhist psychology.” The lines between secular and Buddhist mindfulness thus blur. Secular mindfulness can be a stepping stone to Buddhist mindfulness. Although MBSR and MBCT attract people “who would be unlikely to turn up at Buddhist retreat centers or classes and might find them inappropriate due to their own religious beliefs,” Wilks (2014) has observed that “some participants do later go on to access Buddhist classes.” Additionally, Buddhist retreat centers have “seen an increase in the numbers of people coming on retreats and many of them have started with a secular eight-week course.” One MBSR graduate commented on an online article in Tricycle: The Buddhist Review (Payne 2015), “I took an 8 week Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction Course two years ago without knowing anything about Buddhism. [. . .] That program spurred my curiosity and here I am learning all about the Four Noble Truths.” Dharma teacher Janette Taylor reflects that “taking the more secular approach at first, gives more people a doorway that they can enter easily. Then, once they gain their footing, they become more willing to explore the more transcendent aspects of the Dharma” (online comment on 59

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Heuman 2012). Similarly, Abbot of Boundless Way Zen Temple Melissa Myozen Blacker has observed that MBSR “normalized Buddhism in our culture,” such that “we get people from all walks of life coming into the temple who, even ten years ago, wouldn’t have come to a Zen temple” (Wilks et al. 2015). Moreover, clinical research studies suggest that longer-term mindfulness meditators are less likely to be monotheists or religious “nones” and more likely to identify as “Buddhist” or with “all” religions (Shapiro 1992: 33–4, 28, 30). Reiki, like mindfulness, has successfully disseminated Buddhist-derived concepts. Diane Stein is a popular Reiki Master who offers weekend Reiki Level 1–III trainings on the premise that it is “crucial for Reiki to become universal” and “for as many people as possible to become Reiki Teaching Masters.” This is because Reiki assists people (and animals) in “going beyond the mind to the Buddha Nature (Goddess within) in all of us. [. . .] Oneness, You are Goddess,” or “ascension” (Stein 2007: 112, 142). In an article entitled “Reiki Helped Me Understand Christianity Better,” Murielle Marchand (2013) recalls that it is when I turned Reiki II and learnt about the symbols that my understanding of the Christian faith drastically began to change. [. . .] When I started using the Reiki protection sign almost every day it suddenly occurred to me that the cross was the Christians’ protection sign (in one of its uses of course) and that each faith had just simply developed its own symbols. After Reiki II, Marchand no longer perceived a conflict among different religions. When Roman Catholic Marita Aicher-Swartz (2008) started using Reiki, she wondered if she could be “both a Christian and practice Reiki.” But during treatments, “a transformation occurred in how I understood the gift of Reiki healing,” and she now calls for help from spirit guides without feeling uneasy. For Catholic Margaret Lee Lyles (2013), the “jump from wary skepticism to totally embracing Reiki took eight years!” Lyles now feels comfortable speaking about her “aura” and notes that “Reiki leads us to other things that are an essential part in our healing process, such as Tai Chi or Qi Gong, yoga exercises, acupuncture, and different forms of meditation.” Thus, the dissemination of Reiki services has accelerated a shift in the American therapeutic and religious landscapes.

Conclusions Three economic models—fee-for-service, philanthropic giving, and investment—interact to produce, satisfy, and intensify market demand for services that sell Buddhist-influenced ideals in religiously saturated or resistant cultural contexts. In the fee-for-service model, providers mark services as secular commodities by charging clients fees. Fee-for-service exchanges simultaneously generate market value and erect financial access barriers. The philanthropic giving model depends upon the commoditization of services. Once the feefor-service model has created a valuable commodity, needed but unattainable by those 60

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who lack substantial financial resources, philanthropic foundations meet and further stimulate demand by offering grants to institutions and scholarships to individuals. In the investment model, institutions and individuals indebted to philanthropists for their gifts share costs by investing space, time, and/or resources of their own. Invitations to invest frame resource commitments as strategic, thereby increasing demand for services that are expected to yield both intangible and tangible dividends. Thus, some forms of Buddhism—or at least certain manifestations of Buddhist-inspired practices—have not only accommodated but also thrived under capitalism.

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CHAPTER 3 CONSCIOUSNESS RAISING, FALSE CONSCIOUSNESS, AND FREUD: BUDDHIST TRADITIONS IN CONTEMPORARY MENTAL HEALTH ECONOMIES IN THE UNITED STATES

Ira Helderman

In medieval China, in the year 636 CE, Emperor Taizong issued a proclamation pertaining to Buddhist “monks [who] live immersed in the world,” some “falsely lay[ing] claim to magical healing powers.” Such practitioners, the emperor wrote, “seek[ing] to enrich themselves by means of sorcery .  .  . have a most harmful effect on the holy doctrine. Having no other aim but to uphold and protect the latter, We shall allow no indulgence” (Gernet 1995: 251). Jacques Gernet relays the emperor’s decree in his masterwork Buddhism in Chinese Society: An Economic History from the Fifth to the Tenth Centuries. And he agrees with the emperor’s assessment that “the origin and development of ” this “entire class of itinerant monks, tricksters, wonderworkers, soothsayers, magicians, exorcists, and healers . . . were essentially fostered by economic motives” (Gernet 1995: 250). But he states that “the profitable methods” of these “itinerant monks sometimes served other ends as well: to persuade or convert people” (Gernet 1995: 253). Even as they operated outside the organizing structures of monastic communities, when practitioners displayed the healing capabilities of Buddhist practices it could still have the effect of demonstrating the seeming preeminence of Buddhist traditions. For those monastics adhering to the strictures of the vinaya laws, meanwhile, the connection was often made explicit. Gernet writes, for example, that care for the sick [was] always accompanied by preaching to draw the recipient’s attentions to Buddhism. As one Chinese Mahayanist work recommended .  .  . illnesses are to be diagnosed with the greatest care and the appropriate cure shall be seen to . . . [but] It will be explained to the sick person that his pains are due to an evil contracted in a previous existence and that since he now suffers painful retribution, it is time to repent. (Gernet 1995: 219) And yet, while these monastics might have coupled their treatment of the sick with teachings about a soteriological economy of karmic exchange, Gernet suggests that the Chinese assimilation of Buddhist traditions was “certainly not due to the doctrines they preached but first of all to the admiration and amazement incited by their powers” which

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“may have appeared to be, or actually have been, superior to those previously known in China” (Gernet 1995: 253). Gernet employs these episodes as illustrations of his larger claim that the establishment of Buddhist communities in medieval China was fundamentally shaped by economic concerns. “The most heterogeneous aspects of Buddhism in China,” he argues, “the religious and the commercial” (Gernet 1995: xvi) were wholly intertwined. Within them we find multiple interconnecting systems of exchange, enacted by multiple actors who are all driven by multiple, sometimes, competing motivations: an emperor’s motivation, perhaps, to protect the dharma, but also to co-opt the allure of Buddhist teachings. Certainly, his immense wealth would not have been threatened by the stray “itinerant monk” who, on the other hand, would likely be motivated by the necessity to innovate means of survival, far more than the accumulation of riches. Wandering “wonderworkers” may have had “a most harmful effect on the holy doctrine,” but their actions could well have been viewed as subversive to the consolidations of power that monastic communities required in order to obtain resource sustainability in newly establishing themselves in the emperor’s lands. Is it possible to ascertain the true motivations of these various actors? Do they only believe themselves to be primarily driven by the preservation and spread of the dharma or, at their core, are they in fact motivated by a desire for economic viability? Or are these very questions premised on binary distinctions that would actually make them entirely nonsensical to medieval Chinese communities? * * * More than one millennium later, the healing capacities of Buddhist teachings and practices have played a central role in the contemporary assimilation of Buddhism in the United States. Buddhist elements have been held up in the popular media as sources of healing and the cultivation of wellness. (Though, notably, this excitement has almost solely surrounded modern meditation forms; the wave of interest among communities of European descent in the United States has largely ignored the most commonly used healing elements among Asian Buddhist communities such as talismans, tattooing, and propitiation of ancestors.) At the front of this larger trajectory, clinical psychotherapists in particular have approached Buddhist teachings and practices in surprisingly diverse ways for well over a century now. In this chapter, I first overview the place of Buddhist traditions in nearly every corner of contemporary US mental health-care economies from individual private practices to corporate-managed care systems to state-run hospitals. The tremendous cultural visibility of these activities has spurred a robust debate among their outside observers. And, though they may not have the powers of Emperor Taizong, fortunately or unfortunately, some religious studies scholars and cultural commentators have, like him, discerned “most harmful effects” in the work of contemporary clinicians. Jeremy Carrette and Richard King (2005), for example, condemn what they view as the commodification of centuries-old Buddhist traditions into instrumentalized biomedical techniques marketable within global capitalism. There are other observers, however, like 63

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Jeff Wilson (2014), who reference just the sort of episodes described earlier to normalize our present-day phenomena, citing them as evidence that, historically, healing practices were always employed in the transmission of Buddhist traditions to new communities. We may very well detect resonances in what follows to these ancient tales of imperial authorities and avaricious false magicians. All of this commentary, meanwhile, often overlooks (or even obscures) the fact that psychotherapists themselves have long listened and responded to the critiques of Buddhist practitioners and religious studies scholars and, further, have generated a variety of their own concerns. My (auto-)ethnographic data shows that prominent clinicians worry that Buddhist-informed therapies are marketed as “quick fixes” by untrained practitioners seeking only monetary gain or that they could be used in corporate settings to unwholesome ends. In fact, for decades now, psychotherapists have deliberated on whether the clinical use of Buddhist practices is an instrumentalization that perpetuates oppressive systems of politico-economic power contrary to Buddhist doctrine. This conversation could be conceived as running parallel to a comparable discussion one hears within contemporary US convert Buddhist communities about the present condition of “the dharma” in an age of late global capitalism. But, importantly, these lines of discussion are more accurately described as overlapping each other as there remains a great deal of cross-population among these communities. What we are actually witnessing is a contestation within and between communities each of which hold multiple, sometimes contradictory, models about what creates suffering, what defines health, enlightenment, or a “good life,” and what effects individual and societal change. While some cultural commentators and scholars may view themselves as taking an objective stance, only describing these activities, they actually operate on normative assumptions not only about what qualifies to be considered authentically Buddhist but what is, indeed, healthy for society. Psychotherapists, Buddhist practitioners, Buddhist studies scholars, and other outside observers assert competing claims to authority to determine what is truly beneficial to individuals and society. Meanwhile, therapists believe that the demands of their work as clinicians necessitate that they be explicit about their theories of change. From Carl Jung and Erich Fromm to contemporary feminist and relational-cultural therapists, psychotherapists theorize the relationship between personal and cultural-contextual causes of suffering and compare psychotherapeutic and Buddhist understandings of what brings its cessation, what forms of healing can result in both individual and societal change. Overlapping communities of psychotherapists and Buddhist practitioners, once primarily populated by countercultural “baby boomers,” have long advocated for “consciousness raising” about societal causes of suffering and have turned to therapized Buddhist practices as means to activate social consciousness. Scholars like Ann Gleig (2019), Jaime Kucinskas (2018), and Andrea Jain (2020) thus increasingly interrogate whether such communities labor under “false consciousness” when they imagine themselves awakened and directly opposing the forces of “spiritual marketplaces” and “therapeutic culture” they are critiqued for cultivating. 64

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We might imagine another episode in the present day to bookend our tales of medieval China to illustrate the questions that ultimately surface out of these activities. A help-seeker sits in the office of their psychoanalyst explaining that they don’t feel that meditation practice has been especially useful for them. They find themselves agitated every time they attempt the practices their analyst has taught, just waiting for the time to click away. Most of “the sit” is spent debating whether to look at the clock to see how many minutes they have left in the allotted time they committed to. The psychoanalyst offers an interpretation of the help-seeker’s experience explaining that the help-seeker has deep pain that needs to be surfaced in order for them to become healthy and well. This immensely uncomfortable pain is bubbling up because the helpseeker has removed distractions and given it time and space to do so, has gotten still and quiet enough for it to reveal itself. And, of course, one wouldn’t want to experience that discomfort. “I suppose,” the help-seeker replies, “but maybe meditation just isn’t for me.” The analyst then explains that what is now also revealing itself is the help-seeker’s “resistance,” an unconscious anxiousness about and avoidance of change based in part on their transferring their disempowering relationship with their father onto the analyst. Now the help-seeker feels annoyed and they tell their analyst so. This only further reveals the help-seeker’s resistance, the analyst helpfully clarifies, the more negative the reaction to the interpretation, the more incorrect it feels, the truer it actually is. We will see that both this contemporary vignette and Gernet’s stories of medieval China speak to some of the core questions surrounding the use of Buddhist teaching and practices in healing; communities, placed perhaps in a similar position to our helpseeker, believe they know their motives for turning to Buddhist traditions as resources for health. But the true driving forces behind the US assimilation of Buddhist traditions into mental health economies remain in dispute.

The Economics of US Psychotherapists’ Approaches to Buddhist Traditions Though conversations on the topic can often be exclusively focused on attentiongrabbing activities like the neuropsychological study of Buddhist meditation practices, psychotherapists have approached Buddhist traditions in surprisingly diverse ways for well over a century now. My book, Prescribing the Dharma: Psychotherapists, Buddhist traditions and Defining Religion (Helderman 2019), is a history and (auto-)ethnography mapping this diversity as shaped by clinicians’ understanding of categories of the religious and not-religious and their relative degrees of investment in being classified as secular, scientific, and/or medical practitioners. Therapists’ approaches to Buddhist traditions are often shaped by their affiliational commitments to therapeutic orientations such as psychoanalytic and gestalt therapies. Communities of cognitive behavioral therapists adhere to social norms that make them loath to openly adopt Buddhist doctrine into their work, while transpersonal clinicians vocally proclaim their commitment to treating people “holistically” (which they often describe as including religious or spiritual aspects) and can openly announce their clinical use of Buddhist practices. 65

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I emphasize in Prescribing the Dharma that this multiplicity is heavily shaped by economic factors and the constraints that therapists face working in a variety of clinical settings each of which can rely upon a variety of funding sources (Helderman 2019). Clinicians can receive remuneration from multiple funding streams depending on whether they work primarily in one setting or another, and the clinical institutions that employ them each has their own policies and procedures dictating what qualifies as acceptable care and whether that care can be classified as related to the religious or spiritual. Most mental health-care economies are driven by a resource scarcity model and are fundamentally structured on a fee-for-service basis upon which treatment is offered (as embedded within larger medical marketplaces). Some mental health economies are not explicitly based on fee-for-service and are instead heavily influenced by forms of exchange like volunteerism and collective action (e.g., “self-sustaining” Buddhist mutual support addiction recovery groups, needs-based community co-ops with low and no-fee options, etc.). But even these forms remain inextricably entangled within the macrosystems of late global capitalism that appear in the day-to-day activities required for them to remain financially viable. As a consequence, Buddhist teachings and practices have been incorporated into mental health care in a variety of ways based on a variety of economic considerations. Help-seekers who see therapists in private practices pay out-of-pocket in direct exchange, and those therapists may imagine they are beholden only to their decisionmaking processes about whether Buddhist elements qualify as best practice. Other help-seekers have insurance benefits that may cover portions of the fees of clinicians who are in-network. Those therapists who are on insurance panels must periodically receive approval for their clinical choices—including whether and how they incorporate Buddhist traditions—during utilization review. They are often asked to legitimate the treatment interventions they provide as scientific by demonstrating that they are empirically validated (and thus verifiably safe and worth allocating resources). Many clinicians in this sort of situation have felt that clinical items deemed as religious would jeopardize this legitimation. This is also the case for many of the psychotherapists who work on an employment basis for larger institutions whether those institutions be private in-patient treatment centers, state-funded hospitals, or managed health-care facilities. Such therapists also require approval from their employers that the treatment they provide is “evidence-based.” And those therapists make these claims by citing the experimental findings of research psychologists who are employed by universities or university medical centers which in turn often receive their funding from National Institutes of Health grants and other sources. Each of these institutional structures has its own parameters as to whether Buddhist teachings and practices are acceptable for scientific study and biomedical use. In sum, then, concerns about compensation and financial sustainability fundamentally determine how mental health care professionals have approached Buddhist traditions regardless of role and clinical setting—from the tenured academic psychologist to the psychiatric nurse practitioner to the social worker in a mental health co-op—all caregivers 66

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endeavor to obtain approval for their clinical interventions from the institutions and institutional authorities they encounter on a daily basis. Historically, most institutions have aimed to restrict the use of clinical techniques to that which is biomedical and scientific, classified as antithetical to the religious. Even the counselor working in a solo private practice who means to incorporate Buddhist teachings and practices into their work can feel that doing so puts them at economic risk. Such clinicians are beholden not only to their own internal surveillance (their own self-assessment, often shaped by dominant biomedical assumptions, of the value of the care they provide) but by governing professional associations, state licensing authorities, and ethics boards. Importantly, however, when therapists have confronted hard restrictions against the influence or use of that which is defined as religious, they have often not put aside Buddhist teachings and practices. Instead, they have sought to innovate means to incorporate Buddhist elements or embody Buddhist truths, while staying within the boundary lines set by the various institutions within which they interact. Psychotherapists report that they balance multiple commitments and navigate between multiple constraints including the economic. But they perceive themselves to be first and foremost driven by a desire to provide best care, and if that best care includes Buddhist traditions, then they feel obligated to find means to provide it, even if it strains against the standards and regulations of institutional authorities and the economic systems they operate within. As summarized by one of the psychotherapists I have interviewed who is deeply invested in a Buddhist path: “Look, I smuggle what I do into a medical model for people who have insurance and want that to pay for what I do.” Fascinatingly, some of the very factors that have led therapists to feel restricted in their therapeutic use of Buddhist teachings and practices have produced what is undoubtedly the current most widespread therapeutic form, clinical mindfulness practices. To provide some background on the economic conditions at play here: there have always been immense disparities in access to mental health care in the United States, and this has been especially so in the case of talk therapy, the specific form of mental health care that is the focus of this chapter. When talk therapy was initially invented as a healing modality, psychoanalysis was almost exclusively accessible only to those with economic privilege. Recent decades have seen decreased stigma against psycho-affective struggles, increased awareness around the need for mental health care, and, subsequently, greater demand, all of which has made notable inroads into opening up access to marginalized populations. Private, state, and federal levels of health insurance have more and more frequently included mental health care benefits. But this has in many cases only accentuated mandates to ration resources and develop cost-effective (and, thus, often time-limited) treatment interventions with clearly verifiable and reproducible results. Psychopharmacology has in many cases remained a preferred form of mental health care within managed health care and insurance systems precisely because its proponents have presented it as meeting these same needs. Therapeutic mindfulness practices have increasingly been accepted by mainstream medical authorities, represented as achieving the same goal, and portrayed as empirically validated, cost-effective treatment options. But, as I have elsewhere 67

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described at length, the development of mindfulness-based psychotherapies is no simple narrative of “secularization” and “medicalization.” They are instead only one prominent instance in which psychotherapists engage in a constant construction and reconstruction of their definitions of the religious and not-religious depending on audience and environment. Their proponents view them as a means by which the healing power of Buddhist traditions could gain access to biomedical institutions (Helderman 2019: 113–47). Whether mindfulness practitioners or not, I have encountered numerous psychotherapists who feel that they are constantly shifting their posture on how to present their clinical use of Buddhist traditions depending on circumstances and conditions. A psychotherapist seeking to grow a new private practice may identify as a “Zen psychoanalyst” or “Buddhist psychotherapist” and believe their therapies are based entirely on Buddhist doctrine. In the morning, they may present this orientation transparently to the leader of a local meditation-based convert community, a leader who could then offer referrals to this therapist when they work with students in need of treatment. But then, at midday, that same therapist will forefront the idea that their care is scientific and empirically validated when on a call with an insurance company. Later that night, after listening to a Buddhist studies scholar on a podcast critique clinical usages of Buddhist practices as a pernicious medicalization of religious heritage, they will publish a post to the blog they use to advertise their practice that responds to these criticisms and justifies their approach as nonetheless still authentically Buddhist. Importantly, psychotherapists are far from alone in weaving between various borderlines between the religious and not-religious as frequently drawn by the institutional authorities who create the economic conditions under which they practice. As I have written, those lines are drawn based on those authorities’ own experiences entangled in multiple institutional settings and within multiple communities. The head of a hospital administrative board may belong to a Buddhist meditation group in their “personal life.” The chair of an academic department may also receive care from a practitioner of alternative medicine or a therapist who provides mindfulness-based therapy. (Helderman 2019: 249) Ultimately, however, the diversity of approaches that therapists have taken to Buddhist traditions can now be found in every clinical setting and every level of US mental healthcare economies. One can find treatment for panic attacks that feel like full-blown cardiac arrest offered by social workers working in “integrative health” wings of state-funded hospitals. Licensed professional counselors assist help-seekers to become non-reactive to impulses to cut or burn themselves in not-for-profit agencies that offer services for low or no fee. Marriage and family counselors incorporate Buddhist teachings on interdependence in assisting couples to work through estrangement and parents improving communication with their children. And psychologists in a private group practice advertise the fee-based certifications they’ve acquired in the use of Buddhist 68

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visualization techniques to help people stop compulsively vomiting after consuming more than forty calories in a sitting. And it is worth emphasizing in a volume such as this that all of these activities contribute to the feedback loop that are the knowledge production industries that have grown out of psychotherapists’ approaches to Buddhist traditions. There are entire economies based on the theorization, manualization, and training of clinicians on how to relate Buddhist and psychotherapeutic frames. Clinicians pay registration fees to attend conferences with titles like “The Buddha on the Couch” at which Buddhist practitioners compare the findings contained in their Shambhala Press-published books with the experimental data of assistant professors at research universities. Contingent and nontenured lecturers share their clinical experience with students in graduate training programs offering master’s degrees in Buddhist psychotherapies. Psychoanalysts receive honorariums to publicly speak on subjects like the non-self even as they may never overtly bring Buddhist metapsychologies into their clinical work. And importantly, all of this is not only accessible by—and frequently not only intended for—clinicians, but also the wider public. Help-seekers looking for self-guided resources to address their psychological distress or Buddhist practitioners with an interest in psychology may purchase books with titles like Barry Magid’s Ending the Pursuit of Happiness: A Zen Guide (2009). Alongside the “self-help” book market are materials marketed to those who might have negative judgment of such items and find themselves purchasing apparently headier theoretical volumes comparing Buddhist and Lacanian metapsychologies such as Raul Moncayo’s The Signifier Pointing at the Moon (2012). Importantly, a great deal of this material is regularly offered through systems of exchange that are not overtly fee-based as Buddhist communities trade therapeutic resources on message boards and “dharma communities” create lending libraries for use on meditation retreats. Radiating out from addiction treatment facilities and dharma retreat centers, psychotherapists’ approaches to Buddhist traditions have impacted wider US politicoeconomic ecosystems. Most fundamentally, these activities have significantly contributed to the presentation of Buddhist teachings and practices as consumable therapeutics—as sources of performance enhancement, relief from discomfort and pain, and means to effect personal improvement/change. Contemporary mindfulness practices may be the most visible example of this dynamic, but Buddhist traditions generally are frequently presented in popular culture, in YouTube videos and iPhone apps like Headspace, as instrumental techniques that can be purchased in exchange for therapeutic purposes in nearly every segment of society.

Outside Observers on Psychotherapists’ Approaches to Buddhist Traditions As a consequence, for some decades now, religious studies scholars, leaders of convert Buddhist communities, and cultural commentators have observed the impact of the previously described activities on US society and perceived them to be what they 69

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have called a “psychologization” of authentic Buddhist teachings and practices. Some have viewed this psychologization as part of larger secularization processes the result of which, it is often explicitly noted, is the denaturing of historical canonical Buddhist traditions (Lopez 2008, 2012). When it comes to mindfulness-based psychotherapies such as mindfulness-based cognitive therapy (MBCT), these outside observers may be simply taking clinicians at their word as the developers of such modalities have directly stated that their intention was to, as I have called it, “translate” religious items into notreligious clinical interventions (Helderman 2019: 123). On the other hand, another contingent of scholars has pushed back on these critiques reframing these activities as not purely the “decline of dharma,” but also their spread to new communities. David McMahan (2008) has described the “psychologization” of Buddhist teachings as an integral part of what he views as “Buddhist modernism,” a new global(ized) Buddhist form. Francisca Cho and Jeff Wilson have posited that Buddhist teachings and practices are inevitably reconstructed for practical, often healing, benefit when introduced into new locations. In fact, Wilson says, “this is actually how Buddhism moves into new cultures and becomes domesticated.” In this perspective, Buddhist communities are understood to have always interacted with local economic institutional authorities to their mutual transformation. In Prescribing the Dharma, I advocated for a reflexive religious studies approach to this topic arguing against unreflectively taking categories of the religious and not-religious on their own terms (Helderman 2019). Truly holding an awareness that “the secular,” for example, is a relatively recent social construction invented by particular people with particular purpose should radically complicate secularization narratives. I argued that we should instead examine how communities such as psychotherapists themselves define concepts like religion/science binaries and how they shape their behavior. It has since become even clearer to me, however, that when religious studies scholars and cultural commentators, psychotherapists and Buddhist practitioners, discuss among themselves, or with each other, whether psychotherapists’ approaches to Buddhist traditions amount to secularization or religious transmission, they are often actually debating something else entirely: whether these phenomena are positive or negative, indeed, healthy or unhealthy, for society. As Wilson has observed, designating a cultural element as religious or not-religious is not a neutral act. These categories, he has written, “are markers of value employed strategically by agents in ways that reveal further patterns of value and preference” (Wilson 2014: 9). Jon Kabat-Zinn and the MBCT team and other developers of mindfulness practitioners assured hospital officials that their practices were secular, biomedical, and scientific because those authorities valued the scientific and perceived the religious as superstition. Here then secularization is necessary and positive. But some of these same mindfulness practitioners encountered others (Buddhist practitioners, critics, etc.) who perceive secularization to be highly negative, a harmful denaturing. They then profess that their practices are actually “trojan horses” that deliver a “universal dharma.” Whether mindfulness’ supposed religiosity or secularity is positive or negative shifts depending on the speakers and listeners’ values and commitments. 70

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In the case of the lines of critique that have been more dominant recently, however, there is little mystery about the normative nature of their claims. For many decades now, ostensibly “outside observers” of the therapeutic use of Buddhist teachings and practices— scholars, cultural commentators, and others—have described psychotherapists as participating in a secularizing psychologization of Buddhist traditions within politicoeconomic systems like global capitalism and neoliberalism. Jeremy Carrette and Richard King, for example, perceive a cultural appropriation of Asian religious items as part of what they called “the silent takeover of religion” driven by neoliberal ideologies in which any religio-cultural element can be commodified and marketed. Furthermore, critics like David Forbes (2019) highlight the consumerist drivers of these activities and suggest that they are not only an outgrowth of neoliberal ideologies but a means of perpetuating them. There are clearly visible profit motives in especially gauche contemporary usages of therapeutic mindfulness practices as start-up companies producing guided meditation smartphone apps amass huge amounts of capital, and we find contemporary mindfulness practices employed at corporate trainings by companies like Google and Amazon in ways that appear designed not so much (as such companies claim) to improve worker satisfaction and performance but to ensure their docility and acceptance of otherwise unacceptable working conditions. Critiques of these activities are increasingly referred to as “the McMindfulness critique”—a now global brand which itself represents a cottage industry of its own with franchises of books, podcasts, YouTube videos, and online classes, all completely dependent on, a wholly owned subsidiary of, the larger mindfulness economy. Importantly, however, though marketed as new insights, when these lines of critique have resurfaced over recent years, they have largely relied upon and reproduced the core claims of theories of “the spiritual marketplace” and “therapeutic culture” that scholars have written about for at least three quarters of a century. As if eternally reborn, transmigrated on the Wheel of Rebirth, the argument is advanced that US society has succumbed to an all-consuming individualist therapeutic culture, generated by neoliberal ideologies to the furtherance of global capitalism. A dominance of psychotherapeutic assumptions has fostered a narcissistic turn inwards, a “self-absorption” of sorts, wherein one is made to believe they are responsible for their own suffering, societal sources are obscured and tending to that suffering often means merely anesthetizing the very symptoms that otherwise might alert one to the need for change. Whether contemporary emanations of these ideas are more of the critical theory variant (via a lineage that includes Michel Foucault (2006), Deleuze and Guattari (1987), or Slavoj Žižek (2001)),1 or the sociological (Philip Reiff (1966), Philip Cushman (1995), Christopher Lasch (1978) and Eva Illouz (2008)), these lines of critique continue to be repackaged and resold as fresh content as decontextualized from their intellectual histories as the Buddhist practices they mean to conserve. And yet, while these critiques are far from novel, what is a new development is how central criticisms have become in the conversation surrounding the incorporation of Buddhist traditions into mental health care. As a mindfulness practitioner, the English psychologist William Van Gordon put it online for Psychology Today (2020): “it seems unusual at the moment for even a 71

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week to go by without a media report surfacing somewhere relating to the superficial or negative side of modern mindfulness techniques.”

Psychotherapists as Critics What often goes ignored in commentary on psychotherapists’ diverse approaches to Buddhist teachings and practices is that therapists have not been unthinking promoters of the use of Buddhist traditions in clinical work. In fact, clinicians have (1) heard and responded to outside criticism for decades now and in their responses often reference the theories of Buddhist practitioners and religious studies scholars; (2) expressed their own concerns about the way that Buddhist traditions have been incorporated into mental health-care economies; and (3) adapted their approaches to Buddhist teachings and practices in such a way they believe accounts for critiques. Responding to Critics In terms of mindfulness practices, for example, even Jon Kabat-Zinn, often considered an originator of the therapeutic use of mindfulness practices, has himself interacted for over two decades with critics who condemn what they define as religious rituals used as fee-for-service clinical techniques. And Kabat-Zinn has, at times, justified his design of MBSR using highly similar argumentation to a scholar like Jeff Wilson (Kabat-Zinn 1998: 505). During one encounter with a critic in the late 1990s, he framed it as unavoidable that mindfulness practices be assimilated within a for-profit society he contrasts with historical Buddhist “monastic cultures [where] money wasn’t necessarily part of the bargain” (a surprisingly common fantastical notion about Buddhist communities of the past that Jacques Gernet would find more than a little odd). As I have previously discussed at length, clinicians now frequently present the incorporation of Buddhist traditions within contemporary health economies as a constituent part of Buddhist transmission in which transformation by the cultural assumptions of the “target culture” is inevitable. In the context of a US capitalist system, Kabat-Zinn has declared that “when Buddhism goes from one culture to another it very often adopts a good deal of what is present in the culture that it’s landing in. Well, if we’re known for anything in this country, it’s money. . . . It is the measure of value, in some ways.” For many years now, psychotherapists have heard the criticism from Buddhist practitioners and others that adapting Buddhist traditions for therapeutic usages is a harmful deracination that denatures them from their intended purposes in a way that reproduces the capitalist structures. But, like Kabat-Zinn, they often answer that it is necessity that allows greater access to powerful healing practices that a biomedical system would otherwise disallow.

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Psychotherapists’ Self-Criticism However, psychotherapists have not waited for the feedback of outside observers. Beyond responding to criticisms, they have also long generated their own list of concerns about their adoption of Buddhist traditions. Therapists have frequently deliberated on the same subjects addressed by religious studies scholars like C. W. Huntington (2015)— such as whether the aims of psychotherapy to restore a healthy ego are fundamentally at odds with those of a Buddhist path, which is often (mis)understood as a surrender of a kind of “ego” that drives greed for material wealth. In fact, some of the most vociferous critics of psychotherapists are psychotherapists themselves. Barry Magid, a psychoanalyst and founder of the Ordinary Mind Zendo in Manhattan, is scathing in his criticism of therapists he sees as “instrumentalizing” Buddhist teachings and practices into distorted clinical technologies that can be easily plugged into health insurance formulae as applications for symptom reduction. Coauthor of the text What’s Wrong with Mindfulness (with Rosenbaum, 2016), Magid sees mindfulness practitioners as especially complicit. But, as I have previously described at more length, the developers of mindfulnessbased psychotherapies have themselves long expressed the exact same set of concerns about the current state of therapeutic mindfulness practices as their critics. Going on two decades ago, Marsha Linehan (2003), the founder of one of the most popular such methodologies, dialectical behavior therapy, published warnings against teaching mindfulness practices without connection to what she refers to as a “spiritual” framework. The psychologist Paul Fulton, coauthor of the seminal text Mindfulness and Psychotherapy (2005), is part of a cohort of important mindfulness practitioners who have actively wrestled with the use of therapeutic mindfulness practices in corporate spaces. For himself, Fulton has concluded that mindfulness practices can be so powerful that they can bring liberation from greed and oppression regardless of the motive for first taking them. Even corporate raiders may, despite themselves, become awakened and he has quipped (with, importantly, tongue firmly in cheek) that “hedge fund managers are people too” (Helderman 2019: 138). Even the very term “McMindfulness” was first coined by a psychotherapist! Though he frequently goes uncredited, the psychologist and mindfulness practitioner Miles Neale told me, in a recent interview, that he felt somewhat alone in the 1990s when he first used the word to express his concern that the clinical use of Buddhist teachings and practices could be misused to further materialistic, nihilist elements in US culture. But he was obviously far from it. And the result has been the continuing transformation of psychotherapists’ approaches to Buddhist traditions. Revising Clinical Usages of Buddhist Traditions Without prompting from outside observers, then, psychotherapists have debated about whether, for example, it does harm to the integrity of a Buddhist path to directly bring Buddhist teachings and practices into their clinical work. And such debates have led to 73

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the construction and reconstruction of new Buddhist-informed psychotherapies meant as a response to early approaches. Jeffrey Rubin’s important text 1996 Psychotherapy and Buddhism: Toward an Integration was explicitly meant to correct, to Rubin’s mind, a tendency among his colleagues to exoticize and idealize Buddhist concepts, particularly among communities of transpersonal psychotherapists through the 1980s. Rubin opposes such perspectives as much as psychoanalytic prejudice of the religious which he has written, employing the language of the market, “establish an intellectual embargo on commerce between Asian and Western psychology” (2003, 41). Since the turn of the twenty-first century, a number of later psychodynamic and relational psychoanalytic clinicians such as Pilar Jennings (2010) have continued to revise earlier approaches in such a manner, they believe, that compensates or subverts the dominance of the biomedical industry by ever more fully basing their clinical work in Buddhist doctrine. In the case of mindfulness practices, a group of contemporary clinicians have heralded what they call “second generation mindfulness-based interventions” which are explicitly designed to correct the many criticisms of contemporary therapeutic mindfulness programs and as the aforementioned Van Gordan emphasizes, “one of the key problems they seek to address—McMindfulness.” Communities of psychotherapists have thus interacted with critics and originated criticisms of their own about clinical approaches to Buddhist traditions they believe can, among other things, perpetuate economic inequities. The result has been, in part, the development of new methodologies such as “second generation” mindfulness practices meant to revise earlier clinical usages of Buddhist teachings and practices. This dynamic should not be surprising, however, because it arises out of larger historical movements among psychotherapists to reform their field in response to critiques of a purported “therapeutic culture” that is viewed as reproducing capitalism and neoliberalism.

Contextualizing in the History of Psychotherapists There have been, indeed, generations of psychotherapists, since the inception of talk therapy as a discipline, who have resisted what they have seen as dominant theoretical assumptions derived from the politico-economic structures of modernity. Again, normative positions about what is positive or negative, healthy or unhealthy, for society often implicitly drive the above scholarly and cultural critics of the US assimilation of Buddhist traditions into mental health economies. But psychotherapists have viewed their discipline as fundamentally grounded in the need to more explicitly theorize what causes human psychological suffering, what can bring its cessation, and what forms of healing can affect both individual and societal change. Many of the first talk therapists believed their function was not only to offer cultural commentary on the state of “civilization,” as Freud and Jung had prominently advanced, but to participate in movements toward social change including around systemic inequality in politico-economic systems. From contemporaries of Freud like Alfred Adler 74

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to Erich Fromm; from clinicians in the “anti-psychiatry” movement to contemporary critical psychologists; from feminist psychotherapists in the 1990s to today’s relationalcultural therapists, psychotherapists have engaged in intense debates among themselves on the same issues one hears in totalizing critiques of a US individualist therapeutic culture often viewed as emanating out of capitalist ideologies. Early psychoanalysts deliberated on to what extent societal structures like economic systems are produced by personal psychologies and to what extent individual suffering is determined by those societal structures. Humanistic and transpersonal therapists, on the one hand, continued to strive for legitimation by medical scientists and, on the other, decried what they perceived to be a hegemonic dehumanizing biomedical model. Feminist and systems psychologists, communities of social workers, and others observed how certain forms of talk therapy, as Erich Fromm put it, only “adjusted” working people to unjust living conditions and sought to reform the role of mental health providers to activate people to help change those conditions. Such debates have remained active throughout the history of psychotherapy as, to use the previous example, humanistic psychotherapists saw themselves as undermining secularizing medicalization, but then a contemporary like Fromm, for example, declared that even those ideas could “become commercialized, corrupted, and otherwise misused.” As he originally wrote in 1975, “words such as ‘human growth’ or ‘growth potential,’ ‘self-actualization,’ ‘experiencing versus thinking,’ ‘the here and now,’ and many others have been cheapened by various writers and groups, and even used in advertising copy” (Fromm 1992: 13). Further, far from contributing to a singular, unified, and static “therapeutic culture,” these discussions have been hugely consequential among communities of psychotherapists. They have led to the formation of multiple generations of the new psychotherapies listed here. The governing bodies of mental health practitioners of all varieties have largely adopted the position that a central part of their role as therapists is to contribute to system change, to address issues of power and privilege related to difference including economic disparities beyond inequalities around mental health access. This is reflected in part in graduate training programs which require students to take courses (like those I have taught for many years now) teaching the previously mentioned histories and which often operate with explicitly anti-capitalist and neoMarxist frames. Finally, and importantly, Buddhist traditions have figured remarkably in the abovementioned trajectories since at least the turn of the twentieth century. Psychotherapists who have sought to reform dominant trends in talk therapy have often turned to Buddhist traditions as alternatives. Feminist and relational-cultural psychotherapists have perceived concepts like interdependence to offer an alternative worldview to individualist “self-psychologies.” Many years earlier, Fromm asserted that, first, the antiauthoritarianism of the “Zen” he learned from D. T. Suzuki and, later, a practice he called simply “Buddhist meditation” taught to him by the German-born monk Nyanaponika Thera could hold resources for a complete ethical transformation that would free people from capitalist politico-economic ideologies. Nyanaponika’s book, The Heart of Buddhist Meditation (1954), an Urtext for many mindfulness practitioners today, contributed to the 75

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same line of cultural discourse resisting the dominance of capitalism and neoliberalism that one today hears turned against contemporary mindfulness practices. Fromm seemed to believe that Nyanaponika’s meditation might actually even be impervious to the capitalization he saw other Asian religious items succumb. Crucially, though frequently obscured by the sheer popularity and seeming ubiquity of contemporary therapeutic mindfulness practices that can make them seem the epitome of medicalization, to historians of alternative medicine, mindfulness practices are often cited as an instance of the unorthodox breaking out of the margins—perhaps instead a paradigmatic case of this dynamic of psychotherapists turning to Buddhist traditions as a means of upending the hegemony of commercialized biomedicine. The developers of mindfulness-based psychotherapies always believed they were creating modalities that could both meet the demands for cost-effective empirically validated symptom reduction while also providing means for an enlightenment that would mean liberation from a modernity that included the “stress” of overwork, technologization, and other ills. For decades now, psychotherapists have repeatedly turned to Buddhist traditions as solutions for the problems they see as endemic to biomedical and instrumentalized mental health-care economies. But diverse communities of clinicians remain unsettled, debating among themselves whether certain approaches are successful or unsuccessful in this regard, whether Buddhist traditions are ultimately being submitted to capitalist systems or subverting them. These debates are also active within communities of convert Buddhists.

Venn Diagrams between Psychotherapists and Convert Buddhists The previously mentioned histories help clarify the context for the ongoing debates in the United States and beyond between and within communities of psychotherapists about how to ethically incorporate Buddhist teachings and practices into mental healthcare economies. These conversations could seem to mirror those observed by Ann Gleig within contemporary meditation-based US convert Buddhist communities about the present state of Buddhist doctrine under late-stage global capitalism. Historians of Buddhist traditions may not find this competition and contestation entirely unfamiliar among various Buddhist sects and related stakeholders whether they would use economic theories to explain that competition or not. Gleig’s findings are similar to my own when she notes that concerns about a dilution of the dharma have not only originated from outside observers but from within those communities themselves. She highlights, for example, how descriptions of US convert communities as purely products of a Buddhist modernism shaped by Protestant neoliberalism ignore current debates on these very topics within those communities. For example, she describes convert teachers’ struggles with what they refer to as “the dana model.” Leaders of convert Buddhist communities are often convinced that Buddhist teachings should only be offered freely to students, that they should avoid seeking 76

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material benefit, and that their “salaries” should thus be paid purely through dana (gifts from students) (e.g., Gleig 2019: 239–43). This can, however, leave some “living in poverty” (Gleig 2019: 240), dependent on “the generosity of the sangha” (Gleig 2019: 239). But this would seem preferable to falling victim to the hindrance of greed, fostered by a US capitalist society that values the accumulation of wealth and prestige through their teaching. To resolve these dilemmas, “the most common pattern among [Gleig’s] interviewees was to teach Buddhism on a dana basis but to mostly live off a separate primary income job” (Gleig 2019: 240). Those “secondary jobs” are “most popular[ly]” (Gleig 2019: 240) chaplaincy or teaching programs like mindfulness-based stress reduction, but Buddhist teachers also regularly find secondary work as psychotherapists. And yet, those psychotherapists have engaged in the very same debates about “the dana model” and themselves have felt ethically conflicted about accepting payment for offering Buddhist teachings and practices to aid those to come to see them for care. At one of the continuing education conferences I was a participant-observer for my research, I heard the psychologist Charles Styron reassure the gathering of mental health practitioners on this score who were apparently highly conflicted about these questions. In a session devoted entirely to the question of whether a “fee-for service” health care model is intrinsically contrary to Buddhist doctrine, Styron sought to ease the palpable anxiety in the room with an appeal to history that presented a different interpretation than Kabat-Zinn had earlier. Styron argued that if “we believe that the dharma was traditionally free in its countries of origin we are acting on a totally erroneous premise.” While Kabat-Zinn imagines a romanticized historical narrative in which Buddhist communities of the past were free from economic concerns, Styron states that “in a number of countries in Asia, Buddhism was such a seamless part of the culture that it was supported by virtually every family in many communities . . . Nothing was free about it.” Here a clinician like Styron positions a somewhat misunderstood version of histories like Gernet’s in order to mollify listeners, discomfited at the idea of earning a livelihood through clinical usages of Buddhist traditions. Again, as I referenced earlier, these sorts of anxieties should be contextualized within larger histories of communities of psychotherapists; they are far from unique to clinicians interested in Buddhist traditions. Multiple communities of mental health practitioners have felt uneasy about earning a salary from their position as “helping professionals” who, many believe, should primarily be driven by an altruistic commitment to care for the other. Psychotherapists view their profession as highly distinct from other occupations—from plumbers and air traffic controllers certainly, if not religious studies scholars—because they are convicted about the idea that they are tasked with the betterment of their fellows and society as a whole. Taken together with the histories of psychotherapists I have gestured to in the previous sections, this dynamic among communities of psychotherapists could help explain why there is a mirroring between both communities of psychotherapists and convert Buddhist communities around the current state of Buddhist practice in a neoliberal age. Or, rather, perhaps it is not mirroring between these communities that we witness, but instead the massive overlap between them. 77

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As has been repeatedly noted by Buddhist studies scholars, perhaps most recently by the sociologist of religion Emily Sigalow, “there is a notable concentration of practicing psychologists in the Buddhist convert community” (Sigalow 2019: 183). And psychotherapists have not only tended to participate in these communities. “Psychologists-as-dharma teachers,” as named by Franz Metcalf (2002), have founded and led some of the most prominent of these communities (e.g., Jack Kornfield’s Spirit Rock). This is a final area of historical and cultural context that helps clarify these issues. Both communities—contemporary psychotherapists and convert Buddhists—as well as those who occupy both spaces, are descended from a lineage of “Baby Boomers,” and “Generation Xers.” Members of these communities largely identified as liberal progressives and believed they were actively working against the ills of capitalism and neoliberalism.

Consciousness Raising When we hear talk of “second generation mindfulness practices,” it is important to remember how generational the debate surrounding the incorporation of Buddhist traditions in mental health economies truly is—and the continuities that exist from one generation to the next. Many of the first major wave of psychotherapists drawn to Buddhist traditions, and the convert Buddhist groups they subsequently joined or established—from Sharon Salzberg to Jon Kabat-Zinn from Grace Shireson to Jack Kornfield—belonged to a generation of countercultural communities through the 1960s and 1970s. A comment from my interviews with the psychologist Steven Hayes, founder of the mindfulness-based modality Acceptance and Commitment Therapy, could equally apply to the long-time dominant core of Buddhist covert communities as described by Ann Gleig and others: “the hippies grew up and are driving the bus” (Helderman 2019: 141). As described by observers such as Jessica Grogan (2013) and Matthew Ingram (2020), psychotherapists did not only participate in the so-called “hippie” communities that Hayes speaks of; they often helped propel them forward, and thus also the cultural trajectories to which those communities contributed. Among those cultural trajectories was a dedication to what was called at the time “consciousness raising.” The phrase, like the equally common “expanding the mind,” held multiple meanings, but often seemed to easily intertwine with Buddhist concepts of awakening and enlightenment. To have one’s consciousness raised meant to lift the perceptual veils otherwise draped before the eyes of conformist society, illusory preconceptions inculcated by the dominant culture. The aim then was to “awaken” practitioners to deeper truths than their parents knew about the nature of reality, gender, race, politics, and religion. Central to such an awakening was coming to realize the violent and corrupted foundation of capitalist systems, particularly the military industrial complex, that created suffering such as the Vietnam War. Some of the central elements utilized for “raising consciousness” were not only the encounter groups that could resemble group psychotherapy but psychedelics like LSD and, 78

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indeed, meditation practices—though the mediation practices most commonly taken up within these communities (well after the heady days of the 1970s and into the 1980s and early 1990s) were more likely to be “Zen” or “TM” (Transcendental Meditation) than today’s mindfulness practices. One was unlikely to have heard the word “mindfulness” spoken at all within these communities until close to the turn of the twenty-first century. Raising one’s consciousness was viewed then, among participants in these movements at least, as anything but frivolous and superficial. It was instead seen as highly purposeful. First and then second wave feminists sought to use new-found states of consciousness to work toward women’s liberation. Civil rights movements for racial justice found ready volunteers and protestors among these practitioners as well. But, despite the advancements that one may observe coming out of this period toward greater gender and racial equality, later generations of convert Buddhist psychotherapists (such as Generation Xers like the abovementioned Miles Neale) looked at their forebears and had concerns that these avowedly communitarian communities were still mired in individualism. Feminist Buddhist psychologists into the 1990s agreed (many of whom were actually themselves “Boomers”), eschewing “self-psychologies” for their name alone and calling out the embedded patriarchal structures of convert Buddhist communities. As these overlapping communities continue to diversify, use of the phrase “consciousness raising” may be on the wane, now seeming somewhat passé, replaced perhaps by calls to become “woke.” But both Buddhist and psychotherapeutic practices (in tandem or parallel) have been presented as assisting in cultivating greater awareness around concepts related to, for example, intersectionality and post-coloniality. This context further illuminates why it should not be surprising that psychotherapists have generated their own concerns about the incorporation of Buddhist traditions into mental health-care economies as described earlier. We can actually trace the progression of the specifics of those self-reflective critiques from the 1950s and 1960s through the communities I have observed for my research today, a contemporary generational mix that still retains prominent Boomer leaders alongside established Generation Xers and rising Millennial and Generation Z practitioners. What is surprising to those clinicians, however, is to hear from outside critics that, despite what they may think, they actually contribute to the very problems they view themselves as working to effect change around.

False Consciousness We have seen that psychotherapists have generated their own concerns about the politico-economic implications of their use of Buddhist teachings and practices and contextualized this as predictable given that, first, the convert Buddhist communities they lead or participate within always viewed themselves as opposed to greed, “the ego,” and so on, and have been increasingly more expressly anti-capitalist; and, second, additionally, psychotherapists as communities (whether Buddhist or not) largely identify as liberal progressives and often see part of their work as clinicians as working 79

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to heal societal ills like economic disenfranchisement and the rectification of economic disparities (especially but not limited to mental health-care disparities). A number of recent religious studies scholars have noticed that the communities often critiqued as trading on a suspect individualistic spiritual marketplace perceive themselves as actively opposing the harms of late global capitalism. In her important The Mindful Elite (2018), Jaime Kucinskas questions whether what she often refers to as “the mindfulness movement,” for example, really does “retain deeper social and political importance, offering a critique of the individualist, capitalist status quo, as intended by some early contemplative leaders?” (Kucinskas 2018: 190). Her research means to “show the movement from multiple angles in an effort to eschew overly simplistic portrayals assuming that one side is ‘right’ and another is ‘wrong’” (Kucinskas 2018: 190). She observes, however, that in terms of major mindfulness institutions like the popular MBSR, an attention to societal inequalities as sources of suffering often does not truly “trickle up,” we might say, into their organizing structures. And she notes that “one of the great risks for elite-driven alterative movements like contemplatives is [a] myopia” that can cause a forgetting [of] the problems of the people who never make it into the room with them because they lack the economic, cultural, or social capital. For a movement inspired and motivated by democratic aspirations, progressive politics such as reducing consumption and material inequality, and spiritual liberation for all, it is striking how the contemplative base was composed of such a privileged, seemingly homogenous, group of people. (Kucinskas 2018: 193) Ann Gleig may offer something of a more hopeful perspective in American Dharma (2019), observing a shift in this regard when it comes to meditation-based convert Buddhist communities. She notes that these communities have increasingly diversified in significant ways that have shaped not only their demographic makeup but their doctrinal approaches. And she views this as part of the larger developmental movement she charts in her history of these communities, a feature of the turn away from strictly modernist to post-modernist forms (and beyond perhaps to metamodernism). A scholar like Andrea Jain (2020), finally, who has studied other “elite-driven alterative movements,” as Kucinskas calls them, seems a bit more pessimistic. Jain writes that “despite the countless ways spiritual entrepreneurs and consumers” of what she refers to as “spiritual commodities” “embrace values like environmental sustainability and world peace, there is a difference between gesturing toward such alternative values and collective dissent through concrete actions and platforms” (Jain 2020: 8). Jain perceives contemporary practitioners to be entrenched within ideologies of individualism she still locates to be the heart of dominant constructions of the category “spirituality” which continually “put[s] the burden for resolving those conditions on individual consumers” (Jain 2020: 8). This argument is also found within the McMindfulness critique. At the same time, she also refutes “studies that paint spiritual consumers as the passive 80

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victims of the manipulation and deception of capitalist agents, cultural dopes living in a permanent state of false consciousness” (Jain 2020: 71). Totalizing critiques of the therapeutic use of Buddhist teachings and practices often rely precisely on notions of “false consciousness,” theories that date back to Karl Marx himself. Filtered through more recent Frankfurt school thinkers and critical theorists like Althusser, the concept of “false consciousness” suggests that elite capitalist authorities inculcate cognitive structures that serve to maintain a neoliberal order. Communities may believe they are active agents operating on free will to subvert or counteract exploitative economic conditions and systemic inequalities, but, in these theories, it is only an illusion that they make free choices. Critics of contemporary forms of mindfulness practices, for example, perceive such “spiritual commodities” as designed not to awaken practitioners but to put them asleep, pacifying them into accepting their lot and perpetuating what is essentially a delusional state of false consciousness.

