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How does Buddhism relate to society? I guess that we are all aware of the impact, power and
pervasiveness of religious structures in just about every nation on earth, with many of them
underpinned either directly or indirectly by some sort of religious institution. Historically,
Buddhism has been no different. It was for a long time the religion of choice for powerful
Indian kings; it thrived in and around India and Asia, often sponsored and spread through the
operations of empire. Today, we think of places like Bhutan, Nepal, Tibet and Sri Lanka as
‘Buddhist’ countries, but that they are majority-Buddhist states does not tell us much about
how Buddhism sees itself in a societal context. This is what I want to cover now, and in the
seminar a little later on.

First, what is the point of Buddhism? What does it try to do, and to what ends? Bhikkhu
Bodhi is a name that you will likely become familiar with if you keep up any serious interest
in Buddhism – he is a respected Theravāda monk and translator – and he identifies two
aspects to Buddhism that he thinks interlink to allow Buddhism to operate within a given
society. The first of these is the Liberative Strand, which Bodhi says is

the essential and unique discovery of the Buddha, [which] is the message of a direct way
to liberation from suffering [I prefer to translate ‘suffering’ (duḥkha; dukkha) as
‘dissatisfaction’]. This strand begins with the realisation that suffering [dissatisfaction]
originates within ourselves, from our own greed, hatred, and ignorance, above all from
our drive to establish a sense of separate selfhood that pits us against all other living
forms.

He continues to say that

The Buddha’s radical solution to the problem of suffering [dissatisfaction] is the

demolition of the self-delusion in its entirety. This issues in an utterly new mode of being
that the Buddha called ‘Nibbāna’ [nirvāṇa], the extinguishing of the fire of lust, the going-
out of the ego-consciousness with its flames of selfish craving.

This is a flowery way of saying that the Buddha taught that removal of notions of self (and
with it, notions of I, mine etc.) was the means to liberation from the trappings of
dissatisfaction. Most people associate Buddhist praxis with the monastic community of
monks and nuns, and so with that comes a load of other ideas, too. If I were to ask you guys
what the words ‘monk’ or ‘nun’ bring to mind, what would you say?
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I guess that most people would say that monastics tend to live in monasteries and so are
detached from the general population; they live according to strict rules, and they spend their
days reciting old mantras and meditating. The point is really that the image of this sort of
Buddhist – a monastic – brings to mind really specific things, none of which we would tend to
associate with being integral to our societies. It requires a great deal of sacrifice, dedication,
and restraint. The rules that govern every aspect of monastic life are called the vinaya
(literally leading out; education; discipline), and these too demand a lot of the monastic
community (saṅgha). Do we really want to live like monks? It might appeal to some of you (I
toyed with it for a little while), but I think it a safe bet that most people are not at all interested
in living in this way. Not only that, but if the whole world were to adhere to the vinaya, we
would pretty quickly die out – the first rule to be observed is the one which prohibits sex!

Indeed, there are strict rules regarding how and when a monk might engage with a woman.
A male monk cannot, for example ‘sit in a secluded place’ with a female layperson: if there is
a reason for the monk and the female layperson to sit and talk, then both should either wait
for a more appropriate opportunity – that is to say when the monks is not in seclusion – or a
chaperone should be sought (who must be male, of course). Monks are generally prohibited
from sleeping in the same place as a woman (where ‘place’ means building) and they are
predictably barred from flirting, matchmaking or propositioning. Standard monastic stuff in
many ways, but in terms of wider society, we can see how extending these rules outward to
laypeople would be really problematic. And so the solution insofar as there is one, is for the
rules not to apply outwardly to the general population, even if they are Buddhist. As Bhikkhu
Bodhi acknowledges, the monastic approach to Buddhism

requires a price far higher than most people can pay: a strict discipline of
contemplation grounded in a radical ethic of restraint. Thus, being a skilful teacher,
the Buddha modulated his teaching by including another dimension suitable for
those unable to walk the steep road of renunciation [Pāli: nekkhama].

Bodhi’s contention that the Buddha recognised that renunciation wasn’t for everyone isn’t
particularly controversial. Those of you that have studied some Buddhism before will know
that a part of the Buddhist exegetical tradition with great significance is upāya, or
skilful/expedient means. The idea underpinning this notion is that the Buddha tailored his
teaching based on who he happened to be speaking to, and so apparently contradictory
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passages within the Canon can be accounted for in these terms. The Buddha might, for
example, talk about the ātman to a Brahmin that sought liberation despite his famed denial
that any such ātman exists. Similarly, the Buddha is held to have developed teachings that
whilst not as expedient as those adhered to by monastic communities, still provide some
degree of spiritual progression for the lay adherent. Bodhi calls this the Accommodative
Strand of Buddhist praxis.

It is, he thinks, ‘accommodative’ for two reasons: first, because it provides an (indirect) means
by which the layperson might work toward liberation, albeit at a slower pace than the
monastics, and second because it allows lay adherents to be protected from the more intense
forms of worldly suffering in virtue of their (diluted) adherence to the Buddhist path.
Importantly, the upshot of these strands I that ‘normal’ people – that s people who are not
monastics – now have ‘a meaningful picture of their place in the cosmos’, something which
ought to aid a Buddhist in dealing with the existential anxieties we encounter throughout our
lives. As Buddhism developed, the primary Strand shifted from a focus on the Liberative
Strand to a new focus on the Accommodative Strand. This, thinks Bodhi, was an inevitability:
as Buddhism grew, it was adopted by Kings and thus became a religion of states. As Bodhi
puts it, ‘[s]such a development was only natural when a spiritual teaching whose liberative
core was suited for renunciants became the religion of an entire nation’.