A Freudian Caution From “consciousness raising” to “false consciousness” from “awakening” to becoming “woke,” these are all frames for conceiving of certain cognitive states, desirable and undesirable, to be striven for or cured from. Their attribution to particular communities is again reliant on normative positions about what is positive and negative, healthy and unhealthy, for society. Cultural critics, religious studies scholars, Buddhist practitioners, and psychotherapists each operate, whether fully theorized or not, on understandings about the needs of society, optimal functioning for communities, and how to best achieve these conditions whether through meditation practices, encounter groups, psychoanalysis, or perhaps the Protestant moral instruction at the root of scholasticism and the practice of criticism itself. And each of these competing worldviews includes foundational ideas about human psychology. In fact, what we often find in commentary on the incorporation of Buddhist traditions into mental health economies are cultural critics and religious studies scholars, as much as psychotherapists or Buddhist teachers, attempting to peer into the minds of their subjects. And, at times, they seem to arrive at the conclusion that they know those minds better than the subjects themselves. They will at times, for example, assert that communities of psychotherapists may believe themselves to work against the imagined forces of consumerist secularization, but are mistaken, and in fact are contributing to those very forces. These interpretations then are essentially psychological. And wholly reliant on the Kuhnian paradigm-shifting cultural impact of Sigmund Freud himself, who sought to medicalize the awareness that human beings have constantly acted against their own conscious understandings, self-concepts, commitments, and pragmatic interests. This brings us back to the vignette at the very outset of this chapter. Anyone who has been in counseling has likely bristled at the experience of their therapist explaining that their defensiveness about an interpretation is only further evidence of its truth. 81

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But, as I have noted previously (Helderman 2015), interpretations that rely on theories descended from the Freudian unconscious, Marxist “false consciousness,” and Ricoeur’s subsequent “hermeneutics of suspicion” can all be double-edged and turned against the interpreters themselves. Perhaps, both clinicians’ conscious intentions that their therapeutic use of Buddhist practices contributes to the transformation of capitalistic structures from the inside out and outside observers’ conscious intentions to out them as failing to do so are actually all driven by transcendent unseen forces, whether they be the natural historical patterns of the “evolution” of religious traditions, a Hegelian Spirit of history, contestation for political biopower, or the desire for parental approval. Those unseen forces could indeed be the hidden hand of the market; we all could be nothing more than cogs in the patriarchal corporate machine of the knowledge economy. Or those forces could, theoretically, even be the “spread of the dharma.” Perhaps, we must await our analysts’ interpretations to grant us transformative “insight” into the true mysterious powers that guide our actions.

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CHAPTER 4 BUDDHIST TECHNOSCAPES: INTERROGATING “SKILLFUL MEANS” IN EAST ASIAN MONASTERIES

Courtney Bruntz

Introduction Across East Asia, Buddhist technological advancements vary from automated prayers to androids. In China’s Zhejiang Province, visitors at Mount Putuo encounter speakers encased in synthetic rock covering, playing repeated mantras and hymns dedicated to Guanyin. Online, monks in Mainland China and Taiwan make use of blogs to convey their institutional roles as abbots, intellectual pursuits, and personal identities through digital technologies (McGuire 2016), and throughout East Asia, Buddhists make use of social media, websites, animated cartoons, and digital technologies to produce innovative rituals, encounters, and methods for spreading the dharma.1 These efforts are part of a historical “Digital Revolution” (also known as the Third Industrial Revolution) that began outside religious realms in the 1960s, and it did so with the creation of semiconductors, personal computers, and the internet. At present, Buddhists are also engaging in the “Intelligence Revolution” (a Fourth Industrial Revolution) that is characterized by artificial intelligence, voice-activated assistants, facial ID recognition, and autonomous vehicles. In these emerging technologies, lines between the digital, physical, and biological are blurred, and unlike prior revolutions, the Fourth Industrial Revolution is distinct because of the speed at which technology is evolving. In his recent work, Buddhism and Intelligent Technology, Peter Hershock notes that techno-idealists will see the Intelligence Revolution as a “freeing of consciousness from the constraints of biology” (2021: 2). For the first time, technology itself is intelligent. It is no longer a passive medium, but instead machines have their own autonomy. The predicament humanity finds itself in is that new technologies come with anticipated and unanticipated consequences. We are in a historically unprecedented era, and the current Intelligence Revolution forces us to confront value conflicts within the humanity-technology-world relationship (Hershock 2021: 3). It furthermore creates a new global economic “game.” There is great competition among public, private, and state corporations to control emerging technologies, and within this global competition, political tensions and ethnic concerns arise regarding how technologies like AI are, and should be, used. Buddhist communities in China and Japan are turning to emerging technologies as skillful means (upāya) for disseminating the dharma, and previous scholarship

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has argued that engagements with science are resources for Buddhist communities to increase tourism (Bruntz 2020), to imagine ritual perfection amid human ritual failure (Gould and Walters 2020), and to respond to government regulations (especially those in China) regarding religious operations (Travagnin 2020). But contemporary interest in technological advancement is not unique to the modern era. Looking historically, East Asian religious communities have been fascinated by technology since premodern times, and Rambelli (2018) notes that in Japanese Buddhist technological advancements, Buddhists played a significant role in developing Japan’s printing industry in the seventeenth century. Buddhists additionally adopted machines to function as ritual devices, and this included temple bells and musical instruments. Likewise in China, we have evidence that automated machines have permeated the religious imaginary since ancient times. Within a fourth-century CE Daoist text, the Liezi 列子, there exist two tales celebrating the embodiment of artificiality (an actual man who moves like a “machine,” xie 械). In this case, it is the cyborg nature of the machine that should be emulated, for the cyborg embodies non-deliberative, nondiscursive tranquility—a liberation in freedom from deliberation (Richey 2011: 202). Although the Liezi is a record of Daoist engagement with automata, it provides us evidence of early Chinese fascination with machines that model ideal spiritual characteristics. With these historical artifacts in mind, contemporary connections between Buddhism and science are not ruptures from the past but are instead part of a continued conversation between religion and technology. The following work adds to a growing collection of scholarship revealing technological innovations by Buddhist communities in East Asia and the strategies for doing so. Based on justifications from Buddhist inventors themselves, technology is expedient and is not contradictory to Buddhist teachings. Analyzing recent developments of the robots Xian’er in China and Mindar in Japan, I will outline their creation from a sociological lens and a position of upāya. Contemporary interests in technology are part of a continuum of thought within East Asian religious contexts, but sociocultural tastes, preferences, and values in the contemporary era make it worthwhile not only to digitize the tradition but to furthermore create robots and AI. After detailing a methodological approach for framing this investigation, I will discuss the creations of Xian’er and Mindar and will interrogate how “skillful” these robots might be in reaching the goals of their creators.

Methodological Approach: What Is Contemporary Capitalism and How to Examine Contemporary Capitalists? Given that the creation of robots requires Buddhists to engage economically, it is necessary to detail an approach for understanding Buddhism’s contemporary development of digital and AI technology. Sociologist Wolfgang Streeck argues that to study contemporary capitalism, we must view capitalism as a society rather than an economy, and that contemporary society needs to be considered as a capitalist society.2 Drawing on classical sociologists like Weber, Streeck understands capitalism 84

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as both an economy and a society, and so when we study it, we must not separate the two. To examine capitalism then, we must view it “as a system of social action and a set of social institutions falling in the domain of sociological rather than today’s standard economic theory” (Streeck 2012: 2). His approach encourages scholars to resist moving from economics to society in their examinations, but instead to move in the opposite direction—from sociology to economics. When we move from economics to society, we treat movements within sociocultural and sociopolitical contexts as a result of economics. For example, suppose one were to argue that capitalism promotes an emphasis on consumption and that social institutions, in response, supply items, goods, and services to meet the needs and desires of consumers. And building from this premise, perhaps the researcher then investigates how a consumption-based model of economics results in alterations in societal trends, tastes, values, roles, and responsibilities. This approach to contemporary capitalism moves from economics to sociology. While such a perspective is helpful for understanding how economic alterations shape and shift innovations and trends within social environments, moving from sociology to economics is also useful. When we do so, rather than translating economic relations into social ones and treating the society as an economy, we view capitalism itself as a culture and polity. We remove the separations between economy and society and instead conceive of capitalism as a way of life, shaped by multiple interactions between structures and collective values of social institutions, government policies, family lives, changing markets, and market participation (Streeck 2012: 4). In the above-mentioned example of consumption, moving from sociology to economics, researchers would investigate the culturally constructed social tastes and preferences that give rise to consumption as a value. Social institutions like religious ones would be seen as drivers of instilling these imaginaries and not merely as responders to predetermined economic realities. The difference in emphasis regarding approach is based on what or who is seen as having agency. Is it the economic system itself (economics to sociology) or the social preferences (sociology to economics) that drive socioeconomic engagements? Taking a sociology to economics approach, capitalism itself is society, which implies that trends within contemporary capitalist economies do not stem from the economic system itself but rather are phenomena shaped by social realms. Neoclassical economic theory (which moves from economics to sociology) clings to the viewpoint that scarcity is inevitable and is a central economic problem, and a “free market economy” offers the optimal solution (Matthaei 1984). This perspective assumes “needs” as endless. Sociologists, however, disagree and instead view needs as dynamic. Scarcity is thus not absolute and is instead socially constructed (Streeck 2012: 9).3 When the study of capitalism involves the approach of moving from economics to sociology, the abstract view of scarcity is taken as a matter of fact, with social institutions needing to respond to this absolute. Conversely, when we take the approach of moving from sociology to economics, we understand needs and desires as fluid, and thus scarcity is merely a matter of collective 85

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imagination. Scarcity is no longer understood as absolute, but rather contingent upon a society that imagines scarcity as a reality of life. This is not to say that economic realities do not alter social dimensions, but instead, a sociology to economics approach opens up analysis so that we account for the ways in which economic dimensions are shaped by social constructions and imaginations. This approach is what is meant by viewing capitalism as culture, polity, and way of life. It is taking into account how social tastes, preferences, and desires shape complementary capitalist markets. Investigating how investor confidence influences economic growth is another poignant example of moving from sociology to economics as methodology. In my analysis of Chinese and Japanese Buddhists under capitalism in contemporary contexts, I suggest making use of this methodological approach. Buddhist monasteries are social and economic institutions. Entrenched in capitalist societies, their survival is contingent upon the successful accumulation of privately acquired capital, and as such, Buddhist economic decisions (in terms of developing and distributing material goods and services) are shaped by societal values, preferences, needs, desires, and demands. To survive as a social institution, a monastery must make savvy economic decisions and respond to the dynamic tastes of consumers. But Buddhist institutions are not without agency. As social institutions, they interact with diverse political, social, and religious individuals and organizations, and they do so on a domestic and international level. They therefore have the opportunity to be drivers to change—to shape and alter tastes of consumers within their socioeconomic contexts. If monasteries hone their resources effectively, they can create transformative experiences for their visitors, believers, consumers, and general public that in turn shape societal tastes, preferences, demands, and desires. The following analysis will detail technological developments at two particular temples—Longquan outside Beijing, China, and Kōdaiji in Kyoto, Japan—to consider the use of technology as a strategic response to social tastes and preferences and skillful means for spreading the dharma.

Chinese and Japanese Buddhist Engagements with Emerging Technologies A Case Study of Longquan Temple, China Historically, the dissemination of Buddhist material culture, practices, and teachings occurred through networks—intersection of individuals, places, and ideals. Lancaster (2012) contends that it was Buddhism’s “portable sanctity” that allowed it to enter new political, religious, and cultural landscapes, and this portable sanctity included oral and written teachings, sculptures and paintings of the Buddha, relics that imparted power, and holy persons, all of which could travel relatively easily. Additionally, not only did Buddhism itself spread through circuits (especially trade), portable objects, individuals, and disseminated ideas; it also helped to generate networks of interconnected individuals. In light of this history, contemporary techno-spaces of Buddhism are simply a contemporary manifestation of historical phenomena. The Digital Revolution has 86

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created an opportunity for Buddhists to build networks in physical and virtual spaces, and as such, Buddhist teachings, teachers, practices, and beliefs exist in overlapping platforms. Based on interviews I conducted with monks at Longquan Temple outside Beijing—a hub of technological advancement—building digital networks has been intentional for “meeting individuals where they are—online.”4 And inserting Lancaster’s language into the situation, it seems that Buddhist technoscapes enhance the tradition’s “portable sanctity,” allowing it to enter new political, religious, and cultural landscapes. China’s former president of the Buddhist Association Venerable Xuecheng5 indeed envisioned Buddhists making use of technology to missionize the tradition. In his leadership role, he encouraged a speedy spread of Buddhism saying: China has a population exceeding one billion, therefore, we must employ modern technologies to extensively benefit all living beings. [. . .] we should spread Dharma speedily with the help of information technology so that all people from all walks of life are able to have access. [. . .] The agricultural era relies on farming [. . .] the industrial age relies on machines and science. [.  .  .] In this post-industrial era, information is valued. If you have a piece of information, you can only succeed when you spread it and make people understand and accept it [. . .] being connected as one is collective karma. (Shi 2016: 185) Xuecheng hoped technology would quickly spread his teachings and increase access. On August 8, 2008, at 8:08:08 a.m., he launched the Voice of Longquan website with information regarding the monastery, dharma talks, his personal blog, and animation videos with suggestions for how to cultivate the mind. By January 2012, Xuecheng’s personal blog had more than 8.6 million visits, and he commented: “I believe that if it were possible Venerable Master Xuanzang, Venerable Master Kumarajiva and Venerable Master Jianzhen would have set up blogs in their times” (Shi 2016: 177). Xuecheng stressed the importance of Buddhism for twenty-first-century China and believed that Buddhism could solve people’s problems related to a lack of mental balance. In a lecture on September 26, 2012, he stated: lack of morality is the root cause of the contemporary world’s crisis. While morality should be achieved through self-discipline, the underlying cause for the lack of self-discipline is due to the excessive spread of materialism, individualism, and the lack of religious faith in modern society. [. . .] Faith is a stabilizing power in shaping an individual’s personality. A person of faith would genuinely regulate his or her own conduct. (Shi 2015a) His conviction was that Buddhist masters should guide individuals to eliminate negative emotions and emotional suffering, and that people are constantly being polluted and controlled by modern science and technology (Xuecheng 2012). Buddhist practice offers the antidote, according to him, but to spread this remedy, temples had to modernize. “We need to promote dharma with multiple means that meet the needs of society,” he 87

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wrote, “We need to manifest the compassion and wisdom of Buddhism, allow society to accept Buddhism, solve practical problems and deliver sentient beings through skillful means” (Shi 2015b). When I visited Longquan Temple in 2016, I interviewed lay practitioners and resident monks to gather more information regarding their technological endeavors. In particular, I spoke with Venerable Xianqing, director of the temple’s education department. Before becoming a monk, Xianqing received a PhD in engineering thermophysics, and with this background, I assumed he would have an interesting perspective on the integrations of Buddhism and science. What I learned was that the Longquan community (made up of both lay volunteers and resident monastics) sought to construct their version of “Engaged Buddhism” through activities of volunteerism, small-group sutra studies, meditation retreats, and temple stay programs. Their vow was to spread Buddhism society quickly and efficiently, so that its teachings would become a source of wisdom for individuals (especially young Chinese) to implement in their daily life. Xianqing’s perspective was that “because of pressure from family and society, young people are isolated in their journeys and need to have a collective way to change.” This is like being a fish, he told me. “How we live our lives is based on habits in our behavior. Like fish, we are polluted by our contexts and cannot resist the circumstances in which we reside.” Pollution, he explained, is difficult to resist, but great leaders who embody a pure mind can be followed. “Once students decide to follow a great leader [.  .  .] circumstances can begin to change. Gradually within oneself, by following such a teacher, one can transform.”6 Led by Xuecheng, they have been attempting to connect specifically with youth, and doing so developed in-person and online activities like those mentioned earlier, plus other digital and animated platforms. Weixin (WeChat) is an instant messaging application in China used across Chinese monasteries to connect with practitioners, and Longquan now has various groups one can subscribe to and receive frequent text messages and videos. On February 27, 2021, a video message entitled “Hope Is Like a Seed” was delivered, and the translated message included, “Hope is like a small seed that may be overlooked, but that doesn’t mean it cannot grow into a big tree. Do not let attention only linger in the present, as in the mind also lies in the future.”7 When visiting the monastery and speaking to half a dozen volunteers, I learned that the Longquan Translation Center produces these videos, and they do so because they believe such efforts will help transform an age of darkness (mofa, the end of the dharma) into an age of truth—a period in which “true Buddhism” (zhengfa) spreads.8 Through WeChat or the internet, practitioners can access online Buddha halls to digitally copy sutras or offer intense. They can furthermore view flash animations of cartoons and interact with the popular young, novice Chinese monk named Xian’er. On October 1, 2015, Xian’er—a two-foot-tall robot monk—publicly emerged as another Longquan strategy for integrating Buddhism and science. He is able to respond to questions, sing Buddhist songs, and chant sutras. Although he now has a robotic body, Xian’er began as a character in a Buddhist comic produced by Longquan’s Animation Center in 2011 (Zhang 2015). In 2013, the monk Xianfan drew Xian’er as a cartoon 88

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character—a novice monk who participated in transmitting the dharma through the visual, comic medium. When visiting the Animation Center, I was shown the doughfigurines that lead to the stop-motion animations of Xian’er that then lead to 3D animations and flash clips. The center has now produced more than 1,000 cartoons about Xian’er (Travagnin 2020). Xianfan started drawing Xian’er as a cute character that could explain complicated Buddhist concepts in an approachable way, and the monk Xianshu was the first to write Xian’er’s dialog. As Travagnin (2020) explains, “Xian’er became an alternative channel for Xuecheng to deliver his sermons when he was the abbot of Longquan” (131). Although Xuecheng is no longer abbot of Longquan, Xian’er’s stories and teachings are still based on his teachings. An excellent example of this is a Xian’er video that was produced during the Covid-19 pandemic and spread through Xian’er’s WeChat account. In the short four-minute film, Xian’er emerges from a fourteen-day single-room quarantine to learn from his master that Covid-19 is a warning that people need to diligently practice, revere life, respect the environment, and repay the kindness of all sentient beings. Xian’er furthermore learns from his master that there is going to be a month-long retreat, and when wondering if this would be a similar experience to his quarantine, his fellow novice monks explain to him the differences between quarantine and retreat. “Retreat is for the benefit of everyone’s mental health,” they say. While quarantine is to stave off a pandemic, “retreat is a deeper epidemic prevention.” Xian’er learns that mental cultivation is the path for tending to the mind. Through intense practice, one can cultivate no attachments and no delusions; they can curb negative reactions and, with this diligence, positively benefit society. As head abbot, Xuecheng concluded that “if religion should play a significant role [. . .] and make contributions in a harmonious society, it must keep up with the times. [. . .] it must respond to the major issues that emerge. [. . .] promoting Dharma requires skills and intelligence as well as expedient means [. . .] [it] will only be achieved through excellent organization and through planning” (Shi 2015b). While visiting Longquan, I asked Xianqing about this, and his explanation was that Longquan’s community believes that young Chinese “need to be reached on an entertainment level they enjoy.” He argued that using technology was not to entertain young individuals for the sake of entertainment but, rather, through entertainment, the monastery could help youth transform from isolated individuals into members of a community. In short, comics, animations, retreats, volunteerism, and the robot Xian’er are all viewed as diverse methods to widen Longquan’s audience. To create a robotic version of the cartoon Xian’er, the Longquan community worked with artificial intelligence experts at Chinese universities, plus robotic companies. The first robotic Xian’er was activated on September 25, 2015, but was revealed to the public on October 1 of that year. The following year, in October of 2016, a taller and more sophisticated version of Xian’er was introduced, with a third version emerging in June 2018. While the second version enhanced the robot’s various methods of communication, the third pushed its ability to answer questions and debate an interlocutor. 89

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Overall, Xuecheng and the Longquan monastic community have viewed technology as expedient, especially for reaching young Chinese on an entertainment level. Xian’er’s antics played out through memes, comics, and short videos instills a sense of fun and laughter into the Buddhist community’s message. When asking Xianqing if this approach to spreading the dharma defiles the teachings, he responded that the monastery maintains the vinaya (monastic rules of conduct) but is also innovative in their planning. “There are three levels of Buddhism in China,” he told me, “The first includes letting people know about Buddhism. The second level involves gaining wisdom. The third level consists of the monastic community who seek only to compassionately benefit society. All levels are necessary.” In their perspective, technology is skillful in that it creates avenues for letting people know about Buddhism. Published texts offer one way, but online videos and images provide visual opportunities to quickly reach audiences, especially younger ones. Applying a sociology to economy approach, what can also be argued is that the creation of Xian’er in digital and robotic form produces innovative opportunities for Longquan to differentiate itself from other temples and to “brand” the monastery as one with monks who are scientifically savvy, relevant, and engaging in multiple ways. In previous work (Bruntz 2020) I have argued that amid commercial tourist operators commodifying Buddhism, the Longquan community makes use of technology to entice individuals to visit their temple rather than another one, and as described earlier, they use technology because it is assumed people enjoy technology. Interviews with Longquan monastics by Travagnin in 2017 and 2019 revealed this perspective as well. While there, she was told that technology and Xian’er are skillfully engineered methods to attract more people to the monastery, and “as you feel interest in Xian’er you should also feel interest in the monastery and the resident sangha” (Travagnin 2020: 136). Xian’er as an animated cartoon, single-frame comic, character on calendars, and robot presents Buddhism (and in particular the Longquan community) as a “modern” tradition that is relevant and applicable to a person’s daily life. Longquan monks do not claim Xian’er is sentient or that the robot is an enlightened being. Instead, as one of the creators of the Xian’er animation series explained, “It is difficult for us to use the original language [of Buddhism] [. . .] to talk to young people. [. . .] We need to find a form of language that modern people can accept, so Master [Xuecheng] attaches great importance to comics.”9 Using digitizations, technology, and animations, Longquan monks align themselves with the perceived “language” of young Chinese, plus cultural imaginaries of “modernity” that prioritize the importance of science. Regarding the latter, such efforts are not unique to China or Chinese culture. A Case Study of Kōdaiji Temple, Japan Examining technological developments in Japanese Buddhism provides a useful comparison to the case study at Longquan, and in a 2008 documentary Japan: Robot Nation we find a harmonious portrayal regarding relationships between robots and humans. When reflecting on how technological innovations like robots have been received in Japanese culture more broadly, Jennifer Robertson explains that because 90

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of Japan’s aging population, “social robots” that can help with raising children, caring for the elderly, shopping for groceries, and teaching are possibilities people are embracing (Robertson 2018). Ono Goro, professor of economics at Saitama University, furthermore contends that humanoid robots are more preferred in Japan’s social milieu than human foreigners when fulfilling such caregiving positions (Japan: Robot Nation 2008). Robotic technology provides utility to an aging population and is a means for fulfilling positions in a country where birth rates are declining. But modern Japanese acceptance of technology like robots is not historically new, given that during the Edo period technology of automata flourished (Rambelli 2018). “Unlike Christian Occidentals,” Osamu Tezuka writes, “the Japanese don’t make a distinction between man, the superior creature, and the world about him. Everything is fused together, and we accept robots easily along with the wide world about us, the insects, the rocks—it’s all one” (Stokes 1982: 6). Rambelli (2018) cautions us to be careful as to not overemphasize the positive view of robotics in Japan, and indeed, what we can see is that prior to the Second World War, machines and technology did not simply represent social progress as they do today. They were also associated with fear. Prewar literature depicted machines in “a constant flux between a utopian dream of machines on the one hand and a pessimistic nightmare of them on the other” (Nakamura 2002: 366). Thus, while it is accurate to conclude that Japanese cultural interests in technology, machines, and automata are not recent phenomena, one must be cautious not to oversimplify the situation. In 2017, at the Life Ending Industry Expo (Japan’s largest funeral industry convention), the robot named Pepper was introduced with a new role of Buddhist priest. Created by SoftBank Robotics, part of the Japanese multinational conglomerate group SoftBank, Pepper was purposefully designed with the ability to read emotions. After its massmarket debut in 2015, Pepper has become known for being able to recognize human expressions and tones of voice. As a receptionist in the UK, Pepper makes use of facial recognition to send alerts for meetings and to arrange drinks with clients; in Japan, Pepper is found in restaurants, banks, medical facilities, and in over 1,000 homes, and in England, researchers from Middlesex University and the University of Bedfordshire are working to make use of robots like Pepper to support care workers and improve the quality of care elderly receive in senior centers. Their hope is that emotionally intelligent robots will provide companionship and will increase the well-being of vulnerable elderly residents at home or in a care center.10 Beginning in 2017, Pepper gained the ability to chant sutras at Buddhist funerals and has been advertised as a far cheaper alternative to human priests. Changing demographics in Japan have led to innovative endeavors regarding funeral services, and studies have shown that by 2030, one out of three Japanese will be over the age of sixty-five (Muramatsu and Akiyama 2011). This reality makes funeral services a growing business, and there are now multiple options for end-of-life ceremonies. Traditional funerals are still an option but so too are innovations such as drive-thru rituals for mourners to register their name, offer incense, and pay their respects in as little as three minutes.11 Digital worship sets are also available, including one called Fenestra that 91

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consists of a round digital display resembling a mirror, a digital photo frame, and a candle holder. When a worshipper stands in front of the mirror for a few seconds, an image of the deceased person will appear; similarly, when the candle holder is placed in front of the digital photo frame and a candle is lit, pre-recorded images of the deceased will appear. (Rambelli 2018: 67) Among these various options, Pepper is advertised for its ability to perform the Heart Sutra—a common component of memorial services. But turning to a robot for the performance of an end-of-life ritual is not a simple decision. Doing so raises questions of sentience regarding the robot and whether or not a nonhuman agent should perform the act.12 Rambelli (2018) reminds us that within Japanese Buddhism, there is a long history of automation of devices, especially those “used to spread the dharma and generate merit” (69). Turning to robots can be seen as a continuation of this. In addition to Pepper as a robotic Buddhist priest, “Au,” a robot model of the priest of Takarashiji Temple in Kyoto was created in 2016; “drone Buddhas” were unveiled in Ryūganji Temple in Kyoto in 2018; and “Mindar” the Android Kannon was revealed in 2019 (Ikeguchi 2019; Gould and Walters 2020). On the question of sentience in terms of Buddhist philosophy— whether or not a robot can be enlightened/reach enlightenment—engineer, AI scientist, and Zen practitioner Mori Masahiro argued that “robots have the buddha-nature within them—that is, the potential for attaining buddhahood” (Mori 1981: 13). This position represents Japanese Buddhist philosopher Nishida Kitaro’s idea according to which Buddhism’s basic principle is that all things are manifestations of the primordial buddhanature of Enlightenment, Compassion, and Nothing/Emptiness (Borody 2013). For Mori, acceptance of this principle must include the insight that robots are also part of the oneness of all things—of buddha-nature. “I call that its ‘Buddha nature;’ robots, plants, stones, humans, they’re all the same in that sense, and since they all have a spirit, we can communicate with them” (Kawaguchi 2011: 1). If one adopts this perspective, robotic technology allows Buddhists to respond to changing demographics and altering tastes and preferences regarding spirituality without compromising religious teachings and beliefs. In multiple publications, Ian Reader has noted a growing pattern in Japan, namely, religious institutions (and particularly Buddhist temples) are threatened by decreasing visitors and adherents and as such a loss of income. “The problems facing religious institutions in general include rural depopulation, increased competition in the religious field, and a general turn against organized religion, alongside an increasing tendency to eschew engagement even in customary practices such as the memorialization of the dead” (Reader 2020: 166). Buddhist temples are particularly concerned with the decline of traditional support structures (Nelson 2013; Reader 2011, 2012; Ukai 2015) and, as such, are seeking opportunities to increase visitor numbers, interest, and, hopefully, sources of income. A sociology to economics approach reveals the economic strategy supporting corporate and Buddhist creations of technologies like robots. With changing demographics, plus an ethos regarding the potential utility of robots, corporations and Buddhist communities 92

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hope that through technology, they can economically benefit. Pepper the Buddhist priest was SoftBank’s attempt to enter the expanding funeral business, and Buddhist-generated technological advancements listed earlier are efforts to increase public interest. Revealed in 2019, the android Kannon named Mindar is another novel attempt to increase public interest in a somewhat forgotten temple. Established in 1606, Kyoto’s Kōdaiji is a Rinzai Zen temple built in memory of Toyotomi Hideyoshi by his wife. Although it has a beautiful landscape, many halls, teahouses, sanctuaries, and gardens, this temple is often overlooked by travelers. According to the temple’s priest Gotō Tenshō, religion’s influence on Japanese daily life is waning, but he hopes Mindar will reach younger generations. “Young people probably think that a temple is a place for funerals or weddings. It might be difficult to relate to [. . .] priests like me, but hopefully the robot is a fun way to bridge that gap” (“Playing God” 2019). Similar to Xian’er in China, Mindar’s purpose is to attract young people to Buddhism and to do so in a fun way that bridges a perceived gap between monastic life and “everyday” life. To create the android Kannon, the temple worked with Osaka University robotics professor Hiroshi Ishiguro, and the cost for development was about one million USD. Mindar is able to move its arms, head, and torso, it can bring together its hands in prayer, and the android teaches compassion and the dangers of anger, desire, and ego. “You cling to a sense of selfish ego,” the robot warns visitors, “Worldly desires are nothing other than a mind lost at sea” (Holley 2019). Mindar’s hands, face, and shoulders are covered in a silicone synthetic skin, but the rest of the body’s mechanical components are visible. This was an intentional choice by the developers to keep part of the body exposed, including keeping the cranium partially visible. The purpose is to give the sense of a gender-neutral body—a sexless bodhisattva. Gotō Tenshō hopes that just seeing the robot will encourage people to think about the essence of Buddhism— teachings to help people overcome pain. “The goal of Buddhism is to ease suffering,” he explained, modern society brings other kinds of stress, but the goal hasn’t changed for more than 2,000 years. [. . .] This robot will never die. It will just keep updating itself and evolving. That’s the beauty of a robot. It can store knowledge forever and limitlessly. With AI, we hope that it will grow in wisdom to help people overcome even the most difficult trouble. (“Playing God” 2019) Unlike Xian’er, Mindar is not yet interactive and cannot respond to an interlocutor, but Mindar’s creation does instigate questions regarding consciousness, sentience, and enlightenment. The robot is modeled off of the Bodhisattva Kannon (Skt. Avalokiteśvara), which gives rise to questions regarding buddha-nature. Gotō Tenshō defends the temple’s decision to create a robot Kannon, saying, “Buddhism isn’t a belief in a God; it’s pursuing Buddha’s path. It doesn’t matter whether it’s represented by a machine, a piece of scrap metal, or a tree.”13 93

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Analysis Similar to Xian’er, Mindar is programmed to provide Buddhist sutras and teachings, and to offer sermons, but beyond these programmatic similarities, what is a striking commonality is the hope that technology will imbue fun and entertainment into the temple experience. Kōdaiji offers opportunities to engage in a variety of activities—tea ceremonies, omikuji (fortunes written on strips of paper), and goshuinchō (book of seals received upon visiting shrines or temples), but given that these products and services are available across Japanese Buddhist temples, Mindar is the temple’s attempt to distinguish the site. In the case of China, because of what Xuecheng referred to as “indiscriminate commercialization” (Shi 2016: 96),14 monastic communities have needed to alter the public image of Buddhism to emphasize study and the practice of precepts. But to do so, they must make use of the technological mediums that people enjoy. Taking a sociology to economics approach, we can observe that when Buddhist leaders engage with technology, they are purposefully secularizing the religion in order to sacralize the secular. What becomes clear is that the Longquan and Kōdaiji communities are responding to perceived tastes and preferences of young people, and they are offering temple experiences that align with those perceptions. For Longquan, these offerings extend beyond the temple space, which “secularizes” the tradition without de-sacralizing them. Their process of secularization is not an attempt to separate Buddhism from nonreligious realms or to remove a spiritual component attached to the Buddhist commodities they create. But rather, they are mediating Buddhism through secular resources (i.e., WeChat, animated cartoons, and robotics). Similarly, Kōdaiji leaders assume technology is part of the cultural milieu of young people and, as such, assume the android Kannon will bridge a gap between young people and the temple community. In both cases, Buddhism is made “worldly”/approachable/relatable through technology,15 and youth are the focused audience. But are they right? Will technological advancements indeed translate into public interest and long-term engagement with the community and Buddhism that will bring about continued economic support and societal influence? Technology may be a skillful mechanism for disseminating the dharma, but can robots confront the suffering of society and inspire young people to adopt Buddhist teachings? One difference between Longquan and Kōdaiji’s relationship with technology, and in turn each community’s potential to sharply influence young people, lies in what can be called “thin” and “thick” engagement. Ultimately, both communities aim to transform the lives of youth, and their projects assert Buddhism as modern and relevant. But simply aligning Buddhist temples with a cultural emphasis on science will not necessarily create their intended social transformation. Borrowing the terms from civic engagement,16 “thin” engagement activities are opportunities for a group to express their ideas and are efficient, but they are less likely to produce the levels of participant support as “thick” forms of engagement (Nabatchi and Leighninger 2015). Examples of thin forms of engagement include activities that educate the community and invite community members into a public space (i.e., open house or fair). “Thick” engagement is more intensive, participatory,

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and inspiring. It consists of small-group discussions, purposeful assemblies of large and diverse numbers, opportunities for participants to share experiences, and activities that encourage transformation. Overall, thick forms of engagement create spaces for individuals to learn from each other, collaborate on shared goals, and be involved in a meaningful way. Scholars have applied these civic engagement models to cases involving political action, but I believe they are salient for thinking about Buddhist spaces as well. Civic engagement models push us to consider what forms of activity will educate an audience about Buddhism and what forms will motivate and personally transform community members to adopt Buddhist teachings and practices. Xian’er and Mindar are both examples of “thin” engagement—they are educational robots to disperse Buddhist teachings. But from current offerings, it seems that Longquan offers forms of “thick” engagement whereas Kōdaiji does not. At Kōdaiji, visitors can participate in tea ceremonies and can enjoy beautiful gardens, but their engagement offerings do not yet include sutra studies, volunteer groups, meditation retreats, or online group discussions as are found through Longquan’s networks. When comparing the two communities, based on civic engagement models, what we find is that Kōdaiji provides “thin” engagement opportunities, whereas Longquan provides both “thin” and “thick” activities. To increase participation and long-term engagement, a blend of thick and thin forms is needed. Thin engagement allows a greater percentage of a community to be informed and thick engagement creates moments for self-transformation. Thick engagement encourages one to become part of a community’s “in-group” and thin engagement spreads information about the organization quickly and efficiently. Technological platforms offer opportunities for both. But if a Buddhist community hopes to transform its surrounding communities and to inspire individuals to adopt Buddhist practices, simply developing technology and connecting Buddhism with science is not enough. Instead, they must create spaces in which individuals engage with one another on shared goals and become active participants in the community. Robots like Mindar and Xian’er create intrigue, but human collaborations on projects with one another are what build a participant community.

Conclusions It is evident that modern penchants for science and technology are shaping mediations of Buddhism. Seen as complementary to the Buddhist project of spreading religious teachings, digitizations and robotics are “skillful means” for dispersing texts, sermons, and explanations of Buddhist wisdom. What is clear from leaders at Longquan and Kōdaiji is that technology is viewed as complementary to Buddhism and necessary for connecting with youth. But the Buddhist projects at Longquan and Kōdaiji are not to simply inform individuals about Buddhism, nor to create a spectacle. Instead, both communities seek to ease suffering and inspire young people to grow in wisdom that will help them overcome stress. Applying a sociology to economics lens, the creation of robots aligns temples with the societal tastes of youth. But will the mere presence of science motivate them to adopt 95

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Buddhist teachings? Taking into consideration models of civic engagement, technology on its own is “thin” engagement with limitations, and to create long-term engagement, Buddhist leaders must motivate and inspire participation. Technology is skillful for teaching, but engagement comes from organizing “thick” engagement settings—smallgroup studies, assemblies, collaborations on projects, or volunteering. In this way, Longquan’s blend of online and in-person outreach opportunities provides a helpful case study. Built from community organizing efforts, Longuan’s lay volunteer sangha has grown to include a charity foundation, translation center, culture department, and organic farm. If Japan’s Kōdaiji temple hopes to reach young people and inspire the adaptation of Buddhist teachings, they must creatively organize engagement. And one strategy to do so would be to expand their offerings of engagement online. To reach young people, digital platforms have shown to be quite effective, and researchers have found a connection between civic engagement online and civic engagement in person. In digital spaces where young people bond over shared interests, they create “affinity networks” that then correlate to a higher percentage of engagement offline (Kahne, Lee, and Feezell 2013). Affinity networks are built on shared cultural interests or purpose, and when organized and fueled, they can amass young audiences. An excellent example of this in Japan comes from the youth movement SEALD (Students Emergency Action for Liberal Democracy) that was established in response to the Fukushima nuclear disaster. Japanese youth are not known for being politically active or socially engaged, and as Okuda Aki (the founder of the organization) explained, there is an image in Japanese society that young people are apathetic (Gingold 2016). Furthermore, Japan’s pacifist constitution is a barrier to protests. Okuda set out to change the culture surrounding protesting, and one strategy he adopted was to incorporate hip-hop cadences into protest chants when gathering in front of the National Diet. Videos of these chants were remixed and uploaded to YouTube, which built affinity networks and challenged the perception that Japanese youth are an apathetic “Lost Generation.”17 SEALD’s online presence translated into a great following offline, and their protests attracted 30,000–120,000 people at a time (Gingold 2016). What the previous case indicates is that youth engagement online is different from traditional forms of community organizing. Young people do not view online activity as separate from offline interactions. Instead, digital engagements help youth create and express “voice,” and if an organization wants to mobilize youth effectively, they must view digital models of engagement as “contiguous with, complementary to, and inseparable from offline engagement” (Cho, Byrne, and Pelter 2020: 21). Applying this to Buddhist communities making use of technology to transmit teachings to youth, what becomes evident is that the most skillful application will be one that involves creating online participatory cultures. Longquan’s activities on WeChat and Sina Weibo (similar to Twitter), for example, offer such spaces and mediate Buddhism in a variety of ways— small-group discussions, message bursts, memes, and animated videos. At Kōdaiji, YouTube videos of Mindar are available, but diversifying its digital platforms, contexts of engagement, aims, and actors involved will create “thin” and “thick” engagement opportunities and build a participatory culture for youth online.18 96

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It is important for Buddhist communities who wish to engage youth through technology to remember that young people are inspired to act and participate based on the interests and influence of their peers. Digital social interaction with peers is a compelling inspiration for youth movements in “real-world” (non-digital) contexts. Thus, when turning to technology, in order for a robot priest or bodhisattva to be truly effective, their teachings and presence must be coupled with vibrant digital exchanges that can serve as direct pathways for engagement offline.

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CHAPTER 5 PERCEIVING AUTHENTICITY: ONLINE TOURISM REVIEWS OF BUDDHIST TOURIST DESTINATIONS

Kendall Marchman

Not long ago, the only opportunity tourists had to provide feedback about their experiences was in person, usually in response to a polite formality from an employee asking, “How was your visit?” In the first two decades of the twenty-first century, however, this has changed drastically. Review websites like Tripadvisor and Yelp, along with social media platforms like Facebook, and, increasingly, search engines including Google and Bing are all competing for user-generated reviews. Furthermore, none of these platforms are shy about requesting reviews from users. These days, the end of a vacation is signaled by a litany of emails asking that a guest consider leaving a review of the destinations they visited. GPS tracking in smartphones makes even mundane trips to the local convenience store an opportunity to create a review. Vertically integrated platforms such as Google Maps might signal a Google alert on one’s phone requesting their opinion on the store they just visited. Online reviews, it appears, have become an important part of doing and receiving business. It is not surprising, then, that Tripadvisor—one of the most popular online travel review (OTR) sites—boasts that its site contains over 885 million reviews.1 Websites use these reviews to attract visits and increase advertising revenue. Businesses and destinations publicize the positive reviews they receive to increase patronage, while using the negative reviews to improve the experiences of their future customers and visitors. Consumers use these reviews to decide on potential purchases and compose their itineraries. Scholars can benefit from these reviews as well. In this chapter, I model how scholars can use OTRs as data for research. Aggregating and analyzing thousands of OTRs of three popular Buddhist tourist sites in China reveal how reviewers feel about these destinations in the midst of their increasing corporatization and commercialization.

Tourism and Commodification of Religious Sites The commercial development of religious sites for tourism and other economic functions is often viewed as an unfortunate consequence of modern capitalism, and Buddhist tourist sites are no exception. Critics of this commercialization warn that it undermines or outright damages the originally intended purpose of these religious sites.

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In other words, introducing commerce to these places compromises their authenticity. Although these critiques are common and originate from what is likely a place of concern regarding the blending of Buddhism and economics, they perpetuate three assumptions that scholars have been trying to correct. The first and most explicit critique assumes that the mixture of Buddhism and economic concerns is a relatively recent phenomenon alongside the development of modern capitalism. Scholars have demonstrated that there is a considerable history of Buddhist and economic connections (Benavides 2005; Gernet 1995; Schopen 1999). Critiques that Buddhism, and religion more generally, should not engage with economic or material realities mask a sensibility that points back to the Protestant Reformation. In contrast, history demonstrates that Buddhists participated in the material world, and they saw little to no reason to worry about why they should do otherwise (Kieschnick 2003). Lionel Obadia asserts that “one can wonder whether there is really something new or modern in the ‘Buddhist attitude’ toward the economy, even if the logics, circuits, dynamics, and collective representation of the economy have changed” (Obadia 2020: 148). Buddhists are not just active in local and global financial markets, however; they participate in an economy of merit, in which Buddhist institutions receive material goods or social power and privileges in exchange for ritual services (Caple 2020; Wilson 2019; Benavides 2005). Thus, Buddhists have long been economic actors. A deeper assumption hides beneath concerns about the entangling of Buddhism and the economy, which is that Buddhist institutions that participate in the economy cannot be truly Buddhist. This assumption asserts that there is some kind of pure, unadulterated version of Buddhism that links directly back to Buddha Gautama. It ignores that all religions are human cultural institutions that shape and are shaped by various times, places, and peoples. It is unlikely that Buddhism would still be around, for instance, were it not for the assistance of powerful allies (e.g., various rulers and aristocrats) that have supported Buddhism financially, or merchants and monastics that have transported, translated, and reformed Buddhist doctrines. Furthermore, any recognition of a certain kind of Buddhism as especially authentic in comparison with others is undoubtedly privileging those forms of Buddhism while potentially damaging the kinds of Buddhism that do not align with that model. The last assumption—and of the three the most relevant for this chapter—combines the earlier two in that Buddhists and Buddhist institutions that do participate in economic exchange compromise their authenticity and perhaps even their religiosity. Like the earlier assumptions, this claim is based on the popular misconception that Buddhism shuns worldly concerns (Harris 1999). Interestingly, earlier scholars, like Max Weber, created these misconceptions that later scholars are battling against today (Schedneck 2019). This reality still does little to lessen the concern that economic factors diminish the authenticity of Buddhist institutions, as several scholars have examined (Ryan and Gu 2009; Chao 2006; Oakes 1998). This concern, however, ignores that Buddhists are often making conscious and deliberate choices to participate in marketplaces and other secularized spaces, and that their spaces are coated with nonreligious and religious meanings (Bruntz and Schedneck 2020). This is especially the case for Buddhist 99

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tourist sites, which are frequently the places where visitors encounter Buddhism and commercialization. Buddhist monastics are also conflicted over the intermingling of Buddhism, tourism, and commercialization. They express a mixture of skepticism and optimism based on their individual circumstances. While some monastics welcome commercial development as a means of spreading and strengthening their communities and the dharma, others are frustrated at how visitors can overwhelm their temples and monasteries (Bruntz 2020). There is also a concern that money might lead to corruption of the clergy and administrators as the temples align with state interests (Tschang 2007). While there have been missteps and “fake monks” that have taken advantage of tourists, for the most part, Buddhist clergy and institutions have handled the influx of capital and tourists rather well. They continually find ways to navigate the complexities of operating a site with the dual purposes of religious ritual and sightseeing (Nichols 2020).

Debating Authenticity Although these critiques are based on misconceptions and assumptions about Buddhism, given their frequency, and the fact that scholars and Buddhist leaders are continually wrestling with them, they are unlikely to disappear anytime soon. Furthermore, these critiques are not isolated to those groups; observant tourists, both domestic and foreign, might arrive at these conclusions as well. After all, tourists pay entry fees to these destinations, browse merchandise for sale on temple grounds, register and pay for retreats, classes, rituals, and so on. It is worthwhile, therefore, to consider whether these transactions and other forms of conspicuous commercialization at Buddhist tourist destinations diminish their credibility and authenticity in the eyes of the tourists who visit them. Unfortunately, it is often hard to pin down exactly what the concept of authenticity means, as copious research on the matter demonstrates. While this scholarship has not reached a consensus on evaluating authenticity, there are three helpful approaches that have emerged. The most obvious of the three is the objectivist approach, which relies on the evaluations of certified professionals to recognize something as authentic or otherwise (Leite and Graburn 2009; Zhu 2012). Objectively authentic items are featured in museums or granted a special designation (a certificate of authenticity, for example). However, since the postmodern turn, scholars have been skeptical about authenticity in general, in response producing two approaches that acknowledge that objectivist claims are often mediated through power. Constructivists point to the ways that social bodies create authenticity through shared interpretations (Zhu 2012). This approach recognizes that things become authentic through the consensus of any sort of collective body, expert, or average tourist, and that these designations are the result of many interests, including regulating and governing bodies. Lastly, the existentialist approach affirms the fluidity and temporality of authenticity. Tourists, for instance, experience authenticity during travel because they are free from the constrictions of their daily routines (Wang 1999). 100

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In other words, they gain a feeling of their authentic self and the world around them. At the same time, travel often produces an experience of alterity that may lead to strong sentiments regarding the authenticity of the people and places they encounter, as Victor Turner has suggested (Turner 1967). It is helpful to consider Buddhist tourist sites along a spectrum of authenticity that incorporates all three of these approaches. Some destinations, like two of the three sites covered later, Mount Emei 峨眉山 and Mount Wutai 五台山, have received UNESCO recognition as World Heritage Sites, which ostensibly grants them some degree of authenticity. These sites are recognized as the genuine article, and though the surrounding environment may detract at times, the central attraction receives the stamp of approval. Thus, one could argue that they are objectively authentic. On the other hand, that would ignore that the World Heritage designation comes from UNESCO, a governing body that confers authenticity on to these locations based on its affiliation with the United Nations, itself an intergovernmental organization comprising 193 member states. Tourist destinations that are not fortunate enough to receive UNESCO recognition still rely on tradition, authority, and performance to produce and enhance their authenticity. For example, the Tian Tan Buddha 天壇大佛 in Hong Kong has become a popular tourist destination despite its relatively recent completion in 1993. It is one of many colossal statues throughout Asia that was built to attract tourists. It claims authenticity through relics of the Buddha kept on site, though scholars suggest those claims are dubious (Wong 2017). Hong Kong tourism agencies promote Tian Tan Buddha, and Buddhist monastics from various countries often visit, lending social and performative authenticity to the site. Finally, an existentialist approach questions what Mount Emei might offer that could somehow be perceived as any more or less authentic to Tian Tan Buddha, as the concept of authenticity is a problematic, subjective claim. Therefore, it will be helpful to compare what authenticity means for a celebrated Buddhist tourist destination like Emei against an artificial Buddhist tourist site with corporate ties, which I do later in the chapter. Another approach to authenticity that will inform this study comes from Zhu Yujie, who suggests analyzing authenticity through performance. He writes, Judgment and the process of becoming authentic or inauthentic also depends on personal memory, the constructed identity and the complexity of the contemporary by participating in the ritual performance as embodied practice. When tourists mention their experience to friends or write about it in a diary or blog, their ontological judgment also becomes performative through the presentation of meaning making. (Zhu 2012: 1510) The creation and submission of OTRs is a performative act in which tourists evaluate and determine the authenticity of a destination based on their memories at the site, and whether they felt a connection to it. Connected to this, Jillian Rickly-Boyd, drawing on the work of Walter Benjamin, advocates for considering authenticity through the recognition of an object’s aura, which Rickly-Boyd describes as an “intersubjective 101

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quality [.  .  .] [in which one has] an expectation of reciprocity of one’s gaze” (RicklyBoyd 2012: 275). Souvenirs, snapshots, postcards all carry the memory of the experience of travel, containing an aura that links them back to the original destination. Tourists’ photographs build off that idea in that they return the gaze of the camera, continually returning the tourists back to the moment and place in which the picture was taken, and their memories of it (Rickly-Boyd 2012; Crang 1999). OTRs operate in a very similar fashion; in fact, photographs are increasingly encouraged in OTRs. Regardless of the approach scholars use to understand authenticity, it is certainly on the minds of tourists and the local communities that manage tourist destinations (Belhassen and Caton 2006: 853). Thus, despite the messiness surrounding the concept of authenticity in all its forms, it is worth investigating whether or not tourists are perceiving Buddhist tourist destinations as authentic or otherwise. Moreover, are the common attitudes about religion and the economy noted earlier influencing the experiences of tourists at these locations? Typically, this kind of research is done through surveys or qualitative interviews. Given that OTRs have become so ubiquitous and that tourists create these “auratic” expressions as a way to reexperience and make meaning of their travel, they are a particularly useful research tool for this case. Furthermore, OTRs reflect whether the expectations of tourists were satisfied, a significant indicator of whether or not tourists enjoyed their experiences, and for this study, whether they felt as though they had an authentic one (Shi 2009: 208).

Case Studies I have selected three popular Buddhist tourist sites in China for this case study. The first two, Mt. Wutai and Mt. Emei represent two of the Four Buddhist Mountains in China, an association that grants both mountains historical legitimacy and prestige. Of the four mountains, only Mt. Wutai and Mt. Emei are listed as UNESCO World Heritage Sites, which further enhance their reputation and drive tourists to these destinations. The final destination for this case study is the Nanshan Scenic Spot (南山旅游景区), a Buddhist theme park in Longkou, Yantai Prefecture, a coastal city in Shandong Province. Unlike Mt. Wutai and Mt. Emei, the theme park is owned and operated by the Nanshan Group (南山集团), a powerful privately owned global conglomerate founded and operating in Longkou. Following a more detailed introduction on each of the three locations, I will discuss the method for analyzing these destinations. After scraping and aggregating thousands of OTRs of these locations from a selection of popular online tourism Chinese websites, the reviews are run through an online text-analysis tool. I will review the results for each tourist destination, before discussing them in relation to each other to demonstrate how this method is useful for considering questions of authenticity of religious tourist destinations that are closely aligned with public and private economic interests. 102

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Three Religious Tourist Destinations Mt. Wutai and Mt. Emei are consistently among the top destinations for domestic tourists in their provinces and China overall (Lu Dong et al. 2017). UNESCO recognizes both as World Heritage Sites; Mt. Emei received the designation in 1996, and Mt. Wutai followed thirteen years later in 2009. Long before then, both mountains were home to dozens of monasteries, and pilgrims arrived to experience the spiritual environments that both offered. The subsequent creation of local gazetteers for each mountain recounted the marvelous tales that took place on the mountains, building their aura and prestige. While the beginnings of these developments date back as early as the sixth century, it was not until the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644) that the label of the “Four Great Sacred Peaks” emerged, including Mt. Wutai and Mt. Emei alongside Mt. Putuo and Mt. Jiuhua (Sheng 2013). Local tales and gazetteers established the presence of a popular bodhisattva on each mountain: Mañjuśrī (Wenshu 文殊) on Wutai, Samantabhadra (Puxian 普賢) on Emei, Avalokiteśvara (Guanyin 觀音) on Putuo, and Kṣitigarbha (Dizang 地藏) on Jiuhua. Monastic and lay Chinese alike were ascending the mountains, stopping at temples along the way, and paying their respect to the associated bodhisattvas (Cartelli 2013). Records dating back to the fifth century indicate that people on Mt. Wutai experienced visions of Mañjuśrī (Sheng 2013: 122). Susan Andrews has demonstrated how seventhcentury Buddhists constructed a foundational narrative involving the self-immolation of a prince at an ancient stupa on the mountain that inspired others to begin practicing Buddhism there, leading to visions of Mañjuśrī (Andrews 2016). This process was perhaps necessary due to Mt. Wutai’s earlier appellation, Zifu Shan (紫府山), which identified the mountain as a place for transcendents (Cartelli 2013). These and other later efforts were clearly successful in establishing Mt. Wutai as a preeminent destination for pilgrimage for both monastic and lay Buddhists. Today, Mt. Wutai continues to attract pilgrims and tourists, likely at a greater rate than ever. It attracts approximately 3.2 million people per year, the majority of whom are domestic Chinese tourists (Shepherd, Yu, and Gu 2012: 146). The mountain, now officially Wutai Shan National Park, features over 50 monasteries, more than 150 pagodas, and more than 2,500 monastic residents (Shepherd, Yu, and Gu 2012). Wutaishan Cultural Tourism Group 山西五台山文化旅游集团, a subsidiary of the state-owned Shanxi Investment Group 山西投资集团, has controlled and operated the national park since 2010. The historical track of Mt. Emei’s development is similar to Mt. Wutai. Starting in the seventh century, the mountain gradually shifted from a place of practice for what was likely a small number of individuals involved in longevity and transcendence exercises to a place of Buddhist practice (Hargett 2007). Like at Mt. Wutai, a founding mythos and local gazetteers legitimized and expedited this conversion. In the founding myth that Zhipan 志磐 (1220–75) relays in his Fozu tongii 佛祖統紀 (T. 49), an old man gathering herbs on the mountain encounters a strange yet lovely sight of light and clouds. When the man recounts his experience to Buddhist monks, they determine it to be an omen from Samantabhadra. In his analysis of this founding myth, James Hargrett notes how

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it does the critical work of transforming Emei’s naturally beautiful environment into a Buddhist one, overlaying the auspicious sights of Samantabhadra and the wonderful Buddha light (佛光 foguang) onto the mountain (Hargett 2007: 142). Indeed, still today visitors hope to experience the foguang when they reach the summit, whether by foot or cable car. Emei’s status as a tourist destination in contemporary China is as unquestioned as its identification as a Buddhist mountain. Established in 1997, the Emeishan Tourism Development Company, a state-owned enterprise (SOE) publicly traded on the Shenzhen Stock Exchange, manages Mount Emei national park area, which includes more than thirty monasteries. Over three million visited the mountain in 2016, and like at Mt. Wutai, the majority of those were domestic tourists (Lu Dong et al. 2017: 2189). The final destination for this case study is the Nanshan Scenic Spot (南山景区) in Longkou, within the Yantai Prefecture. Opened in 2007, the park features amusement rides, a children’s park, gift shops, and an ornate fountain show where the Buddha emerges from a lotus. Although religious culture parks are not rare in China, Nanshan Scenic Spot is unique in that a private company owns it instead of an SOE. Although the numbers of tourists to Nanshan Scenic Spot are unavailable to the public, the local Longkou Tourism Bureau reported 5.2 million tourists in 2015, and over US$1 billion in tourist spending in the overall area (Marchman 2021: 204). Given that the Nanshan Scenic Spot is the only significant tourist attraction in Longkou, it surely accounted for a large share of these totals. A single admission ticket is ¥120 RMB (US$17.50), but visitors with a lay Buddhist certificate get half-off. The park offers this discount to Buddhists because the largest and most notable part of the scenic spot serves as a de facto Buddhist theme park. This is immediately apparent to visitors upon seeing the colossal “Nanshan Buddha,” a 38.6 meter seated buddha cast in bronze—and the largest of its kind—that sits atop the tallest hill overlooking the park and is visible from certain spots in the surrounding city. The Nanshan Buddha is the main attraction of the park. The other attractions in the religious culture park feature a spectacular Buddhist fountain show, lush gardens, and an active monastery. In an attempt to claim authenticity, the park is home to an active monastery run by over forty monastics. Additionally, the park advertises “spiritual cultivation packages” to tourists wanting to receive some spiritual merit from their visit. For a fee, visitors can partake in vegetarian meals, gardening, copying and chanting scripture, and meditation alongside the temple’s monastics. The monastics do more than welcome tourists to participate in their practice; they also serve Nanshan’s more than 47,000 employees living in the surrounding area as well. Park guests inevitably encounter standard Buddhist rituals taking place on the temple grounds, and it is common to see groups of dominantly domestic tourists drop in to observe, participate in, and pay for these rituals. At first glance, the authenticity of both Mt. Wutai and Mt. Emei appears beyond reproach, especially in comparison to the corporately constructed Nanshan Scenic Spot. However, recent economic developments may tarnish their rich historical legacies. As tourism has become a vital force for national and local economies in China, SOEs have taken control of development and management of tourism on both mountains. In order 104

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to increase tourism (and profits), the state granted large sums of currency toward the development of tourist sites, of which Wutai and Emei are no exception. Moreover, in an effort to align these locations with the demands of UNESCO preservation rules, major reorganization was necessary. Paradoxically, in trying to achieve UNESCO recognition as a preserved site, these locations were altered from their prior states to what the leaders of this process believed UNESCO demands (Shepherd, Yu, and Gu 2012). Some Chinese see these recent economic developments as undermining the authenticity and uniqueness of these and other historically treasured locations. In a 2012 Beijing Review article entitled “Buddhist Mountains Going Public?” a group of journalists share their opposing opinions about the increased corporatization of these important Buddhist destinations. The journalists fall equally along either side of the argument, with half arguing that going public allows these places to continue development and maintain their beauty, while the other half argues that going public damages the “purity” of these locations and Buddhism itself. In a series of qualitative interviews with twelve tourists on Mt. Wutai, the tourists were similarly divided over the commercialization of these sites (Shi 2009). Interestingly, no one on either side of this debate acknowledged that these places have long been involved in commerce and state support. Wutai and Emei would not have attained historical prestige were it not for the support of various rulers and aristocrats throughout Chinese history (Cartelli 2013; Sheng 2013). Nevertheless, this contemporary distaste for the commingling of commerce and religious spaces persists. It makes sense, then, to attempt to understand how tourists are perceiving these places on a much larger scale, and whether or not these concerns reappear. Method Conducting a study of this magnitude would certainly not be easy. The three sites are quite distant from each other, and to acquire the necessary amount of surveys or interviews to come to a worthwhile conclusion would prove difficult as well. Simply put, the cost and time involved would make it unfeasible. Thankfully, the internet provides contemporary scholars with tools that not only allow us to make these projects possible but allow a degree of environmental sustainability as well. The number of China’s massive population who use the internet far exceeds any other country. As a result, there are vast datasets online that scholars can pull from to aid their research. As discussed earlier, OTRs can be a vital resource for studies such as this one. Similar to how gazetteers once recorded and collected the experiences of individuals at these destinations, now people share them online. Whether on social media, blogs, or travel reviews, travelers are sharing their experiences and insights with others. Even though the companies that manage these locations have their own marketing campaigns targeted at potential visitors, research demonstrates that individuals find user-generated reviews more valuable and informative than the primary marketing content tourist destinations produce (Dickinger 2011). Moreover, 65 percent of potential travelers research their intended destinations online and use OTRs to help plan their trip (Fang et al. 2016: 498). Given that tourists find these reviews persuasive and trustworthy and contribute 105

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their own reviews to various sites, scholars may liken this vast corpus to twenty-firstcentury digital gazetteers. While earlier gazetteers were limited to the perspectives of a few individuals, OTRs are far more diverse and democratic. Instead of a handful of recounted anecdotes, travel reviews share the experiences of exponentially more individuals. For the current study, I selected four major travel sites that have review and rating systems: Ctrip, Lümama, Tripadvisor, and Mafengwo. The style and content of these sites are likely very familiar to anyone with even limited experience on a travel website. Founded in 1999, Ctrip is one of the oldest and most successful Chinese online travel agencies. Lümama is another Chinese online travel agency that began in 2008. Tripadvisor is the largest online transnational travel firm on the internet and has bought out several Chinese sites over the last decade in an attempt to tap the enormous Chinese online market. Mafengwo claims to be the “largest travel community in China” and is particularly popular with younger Chinese travelers (Azevedo 2019). I looked at the travel reviews of Mt. Emei, Mt. Wutai, the Nanshan Scenic Spot, and some notable temples at each destination. The reviews were then scraped, or extracted, and collected into text files. All combined, this collected over 8,000 OTRs from the four websites. Unfortunately, the distribution of reviews for the three destinations was not equal, with Mt. Wutai and Nanshan totaling just over 2,000 each, while Mt. Emei accounted for over 4,000. However, because I analyze the reviews of each site independently, and each still has an appropriate sample size to draw from, the unequal distribution is not an issue. After collecting the reviews into individual data files, I uploaded them into an online text analyzer. I selected Voyant Tools as it is a web-based, open access, and straightforward application. Yet, there are some concerns to note about digital text analyzers. First, all the major text-analysis programs are optimally built for English texts. Although they can still generate results for non-English texts, the tools do not always work as intended. For example, Voyant cited the comma as the most frequent word in the collected data because the application is not programmed to recognize the Chinese comma (which looks slightly different from the Western comma in word processors). Topic modeling, a critical analysis tool that provides the main topics listed in the documents, also does not work well, unfortunately. Lastly, a tool that analyses the sentiment of reviews (sentistrength) is also inadequate for Chinese texts. Applying these tools to Chinese language texts is in development, and the coming years should provide even greater methods of reading this data. Voyant is still a wonderful tool because it can list the most frequent words, their frequency within specific texts, the distinctive words within each file, and the contexts in which those words are used. This analysis provides interesting insights into these destinations that a quantitative rating system does not allow. However, because each of the four travel websites does feature a unique, internal quantitative rating system, it is worth a brief look at their results. Three of the travel sites, Ctrip, Lümama, and Tripadvisor, publish a star rating based on user reviews. Although each rating assigned to the three locations is unique to that website, when averaged out over the three online platforms, all three destinations are identical. They each score 13.7 out of 15 stars, good for an average of 4.56 stars, or an 106

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overall satisfaction rate of 91 percent. These numbers tell us, for the most part, that tourists to these places are overall incredibly satisfied. It is unclear what this says specifically about the authenticity of each destination, other than tourists seem to be getting what they expect from their visits. Had these reviewers considered any of the destinations as especially inauthentic in comparison to the other two—in this case, perhaps they did not live up to tourist expectations and/or were not worth the cost and effort—it is safe to assume that the numbers would reflect that, which is clearly not the case here (Table 5.1). Mafengwo, however, does not publish an overall star rating for its users, even though it asks them to rate each destination and those ratings are posted alongside each review. Nevertheless, there are other ways to analyze and compare user reviews on these sites. For each review, Mafengwo categorizes it as “good” (meaning the user gives the destination four or five stars), “mediocre” (exactly three stars), or “poor” (one or two stars). When scoring those three categories from each of three tourist destinations, a different picture emerges than the one Ctrip, Lümama, and Tripadvisor provide. Instead of each destination averaging out identically, Mafengwo users rate them significantly different. Although, overall, users are still extremely satisfied with the destinations, Mt. Wutai receives a dominant share of positive reviews over the other two, though with a smaller sample size. While users are significantly less satisfied with Nanshan Park in comparison to Mt. Wutai, it is important to note that Nanshan is not far off Mt. Emei’s score (Table 5.2).

Results As indicated earlier, there are number of tools that Voyant offers to analyze the data, but because the reviews are all in Chinese, these are limited. For this study, I have chosen Table 5.1  Quantitative Review of Buddhist Tourist Destinations Mt.Emei 峨眉山

Mt.Wutai 五台山

Nanshan Park 南山旅游景区

Lümama

4.7

4.6

4.6

Tripadvisor

4.5

4.5

4.5

CTrip

4.5

4.5

4.6

Table 5.2  Mafengwo Quantitative Evaluation Mafengwo

Mt.Emei 峨眉山

Mt.Wutai 五台山

Nanshan Park 南山旅游景区

Positive

379/479 79%

74/80 92%

118/162 73%

Mediocre

87/479 19%

4/80 6%

37/162 23%

Negative

13/479 2%

2/80 2%

7/162 4%

107

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to analyze what the most frequent fifty words from each dataset can tell us about the tourists’ experiences and their perception of each destination. Before looking at each location individually, it is helpful to look at the most frequent words that appear in combined reviews of all three locations. In this case, these results are weighted toward Mt. Emei given that it had more reviews than the other locations. Still, they are helpful in reminding us that we are analyzing a tourist destination. Not surprisingly, “tourism,” “tourist,” and “sightseeing” are included in top fifty most frequent words. “Ticket” is the most frequent word, however, as tourists to these locations need tickets for general admission to the parks, cable cars, temples, and museums. This makes the economic force of these destinations immediately clear, and several other frequent words among the top fifty also fall in that category: “purchase,” yuán (currency), and “expensive.” Bringing in tourists who will spend money is the goal of any tourist destination, but in order to maintain it, tourists must be satisfied with their experiences. Several of the other most frequent words demonstrate that all three destinations have been just as successful in that regard: “beauty,” “fun,” “recommend,” and “spectacular,” all seem to indicate that tourists are satisfied even despite the costs. However, the list makes clear that these destinations are not just beautiful landscapes. Each location claims some affiliation with Buddhism, and the reviews highlight that tourists are aware of that connection. “Buddha” is the fifth most frequent word in the combined reviews. “Big Buddha” referencing the colossal buddha statue at Nanshan is immediately followed by Buddhism at number fifteen. “Bodhisattva” appears, as does “Puxian” (Samantabhadra, the bodhisattva connected to Mt. Emei), indicating that tourists are informed as to the reason why the mountains are notable locations. To get a clearer picture of this, it is necessary to look at each destination individually. Like the overall top fifty words for all three locations, the top fifty for Mt. Emei (Table 5.3) succinctly denote that it is a tourist destination. Many of the same words overlap: “ticket,” “purchase,” “expensive,” “travel,” and “tourist.” Famous locations on the mountain appear as well, along with unique transport options, such as the “ropeway” and “cable car.” There are several words included that seem to indicate that tourists are aware of the founding mythos of Emei: “sea of clouds,” “Puxian,” and “light” all connect to the strange visions of the Buddha light that have been reported on the mountain since medieval China. “Buddhism,” “buddha,” and “bodhisattva” also appear in the top fifty words, making it even clearer that tourists are making a connection between their travel (and Mt. Emei specifically) and Buddhism. As notable as the Buddhist connections are, however, it is far more apparent that these reviews communicate the experience and advice of travelers. “Gold” is the most frequent word overall, usually in reference to the Golden Summit of Emei, which includes a Buddhist temple and striking golden statue of Puxian. In discussion of the Golden Summit, however, discussion of the statue and temple falls well behind discussion about the beauty of the scenery from the summit, and the most convenient way to reach the summit (“cable car”). They discuss optimal times to get to the summit (“sunrise”) and what to see along the way (“monkeys”) and other notable locations. Whether or not a “tour guide” is necessary, what to “bring,” and what they would do on their “next” visit 108

Table 5.3  Top Fifty Most Frequent Words in Mt. Emei OTRs 1–5

6–10

11–15

16–20

21–25

26–30

31–35

36–40

41–45

46–50

gold

car

ropeway

sea of clouds

monkey

expensive

tall

walk; visit

inside

tour guide

ticket

beauty

sunrise

Buddha

Leidong (location)

cable car

bodhisattva

summit

construction

Baoguo Si (location)

heaven/sky

purchase

climb

entrance ticket

reside

air

half

travel

time (mw)

line up

monkey

really

fun; play

Samantabhadra

Buddhism

bring

street

eat

light; ray

pretty

scenery

walk; go

worth it

currency

tourism

climb mountain

tired

Qingyin Ge tourist (location)

next time

Buddhism under Capitalism

are all discussed as well. In other words, the majority of these reviews are discussing Mt. Emei much the same way as they would any other tourist destination.​ The results for Mt. Wutai are quite different from Mt. Emei. Whereas none of the top ten most frequent words for Mt. Emei connect to Buddhism, six of the top ten words for Mt. Wutai denote Buddhist connections, including the top three words, “Buddhism,” “buddha,” and “sacred place” (圣地 shengdi). It is once again evident that tourists are aware of the local myths that recount encounters and blessings from the “bodhisattva Manjuśrī.” Moreover, several words suggest that tourists are not just retelling Buddhist stories but engaging in Buddhist practice. Discussion of “burning incense,” “worshiping the Buddha,” “pious” feelings originating from visiting “temples” on the mountain all appear. A few other notable inclusions appear when including the top 100 words, including “monk,” “stupa,” “Buddhist rites,” and “making vows.”2 The context for “heart” indicates that many tourists feel that their experiences on Mt. Wutai have cleansed their heart. Tourists are reporting stronger “emotional responses” overall. Thus, tourist reviews strongly demonstrate that tourists connect to Buddhism more at Wutai than Emei. However, it is evident that much of the same normative tourism discussion of Mt. Emei applies to Mt. Wutai as well. Tourists are still talking about what sights to see, where to go, what to bring, how to get there, how long it will take, and how much it will cost. Even though reviewers label Wutai as a sacred place, tourists still have mundane concerns about how to plan their travel and what to expect. Although places like Wutai feel special and different, and tourists who go report restorative feelings resulting from their visit, they are still very much situated in the secular world. This blurs the lines between tourist and pilgrim, acts of religiosity and acts of leisure. To put this to the test, however, perhaps it is necessary to move beyond objectively and socially “authentic” locations like Wutai and Emei (Table 5.4). The Nanshan Scenic Spot cannot match the history and esteem of Wutai and Emei. It is less than two decades old and built by a multinational conglomerate specifically to attract tourists for financial gain. However, the most frequent words for Nanshan blends aspects of the two earlier destinations, while still relaying its own unique identity. Like Emei, there are only four words in the top fifty that directly relate to Buddhism. The Nanshan (or “Big”) “Buddha” is the top result, which is no surprise given that it is the top attraction in the park. Tourist concerns dominate the top fifty words, again resembling Emei. “Sightseeing,” “tourism,” “scenery,” “tour,” and “travel” stand out as reviewers discuss their reasons for visiting the park. Many of the same words pointing to the economic and logistical aspects of tourism overlap with Emei and Wutai as well. When expanding to the top 100 most frequent words, a picture more similar to Wutai emerges. Reviewers are not limited to discussions of Buddhist attractions at the park. Like Wutai, they also discuss Buddhist practice. “Worship” and “worshipping the Buddha,” “Chan temple,” and “Yaoshi” 藥師 (the Chinese name for Bhaiṣajyaguru, the Medicine Buddha) appear in the expanded list. Intriguingly, the same term for “sacred place” (shengdi) found in the Wutai reviews appears again in the Nanshan reviews. While a significant portion of reviewers uses sacred place to describe Nanshan, “corporation” does appear slightly more. The reviewers are referring to corporations almost exclusively 110

Table 5.4  Top Fifty Most Frequent Words in Mt. Wutai OTRs 1–5

6–10

11–15

16–20

21–25

26–30

31–35

36–40

41–45

46–50

Buddhism

platform

heaven/sky

pious

purchase

history

tall

currency

worship

cold

Buddha

Mañjuśrī

tourism

scenery

Shanxi (location)

walk; go

car

entrance ticket

culture

feel

sacred place

Wuye Temple (location)

culture

sit

heart

Main time (mw) worship the (temple) hall Buddha

expensive

general

construction

really

ticket

worth it

more

China

beauty

tourist

burn incense

Bodhisattva

Tang Dynasty

incense sticks

reside

bring

inside

time (mw) air

enter

smart

Notables in top 100: monk, stupa, Buddhist rites; to vow/wish.

beam

Buddhism under Capitalism

in the context of the Nanshan Group, which indicates that many, if not most, are aware of its corporate connection. The ubiquity of Nanshan’s branding is indeed hard to miss; yet, perhaps because corporations and markets are an unavoidable part of early twenty-firstcentury life, reviewers do not allow this connection to spoil the enthusiasm expressed in the reviews (McLaughlin et al. 2020). This juxtaposition of sacred place and corporation is demonstrative of how Nanshan stands apart from the two other locations—it is an amusement park. “Amusement” and “park” help point us to the conclusion that, despite the Buddhist descriptors and some even calling the Nanshan Scenic Spot a sacred place, reviewers are experiencing it somewhat differently from Emei and Wutai. There are other hints too that point to this distinction. “Fun” or “play” appears for the first time, and it is high on the list. “Service,” “clean,” and “children” congregate together in the middle of the top fifty list, indicating again that reviewers are perceiving Nanshan differently than the mountain destinations. In naturally scenic environmental areas and cultural landmarks, guests do not necessarily expect anyone to help or serve them. It does not make sense to label those places as clean, whereas amusement parks often have cleaning and landscaping crews constantly and conspicuously at work. Children are certainly present in most tourist destinations, but amusement parks often target children as their key demographic. Indeed, there is a children’s park in the Nanshan Scenic Spot, where large “Buddhist statues” stand amid amusement rides. In response to the artificial nature of the park, reviewers synthesize aspects of other important cultural destinations like Emei and Wutai, while still communicating how it is fundamentally different than those locations. And yet, by and large, guests to Nanshan are as satisfied (Table 5.5). Although surveying the most frequent words in the OTRs of these locations is illuminating, there is plenty that remains hidden. In other words, there are some weaknesses to this approach worth noting. The aggregated reviews reveal how the majority of individuals are talking about these places, but it can be hard to identify less frequent, though recurring themes. Reviewers may use different language to express similar ideas, obscuring what researchers can extract from the data. Moreover, it is impossible to know exactly who is creating these reviews. The demographic information that researchers can gather along with surveys is not always available for reviews scraped off the internet. Therefore, it is impossible to state how specific groups of different ages, genders, ethnicities, etc. view these destinations. For this project, it would have been interesting to separate the reviews of Buddhists and non-Buddhists, for instance, but this is not accessible in the raw data. Given that this project relies on Chinese websites and Chinese reviews exclusively, it may be possible to use websites in other nations and languages to determine if domestic and foreign tourists experience these destinations differently. A comparative project such as that, however, would inevitably rely on assumptions and noisy data. Thus, qualitative studies are needed to support and clarify the results of quantitative research, and vice versa. Lastly, as “fake reviews” proliferate and become more valuable to these destinations, it may be likely that programmed bots or paid submissions are making up a significant portion of these reviews. Despite these issues, this method offers scholars an effective alternative to large-scale field research. 112

Table 5.5  Top Fifty Most Frequent Words in Nanshan Scenic Spot OTRs 1–5

6–10

11–15

16–20

21–25

26–30

Big ticket Buddha

purchase

walk; go

finish; complete

Buddha jade

tourism

car

36–40

41–45

46–50

entrance ticket children

tall

CTrip

overall

heaven; sky bring

service

satisfied

air

park; gardens

wonderful

scenery

really

tour

beauty

stroll

far

order

more

worth it spectacular

construction

currency

tired

clean

amusement

Buddhism

enter

travel

fun; play environment; surroundings

culture

(not) bad

electric shuttle

sightseeing car shocking

history

cheap; inexpensive

currency

sightseeing

31–35

Notables in top 100: worship, worship the Buddha, corporation, magnificent, Buddha statue, sacred place, Chan temple, Medicine Buddha

Buddhism under Capitalism

Not only is it more cost-efficient, but it is also more sustainable. As these concerns grow and become more prohibitive to traditional methods, it will be necessary for scholars to pivot to alternative approaches.

Conclusions Mount Emei, Mount Wutai, and the Nanshan Scenic Spot are all recognized as Buddhist tourist destinations. Each receives investment from SOEs or private corporations. While two have been famous Buddhist destinations since medieval China and currently boast UNESCO recognition, the other was built by a private corporation less than twenty years ago and offers no significant history. Nevertheless, the Ministry of Culture and Tourism in China has endorsed it with its highest 5A tourist site ranking, alongside Emei and Wutai. The presence of economic interests at all three destinations has led some to question their authenticity, and a very small number of poor reviews do express that sentiment. The dominant majority of reviews, however, expresses enthusiasm about these destinations and therefore suggests that visitors are gaining experiences that they feel to be authentic at each location. In fact, one of the few most frequently used words that appear in the reviews for each destination is zhide 值得, indicating users are consistently citing these locations are “worth it.” It is hard to imagine that thousands of reviewers would recommend these places so enthusiastically if they did not see them as authentic. In comparison with each other, however, it appears that Mount Wutai is closest to the “peak” of authenticity regarding Buddhist destinations, while the other two are just a little further down, while still offering peaks of their own. In a study of mass-produced Tibetan Buddhist objects, Trine Brox argues that we need to pay attention not only to the ways in which religious objects impact the lives of people . . . but also the ways in which people interact with religious objects. There is no clear dichotomy between commodities and “proper” Buddhist artifacts, I argue, and commodification does not inherently reduce the aura of Buddhist material objects. (Brox 2019: 108) The thousands of travel reviews collected indicate that, in the same way that the dichotomy of commoditized and genuine breaks down when observing how individuals use Buddhist material objects, the same is true of Buddhist tourist destinations. Going a step further, Inken Prohl suggests completely avoiding concepts like commodification and capitalization, not only because they are inadequate concepts, but they trick us into reifying overall categories like religion or Buddhism (Prohl 2020: 125). As participants in a long-lasting human institution, of course contemporary Buddhists engage in market economies, just as they have done for most if not all of their history. Buddhists adapt to the time and place they occupy in order to perpetuate their lifestyle, and most importantly, their practices and values. They therefore make conscious choices, like the monastic community in the Nanshan Scenic Spot decided to practice in a theme 114

Perceiving Authenticity

park. Monastics on Emei and Wutai must go on about their practice in the midst of crowding noisy tourists. These are the choices Buddhists make and have been making for centuries. Although now tourists can buy a ticket for a cable car to quickly get them to the summit and snap a selfie on their cellphone with a monk or nun, these modern conveniences clearly do not diminish their enthusiasm to visit and experience Buddhist tourist destinations.

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CHAPTER 6 ETHICS IN SMALL BUSINESS CAPITALISM OF WOMEN KUAN IM FOLLOWERS IN THAILAND

Mark Speece and Jitnisa Roenjun

Kuan Im and Small Business Capitalism This chapter examines how deeply devoted women followers of Kuan Im bodhisattva in Thailand operate their small businesses. Kuan Im is one current of the broader movement toward Buddhist reform in Thailand. As such, she is representative of the set of issues that reform Buddhism aims to address, although, of course, different currents have different solutions to these issues (Speece 2019). The movements are driven largely by the urban middle class, who have come to view Thailand’s economic “success” as somewhat Pyrrhic. Living standards may have improved substantially, but a whole range of serious problems have come to the fore, including declining morality, rampant corruption, social and economic inequality, and environmental degradation (e.g., Hewison 2006; Siriprachai 2012). Thailand never secularized much in the Western sense (Larsson 2019; Yano 2019), and many middle-class people hoped Buddhism could provide some refuge from problems associated with modern development. However, the official institutional form of Thai Buddhism did not seem able to offer anything useful and, indeed, is often considered somewhat irrelevant for dealing with the problems of modern life. Phra Payutto, a leading scholar-monk of the “reform-from-within” current of Thai Theravāda, summarized the problem well: when the modernists began to be disillusioned and dissatisfied with modernization [they] turned to find meaning and answers from [Buddhist] tradition. However, as the traditionalists have long been far removed from the real world of changing values, they cannot supply the answers or satisfy the need of the modernists. (Payutto 2007: 56) The official sangha hierarchy may not always agree, but few middle-class lay Buddhists see much attempt to address the problem in the decade since Payutto’s observation. Sanitsuda Ekachai, a prominent columnist who frequently writes on Buddhist affairs in Thailand, says, “the clergy’s dependency on state support has made it weak and out of touch with public sentiments and needs. That’s how it has become socially irrelevant” (Ekachai 2018).

Ethics in Small Business Capitalism

The women portrayed here hold such views; they are small business capitalists who have a strong sense of ethics. A brief overview of Kuan Im’s position among Thailand’s Buddhist reform currents is useful background for understanding how her followers implement their ethical thinking. This is summarized in Figure 6.1 from a sustainability standpoint. Some version of sustainability, of course, is more or less inherent due to the prominent belief in interconnectedness in most Buddhist traditions. “Buddhist economics would investigate how a given economic activity affects the three interconnected spheres of human existence: the individual, society, and nature or the environment” (Payutto 1994: n.p.). Such thinking, however, is subject to some interpretation, including about the nature of the economic system it implies. Thailand’s reform currents all aim for high ethical standards in business and economics (as in other spheres) in order to create a more equitable society in better harmony with the environment. Different currents, however, have a wide range of views about how much systemic change is needed to foster these high standards (Speece 2019). The somewhat diffuse “reform-from-within” current is loosely represented by the late Buddhadāsa Bhikkhu (1906–93),1 who wrote Dhammic Socialism (1993), and Phra Prayudh Payutto (b. 1938),2 who wrote Buddhist Economics (1994). This current receives the most attention in Western discussions of Buddhist economics, and it wants fairly substantial reform, although Buddhadāsa sees a need for somewhat more change than Payutto, relative to the range of views in this current. Generally, “reform-from-within”

less need for systemic change

socio-economic sustainability

more need for systemic change

transformation: we need better personal ethics, but it is impossible without massive overhaul of the system

reform: we need better personal ethics, but the system needs substantial reform to make that possible

Santi Asoke

Buddhadāsa

Payutto Kuan Im Wat Phra Dhammakāya

personal ethical standards do not differ much across the currents, but currents differ widely in how much systemic change is necessary

status quo: the system is fine, we just need better personal ethics less need for systemic change

environmental sustainability

more need for systemic change

Figure 6.1  Kuan Im’s position in Thailand’s Buddhist reform currents. Source: adapted

from Speece (2019: Figure 2, p. 714), which itself is adapted from Hopwood et al. (2005: Figure 1, p. 41). 117

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tends to favor a mixed economy approach similar to Schumacher’s (1966, 1973) “smallis-beautiful” Buddhist economics (Piboolsravut 1997; Puntasen 2008). As indicated in Figure 6.1, Santi Asoke, another prominent reform current, wants radical transformation, and its followers have established a number of “small, anti-capitalist, agricultural lay communities” (Fuengfusakul 1993: 156), essentially collectivist communes (see Heikkilä-Horn and Krisanamis 2002). On the more status quo side of Figure 6.1, Wat Phra Dhammakāya is prominent in a current that embraces Thailand’s modern big-business-dominated capitalist system and sees no real need for any systemic change (Speece 2019, 2020). Buddhist economics in this current is very oriented toward personal morality; even the section on “Buddhist macroeconomics” in Phrabhavanaviriyakhun’s work (2010) says little about systemic issues and much about making sure that “charity” (from government or individuals) is bestowed on virtuous deserving people.

Kuan Im Is a Fourth, Non-Therava¯ da Current All three of these currents, however, have spokespeople promoting views and helping organize to get important work done, whatever that might be under their various worldviews. In contrast, Kuan Im lacks a charismatic monk, nun, or lay person to promote the views of her followers beyond purely spiritual matters, so they are not as well known (Speece 2019). The women small business owners in our discussion are quintessential capitalists, more or less of the Adam Smith “invisible-hand” version. In Figure 6.1, sometimes they might be near the lower side of “reform-from-within,” but they are not very sympathetic to the big-business capitalism of Wat Phra Dhammakāya. (Distrust of big business is not unique to Kuan Im followers but is common among small business owners: see Roenjun and Speece 2014.) Thus, her followers represent a very different sort of capitalism. Small and medium enterprises (SMEs) are widespread,3 but weak in terms of political influence. Many observers have pointed out that contemporary (big-business) capitalism bears little resemblance to Smith’s pure competition among a multitude of small businesses in a society which generally has reasonably strong ethical standards (Bassiry and Jones 1993; McKenna and Tsahuridu 2001): “Self-interest is the main motivation in Smith’s economic theory, but it cannot be disconnected from the love of virtues” (Gonin 2015: 223). In Buddhist context, the pre-big-business capitalism of Smith might be considered somewhat similar to Schumacher’s “small-is-beautiful” economics, but without many of the mixed economy elements found in Schumacher and some Thai versions of Buddhist economics noted earlier (Speece 2019). Kuan Im’s small business followers believe strongly that business must be socially responsible and highly ethical in treatment of employees and customers. This is what Kuan Im teaches when they think about how the teachings apply to their small business context: “Guanyin is the spiritual model and protector to their businesses and can provide moral guidance and discipline important for unity in communities” (Luo 2016: 18). 118

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One reason Kuan Im is somewhat overlooked in discussions of Thai reform Buddhism is that she is not Theravāda. Indeed, she is the Thai-ized version of Chinese Guanyin (Luo 2016), one prominent manifestation of the bodhisattva Avalokiteśvara, the embodiment of compassion. Although she is well known in most East Asian traditions, Guanyin is usually most closely associated with Mahāyāna traditions of Pure Land Buddhism (Tay 1976; Yü 2001). This is largely a faith-based Buddhism. Pure Land abodes of the Buddhas are free of defilements and distractions which hinder the pursuit of enlightenment, and devout practitioners can go there by calling upon the grace and compassion of a buddha and/or associated bodhisattva (Getz 2004; Gomez 2004). A buddha would generally grant this after death. Many practitioners believe their faith should be focused on the compassionate Guanyin, who brings things into the here-and-now, an aspect common throughout most Thai reform Buddhism: “Kuan-yin caters to the human desire to rise above our own karma even while in this life” (Tay 1976: 147–8). Worship of Guanyin originally came to Thailand along with Chinese immigration over several centuries. Somewhat differently from many Southeast Asian societies, Thai culture has generally been open to integrating Thai-Chinese. The resulting cultural mix brought about a situation where Thai-Chinese cultural values often came to be considered just a variation on Thai culture (Komin 1991; Speece and Igel 2000). Thus, “pure Thai, especially urban middle class, find it easy to adopt some of these values without having to agonize about their own cultural identity, as some might if they adopted ‘foreign’ ideas” (Roenjun and Speece 2011: 70). This resulted in Kuan Im extending her popularity widely, particularly among the urban middle class who were in more contact with ThaiChinese. Historically, Guanyin has served as a role model for many Buddhists and is often noted particularly as a protector of, among others, merchants and women. Faith in her can have a strong impact on her followers (Tay 1976; Yü 2001). This is abundantly evident among Kuan Im’s small business followers in Thailand. [Kuan Im’s] wide-scale popularity among the urban Sino-Thai middle class is linked more to moral than to political or economic aspects of life as experienced by urban dwellers . . . the cult provides moral and ethical practices for achieving success in life and solving hardships and difficulties. Guanyin is well known for her compassion and kindness and is believed to help her followers to prosper in business. (Kitiarsa 2005: 480) Thus, the women we interviewed are a good example of how Buddhist values can permeate management actions in small businesses, and how small business capitalists can believe that strong business ethics is good for their businesses. Simple faith is not enough in the Thai understanding of Kuan Im; sincerity of faith must be demonstrated by behavior: “Guanyin is a model for action. She is compassionate, diligent, devoted, patient and skillful in helping others; she is the exact model for people to practice her role in their daily lives” (Luo 2016: 83). However, Kuan Im’s spiritual guidance is largely a matter of individual reflection with her followers. As noted, she lacks prominent spokespeople. 119

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In fact, historically, “the [Kuan Yin] cult was quite independent of monastic backing. One chanted the scripture in the privacy of one’s home and it did not require any ritual that had to be performed by monks” (Yü 2001: 134–5). Qualitative Research among Kuan Im’s Small Business Followers Here, we follow McKee (2003: 66) in our specific focus: “the concern of marketing as it relates to spirituality is the development of organizations that address the needs of both employees and customers for an ethical and humane workplace and marketplace.” Research on Buddhist views of ethical treatment of employees and customers in a capitalist system is somewhat rare, and there is almost no work on how understanding of Kuan Im’s (or in other contexts, Guanyin’s) spiritual meaning translates into small business owners’ treatment of employees and customers. The respondents mostly develop their ethical frameworks through their own deep reflection on Kuan Im, because there is not really any template of what “leaders” in the Kuan Im current might have advised about such treatments. Qualitative research can help to clarify such vaguely understood concepts (see, for instance, Doz 2011; Eriksson and Kovalainen 2008). We used “guided and semi-structured interviews” following Eriksson and Kovalainen (2008: Chapter 7). The three initial first-stage interviews were more general, mainly covering the nature of Kuan Im spirituality among the respondents. They were approached at the Kuan Im shrine in Chon Buri, screened to see that they owned small businesses. The second-stage interviews (5 and 6 in two waves) were slightly more structured and were careful to cover aspects of spirituality in Petchsawang and Duchon (2009), and aspects of “human quality treatment” in Melé (2014). (Such adaptation is sometimes called “progressive focusing”: Sinkovics and Alfoldi 2012.) These respondents were approached the same way, but at the Kuan Im shrine in Yaowarat, Chinatown, Bangkok. In both locations, the interviewer did not know the respondents, but the fact that she was known by some of them to be a follower of Kuan Im, who sometimes came to the shrine, marked her as an “insider.” This is often useful for access in such research (Eriksson and Kovalainen 2008: 52; Srijumpa, Larpsiri, and Speece 2004: 69). Guest, Bunce, and Johnson (2006) and Francis et al. (2010) demonstrate that quite small sample size (  0.80). We were able to construct a single composite variable for four of the concepts, using either a first-order or second-order factor (Table 6.1). For spirituality, four of the dimensions could be combined this way, but the dimension about transcendence would not load with them, and actually split in two at either a first- or second-order level. This “difficulty” actually helped us understand the issue better, so we kept the two factors and named them the “Kuan Im” and the “Nibbana” subdimensions. The items on the first were specifically about respondents’ perceived relationship to Kuan Im, and items on the second were more general about feelings of bliss at work. Table 6.1  Summary of Composite Variables Concept

Original dimensions Composite variable

How constructed

Owner spirituality

5

●  4 spirituality dimensions

3 orthogonal firstorder subdimension factors

●  T  ranscendence Kuan Im

items

●  T  ranscendence Nibbana items

Servant leadership

7

One second-order factor

Treatment of employees

3 positive from Melé 2014

One first-order factor All items regarding treatment of employees

Treatment of customers

3 positive from Melé 2014

One second-order factor

Constructed from 3 first-order dimension factors

One second-order factor

Constructed from 3 first-order dimension factors

SME performance 3

Constructed from 7 first-order dimension factors

127

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Four regressions examined hypothesized relationships. Owner spirituality data and employee perceptions of the owner’s servant leadership demonstrated that all three of the composite spirituality subdimensions had a significant positive impact on servant leadership. The employees’ perceptions about the owners’ servant leadership positively affected how they felt owners treat them. Employee perceptions of owner servant leadership and of their own treatment both positively impact how customers think they are treated. Finally, treatment of employees and of customers both positively affect the owners’ perceptions about the performance of their firms. Table 6.2 summarizes the formal hypotheses in this model, and the basic regression results are summarized in Figure 6.2. Table 6.2  Summary of Hypothesis Results and Implied Mediation Hypotheses

H supported?

H1: Stronger spirituality is positively associated with stronger servant leadership characteristics

Yes (for all three subdimensions)

H2: Stronger servant leadership characteristics lead to better treatment of employees

Yes

H3: Stronger servant leadership characteristics lead to better treatment of customers

Yes

H4: Better treatment of employees is positively associated with better treatment of customers

Yes

H5: Better treatment of employees has a positive impact on small business performance

Yes

H6: Better treatment of customers has a positive impact on small business performance

Yes

Figure 6.2  Summary of regression results. Created by the author. 128

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Figure 6.3  Schematic of paths. Created by the author. An obvious question is whether spirituality actually works through servant leadership rather than directly impacting the treatments in the model. In fact, there are hints of servant leadership’s mediating role in the literature, but it has not been directly investigated much, so we used a standard regression technique to test mediation (University of Virginia 2020). Figure 6.3 indicates results—in our data on small business Kuan Im followers, servant leadership fully mediates the impact on treatment of employees. None of the three spirituality subdimensions had a significant impact on that treatment when modeled along with servant leadership. This makes sense—internally in the company, Kuan Im spirituality works through the leadership style. However, outside the company, most of the impact of spirituality on treatment of customers is direct. When both spirituality and servant leadership are in the model, servant leadership plays a minor role. This also seems plausible. Leadership is internal to the company, but owner interaction with customers is direct, not filtered through however they lead their companies. Thus, the mechanism is different, but either way, the strong ethical orientation of owner Kuan Im followers uncovered in the qualitative interviews is real, confirmed by survey data from both employees and customers. Conclusion The Kuan Im followers here give a perspective not frequently covered in the literature on Buddhist economics and Buddhist business ethics. Three issues in particular stand out strongly in comparing Kuan Im to much of the work on Buddhist economics and business ethics. For one thing, discussion often focuses on one particular version of Buddhist economics, usually the one popularized in the West by Schumacher (1966, 1973). This is more or less a “small-is-beautiful” mixed economy version, sometimes tilted more strongly (Buddhadāsa 1993) or somewhat more weakly (Payutto 1994) toward socialist elements. In practice, however, the range of Buddhist economics runs from big-business capitalism through strongly collectivist forms (Speece 2019). Kuan 129

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Im’s version is a small-is-beautiful capitalist Buddhist economics. It is reminiscent of Adam Smith’s invisible-hand capitalism, in the sense that in his theory self-interest is guided by strong morality (Gonin 2015). Second, Kuan Im business ethics are “lived religion” in the language of some (Schedneck 2019), as opposed to heavy reference to textually based doctrine. Occasionally doctrine is even interpreted as showing that economic activity cannot really be Buddhist at all, because Buddhism is about disengagement from the material world. This superficial understanding probably goes back to Weber’s influence, but most modern discussion refutes it (Borup 2019; Brox and Williams-Oerberg 2017; Schedneck 2019). More problematic is overreliance on textual doctrine to precisely define Buddhist economics and business ethics, which would be contrary to Schedneck’s (2019) “lived religion.” Jackson (2018) might argue that it incorrectly aims to apply the Western theoretical, wisdom-oriented approach to ethics, whereas many Asian societies emphasize practiceoriented approaches. Kuan Im does not really have rules; she simply does. What she does flows from deep compassion and desire to help other beings. Through deep faith and constant mindfulness, her followers constantly strive to conduct their businesses in ways beneficial to all stakeholders. Third, in some Buddhist societies, both historically and in modern times, the temple has played a major economic role, amassing wealth and engaging in extensive economic activities (Brox and Williams-Oerberg 2017; Harvey 2000: 203 ff). Thus, temple economies are often a major part of the discussion, and Ornatowski (1996: 200) lists this as one of the four key areas defining Buddhist economic ethics. For Thailand, some might argue that Wat Phra Dhammakāya was moving along this path, but Scott (2009) shows that its commercialization of Buddhism was simply among the most prominent of many examples. The trend troubles many in Thai society but has rarely become large enough to have major economic impact. Zehner (2013) says that Wat Phra Dhammakāya’s organizational success was largely due to charismatic leadership taking advantage of specific conditions, which cannot be easily replicated. Speece (2020) feels that the recent fall of that charismatic leadership has chastised Wat Phra Dhammakāya and tamed some of its excesses.7 Summarizing these three points, Kuan Im’s small business followers are capitalist, but of a very different mindset from the big-business capitalism which usually participates in Thailand’s power structure (Glassman 2020; Hewison 2021; Kanchoochat, Aiyara, and Ngamarunchot 2021). There are nascent examples in Thailand of temples prominent in the economic sphere, but this has never been a very strong trend. Although the ordained do discuss the issues, Thailand is a case where Buddhist economics and business ethics are almost entirely about the lay sphere. Kuan Im specifically is where even this lay sphere, while deeply religious, is not particularly tied to Thailand’s official institutional Buddhism or the several reform currents that have emerged from it. This is “religious practices . . . framed by religious practitioners” (Schedneck 2019: 33), that is, these Kuan Im followers simply “live” their religion. Ethical small business operations follow almost naturally from their strong faith and desire to emulate Kuan Im. 130

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In general, intrinsically motivated religiosity is usually more closely related to strong ethics than extrinsically motivated, what some call just “using” religion (Vitell 2009; Walker, Smither, and DeBode 2012). Chan-Serafin, Brief, and George (2013) cite examples where extrinsic “holier-than-thou” attitudes can have negative impacts on business. Vu and Gill (2019) argue that the Buddhist concepts of skillful means and nonattachment can help leaders avoid the negative impacts. Here, we simply add that mindfulness is what makes these things work for Kuan Im’s followers. They “live” their religion by constantly working out what compassionate Kuan Im would do. This seems a prime example of what Jackson (2018: 50) calls the business ethics of “hard core” practical wisdom (knowing how-to) emphasized in Eastern contemplative practices, as opposed to the theoretical wisdom (knowing that) which is common in Western virtue-driven business ethics. By design, the respondents in this research were all quite strong in their faith and their commitment to follow Kuan Im’s example. Not all followers may be quite so devout, and somewhat weaker religiosity may not translate as well into strongly ethical small business operations. Further, Kuan Im is only one of several currents of reform Buddhism in Thailand, and the other ones are more associated with different versions of Buddhist economics (Speece 2019). All of the currents aim for higher personal ethics, but how this might work in a big business or a collectivist organization might well differ. In practice, also, small business may be widespread in Thailand, but it lacks much political power. Kuan Im’s followers specifically, while fairly well organized in a spiritual sense, have not been very active in working for social change. Their strong ethical orientation can exert some moral authority, but there is no program to try to spread their ethical business practice. “Kuan Im mostly works through individuals to help them on their individual spiritual paths” (Speece 2019: 712). Nevertheless, this example does illustrate that strongly held Buddhist ideals actually do translate into high ethical standards among small business capitalists. Capitalism often attracts criticism for being amoral, and too open to ethical failure. Too often, this is a fairly accurate critique, but this seems to be characteristic of specific versions of capitalism (or psychologies) which rationalize away any need for much ethics. Different understandings of Buddhism imply different economic systems for many in Thailand’s Buddhist reform currents, but they all agree on the need for high ethical standards. Phra Payutto (1994: 48), prominent in the reform-from-within current of Thai Theravāda, says: It is often asked which economic or political system is most compatible with Buddhism . . . One might say Buddhism would endorse whatever system is most compatible with it, but economic and political systems are a question of method, and methods, according to Buddhism, should be attuned to time and place. These Kuan Im followers demonstrate that there is no inherent conflict between high ethical standards and successful (small) business operations. Our respondents would say Kuan Im’s ethics and compassion are necessary elements of a successful small business. Their method in attuning their small business capitalism to Buddhist ideals is their constant mindfulness of Kuan Im. 131

CHAPTER 7 THE BUSINESS OF BUDDHISM: CREATING KARMIC CONNECTIONS IN LADAKH AND EUROPE

Elizabeth Williams-Oerberg

In the spring of 2017, a group of Buddhist monks and artisans from the northwest Indian Himalayan region of Ladakh embarked on the “Heart of the Himalayas Tour, Europe 2017.” During the tour, they conducted Buddhist rituals and Ladakhi cultural performances for European audiences, stopping in fifty-three cities over a span of two months. According to the promotional material, the purpose of the tour was twofold: “Promote the common spirit between the people of Europe and the Himalayas,” and “Raise donations for building a school and library in Ladakh that will embody this very spirit of interdependence and compassion.”1 The day after their performance in Copenhagen, Lama Norbu,2 a Ladakhi Buddhist monk who was the main organizer of this month-long tour throughout Europe, explained why their group was spending so much time and energy traveling throughout Europe to raise funds for a school and library: the goal was to establish “connections” or the “common spirit” between Europeans and Ladakhis. For this reason, it did not matter if they sold many tickets or raised a lot of money on the tour. While the main aim was to raise funds through a profit-seeking tour throughout Europe, the concurrent aim of establishing “connections” proved to be equally productive for the expansion efforts of this Himalayan Buddhist organization. This chapter provides a close look at the work that Himalayan Buddhists in Ladakh engage in for creating “connections.” Based on my conversations with Lama Norbu, as well as with other monks and Buddhist business owners, I argue that it is important to pay attention to ethical frameworks that inform fundraising and profit-generating ventures forwarded by Buddhist monastics and laypeople. Buddhism in Ladakh has become a significant economic resource for monastic and lay Ladakhis, due to the promotion of Buddhist monasteries as prominent tourist destinations in the region throughout the past few decades. Instead of shunning the presence of tourists, monasteries have both welcomed and marketed their sites in order to draw an increasing number of visitors, as well as an increase in profit. The work that Buddhists engage in to raise funds and increase profit in turn has also become positioned as ethical work, as a valued Buddhist practice and a means to spread awareness about Buddhism to non-Buddhists—what I term “connectionwork.” I introduce the term “connectionwork” as a theoretical framework through which to analyze the work that Buddhist leaders and entrepreneurs engage in as a means to

The Business of Buddhism

not only generate profit to support livelihoods and Buddhist institutions but also to forge and spread connections to Buddhism. A key consequence of the production and marketing of Buddhist-related goods and services is helping to spread familiarity and connectedness to Buddhism, especially to non-Buddhists. In this way, the concept of “connectionwork” provides an analytical lens through which to pay attention to the ethical frameworks employed by Buddhist business endeavors. Taking emic conceptualizations of “connections” within a Buddhist business framework highlights how Buddhist economic practices encourage interpersonal relations to Buddhism by establishing drelwa (Tib.’brel-ba), or karmic connections, which have lasting consequences. One of the main methods for creating connections in Himalayan Buddhism is through ritual—the affective and sensorial experience of participating in Buddhist ritual helps to maintain and create connections to Buddhism, Buddhist lineages and Buddhist masters. In this chapter, I examine the role that ritual plays in creating connections to Buddhism during the Heart of the Himalayas European tour to raise funds for a Buddhist expansion project. The work that Buddhists do to sustain Buddhism through “connections,” by both maintaining old and creating new connections among non-Buddhists, plays an important role in securing the survival of Buddhism, as well as expanding the reach of Buddhist institutions. Buddhist business endeavors to create economic relations and sponsorships through connectionwork play a crucial role in Buddhist monastic life in the Himalayas.

The Business of Buddhism Material and economic engagements have been central aspects of Buddhist life since at least the time of the historical Buddha (see Benavides 2005; Schopen 1999, 2004f). The spread and development of Buddhism throughout Asia and globally have been largely mediated by economic relations (King 2016; Bailey and Mabbett 2003). Buddhist monastic institutions, moreover, have been dependent on economic relations for the growth and sustenance of clerical livelihoods. More recently, the interconnectedness between economy and Buddhism has taken a further development with the impact of the global market economy in the contemporary world. Through engaging with the global market economy, Buddhist organizations and leaders have mobilized the resources necessary to further their religious goals (McKenzie 2013: 171). In turn, the commoditization of Buddhist goods and services has also helped to provide financial resources for promoting Buddhism (McKenzie 2013: 172), such as financing the Heart of the Himalayas tour throughout Europe. Furthermore, as Inken Prohl (2020: 111) succinctly states, “It seems that Buddhism sells.” Marketing strategies have utilized Buddhist semantics, such as “karma,” “Zen,” “Nirvana,” “mindful,” along with imagery of Buddhas and bodhisattvas to market everyday household goods, including mobile phones, appliances, toys, home decorations, food, etc. Accompanying this widespread dissemination of Buddhist semantics and imagery in the global market economy, some Buddhist organizations, such as the Knowing Buddha Organization, have protested 133

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against the use of sacred imagery for profane uses: such as images of the Buddha printed on toilet seats and the bottom of shoes (Jerryson 2020). Hence, Buddhism in the twentyfirst century is marked by a heightened engagement with the global market economy (see Williams-Oerberg and Brox 2020). The field of the economics of Buddhism has grown considerably during the past couple of decades with the aim of analyzing these observed changes in Buddhist economic relations within the global market economy. One branch of this research includes what has been termed “Buddhist economics” which highlights the importance of Buddhist ethics within a Buddhist economic analysis. One of the main aims of this literature is to produce new economic models based on what is understood to be Buddhist ethics (see Ariyaratne 1999; Brown 2017; Payutto and Evans 1994; Singer and Ricard 2015; Zsolnai 2011; Zsolnai and Ims 2006), including the widely received Gross National Happiness (GNH) paradigm (see Tideman 2011; Clayton and Duncan, this volume). These models are attempts to provide suggestions for how to counteract the perceived negative impact of the global market economy drawing inspiration from Buddhist ethics. Much of this work is prescriptive, rather than descriptive, with scholars (Zsolnai 2011; Brown 2017) and Buddhist advocates (Ariyaratne 1999; Sivaraksa 2011) alike contributing with various “Buddhist economics” models as possible remedies for perceived economic, social, and moral ills that the global market economy has brought upon the world. This chapter suggests an alternative approach to incorporating ethics within the analytical framework of the economics of Buddhism. This approach is based on what I term “connectionwork,” which takes a closer look at how Buddhists engage with Buddhist ethics within economic actions and relations, rather than how they should engage economically. In contrast to the field of Buddhist economics, which offers an ethical remedy for rampant materialism and profit-seeking ventures, “connectionwork” highlights how Buddhist business practices engage with Buddhist-related production, consumption, and labor as an ethical Buddhist practice. In other words, I examine how Buddhist entrepreneurs employ rather than reject the mechanisms of the global market economy in order to promote the spread and survival of Buddhism worldwide. Rather than bemoaning the pervasive presence of Buddhist aesthetics, goods and services in the global marketplace as a devaluation (see, for example, Carrette and King 2005), I argue here that the presence of Buddhist commodities within the global consumer society is a sign of the expansion of the power, influence, and networks of Buddhist leaders and institutions. Buddhists benefit greatly from the global acceptance of the representation of Buddhism as peaceful, as a spirituality or philosophy rather than religion, as ancient and mystical. For example, Buddhists in Ladakh market these aspects of Buddhism in order to inspire tourists to come and experience these ancient, mystical, peaceful aspects of Buddhism. The economic significance of this image has been evident from the time when Buddhism was declared the Unique Selling Proposition (USP) of Ladakh (Williams-Oerberg 2020). Throughout my research in Ladakh, I paid attention to how Buddhist business entrepreneurs in Ladakh frame their business ventures as ethical Buddhist practices. Since 2010, I have engaged in ethnographic research in the Indian Himalayan region of 134

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Ladakh, five years of which I focused on Buddhist economic relations, with the economic backbone of the region—tourism—as my main concern. With Buddhism declared as the USP, Ladakh is internationally known as a primary tourist destination for those interested in learning more about Himalayan Buddhism, or for those who merely wish to experience the peaceful atmosphere of a high-altitude cold desert region harboring Himalayan Buddhist monasteries (Williams-Oerberg 2020). Buddhist monasteries are the main tourist attraction of the region and accommodate hundreds of thousands of visitors every summer during an average tourist season.3 Not only have monasteries welcomed these visitors, but they have also established business ventures to promote monasteries as attractive tourist destinations, such as building adjacent guesthouses, cafés and restaurants, souvenir shops, and marketing Buddhist ritual performances to draw an increasing number of tourists to their monasteries. The profit generated through these Buddhist business ventures helps to secure the survival and expansion of monastic institutions and Buddhist organizations, in part due to their successful “connectionwork.”

Connectionwork Connectionwork as a theoretical framework builds on social network theories such as the work of Manuel Castells (Castells 2004, 2011; see also Mützel 2009; Schneidermann 2014; Latour 2005; Latour and Stark 1999). In this work, connections are conceptualized as nodes in an increasingly connected or networked world. These theories are useful for analyzing the interconnectedness forged through new information technologies and the global capitalist market; yet, these nodes, or connections, are often analyzed as static and impersonal. Connectionwork builds upon these network theories yet highlights the ethical, interpersonal, and affective dimensions of presence and intersubjective relations within the global capitalist market (see also Schneidermann 2014). In conceptualizing connectionwork, I draw on the work of Annelise Riles (2001) and her approach to networks as empirical phenomena. She suggests we engage with connections “inside out” “by taking seriously indigenous understandings of networking and connections” (Riles 2001: 110). Following Riles’s suggestion, if we consider Buddhist conceptualizations of connections, or drelwa, we can then take into consideration Buddhist ethics and perspectives on karma and interdependence. Karmic connections are often conceptualized not as nodes but as seeds, in which actions have the effect of planting karmic seeds that may ripen in this life or the next. Within a broader scheme of interdependent origination, den-drel (Tib. rten cing ‘brel bar ‘byung ba), all phenomena arise in dependence on other phenomena. This works through causes and conditions for actions (karma), and the ripening of karmic seeds from a previous lifetime. In paying attention to connectionwork, or the work that is done to create karmic connections with Buddhism, I suggest, helps to highlight the affective, sensorial, ethical, “spiritual,” and material conditions for how connections are established. Previously, I have written about the importance of connectionwork within a context of considering how the aesthetics 135

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of Buddhist ritual “work” and, perhaps more interestingly, do not “work” (see WilliamsOerberg 2021). I turn now to take a close look at how these perspectives on connections and interdependent origination according to Buddhist ethics are put into practice by Buddhists in their economic endeavors, such as Lama Norbu in his efforts to raise funds to build a library and orphanage.

“Wired” and “Wireless” Connections For the “Heart of the Himalayas” European tour, a group of seven monks conducted “spiritual performances,” or monastic tantric rituals, which included the cham (Tib. ‘cham) colorful mask dances and the chöd (Tib. gCod) meditative death ritual. The organizers of the tour significantly altered these tantric rituals by shortening and simplifying them to accommodate the European audience. They had organized a similar tour a few years before where a group of traveling monks and Ladakhi artists raised the funds needed to build a new monastery in Ladakh, the newly constructed Tserkarmo monastery. Judging from the performance I attended at the Black Diamond performance hall in Copenhagen, however, the turnout was so low that it was hard to believe they were raising the funds needed to cover their expenses, much less make a profit on the tour. While I sat with Lama Norbu in a Tibetan restaurant in Copenhagen the day after the performance, he explained how even though they were perhaps not as successful at generating income, they still viewed the tour as a success. By performing rituals in performance halls in Europe, he was helping to create connections to Buddhism among the audience who attends these performances. Connections, he claimed, were created through both the work done to perform the ritual and the work done by the audience to attend and observe these rituals. Beyond the “spiritual performances” on stages throughout Europe, the group of Ladakhi monks also performed sand mandala rituals lasting for days. In Copenhagen, they built a sand mandala in the Tibetan restaurant where I sat and discussed with Lama Norbu. From morning to evening, they sat on the ground, bending over a low table and filling in the sand mandala. While I sat with them at the restaurant, there were very few observers who came with the purpose of watching them perform the ritual. However, during lunch and dinner when the restaurant was busier, the restaurant guests could catch a glimpse of the work they were doing to perform the sand mandala ritual. When the sand mandala was completed, they performed yet another ritual to wash away the sand and the work that they had done during the week’s ritual before packing up and moving on to the next European destination to start all over again (Figure 7.1). Lama Norbu further elucidated the ritual connectionwork that he engaged in by drawing a distinction between Buddhists and non-Buddhists; there is a significant difference between when ritual performances take place in Ladakh compared to Europe. In Ladakh, the connectionwork that Buddhist monks perform is mostly to maintain connections that are already in place. He referred to these connections as “wired” connections. As we sat in the restaurant, he pointed to the lamp above us to explain 136

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Figure 7.1  Sand mandala ritual performed in a Tibetan restaurant in Copenhagen. May 10, 2017. Photo by Elizabeth Williams-Oerberg.

how wired connections work. According to Lama Norbu, the lamp was the light of the Buddha, yet if we trace the source of the light, we see there is an electric cord. If we follow this cord, we see that it is connected to an outlet; and we can follow the source of electricity all the way back to the main source, the holiest of rivers, referring to the Indus River which is one of the main rivers in Ladakh. Of course, we were sitting in Copenhagen at the time, but since we were to imagine how wired connections work in Ladakh, Lama Norbu traced the source of light emitted from the overhead table lamp to the main source of electricity: that of the holiest of rivers, the holiest of sources, the Buddha. Hence, for Buddhist Ladakhis, it is important to maintain this connection to the source of Buddhism: the wired connection was their lineage that can be traced all the way back to the Buddha. Historically, Ladakhi Buddhist connections to Buddhism occur through household relations with and patronage to specific monasteries, lineages, and masters. These household-monastery connections are inherited and passed down through generations (Mills 2001). Lama Norbu emphasized how it is important for Ladakhis to know which lineage/sect/monastery they belong to and to maintain these connections through continual patronage to the clergy and monastic institutions which sustain Buddhism in Ladakh. When he organizes and performs rituals in Ladakh, such as the annual monastery festival, the tsé-chu (Tib. tshes bcu), a day filled with mask dances performed for lay Ladakhis, this is in order to maintain these wired connections based on lineage and family sponsorships that go back many generations. According to Lama Norbu, however, for the non-Buddhists in the audience of ritual performances, including tourists who witness these performances in Ladakh or the European audience of these rituals in the Heart of the Himalayas tour, connections 137

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are forged to Buddhism in a way similar to a “wireless” or Wi-Fi connection. As he explained, when you first encounter a new wireless network, you have to connect to that network by entering a password. However, once you make that connection, as soon as you are around that same Wi-Fi network again, you are automatically connected. The connection to Buddhism, which might have been initiated knowingly or unknowingly by attending a Buddhist ritual, listening to Buddhist teachings, or encountering a Buddhist master, is in this sense similar to a wireless connection—once you experience the connection, you are connected to Buddhism. This connection may not ripen in this life, however, and may have to wait until a future life to ripen. Clearly drawing on Buddhist ethics and conceptualizations of interdependent origination, Lama Norbu in his wired/wireless connectionwork highlights how various causes and conditions create the pathways through which connections to Buddhism become maintained and initiated. For non-Buddhists, the wireless connection forged through encountering Buddhism is likened to a seed, which may ripen in this life or in future lives to come. Hence, the work that Lama Norbu does to create “connections” while on a fundraising tour for a new Buddhist library and school in Ladakh is also to spread the teachings of the dharma and the influence of his particular lineage, that of the Drikung Kagyu of Himalayan Buddhism.

Connectionwork through Ritual and Affect Lama Norbu further explained how these wireless connections work through the affective and sensorial aspects of Buddhist ritual performances, even in more secular or nonBuddhist places in Europe. Although these rituals took place in schools and concert halls in a truncated and altered fashion, he insisted they were still “deeply religious.” He explained: It is deeply religious, and for many people, I think, sometimes, they need a click to wake up, some kind of connection in them. And certainly when they see this kind of face and mask dance in such a place where it’s just for entertainment, they sort of feel “Oh, this . . .” and they feel connected. Because of those few minutes of seeing the Mahakala dance, they might go back deep in their consciousness: “I had a dream of such a face, what was that? I see this monk dance.”4 For the unsuspecting European audience, when encountering a wrathful mask dance such as the Mahakala dance, they might recognize this deity from a previous encounter in another lifetime, hence reconnecting them automatically, similar to a Wi-Fi connection. Lama Norbu continued by emphasizing how “sometimes, your karma needs to be woken up. You see something and that triggers you. And the right conditions are coming, the trigger.” Lama Norbu spoke of the ritual performances as the “triggering moment” and emphasized how the main aim of Buddhist ritual was to awaken karma. As he explained: “karma is sleeping.” Ritual performances help to awaken karma and ripen those karmic seeds planted in previous lifetimes. 138

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I was quite intrigued by Lama Norbu’s formulation of his work to raise funds to expand his Buddhist organization in Ladakh by performing for a non-Buddhist audience and creating connections to Buddhism. I asked him if his work touring throughout Europe was an opportunity to not only help wake up previous karmic connections but also create new connections. He responded: Of course, of course. Like when we do the chöd practice. They [European audience members] say nobody has touched the deepest part of their soul like the chöd meditation. Those who have no idea [about Buddhism], you know. We’ve been doing it for almost one and a half months, and we saw people crying because of the chöd practice, although they have never heard any Buddhist chanting before. According to Lama Norbu, the tears shed by these non-Buddhists when witnessing tantric Buddhist rituals such as chöd were the sensorial proof that a connection to Buddhism was made (Figure 7.2). The chöd (Tib. gCod) ritual is a highly advanced tantric ritual in which a practitioner learns how to expel his/her consciousness through the top of the skull at the moment of death. This ritual is usually performed after the death of a relative as a means to help that person transition to the next life with ease, not usually on a stage as a performance for an audience of mostly non-Buddhists. Compared to the cham performances, which are colorful, loud, exuberant mask dances that are often performed for a lay audience with an element of entertainment, the chöd performances provided a stark contrast. I had personally never seen the chöd practice performed in public before, whereas I have seen the cham dozens of times. At the Black Diamond performance in Copenhagen,

Figure 7.2  Chöd performance at the Black Diamond performance hall in Copenhagen. May 9, 2017. Photo by Elizabeth Williams-Oerberg.

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the monks entered the stage in their modest maroon robes, a change from the colorful, wrathful costumes of the cham. They wore a special hat with long black thread that covered their faces, forcing them to look down as they sat cross-legged on the stage. Quietly they chanted, holding the two ritual implements of a dorje, or lightning bolt, in one hand, and a small drum with beaded strings that they rotated back and forth creating a rhythmic, meditative sound that filled the performance hall. The quiet contrast to the cham, along with the somewhat eerie and melodic chanting to the beat of the hand-held drums, created the sensorial circumstances for some in the European audience to have an affective experience, evoking tears at times. I was also quite moved and experienced goose bumps during the performance. The tears and goose bumps, according to Lama Norbu, were physical signs of the connections made to Buddhism forged during these ritual performances on stages across Europe in the spring of 2017.5 In this way, while these Buddhist monks traveled around Europe selling pricey performance tickets, as well as Buddhist-related goods and souvenirs at stalls outside of the doors of these performances, they were also in a sense marketing Buddhism— creating connections to or an awareness of Buddhism that perhaps was not “triggered” beforehand. Lama Norbu understood that their tour, while perhaps not successful in raising the funds they hoped for, might still be beneficial for extending the influence of their lineage by creating triggering moments, or “connections” as a way to make Europeans not only aware of Buddhism but also of Ladakh, and perhaps instill a desire to come to visit Ladakh. This was also a stated aim of the tour in their promotional material: “Promote the common spirit between the people of Europe and the Himalayas.” This “common spirit” includes the connections forged and seeds planted which may ripen in the future, possibly creating future opportunities for raising money for their Buddhist organization—the Drikung Kagyu lineage.

Global Buddhist Market Economy One might ask, “What is particularly ‘new’ about the work that Lama Norbu is doing?” As I mentioned earlier, the spread and development of Buddhism throughout Asia and globally has been largely mediated by economic relations and the travel of Buddhist monks across the world (Wong 2018; Schopen 2004). The work that Lama Norbu engaged in, traveling around Europe selling Buddhist goods and services, such as pricey tickets and Himalayan Buddhist souvenirs, is in essence not any different from the work that Buddhist monks have historically engaged in while performing rituals and spreading Buddhism. However, within the context of the twenty-first century, if we wish to understand contemporary Buddhist economic relations, it is pertinent to pay attention to how capitalist market logics influence the marketing of Buddhist goods and services offered by Buddhist entrepreneurs as a means to spread the influence of Buddhist institutions. In their introduction to the special issue on “The Marketization of Religion,” François Gauthier and Tuomas Martikainen (2018) begin the article by citing Peter Berger who back in 1967 asserted how 140

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As a result [of pluralization, and therefore the end of religious monopolies in favor of voluntary adhesions], the religious tradition has to be marketed. It must be sold to a clientele that is no longer constrained to buy. The pluralistic situation is, above all, a market situation. In it, the religious institutions become marketing agencies, and the religious tradition become consumer commodities. And at any rate a good deal of religious activity in this situation comes to be dominated by the logic of market economics. (Berger 1990 [1967]: 138, in Gauthier and Martikainen 2018; italics in the original) Religious institutions in the global market economy must market themselves in order to make their institutions familiar to a broader audience and remain viable. By marketing their institutions, they can compete with other religious institutions for adherents, and at the very least, keep the adherents they already have from migrating their allegiance to another institution—religious or otherwise. The annual monastery festivals in the Himalayas, the tsé-chu (Tib. tshes bcu), have been an historically effective method for sustaining lay support and patronage. One day a year, Ladakhis gather at the monastery their families have supported for generations and experience their connectedness to a particular monastery and lineage and to each other as a community. However, within the contemporary context of the consumer society, with competing sources of identification and community, for monasteries to survive, new methods need to be adopted to both keep and create their economic connections. Within this context of a globally connected world, Lama Norbu worked to extend the network of the Drikung Kagyu lineage by employing the old method of performing ritual in new contexts, with the hope of promoting the “common spirit” between Europeans and Ladakhis and creating karmic connections to Buddhism and to his lineage—quite possibly leading to economic connections and sponsorship. When I met Lama Norbu again in the summer of 2018, a year and a half after the Heart of the Himalayas European tour, I witnessed firsthand how he was indeed successful in marketing Buddhism and Ladakh and planting seeds that would fruition in the near future. In July 2018, Lama Norbu organized a large lineage festival at the newly built Tserkarmo monastery: the 800+ years commemoration of Lord Jigten Sumgön, the founder of the Drikung Kagyu Lineage. Many of the tourists I met while attending this festival had met Lama Norbu during the Heart of the Himalayas European tour in 2017 and came to Ladakh because of a connection forged with Buddhism and with Lama Norbu during the tour. In this way, the connections “worked”: while Lama Norbu did not succeed in generating profit during the European tour, he did manage to market Buddhism and Ladakh to create connections with Europeans who later became inspired to visit Ladakh and learn more about Buddhism. Lama Norbu acted as their travel agent/ guide during their visit to Ladakh, thus possibly covering any economic losses that might have been garnered during the spring 2017 European tour, even generating profit and raising funds for future Drikung Kagyu activities. At the very least, he was able to generate interest in visiting Ladakh and inspire Europeans to invest the time, effort, and financial resources into taking the long journey to the Indian Himalayas. 141

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Based on my conversations with Lama Norbu, as well as with other monks and travel agents in Ladakh who engage in various forms of Buddhist-related businesses, they often encase their work in a framework of Buddhist ethics: by engaging in profit-seeking ventures, they are helping to spread Buddhism. By selling tours to Ladakh, bringing tourists to Ladakh, these Buddhist entrepreneurs are helping to spread connections to Buddhism, thus securing the survival of Buddhism in the future. For example, at one of the most heavily visited monasteries in Ladakh—Thiksey monastery—I interviewed the attendant monk who was in charge of keeping watch of the most popular site at the monastery: a three-story high statue of Chamba, the future Buddha Maitreya, built in 1984 (Figure 7.3). I asked this monk if it bothered him that his only duty at the monastery was to make sure that the tourists who visited this statue treated the statue and the temple room with respect. He responded that he was honored by this task. All of these tourists who catch a glimpse of Chamba and visit this monastery become introduced to Buddhism. The work that monasteries such as Thiksey monastery do to market and advertise their historical sites to non-Buddhists in tourism brochures and websites helps to bring people from all over the world to visit Buddhist monasteries and bring awareness about Buddhism, planting seeds which may ripen in this life or future lives to come. For monasteries, Buddhism is an important brand to market and promote not only among Ladakhis but also to attract tourists—not only for the economic advantages but also to spread awareness of Buddhism and plant karmic connections, or drelwa.

Figure 7.3  Chamba statue in Thiksey monastery, Ladakh. Photo by Elizabeth Williams-Oerberg. 142

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Buddhist Brand Recognition An important aspect of the global market economy is brand recognition, or making the name of a product, service, company, or religious organization familiar and well known. Marketing entails the creation of brands in order to make a particular good or service offered to consumers familiar and help to create distinction from other similar goods and services. A “brand” is “(t)hat which is signified by a brand name: the characteristics (both physical and  connotational) associated with a particular company, product, or service that distinguish it from others” (Chandler and Munday 2011). The branding process, moreover, occurs when an “idea or image is marketed so that it is recognizable by more and more people, and identified with a certain service or product” (Usunier and Stolz 2014: 13). Buddhism has become one such brand, now highly recognizable in contemporary public discourse. As Inken Prohl (2020: 120) has emphasized, Buddhism has a distinctly positive image, which has been drawn upon for creating brands that sell. For Buddhists, employing branding strategies that promote these positive associations with their religion has been an effective tool for spreading awareness and recognition of Buddhism, their Buddhist organizations, and their business endeavors. In the case of Buddhism in Ladakh, Buddhism has been branded the Unique Selling Proposition (USP) for promoting tourism in Ladakh. Particular Himalayan Buddhist lineages and monasteries have also become established and marketed as brands. For example, at Thiksey monastery, they turned their famous three-story high statue of the future Buddha, Chamba, into a brand. Thiksey monastery has been very active in marketing their monastery as a site to view Chamba. They have established multiple monastery-run businesses with the name Chamba: Chamba hotel (Figure 7.4), Chamba guest house, Chamba café, and a Chamba shop that sells tourist souvenirs. There is even a luxury camp where tourists can experience glamping on monastery grounds: Chamba Camp Thiksey. Within the context of tourism in Ladakh, the face of this statue dons the covers of tourism brochures and websites, not only those promoted by Thiksey monastery. Furthermore, not only Buddhism but particular lineages also become brands. The Drikung Kagyu lineage was promoted as a possible brand during the Heart of the Himalayas European tour. Where other Himalayan Buddhist lineages have become more familiar internationally, including the Karma Kagyu lineage with the Karmapa at its head, and need I mention the Dalai Lama, a leader of the Gelukpa lineage and perhaps the most recognized and well-known Buddhist in the world, the Drikung Kagyu lineage is less well known. The leader of the Drikung Kagyu, Chetsang Rinpoche, an exile Tibetan currently residing in India, has traveled the world extensively giving Buddhist teachings and helping to raise awareness of this lineage. He has followers across the globe, in particular a large following in Southeast Asia (some of his main sponsors reside in Southeast Asia) with his influence reaching as far as Siberia and South America. At the lineage festival in Ladakh in 2018, I met some of these followers, traveling all the way to Ladakh to strengthen their connection to Buddhism, and more specifically, to the Drikung Kagyu lineage and lineage masters. At this festival, as well as during the 143

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Figure 7.4 Chamba hotel and restaurant sign in Thiksey, Ladakh. Photo by Elizabeth Williams-Oerberg.

European tour, the distinct Drikung Kagyu flag was flown, in addition to the Buddhist flag, thus helping to create brand recognition and distinguish Drikung Kagyu from other Himalayan Buddhist lineages. In fact, the lineage festival was a culmination of the efforts to market and spread awareness of the Drikung Kagyu lineage. The participants were there to celebrate this particular brand of Himalayan Buddhism and celebrate the distinct history and practices of this lineage that are not shared with other Himalayan Buddhist lineages.6 Conclusion Buddhist leaders such as Lama Norbu have employed market dynamics in order to spread and expand upon the global growth and influence of Buddhism and of a particular Buddhist lineage—a process that entails marketing a particular lineage or monastery and the creation of a lineage “brand.” In order for that brand to become recognizable, it needs to be introduced (a kind of “triggering moment”), and then encountered again, like a wireless connection. In this sense, the “connections” that Lama Norbu emphasized as the main aim of the European tour are also karmic connections to the brand of Buddhism, and the brand of the Drikung Kagyu lineage, which he promoted throughout this tour as evidenced by the Drikung Kagyu flags which lined the performance hall during the ritual performances. The investment he made on this tour—money, time, resources, and so forth—may not have immediately accrued the profit needed to expand the Drikung 144

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Kagyu organization through the building of a school and library. However, the karmic seeds he planted, the connections he forged, may ripen later in this life or the next life to come. Where conceptualizations of “connections” have roots in Buddhist ethics, the ways in which these connections are forged, the work done to create these karmic connections, I argue, draw upon capitalist market logics of branding and the importance of creating familiarity. Lama Norbu during our conversation in the Tibetan restaurant in Copenhagen emphasized “connections” which draw on Buddhist conceptualizations of den-drel, or interdependent origination, yet he used the English word “connections.” A half year later, during a conversation via the mobile communication application Whatsapp, I asked him to clarify how he conceptualizes the “connections” we talked about previously: Does he use the English word “connections” or the Tibetan/Ladakhi word drelwa when he thinks about connections? He confirmed that when he conceptualizes his work in forging “connections,” he thinks about the English word, not the Tibetan or Ladakhi word. “Connections,” although related to Buddhist ethics and conceptualizations of drelwa, or karmic connections, and den-drel, interdependent origination, he declared, is more universal. Lama Norbu, in our original conversation in Copenhagen, brought up how connections are an important part of religion. Religion, he emphasized, is based on the term religare, which means to connect or to bind: “It’s about joining your heart with your body that is what spirituality is,” he explained. “In Tibetan, ‘nangpa’ means insider. Focus on the inner mind. The inner world, work on the inner world. Like a seed, a little seed that grows; this is religion, this is practice, this is ritual.” It is clear that Lama Norbu has extensive experience speaking with Europeans about religion, about spirituality, and about Buddhism. What is striking is how he formulated his work as creating “connections” which is based not only on Buddhist ethics related to karma and interdependent origination and how he understands “religion” as a means to “bind” but also on the emphasis we commonly hear in the global market economy—the importance of networking and making connections. In this way, the aim of the tour was twofold, as explicitly stated on their promotional material: to raise funds/make a profit and to create connections/interdependence between Ladakh/Himalayas and Europe. The efforts made to raise money for expanding the monastery infrastructure of the Drikung Kagyu monastic organization in Ladakh were also ways to market Buddhism, creating a “wireless connection” through the “triggering moments” experienced while participating in the tantric ritual performances, thus expanding the Drikung Kagyu network and creating potentially long-lasting connections between Europeans and Ladakhi Buddhist (Drikung Kagyu) monks and with (Drikung Kagyu) Buddhism. “Connectionwork” as a theoretical framework, I suggest, helps to analyze the work that Buddhist leaders and entrepreneurs engage in as a means to not only create profit to support livelihoods and Buddhist institutions but also to forge the connections that help to spread familiarity and connectedness to Buddhism, especially to non-Buddhists. “Connectionwork” focuses the analysis on how Buddhists engage the global market economy in order to not only accrue profits and invest in Buddhist infrastructure 145

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(building new monasteries, libraries, orphanages, etc.) but also spread the symbols, ideas, and practices of distinct Buddhist organizations. In this sense, the global market economy has been drawn upon as tools for not only securing the survival of Buddhism but also revitalizing and expanding the network and reach of Buddhism. By paying attention to the connectionwork of Buddhist economic engagement, we in turn see how the ethical, interpersonal, and affective aspects have become important frameworks expressed by Buddhist entrepreneurs. One of the ways to create these affective connections is through the performance of ritual. Ritual helps to both maintain established, or “wired,” connections and household patronage, and also initiate new connections and possibilities for economic sponsorship or “wireless” connections. Performing Buddhist rituals in Europe and drawing tourists to monastic sites help to create karmic connections to Buddhism which may ripen in this life or the next life to come. These efforts create brand awareness and recognition of Buddhism, which could quite possibly also generate support for the institutional development and expansion of particular Buddhist lineages and monasteries. In the promotional material sent out during the planning of the tour, the organizers stated clearly, “We do not wish to rely on corporate or large sponsorships because we wish to foster a direct contact between European and Himalayan communities that will always put our ethical and social concerns first.”7 The connectionwork they engaged in throughout their fundraising tour in Europe was a means to establish ethical interpersonal connections that could help sustain and expand their lineage. The connectionwork that Buddhists do to create brand awareness and karmic “connections” from a Buddhist ethics perspective illuminates how Buddhists employ global market dynamics for expanding their organizations. In the pluralistic context of competing forms of sociality and religiosity with the rise of the consumer society, Buddhist leaders must employ new methods to both keep adherents and attract new adherents in order to secure the survival and expansion of their institutions (see WilliamsOerberg and Brox 2021). Some Buddhist leaders have adopted marketing tactics such as advertising and branding in order to raise awareness and recognition of their religious organization. The entwinement of Buddhists and business is not a new phenomenon; however, I argue that the ways in which Buddhists market their goods and services draw upon global market economy tactics of branding Buddhism to increase recognition and awareness of Buddhism and expand their network through interpersonal karmic connections.

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CHAPTER 8 GROSS NATIONAL HAPPINESS: CAPITALISM UNDER BUDDHISM IN THE KINGDOM OF BHUTAN

Barbra Clayton and Della Duncan

Introduction This chapter explores Buddhism under capitalism in the context of the Gross National Happiness (GNH) initiative in the Kingdom of Bhutan. GNH is Bhutan’s unique approach to governance and development that offers an alternative to the predominant economic paradigm in that the aim of GNH is to promote collective well-being. In this context, well-being is understood holistically to incorporate environmental, social, and economic factors, instead of economic growth alone. Our analysis1 assumes that a sustainable and healthy future for humanity and the planet will require us to transition beyond the current growth-driven economic model (Brown 2017: 274; Raworth 2017; Klein 2014; Stiglitz, Sen, and Fitoussi 2010; Deitz and O’Neill 2013). Another name for the current growth-driven economic model that dominates economies around the world is capitalism. While definitions of capitalism vary in focus, economist Richard Wolff (2021) defines capitalism primarily in terms of labor relations: Capitalism .  .  . divides those engaged with the production and distribution of goods and services into two groups, one small and the other large . . . Employers are capitalism’s smaller group. They control, direct, and oversee the economic system . . . Capitalism’s much larger group comprises the employees (or workers). (Wolff, 2021: n.p.) To Wolff, this division of employers and employees in a private business, a nonprofit, or in a public agency (state capitalism), is the central focus. Another key characteristic of capitalism is that surplus value is turned into profit for employers. Relatedly, progress is understood in terms of the growth of that profit over time. As Wolff (2021) states, “employers use production and distribution to grow their wealth. Capital is wealth engaged in self-expansion.” In addition, in some forms of capitalism, especially neoliberal or free-market capitalism, government intervention is seen as unhelpful in the economy because markets are thought to work more efficiently to determine prices and provide goods and services without this intervention (Hayes 2021). Furthermore, in capitalism, nature is viewed as a natural resource that can be owned, commodified, and sold. As a result, costs or harm to ecosystems and planetary health are

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generally externalized in capitalism, meaning business owners don’t typically take these costs into account when determining prices and the allocation of profits.2 We argue that as a sufficiency-based economic model that challenges the growth imperative, encourages government intervention, and values nature, GNH does offer a bridge toward a postcapitalist future. At the same time, we found that there are competing visions of GNH and when its sufficiency-orientation is lost, it is accommodating to capitalism. In addition, the application of GNH in businesses and a weak stance on wealth distribution and redistribution also accommodate capitalism in Bhutan. After outlining the approach of GNH and describing how it is an expression of Buddhist thought and practice, we examine how GNH challenges the ideology of capitalism in Bhutan. We then explore the ways in which GNH coexists with and even supports capitalism. Finally, we make recommendations for the GNH movement in Bhutan to more substantially contribute to a postcapitalist future that focuses on the well-being of people and nature.

Bhutan and Buddhism The Kingdom of Bhutan is a small, landlocked country in the Eastern Himalayas with a population of less than one million. Sandwiched between the Asian superpowers of India and China, its geopolitical reality is a significant factor in Bhutan’s position today. Historically and culturally tied to Tibet, since its unification in the seventeenth century Bhutan has been dominated by the Drukpa Kagyu sect of Tibetan Buddhism, though the Nyingma sect is also present. Since the country’s unification in the seventeenth century to the early twentieth century, Bhutan was a theocracy ruled by a religious potentate, the Zhabdrung (Dzongkha: zhabs drung)3 (Phuntsho 2013: 8–11; Aris 1994: 11). In 1907, Bhutan transitioned to rule by the monarchy of the Wangchuk Kings, which lasted until 2006, when, as part of his efforts to modernize and decentralize governance, the king voluntarily abdicated the throne (Gallenkamp 2012: 15–18; Rigyal and Prude 2017; Whitecross 2014: 350, 355). In 2008, Bhutan thus became a democratic, constitutional monarchy and held its third parliamentary elections. While Buddhism is not the official state religion,4 Buddhists comprise a large majority of the population (75 percent), and the constitution singles out Buddhism as Bhutan’s “spiritual heritage” (RGB 2008: Art. 3.1). Consequently, the importance of Buddhist values to Bhutan’s governance and culture would be difficult to overestimate.

Bhutan and Capitalism Bhutan was largely feudal until the mid-twentieth century when it began modernizing and transitioning to a market economy (Givel 2015: 110).5 In the subsequent decades it has made significant strides in development in terms of health, literacy, and the reduction of poverty, attributed in part to its free public education program and universal basic health care, which are both now constitutionally mandated (Bothe 2017: 59). At the same time, 148

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conventional economic growth has been consistently high, with annual Gross Domestic Product (GDP) growth of over 8 percent since 2005, making it one of the fastest growing economies in Asia (Schroeder and Schroeder 2014: 3523; GNH Commission and UNDP 2011; Brooks 2013: 3468). Still, economic self-reliance, a primary government objective, remains elusive, as 80 percent of Bhutan’s government budget is financed by foreign aid, particularly from India (Bothe 2017: 59; Colman 2021: 249; World Bank 2021). Indeed, Bhutan’s economic growth has been largely driven by the development and export of hydroelectricity to its powerful neighbor. The Bhutanese government has been a major economic agent as the main employer outside of farming and in providing important state-run services such as primary education and health care. The economy also includes mostly private banks, a growing number of civil society organizations, and some private for-profit enterprises (Bhutan Foundation n.d.; Colman 2021: 249; Politzer 2020; Hayden 2015: 174; Schmidt 2017: 10; World Bank 2015). According to the World Bank, the private sector is “underdeveloped” and comprises only 8 percent of national revenue (World Bank 2015) which Schmidt attributes to price interventions, government regulation, and lack of credit support for small- and medium-scale enterprises (Schmidt 2017: 10). The private sector is mostly dominated by small, retail trade, or food and accommodation businesses with one or two proprietors (National Statistics Bureau and World Bank 2018–19). It is important to note that GNH operates at the level of national public policy and that private businesses operate outside GNH policy per se. In what follows, we focus on the philosophical congruence and conflict between GNH and capitalism in the private sector. As indicated, since the transition from feudalism, poverty has been significantly reduced, but growing inequality is a key concern, especially, but not exclusively, between rural and urban populations.6 One way inequality has been addressed is through the Kidu system. Kidu, “welfare” (Dzongkha: skyid sdug), is a royal prerogative whereby the king gives gifts such as land, wealth, and education in order to address issues of social injustice and inequality. Though a traditional system, it is still extant and institutionalized in the constitution (RGB 2008: Art. 2, sec 16; Schwerk 2019: 27; Ugyel 2018: 9–12). Rapid urbanization is another key challenge for Bhutan, as is rising youth unemployment as youth migrate to cities, and gender equality, as women continue to lag behind men in terms of employment, political participation, and tertiary education (Schroeder and Schroeder 2014: 3525). These challenges are sometimes used as evidence that Bhutan is not the “happy place” its branding via GNH would suggest, but as we shall see, one of the aims of GNH philosophy and policy tools is to identify where Bhutanese are less than sufficient in the conditions for happiness so that action and resources can be directed to alleviate them. As former prime minister Jigmi Thinley points out, “Bhutan is not a country that has attained GNH. Like most developing nations, we are struggling with the challenge of fulfilling the basic needs of our people. What separates us, however, from most others is that we have made happiness, the foundation of human needs, as the goal of social change,” (Thinley 2012a). Moreover, many of Bhutan’s achievements in development have been realized within a mandate of environmental sustainability 149

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and in important ways reflect its GNH philosophy (Hayden 2015: 169; Schroeder and Schroeder 2014: 3535).

About Gross National Happiness The origin of the term “GNH” is frequently traced to the 1970s to an incident when the fourth King of Bhutan, Jigme Singye Wangchuk (r. 1972–2006), was said to have responded to a reporter’s somewhat sarcastic question about Bhutan’s Gross National Product. The king’s now famous response “Gross National Happiness is more important than Gross National Product” may be somewhat apocryphal7 but points to two important aspects of GNH: first, that this idea is closely associated with and considered a gift of the beloved fourth King of Bhutan, and second, that it was conceived in contrast to the predominant economic paradigm. In the ensuing decades, the meaning and philosophy of GNH and its policy implications have been elaborated, and beginning in the early 2000s, it was operationalized for government use. Although GNH per se was developed relatively recently and is indeed still evolving, it is important to note that it is seen to be part of a long-standing trajectory in Bhutan’s history whereby the state is understood to be responsible for fostering the happiness of the Bhutanese people.8 Since its first articulation, GNH has been developed in various ways and now includes at least four forms or dimensions: (1) a philosophy and approach to governance, (2) a survey and indicator system (the GNH Survey and Index), (3) a policy screening tool, and (4) an ethos with tools for personal well-being. Fundamentally, GNH offers an alternative economic paradigm and political philosophy that puts a balanced understanding of happiness as the goal of the economy instead of economic growth as measured by GDP. “Happiness” in this context refers to a multidimensional quality that incorporates environmental, social, and economic factors and is commonly and perhaps better conveyed by the term “well-being” for North American contexts. As Prime Minister Thinley, who was a strong advocate for GNH and who played a key role in the development of the GNH approach stated, We have now clearly distinguished the happiness in GNH from the fleeting, pleasurable, “feel good” mood so often associated with that term. We know that true abiding happiness cannot exist while others suffer, and comes only from serving others, living in harmony with nature, and realizing our innate wisdom and the true and brilliant nature of our own minds. (Thinley, 2009: 14) GNH is inscribed in the country’s constitution, which proclaims that the state will “promote the conditions that will enable the successful pursuit of Gross National Happiness,” (RGB 2008: Art. 9:2). As this indicates, the government’s responsibility is to provide the conditions that are known to foster happiness rather than provide happiness itself—a subtle yet important distinction that recognizes that the state cannot make individuals happy. Furthermore, though GNH has been said to have been a highly influential catalyst 150

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for the “happiness movement” in the West (Helliwell 2019),9 it is important to note, as Colman does (2021: 173), that whereas the happiness movement and related discipline of positive psychology largely focus on the individual, GNH’s “outer” dimension addresses the environmental and social conditions of collective well-being: hence the “Gross” in GNH. Early on in the development of GNH, four “pillars” were identified as basic components and core objectives of GNH. These are: (1) sustainable and equitable socioeconomic development, (2) environmental conservation, (3) the preservation and promotion of culture, and (4) good governance (Ura et al. 2012). The multidimensional nature of happiness is further reflected in the “Nine Domains” of GNH, which articulate key dimensions or factors identified as important for happiness. These are: psychological well-being, health, time use, education, cultural diversity and resilience, community vitality, good governance, ecological diversity and resilience, and living standards. The nine domains provide the basis for the multiple indicators and variables measured by the GNH Survey and Index (GNHI), a sophisticated metric for quantifying and monitoring happiness—or more specifically the conditions for happiness—in Bhutan.10 Significantly, the GNH Index uses a sufficiency model in this assessment. That is, for each of the domains, indicators, and variables measured, a threshold is set at which one would be deemed “sufficient” in that condition to achieve well-being. For example, those who work for more than eight hours per day are deemed “less than sufficient” in time or are “time deprived” (Ura et al. 2012: 24). In order to be deemed “narrowly happy,” one has to achieve sufficiency in 66 percent of the variables in at least six of the nine domains. That is, one does not have to achieve sufficiency in all domains or variables to be deemed “happy,” which recognizes that individuals will vary in values and priorities, and that happiness arises as a result of a complex array of interdependent conditions that can differ from one person to the next (Ura et al. 2015: 12, 21, 23–5). The GNH survey has been administered three times (2007, 2010, and 2015), and information gleaned from the GNH Index is used to guide development, allocate resources, and help form the objectives for the country’s five-year plans (Zangmo, Wangdi, and Phuntsho 2017: 2ff; Ura et al. 2015: 8ff, 22). It has revealed that between 2010 and 2015, Bhutanese have enjoyed improvements in areas like living standards and household income, health, literacy, and cultural participation, but that there have been reductions in psychological well-being, spiritual practice, trust in neighbors, and satisfaction with the government (Ura et al. 2015: 48ff). These kinds of findings, which can be broken down by district, gender, occupation, and rural versus urban, are suggestive of how GNH offers a much more complex and holistic means of assessing societal well-being than economic indicators alone (Colman 2021: 179). Complementing the Happiness Index is a policy and project screening tool, which is used to determine whether or not proposed government policies and actions are aligned with GNH goals (Ura et al. 2015: 9). This uses twenty-two variables based on the nine domains to rate proposed projects, actions, and policies, and is implemented by the GNH Commission (the national planning agency that includes the prime minister and heads of various ministries) and a variety of stakeholders (Ura and Penjore 2008; Hayden 2015: 168; Clayton 2021: 98). In addition, proposals are screened according to their impact on 151

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five key factors: gender, environment, climate change, disaster, and poverty (Wangyal 2018). In this way, ideally all major government plans, policies, and programs are filtered through a “GNH lens,” though there has been some suggestion that the process is not always followed due to its complexity (Colman 2021: 181). Probably the most celebrated example of GNH policy in practice was the 2008 decision by Bhutan to refrain from joining the World Trade Organization (WTO). Initially favoring membership, the use of the GNH policy screening tool process led members of the GNH Commission to see that joining would indeed likely have a positive impact on areas including “productivity,” “economic security,” and “material well-being.” However, there were more areas where there would likely be a negative impact, including “time with family,” “stress level,” “health and diversity of wildlife,” and “the importance of compassion, generosity, and gratitude” (Ura and Penjore 2008). Therefore, Bhutan declined the invitation to join, although membership is an ongoing discussion (Hayden 2015: 168; Colman 2021: 181; Ha Vinh forthcoming). Another example is the mining policy, which as a result of GNH policy screening was revised to limit ecological damage and to ensure local job creation and domestic “value added” to products. Bhutan’s “high value, low impact” tourism policy also exemplifies GNH by serving to gain foreign income through high tariffs for international tourists, based on promoting and protecting Bhutanese culture and its pristine environment.11 Additionally, results from the GNH survey led to the introduction of meditation in schools to improve mental health, as well as flextime and enhanced parental and bereavement leave for civil servants (New Development Paradigm Steering Committee and Secretariat (NDP) 2013: 25; Clayton 2021: 100). Overall, these examples suggest that the GNH approach and policy tools have had important impacts in Bhutan, even if the number of examples is relatively few. Finally, but importantly, GNH also has an “inner” component which is related to the values that underlie GNH, including compassion and generosity, care for nature, and respect for culture (Ura et al. 2015: 7; Colman 2021: 189). This is also sometimes referred to as “happiness skills,” which include mindfulness meditation and compassion practices to entrain people to develop techniques and qualities to increase their own well-being and that of the human and nonhuman beings around them. GNH as a personal ethos is not government policy but is particularly promoted by the GNH Centre Bhutan, an NGO formed to promote GNH and educate citizens, both Bhutanese and international, about GNH ideas and values (GNH Centre Bhutan). The importance of the inner dimension of GNH was also the basis for the drive toward bringing GNH into the education system in Bhutan (Colman 2021: 189) and was reiterated in the government’s 2013 report to the UN when it was asked to develop recommendations for a new economic paradigm based on GNH (NDP 2013: vii, viii, 33–5).

Buddhism and GNH GNH reflects its provenance in a predominantly Buddhist culture in a number of ways. In general terms, like other models of Buddhist economics, GNH has been described as 152

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a “Middle Way” approach that advocates a balance between the hedonistic pursuit of the satisfaction of endless desires, on the one hand, and an ascetic denial of material needs and wants, on the other.12 As we have seen, GNH emerged from a “sharp critique of our current materialist obsession and growth-based economic system” (Thinley 2012c) and reflects a more “holistic” view of development wherein the various dimensions that contribute to human flourishing are understood to be important (Ura et al. 2015: 8). This includes “spirituality,” which is incorporated as part of the domain of psychological well-being in the GNH Index, and which is also reflected in the GNH screening tool. Thus, according to the former prime minister Thinley, it “judiciously balances sustainable and equitable economic development with environmental conservation, good governance, and the dynamism and wisdom of our profound and ancient culture” (Thinley 2010). Michael Givel (2015: 110, 115) has argued that GNH represents Bhutan’s effort to mitigate conflict between the demands of modernization and capitalism, and the religious values of the Mahāyāna tradition. In this way we can see how GNH reflects an economic “Middle Path.” GNH also reflects its Buddhist cultural milieu through its understanding of “happiness” and its causes. As indicated earlier, happiness in GNH refers to something much more profound and lasting than what is often meant by the use of the term in English. The word for happiness in Dzongkha is bde-skyid, which is also translated as “well-being” and “peace,” and has clear spiritual connotations in Bhutan (Clayton 2021: 103). Ronald Colman, who spent many years in Bhutan assisting in the development of GNH, suggests it is difficult to translate what is really meant by the term “happiness.” He suggests that even “well-being” is problematic as a translation because well-being refers more commonly to the outer conditions of life, whereas happiness in GNH refers to the “resultant profound state of mind” that King Jigme Singye Wangchuck and Prime Minister Thinley meant (Colman 2021: 162). As Thinley explained: This happiness has nothing to do with the common use of that word to denote an ephemeral, passing mood—happy today or unhappy tomorrow due to some temporary external conditions like praise or blame, gain or loss. Rather, it refers to the deep, abiding happiness that comes from living life in full harmony with the natural world, with our communities and fellow beings, and with our culture and spiritual heritage—in short from feeling totally connected with our world. (Thinley 2012c: n.p.) In this way we can see that the meaning of “happiness” in GNH is something profound and enduring that is more akin to Greek idea of flourishing (eudaimonia) than what is often meant by happiness. Moreover, as Clayton has argued, phrases like “true happiness” and “abiding happiness” in the discourse on GNH (as mentioned earlier) point to the Buddhist ideal of awakening or enlightenment. That is, when the former prime minister Thinley speaks of the new economy being based on “a genuine vision of life’s ultimate meaning and purpose” and that it should foster “true human potential, fulfillment, and satisfaction,” he was very likely, as a Mahāyāna Buddhist, alluding to the human potential for Buddhahood (Clayton 2021: 103f). 153

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Note this does not mean that “ordinary” happiness vis-à-vis the satisfaction of material needs is not valued or important in GNH, or that happiness is understood exclusively in terms of gaining enlightenment (Dreschler 2019: 530). Rather, it is to suggest that the core idea of GNH is based on the idea that there is an alignment between happiness—that is, well-being—and the ultimate potential for enlightenment, and that these should form the goal of the economy and development. As Prime Minister Thinley (1998) put it, “enlightenment is [the] blossoming of happiness. It is made more probable by consciously creating a harmonious psychological, social, and economic environment” (as cited in Givel 2015: 109). In capitalism, happiness is tied to material consumption (Cederström 2018). In contrast, one of the key ideas behind GNH is the central Buddhist insight that material wealth and the satisfaction of material desires do not bring lasting happiness. So, while the Planning Commission Secretariat (2000) acknowledges the importance of material needs and wealth in GNH, it “rejects the notion that there is a direct and unambiguous relationship between wealth and happiness” (as cited in Givel 2015: 109). As such, GNH presents a challenge to the predominant economic paradigm, as reflected in the fourth king’s famous quote that “Gross National Happiness is more important than Gross National Product,”13 which grew out of his insight that “the process of conventional development often overlooked a universal desire people had—happiness and peace in their life” (Ura et al. 2015: 4). Thus, the happiness in GNH is clearly different from, or at least not merely equated with, the consumption of goods and services—as is implicit in standard economic theory and GDP measures. Furthermore, rather than the assumption of an infinite level of wealth and material accumulation as the target, as we have seen, the GNH Index is based on the idea that there is a level of each of the domains and indicators that is “sufficient” for happiness. As Bhutan’s National Human Development Report to the UN stated: The articulation of happiness as the goal of development has strong roots in Bhutan’s Buddhist traditions. Rather than talk of happiness per se, Buddhism talks about avoiding dissatisfaction through adequate provisioning of four necessities— food, shelter, clothing and medicine. Significantly, however, it holds that meeting this hierarchy of wants is only the first step in avoiding human suffering which ultimately depends upon cultivating a sense of detachment and spiritual fulfillment. (RGB 2000; n.p.) The view of happiness in GNH clearly finds its roots in the Buddhist understanding that ultimately satisfying desires is not the source of true satisfaction. Furthermore, there are many ways that the GNH perspective on happiness draws from the Mahāyāna Buddhist tradition’s emphasis on compassion and altruism. The authors of the GNH Index, for example, emphasize that GNH is distinct not only because it is a multidimensional view of happiness but also because it “internalizes responsibility and other-regarding motivations explicitly” (Ura et al. 2012: 7). Prime Minister Thinley’s idea that “true abiding happiness cannot exist while others suffer, and comes only from serving others” (Thinley 2010: 14), echoes the eighth-century Mahāyāna master Śāntideva’s claim that 154

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“All the suffering in the world comes from seeking pleasure for oneself. All the happiness in world comes from seeking the happiness of others” (Śāntideva 1998: 8.129). This characteristically Mahāyāna view that genuine happiness comes from working for the well-being of others is central to the thinking behind GNH.14 In this way, we can see that underlying the philosophy of GNH is what we might call a Buddhist anthropology, which sees all humans as having an inherent capacity for “realizing our innate wisdom” (Thinley 2010: 14) and the potential to attain awakening (bodhi). Prime Minister Thinley (2009) described GNH values as fundamentally related to “some quality of sacredness, reverence, honor, and respect that reflect the dignity of what it is to be a human being in the most universal sense” (as cited in Colman 2021: 189). This reference to an “essential and sacred quality of being human” and “fundamental source of human dignity” clearly echoes the idea of buddha-nature, which is the idea that all sentient beings, and particularly those born in the human realm, have the potential and capacity to become enlightened. The view of nature and the importance of environmental sustainability upheld in GNH also have Buddhist dimensions. However, in considering this it is first important to note that a number of scholars have rightly challenged the predominant image of Buddhism as “eco-friendly” (Elverskog 2020; Harris 1994: 45–56; Schmithausen 2005). They argue that the classical and historically predominant view of nature from a Buddhist perspective is not one of reverence or respect but the idea that wild nature was a dangerous place to be avoided. Moreover, Elverskog has made the case that the exploitation of natural resources was an important part of how Buddhism spread throughout Asia, justified by a “prosperity theology” whereby the accumulation of wealth and resources is used as indicators of positive karma (Elverskog 2020: 3, 17–19). Nonetheless, this is not the view reflected in GNH, which is firmly rooted in the value of nature and environmental preservation. As Colman has suggested, GNH stems from a deep concern for nature and what humans are doing to it (Colman 2021: 188). While a full treatment of this topic requires further investigation, this dimension of GNH reflects Buddhist values and ideas in a number of ways. For example, in Prime Minister Thinley’s opening statement to the High-Level Meeting on “Defining a new Economic Paradigm” at the United Nations, which the government of Bhutan had convened on April 2, 2012, he declared that “we desperately need an economy that serves and nurtures the well-being of all sentient beings on earth and human happiness that comes from life in harmony with the natural world, with our communities and with our inner selves” (Thinley 2012a). What is notable in this speech, which must count as one of the most important introductions of GNH philosophy to the world, was Thinley’s use of the phrase “all sentient beings.”15 This is a familiar expression in Buddhist contexts and marks the Buddhist ethical realm as bounded not by what is human but by what is sentient and able to feel pain. This suggests that the efforts toward sustainability and environmental preservations in GNH are rooted in the Bhutanese Buddhist moral perspective, which sees not only humans but animals and other living beings, such as deities, ghosts, and spirits, which are also believed to inhabit our world, as worthy of moral concern. Respect for local 155

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guardian deities, for example, led Bhutan to ban mountaineering and still impacts where roads are built and how lakes and other water bodies are used. As Colman suggests, “Such magical ancient beliefs have served to protect lakes, mountains and other sacred natural bodies—with the creatures that inhabit them—from violation in a way that our modern secular, scientific approach has been unable to do” (Colman 2021: 164).16 Another important idea underlying the value of environmental sustainability in Bhutan is the idea of interconnectedness with nature. While the exact provenance of this value in GNH is not entirely clear, and this may reflect a particularly modern reading of this idea, nonetheless the recognition of human interdependence with all life forms and the value and importance of our connectedness with nature is an important aspect of GNH (Clayton 2021: 106). In practice, the concern for nature in GNH is reflected in some of Bhutan’s very significant policies and goals in the environmental sphere. These include a commitment to being a carbon-neutral nation in perpetuity, made at the Copenhagen Climate Conference in 2009; a constitutionally mandated commitment to maintain at least 60 percent of its land in forest cover in perpetuity; a ban on the sale of raw timber (RGB 2008: Art.5.3);17 having a remarkable 51 percent of the country in protected areas such as national parks and wildlife corridors, and having a commitment to being 100 percent organic in its food production. While there are problems and challenges with upholding these policies and achieving these goals—and in particular it seems the commitment to becoming fully organic has stalled (Colman 2021: 211–17)—Bhutan has been internationally recognized for its environmental achievements and for centering the environment in its development process. Under Prime Minister Thinley, Bhutan also attempted to incorporate full-cost accounting into its national accounting system, which would have made Bhutan the first country in the world to do so. This effort to estimate the monetary value of natural assets and ecosystem services, and the costs involved in their depreciation, is indicative of its recognition of the deep value of nature (National Environment Commission; Thinley 2012e: 2f). In sum, there are significant ways in which GNH reflects its Buddhist cultural background: in its ideal of upholding a “middle way” between the goals of ascetic poverty and excessive consumerism, and also between holding to fixed cultural traditions and complete modernization and unfettered capitalism. The idea that the goal of development and the economy should be to cultivate a “true abiding” happiness that reflects humanity’s potential for wisdom and compassion is suggestive of a Mahāyāna Buddhist anthropology, as is the view of our interconnectedness with nature and the moral value of nonhuman beings.

GNH as a Challenge to Capitalism There are three principal ways that GNH is in tension with capitalism. Fundamentally, it offers an alternative overriding goal of the economy. Second, it encourages government 156

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intervention, and finally, it supports the perspective that nature has inherent value beyond its use to humans. Changing the Goal of the Economy At each level of capitalism (personal, business, and national), monetary growth is the end goal and the principal marker of “success.” For an individual, progress is increasing one’s income and accumulating financial capital over one’s lifetime. For a business, success is growth in profit. And for a nation, progress is growth in GDP. Instead of growth of money, GNH puts happiness from the Buddhist perspective as the goal of development at each of these levels. As Dr. Ha Vinh Tho, the former program director of the GNH Center in Bhutan, suggests: Economy is not an end, economy is a means, the end is satisfying human needs; that is what the economy is for. The goal of the economy should be around what brings humans happiness and wellbeing. But even that is not enough, because we live in a time when the impact of the economy on nature and the environment has been so destructive that if you only focus on human needs that will also be insufficient. Economy should be serving the needs not only of humans but of the entire living system . . . the planet herself. (Ha Vinh, 2016: n.p.) Thus, there is a fundamental tension between capitalism and GNH regarding the overriding aim of the economy. Even though J.  D. Schmidt claims GNH is anti-growth and anti-development, (Schmidt 2017: 4), we would argue that GNH is in fact more aligned with a post-growth objective. As we have seen, “sustainable and equitable socio-economic development” is one of the four pillars of GNH. GNH thus sees economic development as a key condition for happiness, just not the only one. An initiative that is anti-growth or anti-development would encourage degrowth, advocating for an economy to shrink or contract instead of grow. In the words of Samuel Alexander (2014), the degrowth movement calls for a “phase of planned and equitable economic contraction . . . eventually reaching a steady state that operates within Earth’s biophysical limits.” Instead of anti-growth, GNH can be considered as part of the post-growth movement focusing primarily on alternative metrics to GDP. Progress in post-growth models may imply some growth is needed but may also imply, in some cases, that contraction is needed. To a post-growth model, growth is a means to an end instead of an end in itself. In this way, post-growth initiatives are, as Kate Raworth (2017) writes, “growth-agnostic.” This post-growth or growth-agnostic perspective is apparent in Bhutan’s proposal for a new economic paradigm: In recent human history, development has been defined largely in terms of industrialisation, increased production, income, consumption, and accumulation of wealth. Instead we must manifest development through nurturing the broader 157

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conditions for happiness and wellbeing of all life on earth—the ultimate state of being and true measure of human progress. Adequate economic security is one of those conditions but by no means the only one. (NDP 2013: 8) As with other post-growth initiatives, GNH recognizes “the existence of planetary boundaries and the gravity of current ecological realities” and argues that we must “recalibrate our activities to ensure sustainability” (NDP 2013: 7). In this way, the postgrowth perspective differs from what is called “green growth,” where even though the intention is that there is a decoupling of economic growth and ecological impact, growth in itself is still viewed as desirable (Hayden 2015: 163). This post-growth view also shows up in the “sufficiency levels” of GNH’s nine domains. As described earlier, GNH does not aspire for endless growth in each of the domains; instead, Bhutan appreciates that there is a “sufficiency” level in each domain and works to meet this level for each of its citizens. Considering that a growth mindset is a key element of capitalism, the fact that GNH challenges and replaces this imperative with the goal of sufficient well-being and sees economic development to be in service of this goal, GNH can be understood to be not only post-growth but also postcapitalist.

Encouraging Government Intervention While capitalism and free trade are not totally synonymous, some forms of capitalism value having goods and services for exchange in largely unregulated markets. As the historian Yuval Harari notes, “[t]his free market doctrine is today the most common and influential variant of the capitalist creed” (Harari 2014: 328; Hayes 2021). The Buddhist philosophy behind GNH instead reflects the view that “the insatiable desire for everincreasing wealth and status, has resulted in the self-destructive attempt to use earth’s finite resources to satisfy infinite wants” (NDP 2013: 7). According to GNH, people must “recognise the difference between needs and wants, and value needs over wants” (NDP 2013: 8). Capitalism makes no such moral command. Harari points out that in eighteenth-century Europe, capitalist philosophy attributed Adam Smith was morally revolutionary because the traditional contradiction between wealth and morality—that greed was bad—was overthrown (Harari 2014: 310–15). Instead, according to Harari, Adam Smith argued that, through reinvestment in expanded business and increased employment, the profits of private entrepreneurs were the basis of collective wealth and prosperity. In this way, “greed is good,” for “by becoming richer I benefit everybody, not just myself ” (Harari 2014: 311).18 From a capitalist moral perspective, then, there is no need to distinguish needs from wants, for the wants are the basis of what is good for all. In GNH, by contrast, the basic approach is to understand and strive for the sufficient conditions for material well-being, which requires distinguishing needs from wants. In addition to its philosophical underpinning, GNH encourages government intervention in the economy through two mechanisms, the GNH Assessment Tool for Businesses and the GNH policy screening tool. 158

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The GNH Assessment Tool for Businesses was initiated by Tshering Tobgay, the second elected Prime Minister of Bhutan (2013–18). It is a form of government intervention to evaluate a business’ commitment to social responsibility. The GNH assessment tool intends to intervene in the market by evaluating businesses, guide them toward greater social and environmental responsibility, and provide a certification for GNH Businesses to promote businesses who comply with GNH in Business guidelines. The aims of “GNH Certification” and the assessment tool are described as follows: The GNH assessment tool for business seeks to go beyond the compliance to Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) or CSR initiatives to monitor and evaluate business operations using GNH indicators. It will increase transparency and accountability in business by disclosing social, environmental and other impacts, and help in monitoring and holding businesses accountable should they breach certain standards. The tool will meet stakeholder’s growing expectation to generate positive impact for the society and eventually ensure business sustainability. Lastly, the assessment will promote business image and foster customer loyalty. (Wangdi, Zangmo, and Phuntsho 2018: 8) The second way that GNH encourages government intervention in the market is through the policy screening tool. As we have seen, one striking example is that Bhutan decided not to join the World Trade Organization (WTO) as a result of the use of the GNH policy screening process. While initially favoring membership in the WTO, government officials reversed their decision after GNH screening due to perceived negative impacts in several areas. In other examples, efforts to limit environmental harms have slowed road construction; biodiversity concerns as well as restrictions on foreign investment have constrained industrial and commercial developments, limited exports of timber, and health and religious concerns have until recently led to a ban on tobacco (Hayden 2015: 171ff; Givel 2011: 306–10).19 It is clear, then, that GNH-related concerns have slowed economic development in Bhutan. In some forms of capitalism, these are not traditional factors in decision making and would even be considered irrational. The GNH Assessment Tool for Businesses and the GNH policy screening tool are two ways the Bhutanese government attempts to intervene in the market to guide the economy to be more socially and ecologically ethical. This support of government intervention is in tension with forms of capitalism that eschew government intervention and instead rely on what is problematically attributed to Adam Smith ([1776] 2013: 243) as “the invisiblehand of the market” to determine the prices and availability of goods and services.20 Intrinsic Value of Nature In capitalism, “nature” is viewed in terms of resources for human use. These “natural resources” are commodified, monetized, and are seen as inputs for the growth of profit. In GNH, nature is understood as having inherent value beyond its usefulness to humans. As we have argued, GNH reflects a view wherein the moral value of all sentient beings— including animals—is recognized, and that the concern for environmental preservation 159

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GNH is grounded in this as well as the connectedness between humans and nature. Furthermore, animist beliefs inform GNH. A question in the GNH survey reads, “Do you agree with the statement: ‘Nature is the Domain of Spirits and Deities’?” (Centre for Bhutan Studies and GHN Research 2014: 22). A positive answer to this question implies the person has a spiritual view of the natural world as opposed to a materialistic one and connotes “happiness” in the “environment” domain of GNH. This question reflects the animist beliefs that are prevalent in Bhutan, which hold that the Bhutanese landscape is the abode of various local deities and spirits, and that nature is valued, among other reasons, because it is where spirits and local deities dwell. Thus, nature in Bhutan is seen to have intrinsic value beyond human use or interest. As the Bhutanese government states in its outline for a NDP, “we must value life—the life of all humanity and all living beings—over acquisitiveness and profit” (NDP 2013: 8). This view of nature embedded in the GNH framework is anti-capitalist because instead of viewing nature as a resource for human use, nature is seen as the domain of animals, as well as spirits and deities, and thus has inherent value beyond its monetary value. GNH Accommodating Capitalism There are, however, three ways that GNH accommodates capitalism in Bhutan: the first is associated with a “weak” growth-oriented vision of GNH, the second involves the application of GNH in business, where capitalist ownership structures are maintained, and the third is the related fact that GNH does not effectively address widening inequality that is exacerbated by capitalism and could propagate it. Competing Visions of GNH Under capitalism, there is the tendency to co-opt any initiatives that work to dismantle it (Ul-Haq, Lone, and Ashraf 2020). GNH is not immune to this tendency. As Phuntsho (2013) suggests, “[there] is perception among some quarters that GNH is merely an intellectual occupation for the elites, who enjoy all the benefits in life, and that it is a catchy branding for promoting Bhutan to the outside world while the ordinary and poor citizens struggle for their daily needs” (Phuntsho 2013: 598). Hayden also warns that GNH may be weakened or modified to adapt to more mainstream development economics (Hayden 2015: 176, 178). One of the reasons GNH is at risk of being diluted is because there are “competing visions of what GNH should do” (Hayden 2015: 173). Hayden suggests that there is a “weak” and “strong” version of GNH. The strong version, exemplified by the original vision of the king and of Prime Minister Jigmi Thinley, was based on a radical critique of unlimited growth and materialism as the basis of development. The second, “weak” version can be summarized by what one commentator called “Growth National Happiness” (Krantz 2013), which omits the ideal of sufficiency with regard to economic 160

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growth and instead focuses on green growth (economic growth decoupled from negative environmental impacts through increased efficiencies and new technologies). In this version, the concern for environmental sustainability is subsumed within the goals of business and consumer demands (Hayden 2015: 178). While a certain amount of economic growth in green or sustainable and low-impact sectors might indeed be in line with GNH, the weak version of GNH sees GDP-led growth as a core or primary aspect of GNH and does not see a need to shift away from economic growth once key goals are achieved, such as poverty reduction and economic self-reliance (Hayden 2015: 173, 174). This weak version of GNH can be seen in the apparent shift in the conception of GNH that has occurred under the fifth king, who is reported to have said that “each generation has to interpret GNH in its own way” and that “a vibrant economy .  .  . is the very foundation on which national happiness can be built” (cited in Denyer 2008). However, we may be seeing a swing back toward a “strong” or earlier form of GNH with the most recent election in 2018. One of the first actions of the new Prime Minister Lotay Tshering, himself a medical doctor, was to raise the salaries of educators and doctors, nurses, and other the medical professions, making them the highest-paid civil servants in the country. The aim is to retain and attract people to these social sectors, which are recognized for their contribution to GNH. In discussing the move, Health Minister Lyonpo Dechen Wangmo stated that “good teachers will lead to good students and these students in the future will be soldiering the responsibility of national building which will bring a positive impact for a GNH country” (Lamsang 2019). Despite these signs of a resurgence of the strong version of GNH, with “socioeconomic development” as one the four pillars, and considering GNH’s political context as a democratic constitutional monarchy, the possibility is left open for a growth-oriented “weak version” of GNH that is accommodating to capitalism. This is particularly a danger if the private sector continues to be upheld as the prime “engine of growth” for Bhutan, as Hayden found evident in the last several Five-Year plans (Hayden 2015: 174). The fact that the most recent Five-Year Plan (2018–23) echoes this goal and sets GDP growth as a target seems problematic in this regard, though the plan also strongly reiterates Bhutan’s commitment to GNH values and goals (GNH Commission 2019: xii, 31, 36, 37). In these ways, we see that GNH is vulnerable to the co-optation of capitalism, and with weak interpretation, it fails to serve as a bridge toward a postcapitalist future. As Hayden writes, “taken to an extreme, this weaker formulation risks reducing GNH to a slogan to sell ‘Brand Bhutan’ to the world” (Hayden 2015: 178). Capitalist Business Structures and GNH According to Wolff, the central tenet of capitalism is private ownership over the means of production (Wolff 2020). Although the economy of Bhutan is not dominated by private capitalist businesses, there is a small private sector, and, according to the “Proposed GNH of Business” document by the Center for Bhutan Studies & GNH, “like anywhere in the world, Bhutanese business sector has been functioning on values and norms set by the market” (Zangmo, Wangdi, and Phuntsho 2017: 4). 161

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As we have suggested, the main objective of the GNH in Business initiative is postcapitalist in the way it challenges the profit motive and encourages businesses to align their goals along with GNH values. However, it is unclear whether the initiative would necessarily transform the structure of a business from private ownership over the means of production to something postcapitalist, such as a worker cooperative and a hybrid business model. The Proposed GNH of Business document states: A GNH business model might provide an avenue for a business to donate money without having any impact on their operations or policies. Hence, while proposing such a model, caution will have to be exercised to avoid such outcomes. GNH integrated business must instead undergo transformation in the way it functions, generates and values societal wellbeing by addressing issues across a range of domains including social, environment, culture, and economy. (Zangmo, Wangdi, and Phuntsho 2017: 5) In suggesting that a GNH-integrated business must “undergo transformation in the way it functions,” this statement leaves an opening for structural change but does not guarantee it or give specific suggestions for making this transformation. The primary mention of cooperative ownership that we could identify was not in the Proposed GNH in Business document, but instead in the “Happiness: Towards a New Development Paradigm: Report of the Kingdom of Bhutan” report, which proposed that Socio-economic development must . . . be based on equity between groups, genders and generations, and in the distribution of power [and that] greater equity can be promoted through systems such as cooperative ownership, social safety nets, poverty alleviation, fair trade rules, technology transfer, full employment policies, work sharing, and mechanisms to limit excess consumption, unearned income, and private capture of the commonwealth. (NDP 2013: 23) Although this mention of “cooperative ownership” is hopeful, the documents and programs of GNH in Business generally accommodate capitalism by not more explicitly advocating for the transition from private ownership to more democratic and equitable forms of ownership and governance, such as profit sharing, worker cooperatives, and employee involvement on Boards of Directors and limitations on pay-differentials. Widening Inequality and GNH Just as GNH neglects to effectively challenge private ownership over the means of production, it also ineffectively addresses widening inequality in Bhutan, which can be seen as accommodating to capitalism and could further capitalism’s expansion. According to a report on the government’s eleventh Five-Year Plan, despite the progress Bhutan has achieved in reducing poverty, income inequality has widened since 2007 (Dorji 2018). This is reiterated by Tobden, who argues that “with the growing 162

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prosperity, the country is facing economic threat[s] such as the income disparities between the poor and non-poor” (2019: 381ff). Tobden also notes that “Inequality in Bhutan is becoming an emerging issue, but little research has been done on this topic thus far” (2019: 382). While it is difficult to ascertain why exactly inequality is widening in Bhutan, we do know that in general inequality could be both a consequence of capitalism and a condition for capitalism’s expansion. Unregulated capitalism causes inequality through the connection between the profit motive and the division between workers and employers. For shareholders and owners to make profit, they must sell goods and services for more than the value of the labor of their workers. This value is called surplus value (Wolff 2020). Without regulation, as capitalists (business owners employing people and homeowners renting living spaces) make more than those they employ and to whom they rent, inequality increases. Economist Thomas Piketty demonstrates this in the equation “r>g,” with “r” standing for returns on capital and “g” meaning general growth of the economy (Piketty 2014: 204). With r>g, we understand that the wealth of the capitalist class is growing at a faster rate than the growth of the wealth of the economy as a whole, implying inequality is widening and will continue to widen if it goes unchecked. In economies dominated by unfettered capitalism, the relationship between inequality and the expansion of capitalism is a positive feedback loop. More inequality leads to a greater expansion of capitalism because the more capital the capitalist class accumulates, the more they are able to invest their wealth into capitalist endeavors, and this in turn will lead to greater inequality (Hayes 2021). It is also clear that inequality is detrimental to well-being. Pickett and Wilkinson’s (2009) research shows that inequality makes everyone in a society worse off (see also Deitz and O’Neil 2013: Ch. 7). Looking at several indicators including level of trust, mental and physical health, and violence, Pickett and Wilkinson show that inequality erodes individual and collective health and well-being while greater equality bolsters them. GNH is concerned about inequality. One of the pillars of GNH is, after all, “equitable” socioeconomic development. This aim is reiterated frequently, including in the government’s recommendations to the UN for a New Development Paradigm (NDP) and in the most recent Five-Year Plan (GNH Commission 2019: Section 3.2., Section 3.6). The NDP states, “inequitable development that benefits only a few and excludes the vast majority cannot bring societal happiness” (NDP 2013: 23). One of the main reasons that Bhutan rejected the invitation to join the WTO was the potential impact on inequality identified through the use of the policy screening tool. Additionally, according to the GNH Business Certification program, reducing the “pay gap” is one of the indicators for businesses seeking to adopt GNH philosophy (Zangmo, Wangdi, and Phuntsho 2017: 35; Ha Vihn forthcoming). Furthermore, data from the GNH Index allows for the assessment of income distribution, poverty, and other economic outcomes and, in contrast to current GDP-based measures, focuses “on outcomes rather than inputs like economic growth that frequently widen the gap between rich and poor, exacerbate social inequities, and may improve living standards for some segments of the population at the expense of others” (NDP 2013: 29). It is clear then that inequality is antithetical both to the principles and policies of GNH. 163

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Although GNH has a strong sense of concern and commitment to widening inequality, its strategy is weak because while it focuses on raising the floor (living standards of the poorest), it neglects to curb the rising ceiling of income and wealth, thus failing to adequately address increasing inequality. Demonstration of this failure can be found in the GNH in Business Certification efforts, as well as Bhutan’s Twelfth Five-Year Plan. Oliver Malay and Isabelle Cassiers (2018: 142) point out that other than the one pay gap indicator, the GNH in Business Certification program is thin on proposing equitable changes within businesses. The third “National Key Result Area” of the Twelfth Five-Year Plan for Bhutan is “reducing poverty and inequality.” The goal of this area is “to improve living conditions of the general population and narrow the gap between the rich and the poor” (GNH Commission 2019: 44). Strategies identified in the plan to achieve this goal are to (1) “target the poor” by raising their wages and improving their standards of living, (2) continue to invest in social services like health care and education, and (3) implement a pro-poor lens to policy making (GNH Commission 2019: 46). All of these initiatives are again laudable in making an important difference to those at the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder, enabling them to live a more materially comfortable life. However, they do not curtail or redistribute the wealth accumulating at the top of the ladder which if unaddressed will continue to rise. This weak stance on addressing widening inequality is an example of how GNH is compatible with and accommodating of capitalism.

Strengthening GNH as a Bridge to a Postcapitalist Future Despite the areas where GNH can be seen to be obliging to capitalism, in the significant ways outlined earlier, GNH can provide a viable alternative to capitalism. As we recognize the instability and harm to people and the planet caused by the growth-driven capitalist economic model, it is useful to point out where GNH can further improve its stance and provide an alternative model for economies around the world. Areas of improvement for GNH to be a more effective postcapitalist initiative include more consistent use of the GNH Policy Screening tool, the practical transition of capitalist businesses to postcapitalist business models, and a stronger commitment to addressing widening inequality. When the policy screening tool has been used, as in the decision to join the WTO or to develop a mining policy, the results have been congruent with a post-growth perspective. Perhaps this requires more research, but we found it difficult to find many more examples of the policy screening tool in practice. This experience is consistent with Colman, who found that “Bhutanese policy makers say that its indicators are difficult to apply, and that the tool is too complex and lacks clarity and transparency” (Colman 2021: 181). A more holistic approach is likely to be more complex, yet if the tool is not being used, it will not guide the economy to a post-growth future. Our recommendation is to investigate barriers to the usage of the policy screening tool in order to refine the tool, make it more transparent, and facilitate its consistent usage. 164

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Although as we have seen the move to “cooperative ownership” is encouraged in the Happiness: Towards a New Development Paradigm Report, we suggest the transition of private businesses to noncapitalist forms of ownership and business models be accepted more broadly and encouraged more actively in the GNH in Business program. The worker cooperative is one model that includes greater democracy in the workplace, as well as more transparency and equity, as decisions are made more collectively and power is more generally shared (Pérotin 2015). This model would be an appropriate alternative for capitalist enterprises with two or more employees. Another model is the hybrid business model in which a for-profit activity or enterprise generates profit that is harnessed and redirected from owners and shareholders to an ecologically or socially mission-driven organization or activity (Hinton and Maclurcan forthcoming). This hybrid model incorporates the post-growth perspective (growth as a means to an end and not an end in itself) into its business structure and seems highly appropriate to the GNH context. While we recognize that most businesses in Bhutan are actually only owned and operated by sole proprietors and likely not exceeding the sufficiency threshold for income (Dorji 2019), this alternative works best when the for-profit endeavor is making more than enough to provide employees with living wages and ethical and sustainable supply chains. Then under this model the “excess” or profit generated is directed toward the mission-driven cause of the nonprofit. As we noted earlier, Bhutan’s proposal for a NDP suggests that “greater equity can be promoted through systems such as cooperative ownership, social safety nets, poverty alleviation, fair trade rules, technology transfer, full employment policies, work sharing, and mechanisms to limit excess consumption, unearned income, and private capture of common wealth” (NDP 2013: 23). Clearly, Bhutan has itself been working on a number of these strategies—particularly strengthening the social safety net and alleviating poverty through the Kidu system. As well, the GNH Index has been designed to help identify social inequalities.21 We recommend a stronger commitment to the use of these tools especially in order not only to raise the floor but to redistribute wealth and lower the ceiling. One way to strengthen the practice of the Kidu system in particular would be to expand the program and include it in government policy rather than leave it to the royal prerogative. Another recommendation for the GNH Index would be to create another category within the sufficiency levels of the “Living Standards” indicator that would signal “excess” in a sub-indicator, such as number of assets owned or income earned. This category would identify ceilings in the Living Standard domain and ideally trigger mechanisms to redistribute wealth to ensure equity. According to Hayden’s (2015) research, some Bhutanese government officials were conflicted about how to reconcile the sufficiency paradigm with the pressures to pursue endless GDP growth. Moreover, he found no specific plans in relevant government documents or political party platforms for a move away from economic growth once the goal of sufficiency in economic outputs has been achieved (Hayden 2015: 173ff). Our recommendation to create thresholds to mark excess in addition to sufficiency thresholds provides brakes on the potential for “growth national happiness” and widening inequality once sufficiency levels in sub-indicators contributing to inequality are reached. 165

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Although there is little data available demonstrating the effectiveness of GNH in practice, in aspiration, GNH is postcapitalist. These suggestions would help strengthen the postcapitalist potential and results of the GNH movement.

Conclusion While Bhutan has come under deep criticism and scrutiny for failing in various ways to exemplify the “happy place” it is often mistakenly accused of claiming it is, it nonetheless stands out as Hayden writes, “a rare example of a state with an end goal . . . that emerged out of a critical perspective on GDP growth” (2015: 162). Furthermore, it should be remembered that Bhutan is a small nation trying to maintain its sovereignty and cultural integrity amid enormous pressure to develop by conventional means and measures. GNH is also a relatively new endeavor, with only three rounds of GNH surveys conducted so far, so at this point its power is more in its intention rather than its outcomes. In this chapter, we have demonstrated how GNH challenges capitalism by changing the goal of an economy, encouraging governmental interventions, and positing the view that nature has inherent value beyond its usefulness to humans. We also explored how weak versions of GNH accommodate capitalism by failing to challenge the growthparadigm, maintaining capitalist ownership structures, and lacking robust means for implementing wealth redistribution. Finally, through a more consistent use of the GNH policy screening tool, efforts to transition businesses to cooperative ownership and governance structures, and mechanisms that curtail and redistribute wealth, we have offered recommendations for how GNH might further serve as an example and bridge to a post-growth future and a viable alternative to capitalism. Despite the shortcomings outlined here, the economic paradigm of GNH is an important and much-needed viable alternative to capitalism for Bhutan and beyond.

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PART III THEORETICAL REFLECTIONS

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CHAPTER 9 DRAWING BLOOD: AT THE INTERSECTION OF KNOWLEDGE ECONOMIES AND BUDDHIST ECONOMIES

Scott A. Mitchell

Evan Thompson’s recently published Why I Am Not a Buddhist seems like the answer to a question, a question many of us are asked, probably at the holiday party of our nonacademic significant other: “Oh, you study Buddhism? Are you a Buddhist?” Thompson answers “no” and then feels compelled to follow that up with a coherent reason why he’s chosen to reject the self-identification (Thompson 2020). In this chapter, I have no intention of refuting whether or not Thompson’s reason is valid or the merits of his book more generally.1 Rather, what I hope to do is demonstrate that this is the wrong question. In short, it doesn’t matter whether or not we, as scholars of Buddhism, identify as Buddhists. In a sense, we are all Buddhists. And because I look forward to that sentence being taken out of context and used against me, let me hasten to say that what I mean by this is that for those of us who have “PhD” appended to our email signatures, for those of us who were professionalized in the guild of Buddhist studies, for those of us who make a living as Buddhist studies scholars, we are implicated within the tradition, we are part of the tradition in both direct and indirect ways, and, therefore, our personal identity as Buddhist or not is irrelevant. I make this argument based on our location within a particular field—Buddhist studies—which is embedded within the larger world of academe. To the extent that academe is embedded within larger neoliberal late-capitalist systems, we are professionalized in ways directly related to the ideologies of neoliberalism. More than this, these same ideologies are responsible for the erosion of public funding for academia over the last half century which has coincided with the necessity of relying on private funding for the work that we do. This private funding overlaps with what might be called the Buddhist economy, inclusive of Buddhist philanthropic organizations, publications, and the “lecture circuit”—public lectures and speaking events sponsored or attended by Buddhist communities and Buddhist practitioners. Thus, our work lies at the intersection of neoliberal and Buddhist economies and gives us the privilege of speaking on and for Buddhism and Buddhists. It is because of this unvoiced and unexamined privilege to speak on and for Buddhism and Buddhists that any hand-wringing about the difference between scholars, practitioners, scholar-practitioners, normative studies, or objective criticism is irrelevant. We are all implicated within the tradition. The question, therefore, is not “Are you a Buddhist?” The question is, “What are you doing with your rights and privileges?”

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A Caveat What follows is a critical reflection on the guild of Buddhist studies. I am a member of this guild, and therefore it seems appropriate to speak from my own experience. The reader will be forgiving (I hope) of the unforgivable act of generalizing from my experience to the experience of others. I do this for two reasons. First, I want to be clear that when I speak about the guild, when I speak about the work of a Buddhist studies scholar, I am necessarily speaking of myself, I am necessarily speaking of my own work. To do the work of this chapter at “arm’s length,” to pretend to have any objectivity, would be naive and dishonest. Second, however idiosyncratic my own career path may have been,2 I nevertheless believe that many of my experiences are generalizable. I trust that the reader will be able to see themselves in what follows, to have moments of “Ah yes, I’ve been to that conference,” metaphorically speaking.3 A further caveat. I am also taking the risk of “biting the hand that feeds me.” Part of this chapter will discuss various funding agencies which support the guild. My criticism, I hope it is clear, is about capitalism, not these agencies per se. Our implication, as scholars, in Buddhist communities is the direct result of neoliberal policies which have defunded the humanities over the course of most of my life. If there is any frustration to be felt in what follows, it is frustration at the dead (specifically Reagan and Thatcher), not the living. Moreover, I am definitely not arguing that being implicated within the Buddhist tradition results in compromised or substandard scholarship. Quite the contrary. The last forty years of Buddhist studies has seen the production of an astounding amount of brilliant scholarship, work made possible, in large part, both because of the intersection of knowledge and Buddhist economies and the inclusion of self-identified Buddhists within the guild. The point of this chapter is not to discredit the field or disparage Buddhists; the point is to be honest about our location in and between communities of scholarship and communities of practice.4

Professionalization in the Knowledge Economy This chapter is based on a presentation originally delivered at the annual meeting of the American Academy of Religion, specifically as part of the Buddhism under Capitalism seminar, and even more specifically on a panel discussing authenticity and authority. The call for papers noted contemporary lay practice communities, primarily in the West, which have begun developing training programs for non-monastics, a “progressive transition from monastic to secular forms of training and certification” (Payne 2015). The call reminded me of David McMahan’s use of the term “detraditionalization” in his The Making of Buddhist Modernism. Specifically, detraditionalization is the process by which religious or spiritual authority shifts away from the monastic or other Buddhist clergy, or even from the transcendent itself, to the authority of the subjective self (McMahan 2008: 42ff). This move allows for religion to become privatized and individualized with the locus of authority in the individual rather than in any particular institution or 170

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social system. This, in turn, brings us back to the beginning, to the very possibility of lay teachers and the necessity of training and certification programs enabling them to lead meditation centers and retreats. A related phenomenon is that, now that religious experiences are freed from their religio-social institutional structures, the individual practices (such as meditation) that engender such experiences can be bought and sold on the open spirituality market, the subject of frequent and sustained scholarly (and Buddhist) critique. However, whereas McMahan may have meant detraditionalization to refer specifically to the possibility of the individual to interpret and verify Buddhist teachings and practices without the need of having these experiences verified by a monastic class, it would be incorrect to say that such lay Buddhist authorities are not somehow embedded within larger social systems. Indeed, lay teacher training and certification programs are an institutional/social mode of conferring (non-monastic) authority. In reflecting on such training or certification programs, Richard K. Payne notes how they are based on a “professionalization model,” that is, the linear acquisition of specific types of knowledge and specific skills which can, in some way, be objectively measured. (Concerns with professionalization may be located within the larger category of legitimation. See Hammerstrom 2013: 7–8.) This, he suggests, seems in conflict with the notion of personal transformation as the basis for one’s ability to teach the dharma which “would seem to be ultimately something very personal and subjective, not subject to standardization or to verification in the same way.” He goes on to note: We can certainly determine whether a cook in training can make scrambled eggs according to the standards set by a training program in culinary arts and sciences, or a phlebotomist can draw blood as required for laboratory work. And indeed those standards of professional expertise can be in existence without either the cook or the phlebotomist being a good person, or a self-aware person, or a compassionate person—whether they have attained personal transformation of any kind to any extent. (Payne 2015) On this point, Payne and I are in agreement. Institutionalized professionalization,5 when conceived of as the linear acquisition of objectively measurable skills, is ill-equipped to engender or evaluate one’s progress along, say, the bodhisattva path, and therefore Buddhist communities may want to consider how they are professionalizing their teachers and to what extent these processes support or nurture the development of subjective but necessary qualities. This, however, is not the point of the current chapter. The point of the current chapter is to note both that Buddhist studies scholars such as myself are a type of lay authority on the Buddhist tradition and that we are very much professionalized in this linear sense of acquiring a set of objectively measurable skills. (And I cannot stress this enough—we are a type, but not the sole, authority on Buddhism.) Buddhist studies scholars do not appear fully formed from the ether; they are made over the course of a Buddhist studies doctoral program. Such programs differ, of course, in content, style, and requirements, but most programs (at least in North America) share 171

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much in common and are designed to impart specific types of knowledge—knowledge of a particular historical period, say, including important dates and persons—as well as a specific skill set—the mastery of Buddhist canonical languages and the ability to translate texts from one language into another. This knowledge and these skills are the corollary to scrambling eggs and drawing blood. And they are “objectively” measured through specific tasks and assignments, exams and papers, culminating in the dissertation.6 And rarely, if ever, is “compassion” one of our qualifying exams. The sum total of this work—in addition to other data points such as student retention, time to degree, and placement rates, as well as disaggregated data related to race and gender—is collected, collated, stored, tracked, and analyzed by your university’s office of institutional research. Even if, like many of us in the humanities, you believe that many of these things we are “objectively” measuring cannot be objectively measured or that the true value of a graduate education lies in something more ephemeral, or is a good in itself, your institution does not agree and probably does not care. It cares about presenting itself to potential students, donors, the state, anyone who will listen, that it is a “success”—which is why it has an office of institutional research which tracks data to objectively measure, if not the success of an individual student, the success of the institution itself. Neoliberal ideologies, which demand profits and accountability and, as a consequence, demand the collection of data to ensure that universities are being effective, as Lawrence Busch argues, have led to the rise of the administrative class in higher education (Busch 2017: 13). This is what I mean when I say that scholars are professionalized within the context of neoliberal ideology. Eventually, we write the dissertation, defend it, and graduate. When I graduated, the dean of our graduate program proudly said something along the lines of, “by the power vested in me by the state of California, I award you with a doctor of philosophy, with all the right and privileges pertaining thereto.” On the one hand, pomp and circumstance is just that—ritualistic pomp. On the other hand, the state of California has, in a very real and legal sense, vested power in educational institutions to award degrees, degrees which give actual legal rights and privileges to those persons who hold them. If you doubt the very real implications of these rights and privileges, I suggest you seek out your institution’s accreditation liaison officer and ask them about the authority the state has over your school and the consequences if the school does not Follow the Rules. In short, you (and everyone else on campus) will be out of a job. But I digress. If you had hoped that the professionalization process of becoming a Buddhist studies scholar ended on that celebratory day of graduation, I am sorry to disappoint. It continues. As you are struggling to find a job, you are expected to publish, a lot. As you are working as an adjunct (or “contingent”) faculty member, perhaps with a young family in tow, you are expected to show up and present your work at academic conferences, often with no institutional support for airfare, hotels, or meals. Buddha helps you if you are a scholar of color, a woman, pregnant, with a young child, still nursing—or just a woman, expected to dress a certain way, not too fancy not too shabby, lest you be judged on your wardrobe rather than your intellect (you’ll be judged on your wardrobe no matter what). You do all of this in the hope of getting a job because the 172

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hiring committee will be, again, objectively measuring not only your past contribution to the field but your potential contribution as well. And, if you’re lucky enough to get a job, you will continue to go to conferences, publish, teach, network, serve as a peer reviewer, take on graduate students, and so forth, all of which will be used by your new employers in the appointments and review process. Again, if you’re lucky.7 This process is not arbitrary. Just as Buddhist studies scholars do not appear out of the ether, neither did this process of professionalization. This process emerged within the knowledge economy of neoliberal global capitalism.8 Here, I am taking neoliberalism as given, the ground upon which our institutions are built. As an economic ideology that came to replace classical Keynesianism, neoliberalism rests on several assumptions, the most salient for our present purposes being individual self-interest, the view that the market is morally superior to both state governance and individual moral judgment, and that the proper role of the state is to protect individual freedom of choice and the free market. In practice, this means the deregulation of the market because, it is believed that freed from governmental influence, it will not only function most efficiently; it will also be a morally superior mechanism for the distribution of resources and opportunities to individuals who are, it is assumed, the best judge of their own needs. This version of free-market capitalism has become the dominant economic ideology in the Western world and has been further spread via the mechanisms of globalization. More than a mere ideology, however, it can also be understood in terms of Michel Foucault’s governmentality, namely, “an art of government or form of political reason. A political rationality is not simply an ideology but a worked-out discourse containing theories and ideas that emerge in response to concrete problems within a determinate historical period” (Olssen and Peters 2005: 315). Neoliberalism is not merely a theory; it is also the systems, the laws, the logics, and the discourses that define how we may act and interact within the modern world. Neoliberalism has had profound effects on higher education. Over the past forty years, we have witnessed a shift away from a concern for education (and the education of our students) as a good in itself or as part of a deeper desire to create educated citizen-subjects. Instead, higher education has positioned itself as a vital component of the neoliberal knowledge economy. In a knowledge economy, knowledge itself is the thing of value, and unlike the industrial economy, knowledge is not subject to scarcity—new ideas can always be created, and once created, they can be shared infinitely. Moreover, in a highly industrialized and technologized global economy, specialist knowledge has increased in value and need. In this context, higher education serves the purpose not of educating students to become good citizens but of creating “knowers,” knowers who themselves become commodities of a type on-the-job market. And because higher educational institutions are now subsumed under the discourse of neoliberal governmentality, their own structures conform to its logics. To prove that colleges and universities are efficient and not allowing individual self-interest to waste (especially taxpayer) money, quantifiable data must be collected on the health, sustainability, and success of the institution. These metrics are defined not by the vague aspirations of a classical liberal arts education but by raw numbers: number 173

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of students, time to degree, cost of the education, placement rates, and so forth. In short, in a knowledge economy, there is a “shift in the relation between knowledge and the knower. In a knowledge economy, there has been a tendency for educational systems to become less grounded in people qua people (lecturers and students) and more in the regulated transparency of competencies and outcomes” (Drummond 2003: 59, emphases in original). In other words, and as mentioned earlier, whereas your university’s institutional research office may report the percentage of students who graduate in any given year, what that percentage actually measures is not the number of persons graduating but the overall success of the institution. And success, in this context, is defined by the institution’s ability to impart knowledge—to create, not well-informed citizens for the body politic, but knowers, knowers of specific types of knowledge to be used in the knowledge economy. The professionalization of Buddhist studies scholars happens within this context which imposes upon administrators, deans, and professors the language of student learning outcomes, metrics, and assessment strategies—the things that are objectively measured over the course of a doctoral program. What’s more, similar types of data related to our professionalization (number of publications, student evaluations, conferences, service to the university via committee work, and so forth) are also tracked and used in the appointments and review process. This is the ideological context— the university’s own micro-level governmentality—within which we become not only experts in a particular field of knowledge but also commodities ourselves within the knowledge economy. Colleges and universities use our accomplishments, our labor, as part of a larger marketing strategy to attract students and donors, as part of the larger “package” of an economically valuable liberal arts education. Or not. When times are tough, as we all know, the liberal arts and the humanities are often the first sacrifices made to balance the budget both on the institutional and state level.9 As public support for higher education has waned, so too has economic support. And as public economic support has decreased, reliance on private funding has increased.10

Intersection with the Buddhist Economy For Buddhist studies, private funding often comes from Buddhist philanthropic organizations. The Robert H.N. Ho Family Foundation, for example, funds numerous programs directly through partnerships with specific universities and programs managed by the American Council of Learned Societies.11 The Khyentse Foundation, founded by Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche, has numerous grants for both individual scholars and universities.12 The Japanese Buddhist movement Shinnyo-en supports programs at the University of California, Berkeley, and the University of Southern California, among other philanthropic projects and programs.13 And perhaps one of the most important Buddhist philanthropic organizations for academic Buddhist studies is, of course, the Society for the Promotion of Buddhism, or the BDK/Numata Foundation, which has 174

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endowed programs at a dozen universities in North America and Europe. As Mikael Aktor notes, Many of the most eminent international scholars of Buddhism have been funded by this organization [. . .] the large amount of money spent by the BDK to support Buddhist Studies at American and European universities highlights the crucial role of external funding for the whole issue in debate here, that is, the interconnection (even interdependence?) between the academic study of religions and religious organizations. (Aktor 2015: 276) Again, I want to be clear, I am in no way suggesting that financial support of Buddhist studies by these organizations represents something untoward or compromises the integrity of the scholars and institutions that benefit from them. Indeed, my own school, the Institute of Buddhist studies, benefits generously from the BDK/Numata Foundation which supports a professorial chair, an annual lecture series, and the peer-reviewed and fully open access Pacific World Journal.14 In fact, Pacific World is a good example of how a project receiving funding from a Buddhist philanthropic organization maintains its academic integrity. The journal is peer reviewed, the editorial board is composed of members of our school’s faculty and scholars in the field, and BDK/Numata has no hand in naming IBS faculty or determining the content of the journal. Similarly, the BDK supports the Toshihide Numata Book Award which is administered by the Group in Buddhist studies at the University of California, Berkeley; the process of selecting the book is done by anonymous peer reviewers, neither the faculty at UC Berkeley nor BDK/ Numata. I mention Buddhist philanthropic support of Buddhist studies for two reasons. First, as will be discussed momentarily, this is one of the primary ways in which Buddhist studies scholars are implicated within the tradition. And, second, these organizations are part of a larger “Buddhist economy.” I use the phrase Buddhist economy to denote a subset of global capitalism that intersects with, benefits, or trades explicitly Buddhist products. Indeed, various aspects of the Buddhist economy constitute a consistent theme throughout this volume. Thus, Buddhist economies are inclusive of lay-monastic exchanges, Buddhist philanthropic organizations, and publication projects—including the book in your hands. Buddhist studies scholars are implicated within Buddhist economies in a number of ways. In the first place, as already mentioned, through the funding of scholarly projects by Buddhist philanthropic organizations. However, even if a scholar or their institution does not directly benefit from such an organization, a scholar may still be implicated in the Buddhist economy either through publications or public speaking engagements, ways to disseminate the products of our academic labor. Many scholars, in addition to publishing their work in rarefied, peer-reviewed journals, write for popular Buddhist magazines or online sources like Tricycle and Lion’s Roar. This is also part of the Buddhist economy, publications produced by and for Buddhist practitioners. Some may chafe at this and claim that their work is niche, irrelevant to the “masses”—perhaps pure translation work. That’s all well and good, but there is ample evidence to suggest 175

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that Buddhists, especially in the United States, have higher rates of education and income than the average “masses” and therefore consume our work, even and especially translations of Buddhist texts. An example by way of anecdote: not long ago, I escorted a class to a public lecture at UC Berkeley. Because the subject of the lecture had wide appeal, one of my students invited a friend of hers, a fellow practicing Zen Buddhist. One of the respondents to the main lecture made a quip about how most Buddhists “never read their own sutras,” a surprisingly antiquated and simply false observation. In fact, it was refuted immediately after he made the remark when my student’s friend leaned over to her, pulled a copy of the Heart Sutra from his bag, and whispered, “We never read our sutras?” Second, and more importantly, our status as experts is often mobilized in public discourses to define and speak for Buddhists. A clear example of this phenomenon is when scholars are called upon to act as an “expert” for some Buddhism-related news event. For example, a recent New Yorker essay profiled a former Naropa University student who devoted herself to butoh, a “Buddhist-influenced” modern Japanese dance style. Her devotion to the art and her relationship with her mentor led to a nervous breakdown and, eventually, suicide. In discussing the psychological phenomenon of “depersonalization,” the reporter finds it necessary to reach out to Robert Sharf, “a professor of Buddhist studies at the University of California, Berkeley,” for his take on Buddhism with the clear subtext being that whatever this woman and her teacher may have believed about letting go of the ego, that’s definitely not Buddhism (Aviv 2020: 36). As I have argued elsewhere, mainstream media routinely seeks out scholars of Buddhism— always framed as scholars, regardless of their personal identity as Buddhists—to verify or explain or define Buddhism, Buddhist concepts, or even to “fact check” Buddhists’ own representations of their religion. It is not enough for a Buddhist to express what Buddhism means for him or herself; that claim needs to be authenticated by the scholar. Even when the scholar in question is publicly known as a practicing Buddhist, he is almost always identified as “professor of Buddhist Studies at such-and-such university.”15 That is, “[r]egardless of the scholar’s personal religious affiliation, they are framed in media stories as professors, as educators, as scholars. They are being courted by media sources not because they are Buddhist but because of their status as scholarly experts” (Mitchell 2012: 70). Why are scholars courted as experts on Buddhism? Because we are experts—by definition and by professionalization into the guild within this knowledge economy which has turned us into commodities of value to the nightly news. As scholars professionalized in the knowledge economy, our scholarly output is commoditized; we are commodities, and our work is often funded by or bought and sold in the Buddhist economy. We benefit from both the knowledge and Buddhist economies. Our (often unpaid) labor of peer reviewing, writing journal articles, and service to our institutions is used to justify promotion and tenure, thus ensuring job security. And if that job is secured, in part, by funding from a Buddhist philanthropic organization, then our relationship to a Buddhist community of practice is explicit, if indirect. But if the Buddhist economy also includes publishing ventures, lecture circuits, and other public engagements, then even those of us with no direct connection to a Buddhist community 176

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still engage with, speak on and for, or are implicated within the Buddhist tradition. And, again, we benefit, either by using our engagements as part of our rationale for promotion and tenure and thus job security or more directly by actually selling the fruit of our labors (if we are clever enough to write a Buddhist book for the trade presses). Again, the book in your hands is an instance of the economics of academic Buddhist studies. The point of this exercise is not simply to critique the economics of Buddhist studies, or capitalism itself, or to feel bad that we benefit from it. The point of this exercise is not to charge people with being disingenuous about their scholarship or to surprise the reader with a big revelation about the underlying economics of academia. Indeed, nothing that has been said in this chapter is a secret, and none of it should come as a surprise to anyone. The point of this exercise is to return to our rights and privileges. When the dean of my graduate school gave me my diploma and symbolically gave me these rights, he was giving me the right to speak on and for Buddhism and Buddhists. That is the literal definition of what we do as scholars.16

“Are You a Buddhist?” Which leads to the question: Are you a Buddhist? And, more importantly, why that question is irrelevant. Charles Prebish credits himself with coining the phrase “scholar-practitioner,” a term he has related to the notion of “scholar-monks” or gantha-dhura as articulated by Walpola Rahula, among others (Prebish 1999). His interest in identifying this category of scholars (and, indeed, identifying individuals who fit the category) is related to his larger project of tracing the history of Buddhist studies as a field and its import and impact on American Buddhism, a worthy and interesting project to be sure. Part of Prebish’s reason for naming “scholar-practitioners” is because historically not many scholars of Buddhism were themselves Buddhist—though this is changing, as discussed later. As Prebish puts it, “the founding mothers and founding fathers of Buddhist Studies in the West have had personal religious commitments entirely separate from Buddhism” (Prebish 1999: 183).17 What’s more, even today not many scholars admit to being Buddhist.18 Why might this be so? In the late 1990s, Prebish noted José Cabezón’s view that the study of Buddhism requires critical distance and that according to Cabezón for this reason “Buddhists are never good buddhologists” (Prebish 1999: 191). Prebish juxtaposed this with Luis Gómez’s comment that the Buddhist tradition (i.e., Buddhists) makes demands on us as scholars and are as often both the source and audience for our work. These contrasting views, in Prebish’s words, place “the contemporary Buddhologist squarely between the proverbial rock and a hard place. If one acknowledges a personal commitment to the tradition being studied, the suspicion Cabezón cites so clearly is immediately voiced; but if one remains silent, how can the demands Gómez outlines be fairly confronted?” (Prebish 1999: 191). I will admit to not having an answer to this question, but not for lack of trying; rather, I am just not interested in this question. We need to ask different questions. Without 177

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any statistical evidence to back up this claim, I am nevertheless going to assume that the field of Buddhist studies has become less bifurcated along the insider/outsider, practitioner/scholar divide in the twenty years since Prebish voiced these concerns.19 (Parenthetically, I would argue that what hostility there is in our field is not about personal religious identity but rather about how the field of study is defined, and therefore what methodologies are valid.) Gómez’s point is that the Buddhist community is both source and audience for our work; put another way, in the context of this chapter, my scholarly output is consumed, bought, and sold in the Buddhist marketplace regardless of whether I personally identify as a Buddhist or not. If this is true, then the question of personal identity becomes irrelevant. Over the last few years, a growing body of scholarship has focused on sustained critiques of secular lay authority figures who ostensibly “sell” Buddhist practices—with the “McMindfulness critique” being perhaps the most paradigmatic (Purser 2019; also Brown in this volume). This is important and necessary work, and we should keep doing it. However, while we’re at it, we should turn these same critical skills on ourselves. The fruit of my academic labor and indeed myself as an individual scholar are commodities bought and sold in the Buddhist marketplace. My livelihood—the ability for me to pay my electricity bill, to buy my daughter a seemingly endless supply of Legos—is dependent upon the viability and value of both my scholarly output and the continued popularity and value of “Buddhism,” itself a commodity. And I suspect that this is as true for me, someone who works at a “Buddhist seminary and graduate school,” as it is for someone who works at a public or secular institution, one whose dean or program director needs to fend off the looming budget cuts specifically by arguing that their faculty is producing top-rated scholarship—and look how popular Buddhism is! We may not be “selling” mindfulness to tech luminaries in Silicon Valley, but we do peddle in both the knowledge and Buddhist economies; we benefit from this work in real and substantive ways. Our work not only intersects with Buddhist economies (the fruit of our labor is bought and sold in the Buddhist marketplace), but we are also called upon to speak on and for Buddhism and Buddhists. Since Prebish first voiced these concerns of the “silent sangha” a generation ago, a slew of research on scholars-practitioners and the role of scholars as objective critics versus advocates has been published. A recent example is Jørn Borup’s “Who Owns Religion? Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Postglobal Buddhism.” This ambitious piece—summarizing nearly two decades of scholarship on Buddhist modernity, American Buddhism, globalization, postmodernism, and post-colonialism—argues persuasively that we are witnessing the emergence of a postglobal Buddhism wherein the modernist tropes of a previous generation are being rearticulated. On that point, there is not much to debate. However, Borup also spends a good deal of time wrestling with such questions as cultural appropriation and the role of the scholar, asking not only “who owns religion?” but “Who owns the right to represent Buddhism?” (Borup 2020: 239). And while gesturing toward supporting a “True (postmodern) constructivist” line of questions such as “Whose Zen? Which Buddhism? What claim to identity?” (Borup 2020: 243), his arguments about scholarship are still framed within the binary proposed by Cabezón and Davaney, namely the “two ideal 178

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types of knowledge,” with scientific/objective knowledge juxtaposed against knowledge derived from experiences and identity (Borup 2020: 245). All of which leaves his central question—“Who has, takes, or is ascribed the authority to represent a given religious tradition, and by which claims and criteria?”—unanswered. But there is an answer to the question of “who has the authority to represent Buddhism?” We do. When the dean of my graduate school said to our graduating class, “by the power vested in me by the state of California,” he was giving me the right and the privilege to define religion. That is my job. That is our job. That is what we are paid to do. Some of us may tell ourselves that this job is actually a vocation or a calling, and that it does not necessarily come with any sense of responsibility toward the tradition, toward the thing (Buddhism) and persons (Buddhists) we have the authority to speak on and for. We may cheerfully believe that we are doing “objective critical scholarship.” But to pretend that, as scholars, we are somehow able to be disconnected from the tradition is both a lie and an abdication of our responsibility to the tradition. We are always and necessarily implicated in the thing and the persons we study. Again, the question is not “Am I a Buddhist?” The question is “What am I doing with my rights and privileges?” In asking this question I am inspired by the work of Natalie Quli who, since her essay “Western Self, Asian Other: Modernity, Authenticity, and Nostalgia for ‘Tradition’ in Buddhist Studies,” both critiques and challenges the Buddhist studies status quo in important and necessary ways. In her original essay, Quli builds on Renato Rosaldo’s notion of “imperial nostalgia” and suggests that Buddhist studies rests on a “salvage studies” mentality—that is, academic work that seeks “to defend traditional, natural societies against the onslaught of modernity and the specter of artificiality by conducting fieldwork in what [is] deemed to be vanishing societies” (Quli 2009: 8; see also Rosaldo 2008). According to this logic, classical Buddhist studies is primarily and exclusively interested in studying the Buddhism of the Buddha, historical, textual, located in Asia, and before the West came along and ruined everything—in short, “real Buddhism.” This orientation replicates the orientalist’s gaze, as well as the search for pure races and pure cultures, perpetuates the myth of the passive Asian/active westerner, and obfuscates the unvoiced assumption that Buddhist studies scholars are the white Western self studying the Asian other, as referenced in the title of Quli’s essay. Apart from the obviously problematic aspects of these assumptions (the outmoded orientalism, the racism), such a dichotomization of white20 scholars here studying Asian subjects over there ignores the historical and current interrelationship between Asian Buddhists, Asian scholars, Western scholars, and Western Buddhists. And, somewhat parenthetically, here we return to our opening salvo, to Thompson, and his claim that he is not a Buddhist precisely because he is neither a “modern Buddhist” nor Asian, thus relegating all Buddhists in the world to two categories, excluding the possibility of alternative expressions of the religion in a deafening silence. This question “are you a Buddhist?” and the corresponding assumption that it is possible to be a Buddhist studies scholar divorced from the tradition reifies the distinction between “scholars” and “practitioners.” It is an act of boundary construction. Whenever we engage in this debate—such as Borup, Cabezón, Gómez, and Prebish do—we are 179

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engaging in boundary maintenance, debating and deciding who is a “real” scholar, who is a “real” Buddhist. And here is where I tell my students, pay attention to where the line is being drawn, by whom, and under what authority. (And, that they should be alert for fallacious rejections of counterexamples by appealing to purity, that is, the “no true Scotsman” fallacy, lurking everywhere.) And yet, whether or not we intentionally and self-consciously engage in these debates— whether or not we self-consciously define the categories of Buddhist studies, scholar, or practitioner—the structures of academia do it for us. Professional organizations, journals, academic presses, university departments, Buddhist studies programs and curricula (all embedded within neoliberal knowledge economies), and sources of funding collectively define our priorities and, by extension, define both Buddhist studies and Buddhism. We locate our work within the approved units at the American Academy of Religion, making a distinction between, say, the descriptive studies of Buddhism in the West versus the normative studies in the Buddhist Critical Constructive Reflection Units. We submit our work to journals that specialize in particular areas or disciplines. Academic presses create specialized lists to focus on specific topics, regions, or methods. The funding organizations mentioned earlier also define our work. If that funding prioritizes, say, translation projects, then this is the type of scholarship that gets funding and thus produced. To be clear, translation work is important, necessary, to be valued; but it is also necessarily limited. What types of scholarship is not funded? And if our scholarship is then presented to the public as defining Buddhism, this limited work is what is used as the definition of Buddhism. This scholarship defines Buddhism; it has consequences. To paraphrase Payne, how Buddhism is defined is important because such definitions implicitly legitimate certain aspects of Buddhism and delegitimate others (Payne 2008: 180). The construction and maintenance of this bounded category of Buddhist studies—and by extension Buddhism—which happen within the knowledge economy, are dependent upon global capitalism and the ideologies of neoliberalism. We are all bound up within these systems regardless of our individual, subjective, self-identification as a Buddhist or not. Our work has consequences on Buddhist communities of practice even if we object to the very idea of advocacy scholarship. The idea that your scholarship exists in a hermetically sealed ivory tower is a lie. Quli’s work, drawing on Payne’s critique of covert theology21 in Buddhist studies and Cheah’s work on Buddhist studies’ roots in systems of white supremacy (Cheah 2017), rightly notes that the construction of Buddhism as an object of study is in itself an authenticity discourse (Quli 2019). Whereas Buddhist communities and practitioners may routinely construct lineages and rhetorics to claim why they have the authority to speak for the tradition, Quli notes that scholars do as well, that we routinely lift up and dismiss different parts of the Buddhist tradition as more or less authentic or really Buddhist (or, at least, as more or less interesting). This practice is reinforced, again, by the same systems that professionalized us in the first place (doctoral programs, academic presses, media outlets asking for interviews), which are themselves rooted in neoliberal economies with a vested interest in maintaining the value of “Buddhism” as a commodity. 180

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And because of this, I have argued here, we are implicated within the Buddhist tradition regardless of our personal identification as a Buddhist or not. Thus, the question remains: not “are you a Buddhist?” but “what are you doing with your rights and privileges?” Quli responds—actually a response to a similar question asked by Franz Metcalf (2019), but it may as well be the question I have asked here—with the following: Metcalf asks us what responsibility we as scholars have to Buddhism, a fair and important question for which I am grateful. My response is that I feel no responsibility to Buddhism at all: I feel responsible to people. I feel responsible for how my own ideas of authenticity or authority shape the ways I practice academia, and how that practice impacts the well-being of Buddhists, other academics, students, my family, and humans writ large. To concern ourselves with the ethics of scholarship is to expose our human embodiment, our commitments to values that animate our daily lives and that can be so easily hidden behind a façade of “objective” scholarship or a bland and empty rhetoric of “contribution to the field.” (Quli 2019: 172) And here is the crux of the issue. Buddhism is an abstract concept dreamt up by Buddhists and scholars alike—by persons, persons who inhabit a real world, full of hopes and dreams, suffering and joy. As scholars, we are professionalized by the demands of neoliberalism, an ideology which has zero interest in persons qua persons but only as metrics and data points and, ultimately, means toward specific economic ends. Ironically, however, this same professionalization has perfectly prepared us to be suspicious of, critically analyze, and ultimately deconstruct the ideology of neoliberalism and the very systems that made us and support our work. These systems have also turned us into lay experts on the Buddhist tradition. And a truly “ethical scholarship,” to paraphrase Quli here, would necessarily need to attend to these two sides of our embodied lives, with one foot in the world of academia and the other, by choice or by circumstance, in the world of the Buddhist tradition. Our “contributions to the field” are important; but they also have consequences outside that field. Buddhists make demands of us, and we should hold ourselves appropriately accountable.

Coda The initial idea for this chapter was dreamt up early in 2016. I did the bulk of the writing for this particular version of the chapter in spring 2020 while sheltering in place, homeschooling my daughter, and begrudgingly transforming my school into an online graduate program (at least temporarily). Needless to say, the last several years have been difficult, especially for higher education. And to the extent that this chapter is about our location as scholars within systems of higher education, it would be dishonest to not acknowledge the challenges of the last several years and the changes looming on the horizon. 181

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Higher education has been in a precarious state for decades. The at times gradual, at times sudden, chipping away of public funding and erosion of trust, combined with a wholly unsustainable economic structure (an overreliance on contingent labor (Al-Garbhi 2020); unpaid labor in the form of academic publishing and peer review (Gusterson 2012); blind faith in the idea that academia is a meritocracy (The Chronicle of Higher Education 2020); blind indifference to the structural, sexist, and racist barriers to advancement (Pettit 2019); and on and on) were bad enough; and then, along came the novel coronavirus. Covid-19 has shone a bright spotlight on all of the cracks in the foundation and structure of higher education, the convenient lies we tell ourselves about job security, solidarity with precarious colleagues, or our supposed commitment to progressive or even transgressive ideals. Students may not show up in the fall. Universities who rely on underpaid graduate students or unpaid “non-professional” student athletes will be forced to radically revise their economic structures or they will not survive. And speaking of surviving, if students do show up, if we do pack stadiums full of football fans, lecture halls full of first years, who will survive? Who won’t? In the before times, when I could watch the comforting fictions of popular television shows without the ever-present dread hanging over my head (when will this end? what will “normal” be like? what world will my daughter inherit?), I was a fan of science fiction. I have always been attracted to the core idea of the Star Trek fictional universe, namely, that sometime in the future humanity will get past all the things that make this world so lousy and create an idyllic utopia, one governed by reason and diplomacy and cooperation, a post-scarcity noncapitalist economy, where decisions are driven by science, and technology is used skillfully and intentionally to make people’s lives objectively better. The hope of a future utopia is alluring in itself (as is the hope of a better birth in Sukhāvatī). Even more compelling for me, however, was the in-between stage. How do we get there, from here? In the Star Trek mythos there is an answer, of course— war, a massive global war whose belligerents are not-too-cleverly disguised stand-ins for contemporary political powers and all the anxiety they provoke (e.g., the “Eastern Coalition” Memory Alpha, 2020). In short, to get to the utopian pure land of the Star Trek future, one must go through the avīci hell of global destruction. It is hard to not feel as though we have reached an inflection point. The systems we have taken for granted—both unique to higher education and the larger global capitalist systems upon which higher education rests—have been profoundly destabilized, first, by its own excess and now by covid-19. As Kim Stanley Robinson wrote recently, we are now living history, transitioning from one historical moment to the next; and with this transition comes a new structure of feeling (Robinson 2020). Our uncritical acceptance of economic systems of the past, our disregard for the tragedy of the time horizon and the world our children will inherit—these attitudes will not work when there are no students in the fall, when we must acknowledge the unpaid labor of academia. We need new visions, new models, new structures. Fortunately, this creative work is our bread and butter; it is what we do. I intentionally drew a connection between the utopian future of Star Trek and the utopian vision of Sukhāvatī, channeling the work of Melissa Anne-Marie Curley (Curley 2017), because 182

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studying the imaginations of others and creatively reformulating their visions into our present vernacular are what we are paid to do as scholars. The humanities get a bad rap in a hyper-capitalist, neoliberal economy. But the economy is collapsing, all around us, and we will need humanists to dream, to hope, to imagine a different future. How does humanity get from the devastation of war to the utopian future of the United Federation of Planets? Those who have seen the 1996 film Star Trek: First Contact will know the answer: a scientist dreams up a new kind of engine that allows humans to travel faster than light. But this isn’t the actual answer. The old white man in the film gets all the accolades for the discovery of warp drive (even though his younger womanof-color assistant is clearly doing all the work and convinces Captain Picard, by way of Moby Dick, that his vainglorious revenge strategy is the wrong one, thus saving the day); but it is actually the arrival of the Vulcans (the alien others) that causes humanity to listen to the scientists, stop their bickering, and save the world. Of course, unless I’m wrong (Strauss 2020), we cannot wait for aliens to come and save us. We need to do it ourselves. And to do this work we need to be willing to critically analyze the very system that made us and reimagine ourselves, our roles, our community of scholars, and our relationships to that which we study.

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CHAPTER 10 A PART OF OR APART FROM GLOBALIZATION? THE AMBIVALENT RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN BUDDHISM AND MODERN CAPITALISM

Lionel Obadia

Introduction Based on empirical experiences and observations in Asia and the West, this chapter aims to pinpoint the ambiguities of Buddhism’s relationship to global capitalism. In many ways, Buddhism, like other religions, has been impacted by the processes of globalization: nowadays mediatized, deterritorialized, and, like other traditions, strongly influenced by the logics of a global consumerist culture, Buddhism has been largely impacted, directly or not, by the extension of a modern market economy. For this discussion, I will take two empirical examples that I have experienced as an ethnographer, that of the Knowing Buddha Organization in Thailand (hereafter: KBO) and that of the cultural appropriation of Buddhism in the West through the Buddha-Bar company. These two localized case studies, which are both inserted in the heart of globalization circuits, which, despite the differences they assume in geographical location and cultural background, unveil a same ambivalent posture toward a certain facet of globalization, in this case, its capacity to position itself online and against globalization, especially in its economic version.

Knowing Buddha in Thailand: The Ambivalences of “Selling Buddha” In 2017, I was traveling in Thailand and wanted to visit the temples and other places of the opulent and fascinating local cultural and religious traditions. Considered as a tourist like any other, coming myself from a distant country, France, and animated like the many foreigners by the desire to confront myself with the ancient cultural and religious heritage, my steps carry me from one site to another, in the human flow that surges almost uninterruptedly in the tourist circuits of Thailand. It is far from being the first time for me to mingle with these flows in Asian countries, since I had the chance to conduct research in Nepal (in the 1990s and 2000s) and India (in the 2010s) and to travel, for professional reasons, to China, Japan, South Korea, and Sri Lanka. In some of these countries I was a long-term ethnographer, in others just a visitor, but in both cases the discovery of the local cultural heritage implies sharing places and visits with tourists. In each of these countries, moreover, globalization is transforming social, cultural, and religious configurations, depending on the degree to which countries or regions are

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integrated into globalization processes, and vice versa, according to a reverse process of glocalization nowadays well known to scholars in globalization studies (Roberston 1992; Roudometof 1994). In all the regions of Asia that I have had the opportunity to visit or work in, the relationship between Buddhism and globalization is as varied and complex as there are singular forms that the religion has taken locally. And there are apparently as many differences as there are salient similarities between, on the one hand, the case of Theravada Buddhism in the Indian-origin context of a country like Sri Lanka, with a low GDP, still very rural, where Buddhism coexists with Islam and Hinduism in traditional forms, and, on the other hand, the case of Mahayana Buddhism in a country like Japan, which aligns on the very advanced standards of economy and urban life, where it shares its symbolic space with Shinto, has undergone a very intense revival movement with a wave of new religions. The same applies to the processes of globalization which impact countries with very different economies and political regimes, making it necessary to think of globalization in the plural (Berger and Huntington 2002). However, on a global scale, and by comparing contexts, however different they may be, relations between Buddhism and the globalized market economy are being forged and are currently the subject of in-depth discussions (Brox and Williams-Oerberg 2017). The case of Thailand is interesting in terms of weaving the links, once again, that are eminently complex between Buddhism and one of the undoubtedly most debated facets of globalization, in this case, modern capitalism, with which it is often confused, moreover (Hirai 2015). As soon as I arrived at the airport, on the road that would eventually lead to the heart of Bangkok, a first large billboard attracted my eye, but I did not pay more attention to it before I realized the presence of similar billboards in many places of worship, displaying same three slogans: “It’s wrong to use Buddha as tattoo or decoration”; “Merchandise means no respect”; and finally “Don’t buy and sell Buddha for decoration.” Symbols of Buddha’s head, statues, or cushions with the effigy of the founder of religion arranged in a domestic space, as furniture with a red cross crossed out on each photo were to emphasize the message. On its website, the Knowing Buddha Organization reaffirms its hard ideological line, that of a strict respect of the Buddhist norms by giving other “dos and don’ts” on how to dress and behave in religious places and in the presence of an image of Buddha.1 The principle is clear; the website and all the events have the same purpose: “to petition campaigns to stop the disrespectful acts toward the Buddha.” Acharavadee Wongsakon, a former entrepreneur who became a lay master in Vipassana meditation, founded the movement. She was thus precisely a committed social and economic actor of capitalist globalization. Her curriculum vitae states that she had used meditation to reduce her professional stress and finally turned to Buddhism to the point of becoming a meditation master, active, this time, in reversing values in the direction of a resistance to the spirit of capitalism. She was using the tools of modernity (social networks, collective mobilization, petitions and demonstrations, slogan postings, and electronic broadcasting) to bring back the cardinal values of Buddhism, and in particular the respect due to its founder and first master and, more generally, to the symbols of Buddhism. 185

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Since Peter Beyer showed that traditional and radical Muslim movements were keen to appropriate themselves the media technologies and strategies of a globalization they intended to oppose (Beyer 1994), many studies have confirmed that religions maintain ambivalent relations with globalization. This is also the case for Buddhism, but perhaps even more ambivalently than for monotheisms, in that in one movement, Scriptural Buddhism seems to reject the apparently most objectionable aspect of globalization, in this case the worldwide expansion of capitalism, while at the same time accommodating it. The Knowing Buddha campaign, which falls under the first facet, is highly visible in Thailand and the activism of its organization has indeed been echoed on an international scale, as it has rebounded in the media far beyond the Asian kingdom, including the public demonstrations that the movement organizes to protest against “misuses” of the symbols of Buddhism. With the support of national official religious organizations, the movement has spread to all the temples with a high number of tourists in Bangkok. This includes famous sites like Wat Arun, along the Chao Phraya River, the Golden Temple, or Wat Saket, not to forget Wat Pho and its imposing sleeping Buddha in front of which tourists from all over the world are crowding. In these places, the same posters with the same slogans and the same colors were displayed prominently at the entrance of these sanctuaries, and guards ensured that the rules of propriety were respected and that tourists behaved as visitors aware of the sacred nature of the place. The formal prevention of acquisition of Buddha figures as mere decoration is part of a reminder of the sacredness of places and objects. It represents at the very least a local resistance to a global movement of commodification of religions in general, and Buddhism in particular (Obadia 2011b). Yet, many other religious systems are compelled to adapt to the changing global conditions and adopt “economic” strategies like “branding” (Stolz and Usunier 2019). However, ascetic traditions of Asia at large seem to be, more than any other, concerned by commodification of their content, symbols, and practices (Borup 2016; Jain 2012). By extension, what appears to be a (desperate) way for Buddhists to recapture the symbols of their tradition as they flow in the global stream of images and cultural forms has also led to similar inflexible positions, held by Buddhist monks in Sri Lanka condemning the behavior of tourists,2 or in Myanmar against the symbolism of the Buddha used in the techno music of New Zealand,3 among many other examples. The most interesting thing, however, is not only the refusal to subsume symbols that are the religious and cultural pride of the Thai people to the principles and values of consumerist cultures, in which their initial meaning seems significantly reduced. Near these temples, and thus the symbols of resistance to consumerist globalization, one can indeed find a great number of small stalls selling souvenirs, many of which are Buddha figures, statues, paintings, and other material supports bearing the effigy of Śākyamuni Buddha or displaying the symbols of this religion. The stalls, set up just besides the temples, are precisely targeting tourists and are open to the public without any restriction. Many of them, displaying numerous objects in the window, without hiding, only distant from the KBO billboards by a dozen of meters. During my observations in all the main temples opened to tourism in Bangkok that I had the chance to spend time in, I came to 186

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the conclusion that the sale of stylized objects of Buddhist inspiration was not regulated by any authority that would have verified that the act of selling, and even more so the act of buying, was motivated by spiritual values.

The Commodification of Buddhism in the West and Beyond The case of Thailand must be connected to others, particularly to the West, considering that globalization—it is a truism to recall—transcends borders and participates in the connection of events and processes worldwide (Appadurai 1998). Despite the geographical distance and cultural difference, a connection can be made with the Buddha-Bar in France (which I already visited years before the trip to Thailand), a “hype” consumer place built and designed after Buddhist symbolism. The bar welcomes a wealthy (international) clientele and serves them food and drinks (often alcoholic, and therefore contrary to the Buddhist vows of soberness) in a setting where a large statue of Buddha sits and where the figure of the Indian sage is enthroned on the walls and the decorative objects. The bar is a perfect example if not even an epitome of the impact of capitalist globalization on Asian traditions. The KBO ranges among the Buddhist organizations engaged in the denunciation of “misuse” of the image of the Buddha when it partakes in a process of commodification. The symbol of the Buddha has indeed a very high potential of attraction by virtue of the positive image of Buddhism in the West (Obadia 2007) and throughout the world (Liogier 2004), and the symbolic heritage of Buddhism could hardly escape being commodified. Even scholars outside the field of Buddhist studies raised similar critiques in terms of altering Buddhism and alienating an authentic tradition due to the implacable logic of neoliberalism—at least this is the criticism that has been presented by French scholars (Montety 2011), in line with the KBO ideals. This critical position is all the more understandable given that, not only is the Buddha-Bar an epitome of a cosmopolitanism of elites who are actors in the globalization of capitalism, but the franchise has spread to many other regions of the world where the concept of Buddha has taken on different forms (Buddha-Bar, Buddha-Bar Spa, Buddha-Bar Hotel, Buddhabar beach) in more than twenty destinations, which correspond to those frequented by the jet-set elite and to the luxury services that this social category can claim. As one can expect, the Buddha-Bar chain does not seem to attract many faithful and practicing Buddhists. At the very least, the Buddha-Bar concept has transformed the symbols of Buddhism into what the ancient ascetic tradition holds at arm’s length and considers as “poisons” (moha, misguidance, rāga, thirst, trishna, desire) or factors of attachment to a world of “illusion” (maya). In short, an enterprise using Buddhist symbolism is accused of having transformed an ascetic tradition, considered as the spearhead of current antimercantile ethics, into a marketing product put at the service of some of the most visible facets of globalization, that is, the cosmopolitanism of the world’s elites (Hannerz 1996) and their enrolment in a “faculty club” culture (Berger 1997). However, things are not as simple as those who deem to be in the position of condemning the negative impacts of economic globalization on Buddhism in such a 187

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direct manner. Since the early 1990s, I have conducted research on Western Buddhism (Obadia 1999, 2000), which led me to reflect upon the reticular nature of the movement and to explore its worldwide expansion (Obadia 2007). My studies led me to consider the ways in which the globalization of Buddhism is linked to and even embedded in a market economy that is now rubbing off on all aspects of Buddhists’ lives. Ethnography of Buddhist temples in France and Europe, and, in my case, of the Tibetan and Japanese traditions made evident the links existing with the logics of globalization and in particular the networks between the regions of Asia and the West through which people and ideas circulate, but this was obviously nothing new. Considering the inseparable character of the circuits of diffusion of religious ideas and practices on the one hand, and of goods and services on the other, any researcher working in the same field could have quickly come to the conclusion that the globalization so belittled by some Buddhist voices (see Linn 2015, among others) was also a condition for its planetary success in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. In parallel, the forms of Buddhism in the West were also largely impacted by wider processes (mediatization, migration, missionization: see Csordas 2009), and in particular the diffusion of symbols, practices, and ideas of this ancient tradition. Buddhist organizations, traveling gurus, and devotees around the world clearly took advantage of being molded into the processes and circuits of globalization (which favored its diffusion outside Asia), just as “modern culture” (of Western origin but now globalized) had enabled the reception of Buddhism far from its original cultural contexts, popularizing on a large scale the orientalist fascination with Asian traditions and Buddhism in particular (Obadia 1999, 2000, 2004, 2007). From my own interactions with Buddhist converts since the early 1990s, it became evident that individual practitioners and Buddhist organizations were not systematically unsympathetic to processes by which religious teachers could travel the world to meet their disciples. From all these elements, it appeared that the massive use of Buddhist references or symbols in popular culture (songs, books, films, and television series, etc.) and the ensuing development of a new Buddhist culture worldwide were not always welcomed by Buddhists. Further, the development of a “Buddhist” market economy (of clothing fashion, advertising, artifacts, and decoration, but also the rising economy of well-being centered on meditation techniques) was not so harmful to Buddhism—or at least to its globalization. Such an approach, which emphasizes the contribution rather than the violence of capitalist globalization to the worldwide expansion and success of Buddhism, is not on an ethical level of assessing the “harms” of globalization on Buddhism and the way in which it defiles its “purity.” It focuses instead on the formal adaptations of Buddhists and Buddhisms to their conditions of existence. This is precisely what this chapter intends to emphasize. There seems to be an eminent paradox between, on the one hand, a distance that Buddhism maintains toward the most destructive aspects of globalization, as an “economic globalization [which] is today a runaway horse without a rider,” as Appadurai (2000: 16) states. Buddhism, of course, offers various yet singular responses to the many facets of globalization (economic, cultural, technological, political), accommodating them while maintaining a critical distance from political, social, technological, or 188

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cultural transformations of vast proportions (Kalmanson and Shields 2014). Buddhism’s responses to the global market economy similarly reveal the complexity of relationships, which can be somewhat reductively summarized in three forms, namely, Buddhism and globalization, Buddhism in globalization, and Buddhism against globalization, much in the same way as the relationships between economy/economics and religion have been framed, that is, the economics in, and, and of Buddhism (Obadia 2011a).

Buddhism, Economy, and Globalization Many Buddhists have pointed out the disastrous consequences of the forced movement toward progress (i.e., modernization) and the adoption of the values and models of modernity by populations on a global scale, from the Nobel Prize to the Dalai Lama in 1989, to less prominent figures, masters, simple practitioners, or intellectuals who use high-tech modern media techniques to express their positions. All dimensions of the impacts of globalization have been considered and examined through a Buddhist critical lens: inequalities created by economic competition, ecological disasters, hyperindustrialization, and dehumanization by technology, increased intercommunal or military violence, and so forth. All these phenomena can be equally assigned to “modernization” and to “globalization,” whatever the criteria for its definition. Globalization can be variously defined as a “world in flows” (Appadurai 2000), as “systems” (Beyer 1994), as a “world of exchange and hybridisation” (Luca and Burrell1999), as “ideological closure” and “violence” (Juergensmeyer 2000), as an operational theatre of community frontiers and tensions between human groups; there are many possibilities (summed up in Obadia 2010). What seems to characterize globalization studies is first that scholars have not reached any consensus on a definition for globalization, that is, defining what is being studied (Guillen 2001). Second, nor has any consensus been reached on how to study it. Yet many consider globalization to be “the triumph of capitalism” (see for instance Teeple 1997). Faithful to the approach adopted here, this chapter focuses on capitalism, whose parallel development with globalization is not in doubt. However, to make it the sole driving force of globalization would be a dramatic reduction of the complexity of the process. Economic globalization of course participates, admittedly in a decisive way, in a more general globalization of cultural, technological, and, of course, financial flows (Appadurai 1998). Economic forces are shaping global processes and, in turn, are shaped by them in a complex relationship (Mascarenhas 2002). Equally complex are the links between globalization and religion, which have been widely debated, even those conceptual links are among the latest to be questioned in globalization studies. In any particular context each religion/tradition is in fact confronted with specific facets of the processes of modernization and of globalization, and this entails the need to think of the complexity of situations and terms. Globalization does not confront Islam with the same issues as it does with Hinduism (Hefner 1998). Nor, of course, is Buddhism confronted by the same issues. For Buddhism “modernization” and “globalization” constitute two 189

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different matrices of transformation, engendering distinctive but combined effects (Obadia 2014). To evoke “capitalism” and “Buddhism” as two stable realities supposes referencing a general etic (abstract) semantic category that reduces the complexity of contrasting emic (lived) realities. In its infinite diversity Buddhism assumes different forms: from the Asian world to the West, from rural and remote forms to urban expressions, from “old” to “new” schools and lineages, from historical traditions to new movements, from ascetic to popular forms—with the exception of an imagined prototypical Buddhism that would be thought of as an abstract model to be applied to any form of analysis independently of a given tradition and context. The question of the relationship of Buddhism to globalization, and in particular to the globalization of capitalism, presupposes the examination, as many authors have done in a convincing manner, first of the relationship of Buddhism to the economy, and then to an economy that has been globalized in the particular form of industrial capitalism. I am referring here to the debate that has already been widely nourished since the work of Max Weber (1958 [1916]), which opens up a reflection on the “elective affinities” between forms of religious sociability (of the monastic community type) and the emergence of new social relationships against the background of a nascent monetary economy. Weber’s views have been widely discussed (from Tambiah 1973 to Schedneck 2019 and WilliamsOerberg 2019). What makes a major difference today, however, is the emergence of the concept of Buddhist economics after the impetus of E.F. Schumacher (1975). “Buddhist economics” refers to a Buddhist-inspired economic, ethical, and spiritual program for reforming the global economic system of modern capitalism and its excesses. There have been attempts, many of which have remained positions of intent, and others which have been deployed in sectors such as business, the solidarity economy, and ecology (Ng 2020). It is possible to position Buddhist economics, and the extreme diversity of Buddhist views on economics in general and Buddhist economics in particular, either in a long time frame, going back centuries and thus predating globalization, or in a shorter time frame, corresponding to the short chronology of globalization beginning with the Industrial Revolution (Drechsler 2019).

Buddhism in (Capitalist) Globalization Buddhism, as is well known, has spread since ancient times through trade circuits across both terrestrial and maritime routes. A significant number of new channels have been shaped by globalization and new opportunities for cultural diffusion have surfaced since the second half of the twentieth century, notably through media circuits. These have developed extremely rapidly, in particular after the invention of the internet and the rise of a “network society” (Castells 2000). New technologies have impacted cultures and religions throughout the world, and as a consequence Buddhism is also affected, but scholars who have tackled the issue of Buddhism and the new global technologies are divided on the impact of these technologies on Buddhist traditions, ethics, and practices. Some support a critical approach, underscoring the capitulation of Buddhism in face of 190

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the empire of media (Hershock 1999). Others feel more confident in Buddhism’s ability to adapt to the multitude of technologies and the opportunities they offer (Grieve and Veidlinge 2015). Further, there is a tenuous link between technological and media circuits, and economic circuits, and for Adam Possamai digital (and economic) globalization goes hand in hand in the form of an “I-zation” of society, that is, the domination of capitalism not only in outer social lives but also in our inner personal lives, through its expansion in the digital world, facilitated by various I-technology applications (Possamai 2018). Buddhist organizations and sympathizers are massively present on the internet and in the media, voicing their ideas in debates on globalization and capitalism, using references to Buddhism as an authoritative yardstick. These mediatized Buddhists are, however, contributing to a simplification and secularization of their practices so as to make them accessible to as many people as possible. In turn, they also see part of their symbolic heritage being culturally appropriated by companies that make a financial profit from selling objects inspired by the aesthetics of Buddhism (Borup 2016), when it is not Buddhism itself that is part of a profitable economy of well-being (Obadia 2010). In short, if we look at these elements considered together, one could come to the conclusion that the traditions of Asian Buddhist asceticism seem to have been entirely subsumed by the logic of marketization to the point of becoming emblematic items in the Knowing Buddha Organization’s campaign (Jain 2014; Puustinen and Rautaniemi 2015).

Globalized Buddhism The second aspect under consideration here is the “Globalization of Buddhism,” that is, the way by which Buddhism has undergone transformations in terms of spatial distribution, and by extension, in terms of organization, ethics, and practices. In short, how it has adapted to new global conditions, including technological connectivity, phenomena of cultural standardization, and the expansion of a consumer culture. The rise of this “globalized” or “global” Buddhism (which has in the meantime become the subject of a specialized journal)4 was outlined by Martin Baumann in an influential paper at the beginning of the 2000s, showing how the opening up of the West first, and then of the world, allowed Buddhism to expand well beyond Asia (Baumann 2001). The expansion of Buddhism in the context of globalization has been greatly facilitated by an ancient ability to spread in different territories. This ability is based on religious ideals understood to be universal and on a missionary spirit that characterizes Buddhist expansionism (Obadia 1999; Learman 2004; Obeyesekere 2006). In the late 1990s, I had exposed what I thought were the main lines of Buddhism’s alignment with the processes of globalization according to the principles above-mentioned (of mission and universalism), principles that were reworked to fit the ideological, technological, and geopolitical context of globalization (Obadia 2004). In a similar vein, Raphael Liogier added a degree of complexity to the reflection on Global Buddhism by exploring the differentiated logics of different Buddhist traditions and new movements. His focus is on their proximity to the values and dynamics of globalization, and more particularly 191

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in the case of what he calls “new Buddhisms,” that is, modern forms of Asian asceticism referring more or less to Buddhist teachings, like the Sōka Gakkai movement in Japan (Liogier 2004). Furthermore, an analogy directly inspired by capitalist economy surfaced and developed which has since been widely used in the context of a globalized Buddhism, in the backgrounds of the expansion of global capitalism and the emergence of Buddhism Economics. The so-called commodification of Buddhism has been a powerful theoretical proposition, opening a fecund yet critical debate nourished by regional analyses (in Burma, Philp and Mercer 1999; in Thailand, Schedneck 2014; in Tibet Brox, 2019; in North America, Padgett 2000; in Great Britain and in China, Chang 2020; in Europe, Obadia 2011b and Borup 2016). The key idea of “Buddhism as a consumer good” is a successful metaphor of what is seen as “consumption” of practices and symbols (Obadia 2010) in the context of circulation and appropriation of Buddhist or Buddhist-inspired objects and symbols (Borup and Fibiger 2017); it also applies to the use of Buddhist yoga techniques at the heart of global flows of tourists (Schedneck 2014). These “objects” and immaterial “consumer goods” are supposed to illustrate a “market” effect, not only because of their value (since they are “consumed”) but also because of their position in a globalized orientalist imaginary, whereby Buddhist items become appealing and “consumable” (Matthews 2000; Obadia 2007; Borup 2016), as is the case with other Asian traditions (Borup and Fibiger 2017; Jain 2014; Arjana 2020). On the grounds of these elements, one can logically conclude that, on the microscopic scale of the realities observed in the ordinary life of both faithful and sporadic practitioners of Buddhism, the reality of a commodification of Buddhism raises no doubt. On a broader scale, this could be the evidence of the robustness of the analytical models of a “marketization of religions” in the context of globalization, and one can thus conclude that there exists a consubstantial link between the globalized culture of consumerism with its variant of spiritual consumerism, and the globalization of full traditions or of isolated ideas and practices of Buddhism. However, and this is where the reflection becomes more complicated, the confusion between the metaphor and the reality of a commodification of Buddhism is too rushed. It is indeed true in both cases that “markets” for “consumer goods” and practices are being formed, based on models of religious economies, in a context of supply and demand, proving that it is possible to “consume” Buddhist practices (in meditation workshops) as paid services and even more so, to consume Buddhist objects (artifacts) or objects inspired by Buddhist aesthetics. The act of acquiring an object or a service, however, does not automatically make its initial motivations and the satisfaction derived from it a mirror image of consumerism. The figure of the Dhama hopper, which is similar to that of the spiritual seeker, is rivaled by that of the Dharma shopper, who looks like a spiritual consumer. But “shopping” is part of a symbolic economy and not just a monetary one, and for Tweed (1999) it is a way, albeit distanced and somewhat instrumental, of experiencing Buddhist ideas and practices, of appropriating it for all those (who are demographically more numerous than the Buddhists identified as such) who are interested in Buddhism or who want to “encounter” Buddhism without 192

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necessarily engaging it body and soul. What Tweed’s analysis revealed, some years ago, was that the shopper’s attitude must be seen as nonjudgmental but faithfully respectful of the way Buddhism is poured into the personal experience of the thousands of those in the West and elsewhere who do not intend to join a community. Tweed probably did not imagine that the change in terminology he introduced in the late 1990s could lead to a wider debate on the conditions of emergence of this new figure, the “spiritual consumer,” motivated by economic utilitarianism. Especially since the “spiritual consumer” was overcoming the “religious seeker” in religious studies, who was apparently driven by a more existential quest and a more “virtuous” desire, even if both spiritual seekers and religious consumers seem to merge in the end, against a backdrop of materialism and utilitarian consumerism (Husemann and Eckhardt 2019). However, it is questionable to what extent the choice of an economic terminology in the analysis of the dynamics of religions in the context of globalization is a change of perspective or a theoretical re-characterization of changes that are taking place on the empirical level. In other words, whether the global influence of capitalism is such that it compels a rethinking of the relationship of individuals and groups to Buddhist belief systems and practices (Buddhist organizations behaving as businesses and followers behaving as consumers), or if the influence of capitalism can be identified on a more intellectual level, when observers of Buddhism and scholars in globalization decide to recapture religious dynamics, behaviors, and beliefs through an economist’s lens (Obadia 2013). Are religions in general and Buddhism in particular ultimately finally subjugated to the capitalist global order? Or have they been able to resist and appropriate the logics of the global market to their advantage? Far from championing a too simplified conception of these interactions, and as research on religions in the context of global capitalism is ongoing and enriched by more case studies, it has been observed that the actors and dynamics of the economy behave in return like religions. The analogy is hence turned upside down, unveiling what could look like a common wisdom: that not everything is determined by a unilateral relationship between globalization, which is supposed to advance ineluctably, on the one hand, and religions, that are said “to be impacted by global forces” (Gauthier, Martikainen, and Heelas 2013) on the other hand. However, it so happens that, at the ideological level rather than at the level of academic thought, a salvo of criticisms has been addressed to globalization in the name of Buddhism.

Buddhism against Globalization A recent example can easily illustrate this point. When the internationally known footballer and symbol of the globalization of sports and the economic elites of which he is a part, Cristiano Ronaldo, posted a photo of himself on a social network in 2016 next to a large Buddha head in his garden, the reactions on the internet were massively hostile. Thousands of web users accused him of disrespect, denounced cultural appropriation, and criticized more broadly the fetishist materialism of Westerners 193

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in general (Ng  2019), echoing other criticisms of what appears to be a harmful commodification of Asian traditions. More generally, terms associated with the values and norms of global capitalism have a rather negative resonance in Buddhism, at least in the mediatic expression of self-identified Buddhist “voices” that offer a moral position opposing economic globalization, or at least addresses severe criticisms of the advance of capitalism as contrary to Buddhist values (Linn 2015, Simão 2019), a source of alienation to consumerism against which Buddhism is precisely opposed (King 2009). In its effort to resist, Buddhism offers alternative models to destructive industrial economic production and its impact on human well-being (Zsolnai 2014). The argument is well known: the spiritual principles of Buddhism, the Four Noble Truths, and the whole theory of liberation from attachment can be applied in response to the advance of capitalism by injecting spiritual values into logics that are purely instrumental and calculative (Daniels 2007). In the vein of Buddhist economics, the King of Bhutan even adopted a posture of inverted mimicry in 2008, proposing an alternative to economic globalization with the calculation of Gross National Happiness (GNH) instead of the usual Gross National Product, and thus substituting a calculation of human life based on economic materialism with an evaluation based on human flourishing. Many other examples could have been added to the voluminous dossier of Buddhist resistance to globalization. But for those who look further into the matter, Buddhists seem to have a very ambivalent relationship with capitalist economy: they are both committed (aligned with its models) and critical (opposed in principle or offering concrete resistance to the dominant models) (Brox and Wiliams-Oerberg 2017, 2020). This same ambivalence can be found, for example, in the field of Buddhist economics. While Buddhism has not yet demonstrated its capacity to significantly transform the global capitalist system, progressing only in certain sectors (fair trade, professional ethics in certain companies, etc.), it is overwhelmed by the penetration of yoga techniques, meditation, and ascetic principles in sectors of capitalist economy, particularly in large, globalized and wealthy companies of Silicon Valley (Delbecq 2010), so that it ultimately (and paradoxically) ends up supporting the capitalist ethics. What remains for Buddhism is the possibility of a critical posture against the “hard” forms of capitalism (Simmer-Brown 2002) but with the hope of having more visible consequences on its “light” forms (Lennerfors 2015). A movement like the KBO, by virtue of its activism and its intransigence in defending the values of Buddhism at all costs, even if it means forbidding behaviors (particularly purchasing) that can be considered as part of a flexible adaptation, has been accused of defending fundamentalist positions or rigid traditionalist stances (Jerryson 2018); therefore, in a sense, it has been located on the side of the anti-globalists. In the same way that radical traditionalist Islam had already positioned itself as an anti-globalist movement taking full advantage of the resources offered by globalization (Beyer 1994; Roy 2004), KBO, whether or not it is labeled fundamentalist, also partakes in antiglobalization while lying in the heart of globalization processes. In order to break the circularity between progressivism on the one hand and a “return” to traditionalism on the other, Borup (2021) proposes to call these fundamentalist and essentialist reactions “post-global.” However interesting this proposal, the debate is still 194

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located within the intellectual and empirical boundaries of globalization and not beyond it, and thus invites reflection on the positioning of Buddhism and its ambivalences in this context. On the one hand, then, the symbolic economy of Buddhism is indeed an open one, because of its circulation in a worldwide market, which satisfies admirers of Buddhist aesthetics all over the planet, tourists and visitors to Asian countries; and on the other hand, it is a closed economy, which reduces the possibilities of appropriation and the plasticity of the meaning attributed to these goods, even though they are in circulation. Case studies of Buddhist communities “guiding” consumption of their member exemplify this tension (McKenzie 2015).

Conclusion: Paradoxes of Global Buddhism in the Context of I-Capitalism This logically leads to the question, on the basis of the aforementioned empirical elements and literature collected, of how Buddhism, insofar as it is both a globalism and an alter-globalism, both eco(nomic)-friendly and eco(nomic)-resistant, torn in the same movement between traditionalism and modernism, is positioned in a globalization that offers to it objective advantages but to which it nevertheless opposes ethical principles (Brox and Williams-Oerberg 2020). This position, it is worth reminding, is based on a close association between globalization and capitalism, an “I-capitalism” (i.e., global capitalism sustained and entrenched by global digital technologies) operating as an economic, social, and ideological matrix that would affect all psychic, social, cultural, or spiritual forms of the world today. Many scholars point to the global spread of capitalism as the primary and most important form of an inexorably advancing globalization, and to the way in which the ideas, values, symbols, and norms of capitalism, the system of consumerism and commodification, increasingly infuse the ordinary lives of the world’s citizens and in particular their belief systems. While it is not my intention here to dispute that such a phenomenon operates on a global scale, one should also remember the need to give the analysis the complexity and depth it calls for by recalling that the objects of Buddhism and its symbols have circulated in market and trade routes long before globalization (He 2019). There is something eminently problematic about reducing everything to an economistic theory that would clear the consumer goods in circulation of their meaning (Obadia 2013). Such an analysis would simply ignore their capacity to continue to mean something on a spiritual level in a market economy (Tarocco 2011), and thus not being against a market economy but circulating thanks to it. When one of the first historical supporters of Buddhism in the West, the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, celebrated the grandeur of Buddhism at the end of the nineteenth century, he did it while contemplating a Buddha statue he had bought and used as a decoration. It is true that times have changed and Buddha statues are now mass produced and sold widely, but does their mode of production, distribution, and appropriation automatically empty them of their meaning? Taking the example of the globalization of Tibetan ideas and practices, Gordon Mathews had clearly shown that the frontier between the values of 195

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“truth” and “taste” associated with “marketed” elements was not so clear and that the “consumption” of a symbolic item (an object of belief or a spiritual practice) circulating in a “global market” could equally be associated with religious(-like) meaning and values (Mathews 2000). In a chapter written in the early 2000s, I attempted to draft a theoretical model that could summarize the complexity and ambivalence of the relationship between Buddhism, considered here as an archetypal model of the set of forms it assumes in practice, and globalization, considered here mainly (but not exclusively) from the point of view of the extension of capitalism, by distinguishing this twofold position as “apart from” and as “a part of ” globalization (Obadia 2004). The examples provided in this chapter tend to show that, given the same global conditions but different cultural and religious, socioeconomic and geographical contexts, Buddhist responses to economic globalization are not uniform. There is also an eminent paradox identified by Slavoj Žižek when he noted that Western Buddhism, a modernized Buddhism born in particular in the cultural and geographical crucible of capitalism, has opposed the evils of global capitalism while at the same time participating in the embeddedness of Buddhism in this same market economy it publicly criticized and rejected (Žižek 2001). However, Žižek’s analysis, which is strongly influenced by Marxism, is still relying on dualist thinking, and for him, one of the two poles, that of contesting capitalist globalization, appears to be illusory and superficial. These points have been contested by his detractors, who point to the fact that Žižek might have underestimated the capacity of individuals to mobilize Buddhist ideas in resistance to the expansion of capitalism in their psychic domain (Gradus 2015). The reflection can step further as soon as we consider that another conceptual relationship between Buddhism and global capitalism could be considered, which would not be based on an alternative (one or the other) but on a simultaneity that characterizes them as distinct but collaborative entities. It is indeed on purpose that the examples discussed earlier show that, in the same context and tradition (Theravada Buddhism of Thailand and the modernized movements of Buddhism in North America and Europe, respectively), the opposite reactions of rejection and acceptance are expressed by Buddhist organizations and actors. It is not senseless to see in this paradox an invitation to think about the complexity of an interesting situation, where the same religion can be both, once again, “a part of ” and “apart from” globalization.

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CHAPTER 11 PROLEGOMENA TO A BUDDHIST(IC) CRITIQUE OF CAPITALISM

James Mark Shields

Introduction Not even three decades removed from Francis Fukuyama’s post-Cold War proclamation of the “End of History,” many in the Western world are now undergoing buyer’s remorse—at the very least—with respect to both capitalism as an economic system and neoliberalism as its less-recognized but ever-present ideological foundation. The financial crisis of 2008 and subsequent Great Recession, the Occupy movement(s) of 2011, the 2016 and 2020 challenges of Senator Bernie Sanders for the Democratic nomination, and growing anxiety about the fate of the planet, particularly among the young, have opened up new avenues of critique and brought “socialism” back to the table as a topic of conversation.1 But socialism is not the only voice in the new wave of anti-capitalist critique; Buddhism, as well, might play a role. A Buddhist critique of industrial capitalism can be traced back at least to the late nineteenth century, when Western economic forms began to make itself felt in South, Southeast, and East Asian countries in which Buddhism held some measure of influence. Indeed, Buddhism was an important player in the making of East Asian modernity. Now, however, the circumstances are quite different; for one, the classical (Marxist) critique of capitalism, for all its strengths, does not necessarily apply to either the conditions of postindustrial capitalism or—more crucially—the ideological and discursive forms of contemporary neoliberalism, which, despite recent countercurrents, continue to hold remarkable sway in Western capitalist societies.2 In this chapter, drawing on the work of contemporary anti-capitalist critics as well as those of earlier progressive Buddhists, I outline a basic framework for Buddhist anti-capitalism, one that directly addresses neoliberalism as a set of ideas and habits of mind and body.

Defining Capitalism Despite being all around us—or perhaps because of its very ubiquity—capitalism is difficult to define. Perhaps, like the famous adage by US Supreme Court justice Potter Stewart on pornography—or better, St. Augustine on time—we know it when we see it, but when someone asks, we have a hard time putting it into words. One of the problems is the (inevitable) slippage between capitalism as an economic “system” and as a set of political, social, and even psychological assumptions and practices. Another is the fact

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that capitalism has shown a remarkable ability to transform (often under pressure), such that it has in the past century alone shown tremendous variation, even within a single society such as the United States. And finally, as progressive critics often highlight, capitalism has become “naturalized” such that it is extremely difficult to pull apart from contemporary social reality, at least in the West and other industrialized or postindustrial societies.3 Sociologist Erik Olin Wright suggests that capitalism in all forms be best understood in terms of a commitment to both a market economy and a particular kind of class structure: One way of thinking about this combination is that the market dimension identifies the basic mechanism of coordination of economic activities in an economic system—coordination through decentralized voluntary exchanges, supply and demand, and prices—and the class structure identifies the central power relations within the economic system—between private owners of capital and workers.4 According to Bhaskar Sunkara, capitalism is best described as “a social system based on private ownership of the means of production and wage labor. It relies on multiple markets: markets for goods and services, the labor market, and the capital market” (Sunkara 2019: 16). Vivek Chibber suggests that we identify capitalism as a system based not simply on the fact of markets but rather on the condition of “market dependence.” Since the vast majority of people within a capitalist society at virtually all levels of the economic food chain “depend on the market to make a living . . . what this means is that when people try to acquire the basic necessities for their well-being—such as food, clothing, and shelter—they have to buy or rent them from someone else. They don’t have the option of making the essentials themselves.” There are three significant implications to draw from this: (i) all production is carried out for selling on the market, not for selfconsumption; (ii) the labor that goes into production is by people working for a wage; (iii) productive establishments are privately owned (Chibber 2018: 9). Also important here, for all of what we often hear about capitalism and “freedom,” is the reliance of such a system upon precarity.5 Correctly understood, capitalism “not only depends on the creation of mass insecurity, but reproduces that very insecurity as part of its lifeblood” (Chibber 2018: 28). Indeed, “[a] baseline level of insecurity is forced onto workers by capitalism, all the time, everywhere, regardless of country or region” (Chibber 2018: 30). While precarity was to some degree ameliorated by worker’s movements (and unions) in the early-mid-twentieth century, it is important to understand that these gains were implemented very much against the spirit of the system, which always pushes in the opposite direction. And indeed, since the 1980s, the United States in particular but arguably the West as a whole has seen a dramatic reversal, such that “institutions that had temporarily acted to decrease that insecurity are being taken apart. They are being dismantled by forces that seek to restore the status quo, because they benefit from it. Their actions are motivated by the logic of capitalism itself ” (Chibber 2018: 30). Not coincidentally, this period coincides with the rise of neoliberalism as an ideology that sharpens, justifies, and further “naturalizes” capitalist conditions. 198

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With regard to the question of intention, always germane to Buddhist ethics (and even, I suggest, Buddhist soteriology), one of the complicating factors of capitalism is that it operates as a vast and complex system that extends far beyond any one individual (despite neoliberal rhetoric involving small-scale “entrepreneurs”). Thus, Chibber cautions anti-capitalists to recall the following three key points about contemporary capitalism: (i) Capitalism is not just a collection of individuals, but individuals grouped as social classes; (ii) Capitalists and workers have very different interests; (iii) Capitalists aren’t motivated by greed but by market pressures. That said, of course, contemporary neoliberal rhetoric informs us that the “vast and complex” nature of global capitalism is a key reason why we cannot possibly get rid of it, which is going too far in the other direction.6 After all, on one level the “system” relies entirely on the work of people, that is, as “complex” as it may appear, it does not and cannot exist “out there” as some Platonic form. Indeed, John Holloway has argued that it may be of value to think less of “destroying” capitalism as a system (with attendant concerns associated with revolution, violence, etc.), and rather consider whether we might simply “stop making it” in our everyday lives (Holloway 2011: n.p.). Rather than thinking of capitalism as a huge and powerful monster that we created but is now out of our control (i.e., Frankenstein’s Creature), we should think of capitalism as an “illusion” that we create and maintain by our everyday individual and collective actions, but that otherwise has no “reality” (i.e., the dreamed man in Borges’s story “The Circular Ruins”). Holloway’s provocation is that we consider what it might mean to simply stop doing capitalism. In other words, not to destroy but to cease to create. To this end, Holloway poses “a different grammar, a different logic of revolutionary thought . . .” which may lead to what he felicitously calls “the emancipation of doing”: Any revolution that is not centred in the emancipation of doing is condemned to failure (because it is not a revolution). The emancipation of doing leads us into a different time, a different grammar, a different intensity of life. The emancipation of doing is the movement of anti-fetishisation, the recovery of creativity. Only in this way can the fissures become poles of attraction instead of ghettos, and only if they are poles of attraction can they extend and multiply. (Holloway 2011 n.p.) Ultimately, what is at stake here is a certain type of power (and its flipside, alienation), a point to which I will return later.

Anti-capitalism While there are various reasons and causes behind anti-capitalist movements, one of the earliest and still one of the most prominent is the recognition of injustice. This critique has deep roots within socialism, which arose in Europe as a direct response to the 199

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conditions of insecurity brought on by the Industrial Revolution of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Of course, in this period the logic of capitalist industrialization rarely even attempted to placate the “negative externalities” created by rapid and largescale movement of persons from rural to urban areas, with the consequent loss of the ability of many people to subsist outside of a wage system. And yet, however dire the everyday existence of the new “working class” in Manchester or Paris, it was clearly not “slavery” or even “serfdom.” After all, in theory, these workers were always “free” to leave their jobs at any time. Eventually, this premise—as absurd as it may have seemed at the time—would become one of the foundations of capitalist (and later, neoliberal) ideology: despite the differences in wealth (and power) accrued by various players in the economic game, if one works hard and plays by the rules, one can always make it to the top. Of course, this assumes, among other things, a level playing field—which there has never been. But more importantly, it shifts responsibility for a person’s livelihood (“success”) entirely onto the individual, and away from families, communities, and nation-states. As a consequence, one’s “failure” (understood in relative, but nearly always economic terms) is taken as a sign of lack: ignorance or, more commonly, laziness—the greatest of all capitalist sins. The psychological effects of this can be devastating, unless one is able to see through the hypocrisy and recognize that the secret to capitalism is that there is no reliable connection between effort and reward. The people who work in nursing homes, or fast food, or Amazon warehouses, or in hotel kitchens—they create massive profits for their employers. But they not only see very little of it in their wages, they also have to deal with chronic job insecurity and terrible hours. . . . What determines people’s economic fate in capitalism is not their effort, but their power. (Chibber 2018: 35) In short, capitalism systematically generates injustice. Here the sources of the critique move beyond socialism to potentially include mainstream liberalism and democratic theory. After all, by consigning the majority of workers to both material insecurity and arbitrary authority, capitalism confronts basic “liberal” and “democratic” principles of autonomy and integrity. In this sense, it is and has always been a system that is fundamentally opposed to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. In its article on “Millennial Socialism,” The Economist notes the genealogical link of ideas connecting Enlightenment thinkers Adam Smith, John Stuart Mill, and Thomas Jefferson—all of whom were wary of the dangers of unchecked capitalism—and the views of contemporary Left writers such as Mark Fisher (author of Capitalist Realism) and David Graeber (author of The Utopia of Rules and Bullshit Jobs), for whom globalization “is less an engine for prosperity and more a generator of insecurity, unfreedom and unfairness” (Economist 2/14/2019: 20). By focusing the analysis of contemporary capitalism on issues of power, freedom, security, integrity, and human flourishing—which are material but also imbricate emotional, mental, moral, and even “spiritual” conditions—the conversation opens toward some of the fundamental concerns of Buddhism. Of course, there was nothing like modern or contemporary capitalism in Asia for most of Buddhist history, but this 200

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very fact is what, I believe, allows for the possibility of creative reinterpretation, in line with the way that contemporary Engaged Buddhists redescribe—to invoke a Rortyan term—the tradition to address contemporary political concerns that either did not exist (e.g., climate change) or had very different forms (e.g., poverty) in premodern, precapitalist periods.

A Few Words on Buddhism and “Engagement” Before going further, perhaps a few words need to be said about “Buddhism”—a word that, even more than “capitalism,” is fraught with definitional ambiguities. First and foremost, there is not, and has never been, a single “thing”—whether we want to call it a “religion,” “philosophy,” “ritual tradition,” or “institution”—called Buddhism.7 Even setting aside the fact that “Buddhism” is a Western term of relatively recent coinage, the significant cultural, linguistic, and sectarian variations among those who followed some version of the dharma render it foolhardy to suggest an “essence” (at any rate, many of the early texts push against the search for “essence”). But again, as noted earlier, I see this less as a limiting factor than as an opportunity, though one we must approach with the cautionary tales of a century or more of Western orientalism (both negative and more recently, idealizing). At any rate, while there can be no single “definition” of a set of rituals, practices, values, and ideas as diverse as those which are labeled “Buddhist,” it is undeniable that, whatever else may be involved, the Dharmic traditions provide methods for the amelioration if not elimination of “suffering” among and between sentient beings.8 A recent article by Amod Lele calls the question on socially engaged (often shortened to Engaged) Buddhism by challenging Engaged Buddhists to address the fact that most of classical Buddhism was not socially engaged—and indeed, in Lele’s view, Buddhist texts and practices were largely opposed to involvement in social or political concerns (Lele 2019: 239–90). Lele is quite right that contemporary Engaged Buddhism fails to adequately address the ways that their movement breaks with past precedent. That said, I believe there is a (modernist? orientalist?) risk in assuming that categories such as the “religious,” “spiritual,” “social,” “economic,” and “political” have tried and true resonance in premodern, non-Western cultures and traditions. Second, while assuredly some classical Buddhists were focused on concerns that today we might classify as “mental” or “internal,” it is also true that, as Bernard Faure has noted, the assumption that these concerns were purely individual and (thereby) disconnected from the community belies the centrality of the sangha in traditional Buddhist ideas and practice (Faure 2009: 17, 69; see also Schmidt-Leukel 2010: 47–8). Third, while it may be too much to suggest that the Buddhist dharma is an ethics or politics, the central role of ethics in Buddhist thought and practice renders it “social” (and, as I have argued elsewhere [Shields 2016], “economic” and “political”) almost by definition. And finally, given the interplay between the sangha and political leaders in various regions of Asia, to suggest that Buddhism has ever really been apolitical is to ignore history in favor of some idealized version of Buddhist teaching.9 201

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Another way of framing this is to consider Erik Olin Wright’s distinction between passive and active forms of social reproduction, both of which play a significant role in sustaining and perpetuating capitalist society. Whereas active social reproduction comes about by institutions and structures such as the police, courts, education, media, religion, and so on, passive reproduction refers to those aspects of social reproduction that are anchored in the mundane routines and activities of everyday life. [. . .] [It] is simply a by-product of the ways in which the daily activities of people mesh in a kind of self-sustaining equilibrium in which the dispositions and choices of actors generate a set of interactions that reinforces those dispositions and choices. (Wright 2010: 274–6) While Buddhist thought can have a role in a critique of political institutions and social structures, the sharper edge of Dharmic critique would seem to lie with the everyday “habits of mind and body” that are less obviously supportive of structures of suffering and alienation.10 In this sense, truly, the personal is political.11 Is Buddhism anti-capitalist? No. But given what I have just written this question, in its generality, doesn’t make sense. Today, Buddhism in parts of Asia and the West is certainly imbricated in capitalist economies and neoliberal ideological forms. Moreover, there are Buddhists, both monastic and lay, who have argued for the compatibility of Buddhism and capitalism. That said, there are also significant resources for anti-capitalism within a variety of Buddhist traditions, classical and modern. And there have been not a few Buddhists—priests, scholars, and lay activists—who have developed forms of anticapitalism inspired by Buddhist teachings.12 So the more appropriate questions are: Can we imagine a Buddhist anti-capitalism? On what would it be based, and what might it look like? These are the questions I attempt to answer in this chapter.13

“This One Goes to Eleven . . .” Erik Olin Wright has usefully summarized what he envisions as eleven “basic propositions” of a contemporary critique of capitalism.14 In what follows, I examine these in relation to Buddhist teachings, in order to develop a foundation for a contemporary Buddhist anti-capitalism.

(1) Capitalist class relations perpetuate eliminable forms of human suffering.



(2) Capitalism blocks the universalization of conditions for expansive human flourishing.



(3) Capitalism perpetuates eliminable deficits in individual freedom and autonomy.



(4) Capitalism violates liberal egalitarian principles of social justice.



(5) Capitalism is inefficient in certain crucial respects.

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(6) Capitalism has a systemic bias toward consumerism.



(7) Capitalism is environmentally destructive.



(8) Capitalist commodification threatens important broadly held values.



(9) Capitalism, in a world of nation-states, fuels militarism and imperialism.

(10) Capitalism corrodes community. (11) Capitalism limits democracy. It is worth noting at the outset that, as Wright admits, some of these criticisms also apply—perhaps even more so—to so-called “actually existing” socialist regimes of the twentieth century, especially the move away from democracy, autonomy, and concern for the environment. Also, different “capitalist” societies will manifest varying degrees of each of these. And yet, they remain inescapable lines of critique that any defender of capitalism must address. The question for us is which of the eleven concerns have the greatest resonance with Buddhism, in its classical or modern forms? While a case might be made for all of these as valid concerns for a contemporary Dharmic anti-capitalist critique, I focus here on #1, #2, #3, and #10 as particularly germane. Exploitation At first glance, Critique #1 appears to be the most salient to Buddhism, given that the primary purpose of dharma in all its various manifestations is the amelioration, if not elimination, of suffering. The issue is whether “class” is a category with much or any resonance in classical Buddhism—or whether this point must be generalized, without thereby losing the emphasis on material (including economic) conditions and relations of power.15 Before entering into that question, note that Wright further divides this first critique into three subsections, of which the most relevant for our purposes is the first: exploitation.16 The end goal of capitalist economics is profit. Importantly, for most anti-capitalists critics including Marx, this has little to do with the personal greed of individual capitalists (“mean ol’ Pennybags!”). That said, the culture that is encouraged by constant pressures toward profit-maximizing surely reinforces the “value” of selfinterest in a way that resembles what traditional religions would call the “sin” or “poison” of greed. In order to ensure profit, the capitalist is compelled to “extract” as much labor as possible from her workers at as little cost as possible—which is the very definition of “exploitation.” For related reasons, capitalists have a vested interest in maintaining high levels of unemployment, weak unions, and a large labor pool. Taken together, this goes well beyond the problem of poverty; the problem rather is increasing vulnerability and marginalization (Wright 2010: 44). Again, this situation is dictated by capitalist “logic”; that is, it is the essence of capitalism, rather than simply a “negative externality.”17 It is not hard-to-find Buddhist resonances here, given the classical Dharmic understanding that greed is one of the three salient “poisons” that generate suffering (and is closely interrelated with hatred and delusion). Moreover, the exploitation of human beings—understood in the specific sense of the extraction of “surplus value” from labor 203

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for profit—seems to work against the foundational principle of “loving compassion,” which arguably forms a basis for a Dharmic principle of human dignity. Also key here is that these forms of suffering are clearly “eliminable”; that is, they are not baked into the human condition in the way of, say, the physical sufferings of disease and death. Restricting Human Flourishing “Human flourishing” is a term that is often used to describe the goals of many of the world’s philosophical traditions, including those of classical Greece, India, and China. While there are of course substantial variations on the theme, I propose that Aristotle’s eudaemonia works as the best general representation of this idea, as it highlights a connection to happiness (without a perfect equivalence), an emphasis on the “this world” (without a firm denial of the possibility of the “spiritual” or “transcendent”), and an attempt to balance individual satisfactions with communal or social well-being.18 While eudaemonia is not a perfect fit with the classical Buddhist goal (or goals) of awakening, there are certainly resonances—perhaps even stronger in the Mahāyāna and East Asian traditions.19 Wright’s second critique of contemporary global capitalism stems from an eudaemonistic perspective. Here he calls the question as to what “human flourishing” means in the twenty-first century. When socialists (or anarchists, as well as nineteenthcentury romantics and some old-school conservatives) list the harms of capitalism, the alternative image “is not simply that of a consumer paradise without poverty or material deprivation, but rather a social order in which individuals thrive, where their talents and creative potentials are nurtured and freely exercised to the fullest extent” (Wright 2010: 48–9).20 In short, anti-capitalist critiques, though frequently stereotyped and disparaged as “materialist” in nature, almost always point toward a broader and more fulfilled “humanity”—what we might even call a “spiritual” but at any rate certainly a “humanist” ideal. Wright parses this second critique into the following more specific concerns: (i) inequalities generated by capitalism limit access to material conditions for flourishing (e.g., health and education) (ii) as well as access to interesting and challenging work; (iii) the ethic of hyper-competition “trickles down” to infect aspects of everyday life and relations. (Wright 2010: 45–6). The problem of access to material conditions will be discussed later, in relation to solidarity and community. The problem of competition is somewhat more speculative and is, I suggest, less germane than the issue of greed as a cultural ideal. Here, then, I would like to focus briefly on the issue of “work” and how it might be understood from a Dharmic perspective. Under capitalism, as noted earlier, employers are incentivized to extract maximum effort from workers for as little costs as they can achieve. Advances in technologies and “managerial” techniques and forms of oversight have substantially increased worker productivity in industrialized nations since the Second World War (and especially since the 1970s) without significant gains in remuneration. In short, as long as “efficiency” remains the goal of capitalist work, there is little to no incentive to create jobs that are “meaningful, interesting, and challenging”—in fact, efficiency dictates that jobs of this 204

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sort must be routinized to save costs (Wright 2010: 48–9). This point is supported by David Graeber’s recent analysis of Bullshit Jobs (though Graeber’s thesis challenges the argument for capitalist “efficiency”—at least in purely economic terms). Somewhat surprisingly, despite their attention to the economics of labor, socialist critiques of capitalism have not paid much attention to the issue of work in terms of “creativity,” “challenge,” and “meaning,” perhaps out of fear that this would lead them down the paths of “utopians” such as Fourier.21 What can Buddhism add to this, if anything? Is there or can there be a Dharmic theory of labor?

A Buddhist Theory of Property and Labor In terms of a classical Buddhist theory of labor, textual sources are slight. However, at least one source may provide a glimpse of the relation of work to property. According to the Milindapañha, “It is when a man clears away the jungle and sets free a piece of land and the people say ‘that is his land.’ Not that the land is made by him. It is because he has brought the land into use that he is called the owner of the land” (cited in Chakravarti 1987: 23). For Chakravarti, “This statement represents a very important principle in relation to private property and associates it with that of labour. It suggests that a person becomes entitled to the land primarily because he has put labour into it” (Chakravarti 1987: 23). Indeed, this is strikingly reminiscent of the “labor theory of property” put forth by John Locke (with possibly Spinozan roots) and accepted by US founding fathers like Thomas Jefferson. We will return to this later in our discussion of Marxist labor theory of value and its relation to a contemporary Buddhist theory of labor. So what is the Buddhist approach toward private property? Again, we are confounded to some degree by simple anachronism: there was no “private property” per se prior to the institution of modern legal systems and subsequent “rights” in the West. That said, we can, as always, draw analogies and allow for some flexing of categories (otherwise, to borrow from Donald Davidson, cross-cultural and temporal “translation” would be impossible). Here the Agañña Sutta provides a classical source which seems to indicate, along Rousseauian lines, that the institution of private property, kingship, and state institutions is seen as a “fall” from an early “golden age” of harmony and community (what Chinese Buddhist modernist Kang Youwei would call the Datong or “Great Unity” in his utopian vision published in 1904).22 Beyond the Agañña Sutta, however, are the clear stipulations in the vinaya that enforce a minimal set of possessions for bhikkus and bhikkunis, if not, specifically, for lay followers. Here the problem with private possessions is simply that they complicate one’s life, acting as distractions from the path toward liberation (including, of course, both meditative practice and ethics). Though Buddhists throughout the centuries have at times veered toward a moralistic anti-materialism, arguably the concern is more pragmatic than moral or metaphysical—that is, appropriate usage is at issue, not anything particularly “tainted” or “fallen” about matter or the material objects that are purchased, consumed, or owned.23 205

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At the same time, there are also Buddhist precedents for communal land ownership, though the evidence here is less textual than sociological. Chakravarti notes that, at least in some cases, “land in the gaṇa-saṅghas [i.e., the ‘republics’ of the time of the Buddha] was commonly owned by the entire clan,” pointing to the story of the dispute between the Sakyas and Koliyas regarding shared access to the water of the Rohini River. Furthermore, The existence of the notion of common property among the gaṇa-saṅghas is more definitely stated in the Vinaya passage regarding the bhikkhu Sudima Kalandaka, who was a seṭṭhi-putta [i.e., merchant or banker] before his entry into the saṅgha. His family is described as possessing immense wealth, which led Sudinna’s mother to plead with him to provide the family an heir so that the entire property would not pass to the Lichchhavis, who were treated as a collective entity. (Chakravarti 1987: 88–9)24 On the basis of the classical sources, we might conclude, with Chakravarti and Harvey, that while early Buddhist texts and teachings did not envisage “the complete eradication of inequalities in society,” they certainly sought to contain these inequalities, as far as possible.25 As such, early Buddhism was ameliorative or “reformist” in its economic and political vision, rather than radical. This, I suggest, is beyond dispute—and if I felt that a contemporary Buddhist economics needed to rely entirely on classical Pāli sources, I would be compelled to give up here.26 But, of course, I do not feel that way in the least. I do not mean to suggest that we should dismiss or ignore the classical sources, but we should also for ideas (both classical and “belated”) that we can utilize—and, if necessary, stretch—to suit our current understanding, conditions, and experiences. When it comes to the laity, it is also clear that their economic activities were expected to follow certain guidelines, ostensibly set forth by the Buddha himself (e.g., Aṅguttara Nikāya III.45, IV.281; Digha Nikāya III.188). These are, on the whole (and bereft of the cosmological and soteriological superstructure in which they are embedded), rather commonsensical instructions, such as would not be out of place in, say, Victorian England: wealth should be made without causing violence; products should be shared with others rather than hoarded for oneself; greed is bad, and so on. In short, in his or her work, a Buddhist should be energetic, industrious, diligent, skillful, proficient, and prudent. People should protect their earnings, keep good company, and live within their means. Wealth, he taught, provided that it is lawfully obtained, brings four kinds of happiness: economic security; having enough to spend generously on oneself and others; the peace of mind that accompanies freedom from debt; and the leading of a blameless life. (Batchelor 2002: 65) As reasonable as this may sound at first glance, I contend that there is very little to be gleaned from such blandishments to upright wealth generation for lay Buddhists, not least because they assume a relatively simple economic system, one that barely extends 206

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beyond the individual and her immediate environs, and—as a natural consequence— are focused entirely upon individual decision making (and karma) rather than social or systemic issues; that is, with the mode of acquisition and use of wealth rather than the justice of its distribution.27 Rather, we would do well to look elsewhere to find Buddhist resources for contemporary economic ethics, extrapolating from more general teachings and ideas, including, perhaps most centrally, the notion of “Right Livelihood.”28 That said, beyond the classical canon there may be other sources within Buddhist tradition that can help us here. For instance, in his work on material culture in Japan, Rambelli has drawn attention to the various ways that “ritual labor” has been understood throughout Japanese history. Whereas in the premodern period it was generally thought since “any construction is a violation of the cosmic order (the sacredness of space and time) .  .  . atonement must be performed to restore the broken harmony” (Rambelli 2007: 190). While this is a specific instance of collective “work,” of course, it belies an assumption about human activity as being somehow “out of joint” with nature and the cosmos—an ineluctable irruption of harmony, however necessary. However, Rambelli argues, the early modern (i.e., Edo) period of Japan witnessed a shift to a very different understanding—and one consonant with the “modernist” progressivism of utopian socialists and many liberals. Now, human labor was capable of producing cosmic harmony, albeit “in collaboration with the deities of the Buddhist pantheon” (Rambelli 2007: 207). Again, I will not belabor this point, but it is suggestive of alternative modes of “work” in a Dhammic framework—some of which might confront the “secular” understanding (and rhetoric) of “wage labor” under capitalist auspices.29

(Real) Freedom, Agency, Autonomy In thinking through limits to human flourishing, beyond the “material” question of conditions of work under global capitalism, we must also address the problem of freedom—and related concepts of autonomy and agency. While advocates routinely connect capitalism and freedom (and, as an extension, to liberal or representational democracy), most contemporary anti-capitalists argue against the easy correlation between capitalism economics—the “free market”—and an expansive vision of human freedom. Indeed, one of the strongest arguments against capitalism under neoliberal auspices is precisely its anti-democratic tenor.30 Against those who claim capitalism on the side of “freedom” as a moral virtue (e.g., Hayek and Friedman et al.), the freedom promised and delivered by capitalism is heavily attenuated, limited largely to a consumerist vision of freedom to choose, given one’s means, what to buy. Wright cites two reasons why capitalism significantly obstructs, rather than fully realizes, ideals of freedom and autonomy: (i) capitalist workplaces rely on forms of hierarchy and “relations of domination” that constitute “pervasive restrictions on individual autonomy and self-direction,” that is, another element of alienation; (ii) capitalism generates “massive inequalities of wealth and income,” which add severe constraints to individual freedom and autonomy for a significant number of people 207

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across the globe. While the “right to vote” is—at least in theory—a feature of capitalist liberal democracies, what Philippe Van Parijs has called “real freedom” is lacking for most. “Real freedom” implies “the effective capacity of individuals to act on their life plans, to be in a position to actually make the choices which matter to them” (Wright 2010: 50). Again, to reiterate a point made by Marx, while it is certainly true that modern capitalism provides relatively more freedom and autonomy than, say, medieval serfdom, it also erects distinct and not always easily identifiable barriers to “real freedom.” Assuming that “real freedom” is an individual and social good, and that it does not flourish under conditions of neoliberal capitalism, what does this mean for Buddhism? Let’s begin with agency, which is the aspect of individualism and “freedom” that, I argue, resonates most strongly with classical Buddhist understandings.31 Agency is best understood as the capacity of people to act as “conscious[ly] reflecting initiators of acts in a structured, meaningful world”—in other words, as a manifestation of power (Therborn 1980). Here agency is intrinsically connected to creativity and improvisation but does not deny the reality of various constraints, “both those generated by social structures within which people act and the internalized constraints embodied in beliefs and habits” (Wright 2019: 122–3). Rather than seeing these constraints as negatives, working against “freedom,” a Dharmic view of agency would recognize the value of at least certain forms of constraint, particularly those imposed upon oneself as part of a commitment to ameliorating suffering (i.e., “entering the stream”). Of course, Buddhist tradition also clearly recognizes and warns against the forces of habits that stem from addiction or from unreflective passivity. This is precisely why agency is foundational: Buddhist awakening requires a recognition of the capacity for the free determination and active realization of “better” forms of living as an individual and in community. And yet, to move onto the term “autonomy,” the Dharmic path, like that of Aristotle, highlights the inextricable interdependence of self and other beings, such that agency does not imply a complete separation of the individual, but rather a balance of sorts between personal responsibility (and liberation) and the movement toward others (via the virtues of loving-kindness, compassion, and the bodhisattva ideal).32 Another aspect of “real freedom”—and one that connects back to the discussion of work—is the capacity for leisure, or simply “free time.” Admittedly, Asian Buddhists texts give little place to the category of activities we might call “leisure” (including entertainment and play), though part of this is due to the fact that for most of human history this was not a category that was clearly demarcated (which is of course not to say that it did not exist). Leisure is arguably a “modern” invention—and one that may well have arisen as a by-product of capitalism itself, though not always one that always fit well with the capitalist discourse on the necessity of work. For our purposes, it is important to note that capitalism contains “a systematic bias towards turning increases in productivity into increased consumption rather than increased ‘free time.’” We see this in particular with the way that GDP and GNP are calculated, where leisure or “free time” that does not involve market forces has precisely a value of zero, and thus a nation or society in which increased productivity was translated into (non-market) forms of leisure would be in capitalist terms an economic failure—a country moving in this direction would 208

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be, against common sense, getting “poorer” (Wright 2010: 66). Along similar lines, the recent movement toward a Zero Waste lifestyle, premised on a measure of “dropping out” of consumerist society, poses a potential threat to economic “well-being”—at least if the numbers engaged in this lifestyle were to grow to a significant amount, at which point these people would certainly face resistance (Wright 2010: 66–7). Again, while it is difficult to find unambiguous links between a contemporary Zero Waste or a minimalist lifestyle of “voluntary simplicity” and classical Buddhist doctrines (though here the model of the sangha rooted in the teachings of the vinaya seem à propos), we can posit that the Buddhist ideal of “liberation” includes a sense of being that is “well-rounded”— that is, not confined to participation in forces beyond our control. Once again, this tracks back to a Buddhist sense of “agency” and an evocation of “power” in Spinoza’s sense: “the capacity of actors to accomplish things [or ‘produce effects’] in the world” (Wright 2010: 111). This discussion of “power” reminds us of D. T. Suzuki’s infamous claim that Buddhism—or, at any rate, Zen, which he believed was the “essence” of Buddhism—was a tradition of thought and practice that can fit seamlessly with any modern economic or political system or ideology (Suzuki 1938: 36–7). Suzuki meant this, of course, as a tribute to the “tolerance” and “adaptability” of Buddhism/Zen, as well as to highlight its extra-mundane, “intuitive teaching.” Historically speaking, Suzuki is no doubt correct, but one does not have to be a “radical” Buddhist to wonder whether this adaptability is a strength or weakness—and whether it is actually true in ideal or doctrinal terms. As examples of “dogmatisms” that might be wedded with Buddhism/Zen, Suzuki cites “anarchism, fascism, communism . . . democracy, atheism . . . [and] idealism” before going on to note, paradoxically, that Buddhism/Zen is also animated with a “revolutionary spirit” that confounds all such “isms.” Setting aside the revolutionary aspect, however, Suzuki does not seem to recognize that each of these respective “isms” is rooted in a set of fundamental values, assumptions, and “logics”—each or all of which may not be compatible with incontrovertible Dharmic principles (such as, for example, the goal of ameliorating suffering of sentient beings). The question I would like to pose here is: Assuming that we now disagree with Suzuki that Buddhism/Zen should be “wedded to” fascism—on the basis of the indisputable fact that fascism, in theory as well as practice, promotes forms of power, hierarchy, and dehumanization that cannot possibly be reconciled with Dharmic principles—how do we deal with the other “isms” on this list, including, for the purposes of this chapter, the one that is by far the most powerful in the twenty-first century: capitalism?

Community and Solidarity Let us move down to the tenth charge on Wright’s list: Capitalism corrodes community. As discussed earlier, whatever else it may imply in metaphysical or soteriological terms, the classical Buddhist teaching of “no self ” (anātman) must involve at bare minimum a recognition of the limits of what we might call excessive or selfish individualism. Although 209

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Buddhist teachings highlight the responsibility (i.e., agency) of each person as a conscious ethical actor in a world of other sentient beings—all of whom have the capacity to suffer from our actions—it is precisely this agential responsibility (“power” or “freedom”) that provides a foundation for community. While the ideal of the solitary, meditating, forest monk is not without precedent, the sangha—traditionally understood as the monastic community but broadened by most Buddhist modernists to refer to any voluntary community of would-be dharma practitioners—implies a commitment to solidarity or, to borrow from the (gendered) rhetoric of the French Revolutionaries, fraternity. But solidarity or fraternity is more than simply “fellow feeling”—like all else, it must be grounded in material conditions. Here then, we must return to the vexed issue of private property, and what that means for capitalism and Buddhism. Wright raises the familiar problem of “public goods” under capitalist regimes: Capitalist markets do not do well in providing for public goods, since it is hard to capture profits when you cannot easily exclude people from consuming the thing you have produced. And, since many public goods are important both for the quality of life and for economic productivity, it is inefficient to rely on markets to produce them. (Wright 2010: 56–7) Related to the so-called tragedy of the commons,33 there is little to no (capitalist) incentive for companies to provide public goods, and whereas this lacuna might in theory be picked up by not-for-profit organizations (such as universities) or governments, the neoliberal consensus means that even organizations not bound to the profit motive will mimic capitalist methods and logics of “efficiency.” Again, what we are faced with here are competing understandings of “rationality” and “efficiency”—one that is frankly shortsighted and purely economic; another long-sighted and holistic (though not, by virtue of such, necessarily “utopian”).34 After all, public goods produce numerous “positive externalities”; public transportation, for instance, conserves energy, reduces traffic (and thus increases productivity), and lowers pollution. Moreover, societies which provide public goods and services have a higher level of public trust—which is, by definition, a measure of solidarity. This is also true, of course, of societies with relative economic equality. “[E]ven apart from the costs of social disorder, high levels of inequality erode social solidarity, a sense that ‘we are all in the same boat together.’ Solidarity is an important source of efficient cooperation—cooperation that does not require large payments and surveillance to elicit effort and responsibility” (Wright 2010: 65). Again, in this sense, any system that does not enhance solidarity is prima facie inefficient. Here G. A. Cohen’s description of “community” in terms of “anti-market principles” resonates remarkably well with classical Buddhist ideals, particularly his emphasis on the combination of “greed and fear” as a root for market-based activity, as well as the creeping “naturalization” of such motives: I mean here by “community” the anti-market principle according to which I serve you not because of what I can get out of doing so but because you need service. 210

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This is anti-market because the market motivates productive contribution not on the basis of commitment to one’s fellow beings and a desire to serve them while being served by them, but on the basis of impersonal cash reward. The immediate motive to productive activity in a market society is typically some mixture of greed and fear. . . . In greed, other people are seen as possible sources of enrichment, and in fear they are seen as threats. These are horrible ways of seeing other people, however much we have become habituated and inured to them, as a result of centuries of capitalist development. (Cohen 1994: n.p.) While there are clear precedents for community in Asian Dharmic traditions, solidarity is a term that has less obvious resonance, given its modernist and revolutionary nuance. And yet, here, too, classical Buddhism may have something to add to the discussion. Marx believed that capitalism would increase solidarity within the exploited class(es), and while the initial growth of worker’s movements in Europe and even the United States shows that this was not completely wrong, the later twentieth century shows that over time the dynamics of capitalism in the West “have instead . . . generated ever narrower circles of niche solidarity among people with unequal, segmented opportunities in the market.” In short, modern capitalism has been adept at manipulating the discourse and power of individual and group “identity” as both a selling point of the current system and a way of blocking broader forms of solidarity. As a result, “[c]ommunity is .  .  . narrowed and fractured both because of the inherent principles of greed and fear that drive competition, and because of the structure of inequality which results from that competition” (Wright 2010: 81).

Buddhist Utopia? Sangha and/as Worker’s Cooperatives I have already suggested that classical Buddhism has elements in common with certain streams of utopian socialism—specifically an understanding of the (moral) “perfectibility” of human beings directed toward a (arguably) this-worldly form of flourishing in community. That said, unlike some utopian socialist programs, Buddhists texts never established specific plans for a future awakened “Buddha land in this world”—they did not, then, in Marx’s derisory terms, engage in working out “cookshops for the future.” This lack can be read as a disdain for “politics,” but it might equally be interpreted as a (quasi-Marxian) understanding that a postrevolutionary or postawakened community should not be constrained by the limited imaginations of those living in pre-revolutionary or samsaric conditions. This does not mean that we cannot speculate on what such a society might look like, particularly in terms of labor and political organization. And here we are led back again to the sangha as a model or archetype—even if one that is not meant to replace secular forms but rather to provide a glimpse of what might be possible for humans to work and flourish in communal solidarity.35 Despite the tradition’s close relationship with secular monarchs, and setting aside the Aggañña Sutta’s fairly clear critique of kingship 211

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as a “fallen” state of social order, the early sangha was, as far as we can tell, remarkably “democratic” in form—arguably as much as the classical Athenian polis, which famously excluded 90 percent or more of the population. The early sangha was not, of course, entirely egalitarian and was beset with sexism, if not outright misogyny, from the get go—elements which seem to have gotten worse over time. Perhaps the more radical aspect was the economic one: while the sangha “opts out” of the secular economic order, it instituted what we might call a “mutualist worker’s cooperative” model of labor, whose function (or “logic”) was the sustenance of the community. Worker’s cooperatives are often associated with utopian socialism and certain branches of anarchism in the modern West, including the work of Proudhon, though the principles have deeper and more global roots. Marx, though usually critical of Proudhon, waxed laudatory on his mutualist worker’s co-ops: The value of these great social experiments cannot be overstated. By deed instead of by argument, they have shown that production on a large scale, and in accord with the behests of modern science, may be carried on without the existence of a class of masters employing a class of hands; that to bear fruit, the means of labor need not be monopolized as a means of dominion over, and of extortion against, the laboring man himself; and that, like slave labor, like serf labor, hired labor is but a transitory and inferior form, destined to disappear before associated labor plying its toil with a willing hand, a ready mind, and a joyous heart (Cited in Wright 2010: 236–7). When considering the implications and significance of Buddhist utopia, it is useful to keep in mind that the Dharmic traditions of thought and practice contribute less to an analysis and evaluation of social order than to social reproduction. While theories of social order and theories of social reproduction both seek to explain social conditions, including integration and stability, theories of social order tend to assume “Hobbesian” predation as a counterfactual, building up laws, civic structures and states as a bulwark against (“natural”) disorder. Theories of social reproduction, on the other hand, see in many of the structures of “social order” precisely the roots of despair and suffering: “The problem of social reproduction is grounded in the latent potential for people collectively to challenge structures of domination, oppression, and exploitation. The theory attempts to explain the mechanisms that generate sufficiently stable forms of cooperation and system integration to mute such collective tendencies for transformation” (Wright 2010: 278).36 And of course, “social reproduction” can take many forms beyond capitalism or neoliberalism—religion, as well, is often complicit and thus a legitimate target of critique. It is important to recall, once again, that this may have little to do with the deliberate (i.e., malicious) intentions and actions of powerful actors. Rather, the correspondence of “ideology” and a particular culture is often—and more assiduously—generated by the “micro-processes of the formation of beliefs and dispositions,” which include various institutions of socialization that enable young people to function and (for the fortunate few) “succeed” in that society. While these micro-processes do not always work, of course, they are powerful, and over time function collectively as serious anti-utopian limitations on the horizons of possibility.37 212

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Conclusions Erik Olin Wright suggests that in thinking about the future of anti-capitalism we give up the restrictive metaphor of a “road map” in favor of “compass,” which allows for more flexibility and acknowledges the limitations of our knowledge about what is actually possible, without falling prey to the “realist” view that denies all possibility of constructing a “radical democratic [and] egalitarian alternative” to neoliberal capitalism (Wright 2010: 108–9). For Wright, an effective and inspiring socialist compass remains in the offing. How about a Dharmic compass? Without reiterating the entire argument, I suggest that the Dharmic texts and practices that make up what we call “Buddhism” provide unique and fruitful insights into fundamental concepts such as agency, autonomy, freedom, and power—all of which can contribute to an anti-capitalist, “realistic utopian” compass for the twenty-first century.38 Focusing here on the last of these key terms, power is too often understood by progressives in a purely negative sense as a zero-sum phenomenon (“power over”) whereby an increase in one’s power means a decrease of limit in the power or agency of another being. But if power is understood in relation to integrity, agency, and “freedom,” as noted earlier, it need not imply “domination” (in fact, domination would indicate a lack of power or freedom). In particular, Buddhism might contribute to a better understanding of social power—that is, “the capacity to mobilize people for cooperative, voluntary collective actions of various sorts in civil society”—in hopes that this can replace or ameliorate our current reliance under neoliberal capitalism on economic power.39 As such, in Wright’s terms, Buddhism can be a voice in the construction of “countervailing power” and eventually a truer democracy rooted in empowered participatory governance.40 Another way of understanding this contribution is to consider the various “logics” at stake in understanding what it means to meet human “needs”—without which, at some basic level, suffering must ensue. Under capitalism, “meeting needs” is indeed a priority, but one that is inexorably tied to the profit motive (a fact which helps explain among other things why current technology, for all the talk of unending progress, has not fulfilled the promise of early twentieth-century expectations).41 “I help you because it’s good for me”—or, more abstractly, for “the economy.” By contrast, under a “social economy” the logic for meeting needs is “other directed”: “I help you because it is good for you”—though one might indeed extend this in the line of utopian socialists to suggest that such “altruism” is ultimately beneficial for the individual, at least in the long term, as such behaviors and attitudes manifest “positive externalities” such as increased public trust. In this sense, it is not so much that capitalist logic is “immoral,” but rather that it is shortsighted and inefficient even in its own (economistic) terms (see Wright 2010: 210– 1; see also Cohen 1994). I suggest that Buddhism, again, contains a logic that is much closer to that of the “social economy” than we find within contemporary capitalism. In this chapter I have shown that there are unique resources within Dharmic traditions of thought and practice for twenty-first-century anti-capitalism, but before concluding we must address the issue of the mechanism for “system transformation.” Despite the valiant efforts of early twentieth-century Buddhist radicals such as Uchiyama Gudō (1874–1911), 213

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Taixu (1890–1947), and Senoo Girō (1890–1961), it is difficult to make a case for Buddhist “revolution”—if such entails a violent overthrow of the current economic and political systems. And yet, this is where the connection with certain anarchist forms of resistance becomes most apparent (a link clearly recognized by the above figures). While some anarchists have joined with Marxists and communists to promote ruptural change, that is, the creation of new forms of social empowerment through a sharp break with existing structures and institutions, many others have opted for interstitial metamorphosis, whereby new forms of social empowerment are sought and developed in the “niches and margins of capitalist society, often where they do not seem to pose any immediate threat to dominant classes and elites.”42 Although such an approach is scorned by most Marxists and left revolutionaries as being “utopian” (i.e., speculative, palliative or merely symbolic), when we begin to envision transformation in a broader fashion, “cumulatively, such developments can not only make a real difference in the lives of people, but potentially constitute a key component of enlarging the transformative scope for social empowerment in the society as a whole” (Wright 2010: 304). Moreover, Wright presents the interstitial approach as a “middle way” between absolute rupture and the sort of symbiotic metamorphosis favored by most liberals and social democrats, which, while it may solve some practical issues in the short term, ultimately serve to reinforce social reproduction and support the hegemony of dominant classes and elites (Wright 2010: 304). While premodern forms of Buddhism either eschewed political engagement or supported the status quo (which may amount to the same thing), modern Engaged Buddhism has tended toward the third option, favoring ameliorative reform over both revolutionary rupture or interstitial metamorphosis. While both interstitial and symbiotic modes of transformation are disinclined toward the “shock” of rupture, they differ primarily on their relationship to the state or powers that be. Whereas symbiotic forms work with or often within existing structures of power, interstitial forms seek to enlarge capacities for social empowerment without engaging directly with state forms (Wright 2010: 322). This seems the most optimal method for anti-capitalist Buddhists to pursue. To close, a new or revised Four Noble Truths humbly submitted:

(1) Suffering and alienation are real, and distressingly common, conditions of contemporary existence for humans and other sentient beings under global, neoliberal capitalism;



(2) Much of this suffering is poorly understood, or misattributed to “nature”; when, in fact, it has clear if complex social and economic causes;



(3) These causes manifest in active (structural) and passive (individual) forms of social reproduction, both of which must face rigorous and sustained examination and critique;



(4) Emancipation from suffering requires not only “understanding the specific mechanisms that generate obstacles to such processes of oppression-reducing social transformation” but also engaging in the development of civic structures that expand capacities for social empowerment. (Wright 2010: 277–8)

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NOTES

The Economic Study of Buddhism 1 https://zizek​.uk​/the​-buddhist​-ethic​-and​-the​-spirit​-of​-global​-capitalism/. 2 For a more recent discussion of this subject, see Žižek (2014), esp. 57–76 and 158–60. 3 It should perhaps be mentioned, in this context, that Buddhist institutions in Southeast Asia (Sri Lanka, Burma, Thailand, etc.) seem to have been much less entrepreneurial than their East Asian counterparts. As Steven Collins has shown, Sri Lankan Theravāda social ideology was rooted in, and promoted, a land-based subsistence economy and its social relations—an economy of stasis and poverty that resisted innovation and change (see Collins, Nirvana and Other Buddhist Felicities). It is perhaps no accident that the most lucrative economic activities in Southeast Asian Buddhist countries were taken over by foreigners—Muslims, Europeans, and Chinese. 4 An example of this type of analysis, though without specific reference to Buddhism, is Malabou (2008). 5 The key role of this distinction between for-profit and not-for-profit enterprises in the formation of modern Japanese understanding of the concept “religion” is discussed by McLaughlin et al. (2020): 703.

Chapter 1 1 It is also known as Ganden Palace, named after a monastic house that was the original home of the Dalai Lamas. 2 I have seen no evidence of slavery in Tibetan monasteries, but see later in text for the possible reference to slavery in the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya. Jansen notes a case of several families being “given” to a monastery, but this meant nothing more than changing where they owed taxes. 3 While inclusive economic institutions necessarily involve a degree of free enterprise, they see corporate monopolies as a way that excessively laissez-faire policies can lead to extractive institutions (as in the Gilded Age) (Acemoglu and Robinson 2012: 320). 4 Examples of non-Western countries with inclusive institutions are Botswana, Brazil, and South Korea. They also identify historic examples of inclusive institutions, like the Roman Republic and medieval Venice (Acemoglu and Robinson 2012: 4, 159). 5 Mipham postdates Ngawang Tsültrim but represents a long-standing tradition in Tibetan thought (Cabezón and Mi pham 2017: 257–67). 6 See also Carrasco (1959: 90–1). 7 This distinction recalls the Tibetan distinction between miser that work on the estates of the government and the monastery. 8 This dispute led to a major war with Nepal and increased involvement of Beijing in Tibetan affairs.

Notes 9 It is a custom to distribute tea to monks during religious services, and this was an opportunity to give them additional compensation. 10 Ellingson could be seen as extrapolating too much from Western models, and Jansen thinks that “guidelines” is a better translation than “constitution” since they go beyond general principles. 11 On tülkus, see Ray (1986); Sperling; Schwieger (2015). Unlike a hereditary elite, a tülku could theoretically incarnate in any family and often were chosen from poor families on the Tibetan periphery. Nepotism was sometimes a problem. The labrang was a legal corporation in which the tülku’s estate would be passed from incarnation to incarnation (Kapstein 2006: 109; Goldstein 1973: 449). 12 Samuel’s theory has been criticized for ignoring the diversity of tantric practices within the Geluk tradition and for lumping too many practices together as “shamanism” (Ray 1995: 96–100). 13 The willingness to explore new ideas varied from teacher to teacher, and the Fourteenth Dalai Lama encouraged freer scholarship in India (Dreyfus 2003: 267–94).

Chapter 3 1 It is remarkable how heavily these critiques often draw from Žižek’s (2001) lecture “From Western Marxism to Western Buddhism” as much for his prominence as a public thinker as for the cogency of his critique. It should be noted that, importantly, Žižek has not examined historical Buddhist traditions. Nor has he studied contemporary immigrant Buddhist communities or convert Buddhist communities in Europe and the United States. Instead, in his strident neo-Marxist analysis, Žižek is only concerned with idealized forms: for much of his lecture he names “Taoism” interchangeably with “Buddhism” as the source of the ideological problem he means to address. He critiques a reified amorphous “Western Buddhism” for reproducing ideologies of individualism and inculcating within the populace the assumption that one’s stress and distress are an individual’s problem to be alleviated by that individual. And he draws from, apparently, popular depictions of meditation practices to declare “the ‘Western Buddhist’ meditative stance” to be the neoliberal technology par excellence pacifying people into believing that, rather than address the societal causes of their suffering, they should turn to “self-help” and—as he, again, quotes a popular idiom—“let oneself go.” Žižek concludes that “one is almost tempted to resuscitate the old infamous Marxist cliché of religion as ‘the opium of the people,’ as the imaginary supplement to terrestrial misery.” And here he gives away the game as he reproduces a very old, it should be stated plainly, racist symbolic representation in his dismissal not of actual Asian religious communities, but the US and European images of “the East,” his “imaginary supplements,” that he believes have been imported to put in “Western” pipes and smoked. (The most apologetic reading of Žižek’s gesture here cannot even argue that his use of the phrase bears the resonances, as traced by Jay Geller (2014), to the actual harms of imperialism and an early racialized “war on drugs” that Marx may have been referencing in his famous rhetorical flourish.)

Chapter 4 1 A Buddhist priest in Shōonji, a Pure Land temple in Fukui City, central Japan, for example, offers a memorial ceremony that incorporates techno music and a choreographed lightshow

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Notes to offer practitioners the opportunity to experience the Pure Land as a world of light. See https://www​.buddhistdoor​.net​/news​/japanese​-priest​-serves​-up​-pure​-land​-buddhism​-with​ -techno​-beats. 2 While they take different approaches to capitalism, both Japan and China are indeed capitalist economies, which shape Buddhist socioeconomic contexts. 3 It is important to note that prior to Sociology’s emergence as a separate discipline in the early nineteenth century, scholarship on society and economy were interlinked and emphasized the interconnected relationships between the two. For an example of this, see Thorstein Veblen’s (1857–1929) theory of conspicuous consumption (Veblen 1994 [1899]). 4 Information used in this chapter comes from personal interviews I conducted with monks and laity at Longquan in March of 2018. 5 In 2018, after accusations of sexual misconduct, Xuecheng, one of China’s top monks and abbot of the Longquan Temple outside of Beijing, reigned as president of the Buddhist Association of China. 6 Personal Interview. March 2016. Longquan Monastery. 7 English translations of Chinese are all mine. 8 This hope was conveyed to me during a personal interview with a lay member of the Longquan community. They expressed their concern regarding mofa 末法 plus their viewpoint/hope that the current era could be one of zhengfa 正法—an age of true Buddhism. 9 For full interview see https://fo​.ifeng​.com​/a​/20161123​/44498784​_0​.shtml (translations mine). 10 For more see Middlesex University study: https://www​.mdx​.ac​.uk​/news​/2020​/09​/culturally​ -competent​-robots​-could​-improve​-mental​-health​-and​-loneliness​-in​-older​-people. 11 For more see https://www​.japantimes​.co​.jp​/news​/2017​/12​/16​/national​/nagano​-drive​-thru​ -funeral​-home​-serve​-mourners​-limited​-mobility/. 12 Although it has been touted as the “First Robot with a Heart,” concerns regarding Pepper performing funerals include the possibility of the robot breaking down or refusing to operate. In July of 2021, Softbank Group announced it was pressing pause on production of Pepper. For more see https://www​.japantimes​.co​.jp​/news​/2021​/06​/29​/business​/corporate​ -business​/softbank​-pepper​-robots​-ai​-economy/ 13 For more see https://www​.vox​.com​/future​-perfect​/2019​/9​/9​/20851753​/ai​-religion​-robot​ -priest​-mindar​-buddhism​-christianity 14 The commercialization of Shaolin Temple in Henan Province (known for Kungfu) is an excellent example of this. Among other economic investments, Abbot Shi Yongxin created the Henan Shaolin Temple Industrial Development Co, the Shaolin Kungfu Monk Corps, and instructional kung fu software. 15 This perspective of secularization draws on Jose Casanova’s (2009: 1049–66). My attempt here is not to differentiate the secular from the religious but, rather, to uncover Buddhists’ intentions of engaging secular resources. 16 I borrow the definition of “civic engagement” here from UNICEF: “individual or collective actions in which people participate to improve the well-being of communities or society in general” (Cho, Byrne, and Pelter 2020). 17 For a comparative analysis of social movements of young people in East Asia, see Joo (2018). 18 Sharing information through social media platforms such as LINE, for example, could play a role in connecting the temple with a diverse range of users.

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Notes

Chapter 5 1 Tripadvisor Media Center. https://tripadvisor​.mediaroom​.com​/US​-about​-us. Accessed May 7, 2021. 2 There are no other words related to Buddhism within the top 100 words for Mt. Emei.

Chapter 6 1 The late Buddhadāsa Bhikkhu was one of Thai Buddhism’s leading thinkers, deeply concerned with making Buddhism more relevant to the problems of development and modern life. Some in the conservative Thai Saṅgha disagree with his interpretations, but Buddhadāsa himself viewed his teachings as simply a return to fundamentals, based on his deep study of the sutta (Jackson 2003; Parnwell and Seeger 2008; Puntarigvivat 2013; Seeger 2007). 2 Unlike Buddhadāsa, who mostly stayed outside the official sangha hierarchy, Phra Payutto largely pursued a successful career within it but became convinced that without reform, Buddhism might become irrelevant (King 2002; Swearer 1997). A leading Pali scholar, “for a large number of Thai Buddhists, especially middle-class intellectuals and well-educated Buddhist monks, Phra Payutto has become the authoritative voice in debates revolving on the interpretation, meaning and function of the Pāli canon” (Seeger 2007: 3–4). 3 Small and medium enterprises (SMEs) account for about 79 percent of employment and 42 percent of GDP in normal, pre-Covid times (see OECD/ERIA 2018: 439). 4 All respondent translations are by the second author, native in Thai, in consultation with the first author, native in English. 5 Bun-niyom is a key economic concept in Santi Asoke, which aims to transfer to society as much as possible of the value added in production and trade. Santi Asoke shops may even accept losses, as long as losses are not steep enough to drive the shop out of business. Giving to society accumulates substantial merit (Essen 2005; Heikkilä-Horn and Krisanamis 2002; Paunglad 2015). 6 Mindfulness (Pali sati / Skt smṛti) here is “alert presence of mind, cultivated strongly in meditation practice, which enables one to be more aware of one’s mental states, including intentions and motives” (Harvey 2000: 11). This “alert presence of mind” is how most Thai understand it, and how it is used by Thai researchers, such as Petchsawang and Duchon (2009), referenced here. As Harvey notes, it can be developed through meditation, but it is not the technique itself, as sometimes (mis)understood in the West (see Farias and Wikholm 2017). 7 Wat Phra Dhammakāya has attracted criticism for several decades that its practices commercialize Buddhism. The temple uses direct selling techniques and easy creditcard donation payments, as well as such things as shuttle buses for an easy commute and on-site sales of devotional objects. “Merit-making has become a well-packaged and ready-made good which can be easily acquired and ‘consumed’” (Fuengfusakul 1993: 168). The temple was center of an earlier corruption scandal in which the leader, Phra Dhammachayo, insisted that roughly US$30 million in donations, mostly land, had been given to him personally, rather than to the temple. He returned the land and got charges dropped in 2006, largely because of alignment with the political faction in power in Thailand at the time. The more recent scandal regards laundering through temple 218

Notes donations part of nearly US$400 million embezzled from Klongchan Credit Union. Phra Dhammachayo’s political allies were ousted in the 2014 military coup, and the new ruling faction tried to arrest him in 2017. He disappeared and is rumored to have left Thailand. A brief summary of these events, with more extensive references, can be found in Speece (2020).

Chapter 7 1 See https://www​.facebook​.com​/pg​/himalayatour2017​/about/​?ref​=page​_internal accessed on March 28, 2017. 2 Lama Norbu is a pseudonym to provide anonymity. 3 Initially, the impact of Covid-19 on the region was devastating economically. This has since changed with Ladakh becoming a popular tourist destination among domestic tourists after the lockdown was lifted in India. 4 Recorded interview, Copenhagen, May 11, 2017. 5 Elsewhere I have written about the aesthetics of Buddhist ritual and affective responses in relation to large collective rituals that work and, at times do not work, to create connections to charismatic Buddhist masters and among the Buddhist community in the audience (Williams-Oerberg 2021). 6 One distinct Drikung Kagyu practice is the tantric practice of Achi Chökyi Drölma, the dharma protector of the lineage, and the grandmother of Jigten Sumgön, the founder of the lineage. 7 See http://www​.visionhimalaya​.org/ accessed on March 28, 2017.

Chapter 8 1 This chapter is based on text-critical analysis, interviews, and participant observation. In 2013, 2015, and 2018, Clayton conducted semi-structured interviews with eight experts in GNH and participated in GNH programs offered through the GNH Centre Bhutan (an NGO established to promote and demonstrate GNH principles). Her research was funded in part through an Insight Development Grant with the Social Science and Humanities Research Council, Canada. Duncan has also conducted semi-structured interviews with experts on GNH and assisted in facilitating GNH programs offered through the GNH Centre Bhutan. The authors would like to thank Sho Takano, Clair Brown, and Karma Gayphel for their feedback on a draft of this chapter, and Elsa Immer for her invaluable research assistance. 2 There are some variations of capitalism that do attempt to include costs to the environment such as in “full-cost accounting.” See, for example, US Environmental Protection Agency, Environmental Accounting Case Studies: Full Cost Accounting for Decision Making at Ontario Hydro (BiblioGov 2013). 3 Dzongkha is the national language of Bhutan. 4 The secular status of Bhutan is complicated by the fact that the king must be a Buddhist. Royal Government of Bhutan (RGB). The Constitution of the Kingdom of Bhutan. 2008:

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Notes Article 2.2. https://www​.nab​.gov​.bt​/assets​/templates​/images​/constitution​-of​-bhutan​-2008​ .pdf. 5 This transition has been a focus particularly since 1972, under the fourth king. Givel (2015). 6 For example, poverty has been reduced from 36.6 percent in 2000 to an estimate of 12 percent in 2012 and was further reduced to 8.2 percent in 2017 (Bothe 2017: 65; Ugyel 2018: 9). However, according to 2013 data, 30 percent of rural population are poor compared to 1.5 percent of urban population, and there is a widening gap between top and bottom 10 percent (Schmidt 2017: 4). 7 Compare, for example, Bothe (2017: 55); Givel (2015: 111); Hayden (2015: 165f). For accounts of the history of the development of GNH, see Ura et al. (2015: 1–6); Colman (2021: 157–62), and Mathou (2013: 256ff). 8 The first legal code of Bhutan (1729) is cited, which states, “[i]f the government cannot create happiness for its people, then there is no purpose for the government to exist” cited in Ura et al. (2015: 1). For further discussion of this and the connection between Buddhist kingship in Bhutan and GNH, see Schwerk (2019: 12). 9 For example, one of the leading scholars of happiness and well-being, John Helliwell (2019), credits Bhutan with being the country that “made happiness famous.” 10 For a fascinating account of the development of the GNH Index and its basis in the Canadian Genuine Progress Indicator, see Colman (2021): 178–81. 11 Though there are still deep concerns about the growing numbers of tourists and erosion of the GNH values. See Phuntsho (2013: 585) and Schroeder and Schroeder (2014: 3524f). 12 On GNH as a Middle Path, see Dreschler (2019), Ha Vinh (forthcoming), Shields (2018: 407–31), and Harvey (2000: 187–238). 13 See note 10. 14 For other examples and further discussion, see Clayton (2021: 104ff). 15 Compare the Vision Statement of Bhutan’s National Environment Commission, which vows to “strive to protect the environment in the widest sense of the term for the wellbeing of all future generations of people and other sentient beings by preserving and managing the natural resources of the Kingdom” (National Environment Commission). 16 According to Saamdu Chetri, the former executive director of the GNH Centre said in an interview in Paro on October 31, 2015 that canoeing and other forms of recreational boating were not practiced in Bhutan out of respect for water deities. He then recounted a story of how difficulties with a river crossing were resolved when those on the ferry paid due respect to the river deity (Saamdu Chetri, Interview, Paro, Bhutan, October 31, 2015). 17 For details regarding Bhutan’s environmental status and achievements, see Schroeder and Schroeder (2014: 3523f). 18 Sedlacek (2013) argues that this is a misreading of Adam Smith’s work. 19 Note Givel (2011) argues that this neo-prohibitionist stance has not been effective in curbing tobacco use, and that it may have encouraged the black market. Bhutan recently repealed the ban on tobacco importation due to concerns about the black market facilitating the spread of Covid-19. 20 For a discussion on the attribution and meaning of “the invisible-hand of the market,” see Sedlacek (2013: 197–9).

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Notes 21 The Twelfth Five-Year Plan is first to use scores on the GNH Index for the allocation of resources to local governments (GNH Commission 2019: Section 2.2.3).

Chapter 9 1 I will certainly not take credit for my former student Thomas Calobrisi’s astute review of the book, but I will agree with his sentiment that if Thompson’s aim is to make a case for Buddhism’s unique contribution to the modern world, “Perhaps, just perhaps, it should be left to Buddhists to make their own case, and do so on their own terms” (Calobrisi 2020: 92). 2 I hesitantly cite my contribution to the “Generations of Buddhist Studies” project on H-Buddhism: https://networks​.h​-net​.org​/node​/6060​/pages​/3716429​/mitchell​-scott. I say “hesitantly” because (i) of all the things I’ve published, this is my least favorite and (ii) the project more generally has come under deserved criticism. I’ll leave that criticism to others and state that my displeasure of my own writing is due to the fact that I allowed myself to ramble on and on (as well as be pressured into writing it in the first place). 3 Whereas I appreciate and support Edwin Ng’s autoethnographic approach to scholarly writing, what is presented here is not autoethnography per se; rather, by highlighting my own experiences I am attempting to be honest about my location within and complicity in perpetuating systems built upon neoliberal ideologies, the complexity of that positionality, and a plea that each of us do the difficult work of responding to our location responsibly: See Ng (2012). 4 This is one of the points I was attempting to make in my essay “The Stories We Tell” (Mitchell 2017). Namely, it is a creative fiction (or rhetoric or discourse) that creates and reinforces the bounded category of “scholar” over and against the bounded category of “practitioner.” Most of us, either because of the economic arguments I make here or by choice, spend part of our lives in one location or another, perhaps best exemplified by Anne Blackburn’s use of the phrase “locative pluralism.” All I ask is that we’re honest about that and accept the responsibility that invariably comes with having multiple communities of accountability (to borrow a phrase from one of my mentors, the great Judith Berling), no matter how complicated and difficult that may be. (We’re grown-ups; we can handle it.) See Blackburn (2010). 5 The phrase “institutionalized professionalization” is used inclusively; that is, although this chapter focuses mainly on academic professionalization, these considerations also apply to all kinds of training, including monastic. Fabio Rambelli raised this issue, pointing out that “Traditional temple-monasteries also had ‘professionalization programs’ in the form of monastic training, with steps, exams, certifications, etc. These programs were also ill-equipped to evaluate one’s progress along the bodhisattva path—or maybe not, as the training and certification process was considered enough to adjudicate one’s spiritual progress. It seems that modern westerners tend to see Buddhist training as something ineffable and purely ‘spiritual’ while in fact, throughout history, it was part of an institutionally sanctioned process” (personal communication, August 15, 2021). 6 I feel the scare quotes around “objectively” are owed some explanation. Many of the things listed here (the translation of texts, for example) are not objective but are very clearly subjective in nature. The choice to translate, say, duhkha as suffering versus unsatisfactoriness is just that, a choice, and who’s to say which one is “right,” 221

Notes objectively speaking? Well, “who’s to say” is, of course, your adviser, and this is where the scare quotes come into play both because your adviser is likely to be anything but objective (subject the usual vagaries of human emotion) and because they are, well, scary. And herein lies the rub. We are under the demands of neoliberal ideologies to objectively evaluate our students on inherently subjective issues while being driven by individual ego. 7 I feel it is important in this chapter to note that this normative process of professionalization is still very much in play, used to judge both literally and metaphorically young scholars’ success as scholars even though all the evidence suggests that a very small minority of newly minted PhDs follow this normative route. The euphemisms we use to describe “contingent faculty” give voice to the lie that this system does not work, has not worked for a long time, and, given the new realities of the world—Trump, coronavirus, climate catastrophe—is wholly unsustainable. In short, I fear this section of this chapter is not going to age well, that in a very short period of time, we are all going to be contingent, we are all going to be out of work. I hope, deeply and profoundly hope, that we are creative enough to imagine a new future, to conjure an alternative academic world not reliant upon systems crumbling all around us. 8 One should also note the recent work of McLaughlin, Rots, Thomas, and Watanabe (2020) and their use of the “corporate form.” In their “manifesto,” they do not make the claim that religions are like corporations or that corporations are like religions; rather, their claim is that the corporate form “refers to institutional practices that have a strongly collective and collaborative character, involving money and power but often predating the rise of neoliberalism” (699). Academic and educational institutions similarly have a collective and collaborative character (and often predate neoliberalism) which determines how individuals relate to themselves and each other both within and outside the academy. 9 As Obama said, no one likes art historians. #thanksobama (See Aamer Madhani, “Obama Apologizes for Joking about Art History Majors.” Accessed June 4, 2020. https://www​ .usatoday​.com​/story​/theoval​/2014​/02​/19​/obama​-apologizes​-to​-texas​-art​-history​-professor​ /5609089/.) 10 For data related to the decline of state funding for public higher education, see The Chronicle of Higher Education (2021). 11 See https://www​.acls​.org​/programs​/buddhist​-studies/. 12 See https://khyentsefoundation​.org. 13 See https://www​.shinnyoen​.org​/social​-awareness​/philanthropic​-activities​.html. 14 See https://pwj​.shin​-ibs​.edu. 15 For the record, I have no idea if Robert Sharf considers himself a Buddhist or not. And I have intentionally gendered the hypothetical scholar in this sentence male because, in my research, overwhelmingly it is male scholars who are called upon by news outlets to answer questions about Buddhism. 16 As Thomas Tweed notes his in Crossing and Dwelling, scholars of religion have a “rolespecific obligation” to define the object of their study. This should not be a controversial statement, that as scholars of Buddhism, we have the responsibility of defining Buddhism. The problem, of course, is that this definition has consequences on real persons in the real world (Tweed 2008: 30–1). 17 It is, however, hardly surprising that the founders were not Buddhists, since in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries it was not really a very viable option for them, and one may therefore ask is this significant, or simply an historical fact? 222

Notes 18 Incidentally, and not for nothing, Prebish and others have often used the language of “closeted” or of “coming out” in reference to self-identified scholar-practitioners. I have always been more than a little irritated by this use of language as it clearly plays on the rhetoric of being “openly gay.” If a scholar “comes out” as Buddhist, they may be ridiculed by their colleagues, but they’ll still have a job. When someone comes out as gay, queer, or trans, they risk not only losing their job but their friends, families, faith, and lives. It’s a false equivalency, and hopefully we’ve moved past the rhetoric. 19 Aktor (2015) attempts to quantify the rates of practicing Buddhists within Buddhist studies (as well as practicing Hindus in Hindu Studies); however, he does not cite any actual numbers. What he does suggest is that scholars who are also Buddhist are more likely to publicly claim a Buddhist identity than Hindu scholars who are also practicing Hindus which suggests that the field has become more welcoming in the twenty years since Prebish did his initial study. 20 Just so there is no confusion: I am not using the term “white” here to refer to “white people” but am using it as a racial/ideological category. Whiteness-as-ideology—that is, white supremacy—informs our scholarship, whether or not we are white people. See Chea (2011); Cheah (2017); Yancy and McRae (2019). 21 For one example of how expertly Payne illuminates scholars’ covert theologies see Payne (2009).

Chapter 10 1 See https://www​.5000s​.org. 2 https://www​.theguardian​.com​/commentisfree​/2014​/apr​/23​/buddha​-tattoo​-cultural​ -insensitivity​-sri​-lanka​-research. 3 https://www​.nbcnews​.com​/news​/world​/buddha​-wearing​-headphones​-image​-triggers​ -controversy​-myanmar​-n278386. 4 See https://www​.globalbuddhism​.org/.

Chapter 11 1 A recent issue of The Economist, a news magazine not generally confused with the progressive left (though, to be fair, its form of “classical liberalism” is hard to find on the ground these days—especially in the United States), devoted its cover and lead story to the recent surge of “millennial socialism.” According to The Economist, “Socialism is storming back because it has formed an incisive critique of what has gone wrong in Western societies. Whereas politicians on the right have all too often given up the battle of ideas and retreated towards chauvinism and nostalgia, the left has focused on inequality, the environment, and how to vest power in citizens rather than elites” (Economist 2/14/2019: 11). 2 As Erik Olin Wright notes, even though Marxism is no longer the primary resources for many critics of capitalism “the Marxist tradition still stands as the most ambitious attempt to construct a scientific theory of alternatives to capitalism, and it is important to understand the logic and limitations of its approach” (Wright 2010: 89). This is especially true of what we might call sociological (as opposed to economic/political Marxism)—even

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Notes while recognizing that these lines do not hold very well under scrutiny. See Wright (2010: 100), n.7, where “‘sociological Marxism,’ anchored in the Marxist analysis of class and the critique of capitalism” is distinguished from “‘historical Materialism,’ anchored in the theory of capitalist dynamics and historical trajectory.” In contrast with the latter, Wright argues, “the former remains a highly productive framework for critical theory and research and an essential component of emancipatory social science.” 3 See, for instance, Wright (2010: 37): “Capitalism is, for most people, simply taken for granted as part of the natural order of things. Particular behaviors by corporations or particular economic policies of the government might be the object of criticism, but capitalism itself is simply not the sort of thing that one criticizes. One of the central tasks for socialists, therefore, has always been to convince people that capitalism as such generates a range of undesirable consequences and that, as a result, one should at least entertain the idea that an alternative to capitalism might be desirable and possible.” 4 As Wright (2019: 4) notes, “[t]his way of elaborating the concept means that it is possible to have markets without capitalism”—which makes sense, given that “markets” have a longer and more diverse history, and are often invoked in cooperative economic systems that are quite consciously anti-capitalist. 5 I could cite numerous critiques of the neoliberal (and classical liberal) definition of freedom, but here will briefly note two: (i) Wendell Berry’s argument (borrowed in part from Bert Hornback) that the English word “free” shares etymological roots (Germanic and Sanskrit) with “friend,” which “suggests that our ‘identity’ is located not in the impulse of selfhood but in deliberately maintained connections” (Berry 2010: 45); (ii) G. A. Cohen’s poignant critique of the notion that those without money/resources still have “freedom”: “To have money is to have freedom, and the assimilation of money to mental and bodily resources is a piece of unthinking fetishism, in the good old Marxist sense that it misrepresents social relations of constrain as things that people lack. In a word, money is no object” (Cohen 1994: n.p.). 6 Berry (2010: 190–1) makes an interesting argument for how the vastness and complexity of our current “total economy” perpetuate ignorance (i.e., about where our products come from, how they were produced, and how they arrive at our stores), which can in turn produce apathy or, ideally, can be a spur to activism, where one might begin to ask: “What is here, what is in my neighborhood, what is in me, that can lead to something better?” 7 Here, while I appreciate Faure’s work on dismantling overgeneralizations about “Buddhism” for the purpose of restoring “the complexity and richness of the Buddhist tradition,” such a sentiment can be taken too far, such that it becomes impossible to make any claims at all about “the Buddhist tradition” (Faure 2009: 4). 8 Though there are countless sources in the Buddhist canon for this basic teaching (e.g., the Four Noble Truths), in thinking through what this means for ethics I default to the Buddhist formulation of the “Golden Rule” as found in the Saṃyutta-Nikāya: “For a state that is not pleasant or delightful to me must be so to him also; and a state that is not pleasing or delightful to me, how could I inflict that upon another?” (cited in Harvey 2000: 33). What may be missed but needs to be underscored here is that this logical reflection is derived from a naturalistic, even Epicurean premise—which Schmidt-Leukel calls a “fundamental insight” of classical Buddhism—that all beings “yearn for happiness and recoil from pain” (Majjhima-Nikāya 51; Schmidt-Leukel 2010: 54). 9 As Faure (2009: 130) puts it: “[H]istory reveals that Buddhism has always been engaged and involved in political and social life—perhaps too much at times.”

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Notes 10 Wright (2010: 276) argues for an “emancipatory social theory” founded on the “basic (implicit) proposition [that] . . . [s]ocial structures and institutions that systematically impose harm on people require vigorous mechanisms of active social reproduction in order to be sustained over time.” Perhaps we also need “emancipatory humanities” that examine the suffering caused by various forms of passive social reproduction. This would shade into Ideologikritik but extend beyond the textual realm. 11 I am reminded of Damien Keown’s recent argument that classical Buddhism lacks a true “moral philosophy” such as one finds in ancient Greece, which echoes Jay Garfield’s claim that premodern Buddhism lacks anything like a social or political theory (Keown 2017: 17– 32; see also Bilimoria 2007: 280). While I take the point that ethics and politics are largely under-theorized in classical Buddhist texts, I question the rather sharp lines that Keown and Garfield seem to draw between these and related categories. Garfield in particular seems to limit “politics” to theories of government and the state. 12 For example, Shifu and Taixu (China), Uchiyama Gudō and Seno’o Girō (Japan), B. R. Ambedkar (India)—and, though I think his “Dictatorial Dharmic Socialism” far more problematic—Buddhādasa (Thailand). As I have argued elsewhere (Shields, forthcoming), it is worth noting that early Buddhist socialists in Asia—especially China and Japan—tended toward anarchism rather than Marxism. In contrast to their twentieth-century Buddhist socialist peers, contemporary Engaged Buddhists avoid direct critique of capitalism, though a few have followed the lead of the “soft” critique found in E. F. Schumacher’s Small Is Beautiful, which posits “Buddhist economics” as a “middle way” between capitalism and communism. 13 My method here follows that of Damien Keown, who in a 1995 Symposium on “Buddhism and Human Rights” argued that the Buddhist concept of duties and virtues of the Dharmaraja anticipates the modern idea of human rights in an “embryonic form” (Keown 1998). So, too, I suggest, can an anti-capitalist critique be developed based on the “embryonic form” of some classical Buddhist ideas and practices. 14 Wright, who passed away in 2018, has been an important touchstone for my work of thinking through the possibilities of progressive Buddhism, as well as “realistic utopias” today. I am particularly indebted to his magisterial Envisioning Real Utopias (2010) and the incisively brief How to Be an Anti-capitalist in the 21st Century (2019), both from which I borrow extensively here. While Wright takes a normative (i.e., critical) stance against capitalist forms, he is always fair, circumspect and resists trafficking in hyperbole or emotional excess. These qualities make his work particularly amenable to Buddhist conscription. In general, Wright highlights a moral critique of capitalism rooted in three value clusters: equality/fairness, democracy/freedom, and community/solidarity. 15 See Sayer (2005) for a realist defense of suffering/flourishing. Sayer attends to the question, relevant here, whether there is such a thing as “real suffering” beyond cultural relativistic understandings. This question deserves attention from Buddhist scholars. 16 The other two subsections of this first critique are technological change and profitmaximizing competition. Wright argues that the never-ending push for greater productivity leads to innovations in technology; and while this may sound positive (in terms of “progress”), within a capitalist (and neoliberal) system technological innovation often leads to the destruction of skilled labor and the displacement of workers. Similarly, competition among firms, particularly under more recent forms of globalized capital, often leads to job losses and worker displacement. While these are clearly negative aspects, unlike exploitation that can be understood as “negative externalities,” which have less direct relevance to Dharmic concerns. I do not think that Buddhism has much to say about “competition” as

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Notes a mode of human interaction—assuming it stays within reasonable and humane limits; see Wright (2010: 42–3). 17 Here I cannot help but cite Wendell Berry, our greatest living agrarian prophet and moralist, on our current economy: “a ramshackle, propped-up, greed-enforced anti-economy that is delusional, vicious, wasteful, destructive, hard-hearted, and so fundamentally dishonest as to have resorted finally to ‘trading’ in various pure nothings. Might it not have been better and safer to have assumed that there is no partition between economy and morality, that the test of both is practicality, and that morality is long-term practicality?” (Berry 2010: 19). 18 “Aristotle defined the human being as a zoon politikon, a social animal, requiring a politikon bion or public life so that each individual realises his or her existence to its full meaning by fully functioning within the public community. This community is the essential foundation for human flourishing. Without this public life, the individual remains confined to a level of immediacy and immaturity pursuing wants and desires in a purely private existence” (Critchley 1995: 1). 19 Perhaps we could say, following Meinert and Zöllner on human rights and Buddhism, that “flourishing” in this world is an upāya on the way to the “higher” goal of Awakening or Buddhahood—but that again begs the question of whether these “higher” goals can be so readily distinguished from secular conditions (Meinert and Zöllner 2010: 10). This is not, I want to make clear, simply a problem for modernists; it is one that goes to the heart of classical Mahāyāna, and especially Madhyamika and Chan/Zen streams of Buddhist understanding. 20 There are, of course, exceptions to this, such as Aaron Bastani’s provocative Fully Automated Luxury Communism: A Manifesto. 21 Late nineteenth-century British socialist and designer William Morris (1834–96), who, in works like the utopian novel News from Nowhere (1890), argued for a socialism deeply committed to creativity, the arts, and care for nature, stands out as an exception. 22 See Chakravarti (1987: 151–2); Schmidt-Leukel (2010: 51); for more on Kang, see Zarrow (1990: 19, 87). 23 In contrast, compare the following remarks about anti-materialism in the Western thought tradition: “The argument [against luxury] reached back to Plato, who had reasoned that the material world was a mere shadow of reality . . . In his Republic, Plato followed the decline of a virtuous, frugal city as it was corrupted by the lust for luxurious living. When citizens kept to the basic needs set by nature, the city was in ‘sound health.’ Once people started to follow the desires of their flesh, however, they set in motion an insatiable drive for more that ended in war and corruption . . . The quest for luxury was insatiable and forced the city to expand and go further and further afield in search of resources, leading to war and conquest. Aggression abroad was worsened by decay at home, as luxury emasculated formerly virile citizens . . . Inevitably, the corruption of the flesh led to the corruption of a republic. This link between a frugal lifestyle and republican greatness on the one hand, and private excess and public corruption on the other, was a central theme for Cicero, who would become the Renaissance’s favorite Latin author” (Trentmann 2016: 35–6). While some of this certainly exists within Buddhist texts, I take issue with those—including Faure (2009: 104) and Meinert and Zöllner (2010: 9–10)—who insist that Buddhist Awakening can only be conceived as “supra-mundane” and “non-secular” and that so-called modernists are thus completely off course in their understanding of Buddhism. Faure’s point is overstated at best, mistaken (and backhandedly orientalist) at worst. 24 See also Chakravarti (1987: 180–1): “The vision of the new society conceived by the Buddha was ordered on more rational principles than the Brahamanical system, and the

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Notes creation of the ideal society was the responsibility of the king in his new role as cakkavatti and dhammiko dhammarāja. The existing political system based on absolute kingship as reflected in Buddhist literature had to be transformed into one in which kingship would be an instrument of social and political change.” The extensive literature on the WheelTurning King provides a counter against my argument that classical Buddhism evinces a plausible democratic and even anarchist form of social organization, and yet, from another perspective this ideal ruler is an absolute embodiment of the dharma itself, which means that, like the Sage Ruler of the Daodejing, the Dhammarāja is most effective when s/he is least apparent; that is, when the laws or principles are the driving force for human behavior. In such an account, the ideal ruler is “empty”; a “non-ruler”—and governance occurs, as in anarchist visions of democracy, via persons who have internalized values such as compassion, charity, and loving-kindness. See Collins (1998: 414–96); Keown (1998). 25 Though see Pryor (2002: 155), who argues that (at least Theravāda) Buddhism is not concerned with poverty or, by extension, distributive justice. 26 Space and scope here prohibit an analysis of “Buddhist economics” as developed from the 1970s by Schumacher, Payutto, and a few Engaged Buddhists in Asia and the West. Elsewhere (Shields 2018), I have been critical of these arguments for submitting too readily to “bourgeois” assumptions and failing to recognize the power of secular, progressive theory, I acknowledge and appreciate the effort by advocates of Buddhist economics to “return” economics to its Aristotelian origins, defined by Hermann Daly as “the science of art of efficiently producing, distributing, and maintaining concrete use values for the household and community over the long run.” Rather than oikonomia, modern capitalism is better identified with chrematistics, which for Aristotle was “the art of maximizing the accumulation by individuals of abstract exchange value in the form of money in the short run.” As Daly concludes: “In replacing chrematistics by oikonomia we not only refocus on a different reality but also embrace the purposes served within than different reality—community, frugality, efficiency, and long-term stewardship of particular places” (Daly 2010: x). 27 See the Sigālovāda Sutta (in Digha Nikāya), “which has been called the layman’s social vinaya . . . It not only stresses the importance of support to the renouncers . . . as one of the central duties of the ariyasāvaka, but it also indicates the ideal layman as one who works hard, does not dissipate his wealth but makes the maximum use of it; preserves and expands his property, and saves a portion of his wealth for times of need” (Chakravarti 1987: 179). See also Sizemore and Swearer (1990: 2, 13); Harvey (2000: 202); and Fenn (1996: 107), for a critique of this view on the basis of other early texts such as the Cakkavatti-sīhanāda Sutta. 28 “The central defining feature of economics is, in fact, the identification and understanding of the inevitable patterns of behavior in society that are related to ‘livelihood’” (Daniels 2004: 246). 29 Suggestively, Rambelli (2007: 207) understands the “fetishization” of both tools and labor during the early modern period in Japan as an attempt “to ‘un-alienate’ and re-enchant labor, especially at a time of social and economic transformations toward a mature form of capitalistic economy.” We can understand this, then, as another of countless cases of “resistance” to the incursion of capitalism and market forces. 30 A strong commitment to real democracy must be a foundation of any twenty-first-century anti-capitalist movement, both for “political” and practical reasons. First, such a foundation counters the charge that anti-capitalists (especially socialists and communists) are by definition against freedom. Second, by asserting a faith in democracy—that is, “the belief that the more democratic the distribution of power is in a system the more likely it is that humane and egalitarian values will prevail”—anti-capitalists address one aspects of the 227

Notes critique of (anarchist) “utopianism”: that it relies on a speculative and possibly naive faith in the goodness of human nature. Rather, as with classical Buddhism, there is no need to assume anything about “human nature” at all; the point rather is that under certain social conditions (in this case, a wide and deep democracy), “people will interact in ways in which the more human impulses of our nature are more likely to prevail” (Wright 2010: 369). 31 See Cohen (1988) on agency and freedom in Marx. 32 Elsewhere (e.g., Shields 2013) I have argued for a correlation between Buddhist understandings of a “social self ” and Marx’s “species being,” but here let it suffice that classical Buddhism contributes a sophisticated understanding of selfhood that privileges agency while questioning autonomy as an ideal. I see a parallel here, once again, in the work of scholars looking at Buddhism and human rights. For instance, Meinert and Zöllner (2010: 11) argue for a Buddhist “moderate” approach to human rights, one that balances the need to “protect individuals against powerful institutions threatening or suppression from the outside and from within” with the danger of a reliance on “false claims to universality coded in the form of legal rights . . . this is, in fact, where Buddhism might be able to offer a great deal and possibly could make a major contribution to the discussion of, and demand for, multiple foundations of human rights regulations”—or, mutatis mutandae, multiple foundations for anti-capitalism. This seems a better “balance” than the one presented by proponents of “Buddhist economics” like E. F. Schumacher and P. Payutto—that is, between capitalism and socialism/communism. 33 The classic problem, first proposed by nineteenth-century British economist William Forster Lloyd and formalized by Garret Hardin in a 1969 article, according to which individual users of a shared resource act independently according to their own self-interest and thus, by depleting said resource, ultimately harm all those concerned (see Hardin 1968). 34 Here is Wright on the value of reading historical materialism as an aspect of Marx’s “utopianism” rather than as “science” or prophecy: “[I]t seems best to regard the communism destination thesis as a regulative ideal, as a moral vision to guide our actions rather than an actual claim about the future trajectory of social change” (Wright 2010: 99). Obviously, Buddhist traditions also establish and exist within a soteriological framework. Does modern science? That, I think, remains an open question, pace Faure (2009: 105), who argues that, despite its “rationality,” Buddhist commitment to the soteriology of awakening renders it “incompatible” with science. 35 See Faure (2009: 17) on the utopian spirit of traditional Buddhism: “The ‘imitation’ of this timeless paradigm [i.e., the historical Buddha] is a fundamental fact of monastic life. It is not just about achieving Awakening for oneself by identifying with the Buddha individually; it also involves re-creating the Buddhist community utopia of the early days: bringing the Buddha back to life not just as a detached individual, but rather in close symbiosis with his disciples.” 36 This insight on the part of twentieth-century Buddhist socialists like Senoo Girō was the inspiration for the title of my 2017 monograph: Against Harmony. 37 As Wright puts it, the processes of ideology formation generate “at least a rough correspondence between the kinds of social subjects needed for the social structure to be reproduced and the kinds of social subjects produced within the society” (Wright 2010: 285). One result is that “[p]eople can have many complaints about the social world and know that it generates significant harms to themselves and others, and yet still believe that such harms are inevitable, that there are no other real possibilities that would make things significantly better, and that thus there is little point in struggling to change things, particularly since such struggles involve significant costs” (Wright 2010: 286). 228

Notes 38 Others (such as Fleming 2010: 99) have highlighted the contribution Buddhism/dharma might make to contemporary sociopolitical discourse by way of a deeper understanding of the causes of suffering. While there is surely something to this point, it has the danger (as we see, for example, in the work of P. Payutto) of lapsing into a kind of paternalistic moralism, such that “suffering” becomes a matter of purely internal mechanisms—while systems and structures are (as in liberal discourse) conveniently overlooked. A balance is obviously best, and I believe that both Buddhism and Marxism share resources for analysis of both internal and “external” (or “interdependent”) sources of duhkha. For instance, Buddhist attention to “mindfulness” and the training of mental/emotional habits (with, of course, attendant behavioral changes) is surely an important contribution—but one that cannot be divorced from or opposed to structural or systemic critiques (though here our conceptual resources may have to come from Mahāyāna and particularly East Asian forms, including Huayan and Chan/Zen; see Park [2017]). 39 This is contrasted to economic power (associated with capitalism, which uses bribery as a method of persuasion, and state power (associated with both authoritarian and neoliberal states, which rely on force and ideology as primary methods of persuasion). That is not to suggest, of course, that social power is entirely distinguishable from economics or politics, but that these will be subordinate to a commitment to human social flourishing (thus, a “social economy”). See Wright (2010: 112–13, 121, 192); see also Lukes (2005). 40 Countervailing power refers to “wide variety of processes that reduce—and perhaps even neutralize—the power advantages of ordinarily powerful groups and elites in the contexts of these governmental institutions” (Wright 2010: 165). Further, “if ‘democracy’ is the label for the subordination of state power to social power, ‘socialism’ in the term for the subordination of economic power to social power” (Wright 2010: 121). 41 See David Graeber’s provocative case for the failure of modern technology in Graeber (2015). 42 Collin Ward counters the Marxist critique, making a case for an “autonomist” vision of anarchism rooted in (Gramscian) counter-hegemony: “Far from being a speculative vision of a future society . . . [anarchy] is a description of a mode of human organization, rooted in the experience of everyday life, which operates side by side with, and in spite of, the dominant authoritarian trends of our society. . . . [T]he anarchist alternatives are already there, in the interstices of the dominant power structure. If you want to build a free society, the parts are all at hand” (Ward 1973: 18).

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CONTRIBUTORS

Candy Gunther Brown (PhD, Harvard University) is Professor of Religious Studies at Indiana University. Brown is author of The Word in the World: Evangelical Writing, Publishing, and Reading in America, 1789-1880 (2004); Testing Prayer: Science and Healing (2012); The Healing Gods: Complementary and Alternative Medicine in Christian America (2013); and Debating Yoga and Mindfulness in Public Schools: Reforming Secular Education or Reestablishing Religion? (2019). She is editor of Global Pentecostal and Charismatic Healing (2011) and coeditor (with Mark Silk) of The Future of Evangelicalism in America (2016). Brown has served as an expert witness in four legal challenges to school meditation and yoga—testifying for both parents and school districts. Media coverage includes The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, The Atlantic, Religion Dispatches, The Conversation, Huffington Post Live, Psychology Today, Mindful Leader, National Catholic Register, Atheist Yoga, Interfaith Voices, and Tricycle: The Buddhist Review. Courtney Bruntz (PhD) is Associate Dean of Arts and Sciences at Southeast Community College (Lincoln, Nebraska). She received her PhD in Buddhist studies from the Graduate Theological Union (Berkeley, California) and has been researching religious revivalism in China for over ten years. Her interest is in Buddhism’s adaptation during changing political climates and how tourism developments alter Buddhist spaces, practices, and communities. Her edited volume Buddhist Tourism in Asia was published in 2020. Barbra Clayton (PhD) is an associate professor of Religious Studies at Mount Allison University in Canada. She is the author of Moral Theory in Śāntideva’s Śikṣāsamuccaya, and several articles on Mahāyāna morality, including “The Changing Way of the bodhisattva” in the Oxford Handbook of Buddhist Ethics, and “Buddhist Ethics” in the Oxford Handbook of World Philosophy. Her recent work focuses on ethics in contemporary Buddhism, and she has published articles on the ethics of environmentalism in the Shambhala Buddhist community and Buddhist monasticism in Canada. Her current research centers on Bhutan and its alternative, sustainable development policy of Gross National Happiness. She serves on the editorial boards of the Journal of Buddhist Ethics and the Canadian Journal of Buddhist Studies. William K. Dewey (PhD, University of California, Santa Barbara, 2017) has worked as a lecturer at Rangjung Yeshé Institute, Kathmandu, as a curatorial fellow at the Rubin Museum of Art, New York, and as an editor and programmer for 84000: Translating the Words of the Buddha. His research has explored the relationship of political and

Contributors

clerical power under the Dalai Lamas, and Buddhist understandings of the relationship of religion and politics. He is currently working as a software developer for the Center for Research in the Digital Humanities at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Della Duncan (MA) is a renegade economist based in San Francisco, California. She has a Master of Arts in Economics for Transition from Schumacher College in partnership with University of Plymouth in the UK. She is currently a Senior Atlantic Fellow for social and economic equity at the International Inequalities Institute at the London School of Economics and Political Science, and a Senior Lecturer at the California Institute of Integral Studies. She is also a consultant, a Right Livelihood Coach, and the host of the “Upstream Podcast.” Ira Helderman (PhD, LPC) is both a Religious Studies scholar and practicing psychotherapist. He is a visiting assistant professor in Vanderbilt University’s Department of Religious Studies and adjunct assistant professor in Vanderbilt’s Department of Human Development Counseling. He received his PhD in Religious Studies (“Religion, Psychology, and Culture”) from Vanderbilt University where he studied how psychotherapists and psychotherapeutic frames influence the way people are religious in the United States. Helderman has contributed chapters to peer-reviewed book collections such as Mysticism and Depth Psychology, articles to peer-reviewed journals like The Journal of the American Academy of Religion and Buddhist Studies Review, and writes regularly for popular publications like Psychology Today and Tricycle: The Buddhist Review. His monograph Prescribing the Dharma: Psychotherapists, Buddhist Traditions, and Defining Religion (2019) is the first comprehensive examination of the surprisingly diverse ways that psychotherapists have approached Buddhist traditions throughout history. Helderman has also worked for over twenty years as a psychotherapist and clinical supervisor in a variety of settings from in-patient addiction treatment centers and psychiatric hospitals to his current private practice. Kendall Marchman is Assistant Professor of Religion in the Department of Religion at the University of Georgia. In addition to his interest in tourism and Buddhism, he also researches Pure Land Buddhism in Middle Period China. Scott A. Mitchell is the Dean of Students and Faculty Affairs and holds the Yoshitaka Tamai Professorial Chair at the Institute of Buddhist studies, Berkeley, California. He teaches and writes about Buddhism in the West, Buddhist modernism, Pure Land Buddhism, and Buddhism and media. Lionel Obadia (PhD in Sociology, 1997) has been Associate Professor in Ethnology (1998–2004) and is now Professor in Anthropology (since 2004) at the University of Lyon, France, and in other French universities (EHESS, EPHE, and SciencePo). He is specialized in anthropology of religion, Asian religions, and globalization. He 264

Contributors

has conducted fieldworks in France, Europe (on Buddhism in the West), Nepal (on Buddhism and Shamanism), and South India (Auroville). He is now working on digital religions witchcraft and magic. He has published 10 books and more than 150 papers (journal articles and book chapters), including “Economies of religion, Buddhism and economy, Buddhist economics: challenges and perspectives” in T. Brox and E. WilliamsOerberg (eds) Buddhism and Business: Merit, Material Wealth, and Morality in the Global Market Economy, 2020. Richard K. Payne (PhD) is Yehan Numata Professor of Japanese Buddhist studies at the Institute of Buddhist studies, Berkeley, where he is Chair of the Editorial Board for the Institute’s journal, Pacific World. He was founding editor-in-chief of the Oxford Bibliographies Buddhism section and is coeditor-in-chief of the Oxford Encyclopedia of Buddhism (online, print version in press). He recently coedited, with Michael Witzel, Homa Variations: The Study of Ritual Change across the Longue Durée (2015) and is author of Language in the Buddhist Tantra of Japan: Indic Roots of Mantra (2019). His most recent edited volume is Secularizing Buddhism: New Perspectives on a Dynamic Tradition (2021). He is the founding chair of the Editorial Committee of the Pure Land Buddhist studies Series, a series that now includes eleven titles. Fabio Rambelli (PhD in East Asian Studies, 1992) is a professor of Japanese religions and cultural history and the International Shinto Foundation chair in Shinto Studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara. He works at the intersection of philosophical discourses, material practices, and everyday life in premodern Japan. He is the author of  Buddhist Materiality  (2007),  Buddhism and Iconoclasm in East Asia: A History (with Eric Reinders, 2012),  A Buddhist Theory of Semiotics  (2013),  Zen Anarchism  (2013), and editor or coeditor of  Buddhas and Kami in Japan (with Mark Teeuwen, 2003), The Sea and the Sacred in Japan: Aspects of Maritime Religion  (2018),  Spirits and Animism in Contemporary Japan: The Invisible Empire  (2019),  Defining Shugendō: Critical Studies on Japanese Mountain Religion (with Andrea Castiglioni and Carina Roth, 2020), the Bloomsbury Handbook of Japanese Religions (with Erica Baffelli and Andrea Castiglioni, 2021), and Rituals of Initiation and Consecration in Premodern Japan (with Or Porath, 2022). He is the general editor of the Bloomsbury Shinto Studies Series. He also plays music; CDs with his formations include Yellow Flower (with Sofar Sonear, 2017) and Neo Archē (Fabio Rambelli and Rory Lindsay, 2020). Jitnisa Roenjun was an owner/operator of small businesses in Bangkok for several decades and has long been a follower of Kuan Im. She retired to work on a DBA, passed her comps and proposal defense, and conducted fieldwork about management style among women small business owners who follow Kuan Im bodhisattva. However, she also got involved in new small business ventures and reached the point where she had to choose which track needed full attention. She loves small business more and decided to leave student life at ABD. Her MBA is from Sripatum University, Bangkok. 265

Contributors

James Mark Shields is Professor of Comparative Humanities and Asian Thought and was Inaugural Director of the Humanities Center at Bucknell University (Lewisburg, Pennsylvania). Educated at McGill University (Canada), the University of Cambridge (UK), and Kyoto University (Japan), he conducts research on modern Buddhist thought, Japanese philosophy, comparative ethics, and philosophy of religion. He is author of Critical Buddhism: Engaging with Modern Japanese Buddhist Thought (Ashgate, 2011), Against Harmony: Progressive and Radical Buddhism in Modern Japan (2017), and coeditor of Teaching Buddhism in the West: From the Wheel to the Web (2003), Buddhist Responses to Globalization (2014), and The Oxford Handbook of Buddhist Ethics (2018). Mark Speece semi-retired in 2019 but remains Adjunct Associate Professor at the College of Management Mahidol University (CMMU) in Bangkok. Prior to returning to Bangkok, he taught in Kuwait (seven years), Alaska (ten years), and Southeast Asia (sixteen years, mostly Thailand, also Singapore, Hong Kong, and Vietnam). He has a PhD in Marketing from the University of Washington, and MA and PhD in Middle East Economic Geography from the University of Arizona. He also holds an MA in Buddhist Studies from the University of Sunderland (UK). His research is on marketing and macromarketing issues in Southeast Asia and the Middle East, including Buddhist and Islamic ethics in economics and business. Elizabeth Williams-Oerberg is the codirector of the Center for Contemporary Buddhist Studies at the Department of Cross-Cultural and Regional Studies, University of Copenhagen. She has been part of the international, collaborative research project on “Buddhism, Business and Believers” with her individual research project focusing on Buddhism and tourism in Ladakh, India. Together with Trine Brox, she is the coeditor of the volumes Buddhism and Business: Merit, Material Wealth and Morality in the Global Market Economy (2020) and Buddhism and Waste: The Excess, Discard, and Afterlife of Buddhist Consumption (2022). She has a PhD in Anthropology from Aarhus University, Denmark, where she engaged in research on Buddhism and educational migration among Ladakhi youth in India.

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INDEX

Acemoglu, Daron  29, 30 Aggañña suttanta (or Sutta)  5, 205, 211–12 Aktor, Michael  175, 223 n.19 Alexander, Samuel  157 Arthaśastra  30 authenticity  100–2 Batchelor, Stephen  206 Baumann, Martin  191 Berger, Peter  140–1 Berry, Wendell  226 n.17 Bhutan  148–66 Borup, Jørn  6, 178, 179, 194 Brox, Trine  114, 195 Bruntz, Courtney  90 Buddha Bar  187 Buddhadāsa (1906–1993)  117, 129, 218 n.1 Buddhist economics  9, 117–18, 130–1, 134, 156–66, 190, 202–14, 227 n.26. See also Gross National Happiness and environmentalism  155–6, 158–9, 209 and ethics  116–31, 134, 207–9 Buddhist institutions (temples), as economic hubs  4–5, 86, 130, 132–5 environmental impact of  7, 155 and globalization  132–46, 184–96 governance  36–9, 99 and international trade across Asia  8 and modernization  11–12, 189 Buddhist studies (academic field)  1, 10, 169–83 Cabezón, José  177 capitalism, types and definitions of  2, 3, 27–8, 84–6, 147–8, 197–9 and Buddhism  11–12, 20–2, 184–96 Buddhist critique of  197–214 and scholarship on Buddhism  12–13 Castells, Manuel  135 Catanese, Alex John  7–8 Chakravarti, Uma  205, 206, 226–7 n.24 Cham mask dance  136, 138 Chibber, Vivek  198–200 China  86–90, 101–15 Chöd death ritual  136, 139–40 Cohen, G. A.  210–11 Collins, Steven  37, 215 n.3

Colman, Ronald  155–6, 164 commodification of Buddhist objects and services (and resistance against)  7–8, 54, 59, 99, 133–4, 140–2, 185–9, 192 “connectionwork”  132–3, 135–42. See also karmic connections corporate form and religion  11, 222 n.8 Davidson, Ronald  43 Desideri, Ippolito (1684–1733)  27 Dhammakāya (Wat Phra)  118, 218–19 n.7 Dharma shopper  192–3. See also commodification Digital Revolution and Buddhism  83, 87 economics of Buddhism  3–4, 6, 7, 9–11, 20–2, 25–7, 62–3, 99, 132–46, 174–6 and Buddhist Studies  174–7 and globalization  189–95 Ellingson, Ter  39 Elverskog, Johan  7, 155 Emei, Mount (China)  103–5, 107–15 Engaged Buddhism, and economics  9, 88, 201 Eriksen, Thomas Hylland  1 Faure, Bernard  224 n.7, 224 n.9, 226 n.23, 228 n.35 Fromm, Erich  75 fundraising  132 Ganden Podrang  32, 33, 43 Ganden Tripa  25, 38–9 Gernet, Jacques  3–4, 8, 11, 62–3 Gleig, Ann  76–7, 80 Gombrich, Richard  26, 27, 36 governmentality  173 Graeber, David  205 Gross National Happiness  147–66, 194 happiness  150–4. See also Gross National Happiness Harari, Yuval  158 Hawn, Goldie  50 Hayden, Anders  160, 161, 166 Helderman, Ira  65–6, 68, 70, 77, 82 Hershock, Peter  83 Holloway, John  199

Index Horsley, Richard A.  1

Quli, Natalie  179–81

Jain, Andrea  80 Jansen, Berthe  27, 32, 33, 37, 41 Japan  12, 90–6

Rambelli, Fabio  8, 12, 84, 91, 92, 207, 221 n.5, 227 n.29 Rand, William Lee  52, 53 rational choice theory  10 Reader, Ian  92 Reiki  50–4, 57, 60 Rickly-Boyd, Jillian  101–2 Riles, Annelise  135 Robertson, Jennifer  90–1 Robinson, James 29, 30 Rubin, Jeffrey  74

Kabat-Zinn, Jon  48, 49, 59, 70, 72 karmic connections  133, 135–6, 144. See also “connectionwork”; merit-making Keown, Damien  225 n.11, 225 n.13 Kidu (“welfare”) system  149 Knowing Buddha Organization  133, 134, 184–7, 194 knowledge economy  169–83 Kuan Im bodhisattva (Guanyin, Kannon, Avalokiteśvara)  119–20 Kuan Im movement (Thailand)  116–31 Ladakh  131–46 Lancaster, Lewis  86–7 Lele, Amod  201 López, Donald, Jr.  1 McCloskey, Deirdre  27–30, 37 McMahan, David  170–1 marketing (and Buddhist economics)  143–4 Mathews, Gordon  195–6 merit-making, economic aspects  6, 7, 41, 123 Milindapañha  205 Mindar (android Kannon)  93, 94 mindfulness  48–50, 55, 57, 59–60, 70–1, 73, 78–80, 124–5, 152, 178, 218 n.6 Mipham  30, 31 Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya  26, 27, 31, 36–7, 40 Nanshan Scenic Spot (China)  104, 107–15 neoliberalism  173 Ngawang Tsültrim (1721–91)  25, 33–6, 41, 42 Norbu (Lama)  136–9, 141, 145, 219 n.2 North, Douglass  28–9 Obadia, Lionel  99, 184, 188, 189, 191, 196 Payne, Richard K.  9, 48–9, 57, 170, 171, 180 Payutto, Phra  116, 117, 121, 129, 131, 218 n.2 Pepper (robot monk)  91–2 performances (of Buddhist dances and rituals)  136, 219 n.5 philanthropy  54–9 Phuntsho  160 Piketty, Thomas  163 practical canon  5 Prebish, Charles  177 Prohl, Inken  114, 133 psychotherapy and Buddhism  63–82

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Sada Kaiseki (1818–1882)  12 Samuel, Geoffrey  30, 42, 43 Santi Asoke  118, 218 n.5 Schedneck, Brooke  6, 130 Schopen, Gregory  5–6, 26, 33, 37 Schumacher, E. F.  9, 118, 129, 190 self-help  69 Sen, Tansen  8 Senoo Girō (1890–1961)  214 servant leadership  126–9 Sharf, Robert  176, 222 n.15 Shields, James Mark  201, 225 n.12, 228 n.32 Sivaraksa, Sulak  9 small business capitalism (in Thailand)  116–31 spiritual performances (dance and rituals)  136– 40, 146 Sri Lanka  27, 185 Star Trek  182–3 Streeck, Wolfgang  84–5 Sunkara, Bhaskar  198 sustainability  117 Suzuki, D. T.  209 Taixu (1890–1947)  214 Takata, Hawayo  50–1 technology and Buddhism  83–97, 216–17 n.1. See also tourism (online) and religious engagement  94–5, 190–1 Thailand  116–31, 184–7 Thinley, Jigmy  149, 150, 153–5 Tho, Ha Vihn  157 Thompson, Evan  169 Tibet  25–7, 30–44 tourism and Buddhism  98, 100–1, 107–15, 141–4 online tourism  107–15 Travagnin, Stefania  89 Tsongkhapa (1357–1419)  32 Tweed, Thomas  222 n.16 Uchiyama Gudō (1874–1912)  12, 213

Index Vimalakirti  5 Walsh, Michael  6–7 Wangchuk, Jigme Singye (King of Bhutan)  150 Weber, Max  26, 99, 190 wellness  63 “Western Buddhism”  2, 188 Williams-Oerberg, Elizabeth  135–6, 195 Wing, Janet  53 Wolf, Ava  53 Wolff, Richard  147, 161

women’s economic activities (Thailand)  116–31 Wright, Erik Olin  198, 202–13, 223–4 n.3, 224 n.4, 225 n.10, 225 n.14, 228 n.34, 228 n.37 Wutai, Mount (China)  103–5, 107–15 Xian’er (robot monk)  88–90, 93, 94 Xuecheng  87–9, 94 Zhu Yujie  101 Žižek, Slavoj  2, 196, 216 n.1

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