Obviously, not every single person in the nation could become a renunciant, and this is due
in large part to the nature of the vinaya, which bars monastics from what we might think of
as more innocuous activities like growing their own food or building their own structures. The
reason for this is to ensure that there is always a relationship between the monastics and the
laypeople – the monks and nuns must rely on laypeople for their food, they must rely on them
to do work etc., and in return, the monks and nuns offer practical spiritual guidance. In this
sense, then, we can say that the vinaya both restricts and encourages engagement and
cohesion between the monastic community and that of the laypeople. It is restrictive in that
monastics live apart from mainstream society and live according to their own sets of rules
with their own monastic governance – this is, of course, always secondary to whatever the
law of the land happens to be.

Nevertheless, we might be tempted to see monastic communities as a sort of society within

a society, operating within ‘society’ widely construed only insofar as they absolutely need to,
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and otherwise retreating to their own community in favour of meditation and doctrinal
debate. The same can be argued for many monastic communities across multiple religious
traditions. Monastic communities of all religious bents are predicated on renunciation, and
this renunciation must always come at a price. After all, renunciation requires that
practitioners deliberately separate themselves from ‘society’ in order to focus on the spiritual
life rather than the material life, with the result (hopefully) being liberation/enlightenment.

Where integration between the monastic orders and lay society does occur, it is in regulated
circumstances, and there is always an air of instrumentality about it. Monks famously beg for
their food, indeed, the Pāli word ‘bhikkhu’ means something like ‘mendicant’, or ‘one given
to begging’; they have laypeople carry out work for their monasteries; they teach, bless and
generally give religious guidance to the lay community, and traditionally, that is about the
extent of any interaction. Nevertheless, monastics can influence the laity in these most
significant of ways. Religious instruction was for a long time one of the most important
aspects of life, be you a monk, nun or lay practitioner – the significance of religious life was
mirrored across Europe with the influence of the Church, for example: we still see the effects
of this, even if the influence of the Church is now waning. Similarly, then, in a fundamental
way, the monastic order and Buddhism the religion held fundamental significance to a great
many lay people, and the establishment of Buddhist states is testament to this relationship
between the established order and the lay population.

What changed? Buddhism isn’t the force that it once was on a state-level. In the 2011 census,
only 8 million Buddhists were recorded in India, the land of the religion’s birth. Hinduism has
eclipsed Buddhism in its home nation, with 966 million Hindus recorded in 2011. Islam boasts
21 times more adherents than Buddhism (172 million as of 2011). Bodhi laments two
significant factors in unseating Buddhism as state religions, and so undermining both the
power and influence of the monastic orders. First, he writes, came invasions. European
colonialists settled across India and Asia, bringing with them their own religions, and
eventually bringing with them secularised education. These factors combined to unseat
Buddhism as a genuine force in the lives of the laity. Bodhi then points to ‘the rise of the
scientific worldview’ as the other contributing factor. The scientific worldview upturns the
Buddhist orthodoxy by viewing ‘mind’ (citta) as emergent from the interactions of matter,
whereas traditional Buddhist accounts emphasise the primacy of mind over the material (this
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is not to say that Buddhism is in all forms a type of idealism – we will cover this in more detail
in a few weeks). There is then a tension between what we might call the ‘traditional Buddhist
worldview’ and the comparably recent scientific worldview that emphasises materialism (or
physicalism, depending on who you ask!).

But this is not the whole story – Bodhi goes on to argue that technology and free-market
capitalism. Society now pursues material affluence as an end in itself; accrual of material
goods and of capital is, thinks Bodhi, widely regarded as life’s main purpose. Obviously, this
is a far cry from the renunciant eschewing worldly goods and sensual pleasures in favour of
training the mind in spiritual endeavours! Bodhi goes as far as to say that ‘it is perhaps this
culture of consumerism, stimulated by advertising and the popular media, that poses the
single biggest challenge to spirituality as an effective force in people’s lives.’ He argues that
the focus on consumerism breeds resentment, anger, and jealousy. Worse, Bodhi thinks that
this in turn breeds addiction, violent crime, and suicide. He is scathing about the modernist
worldview, writing:

I would maintain that the Buddhist worldview, with its recognition of the crucial role of
the mind and the inconceivably vast dimensions of reality, is much richer and more
adequate to philosophical reflection than the flattened worldview bequeathed to us
through a presumptuous misapplication of the scientific method beyond its legitimate
domain.

Clearly, a monk like Bhikkhu Bodhi thinks that the Buddhist method can alleviate all of these
things, and so the big question is then ‘why isn’t it?’ What is going wrong? If Buddhism is
uniquely suited to addressing the existential anxieties of life, then why are people turning
away from Buddhism at a time when existential anxieties look to be heightened? The first
thing to be addressed is the manner in which Buddhism is taught. Temples in Sri Lanka, where
Bodhi was based for much of his career, are, he thinks, caught up in the past. They teach the
Dhamma/Dharma in a manner alien to young people brought up in a world of material
consumerism. They are, thinks Bodhi, stuck in a medieval worldview, which has its merits,
but is no longer practical. To this end, the Buddhism taught in most temples is no longer a
‘message of awakening that blows open our minds and fills them with light’, but is rather ‘a
quaint reminder of the past, still capable of evoking occasional moods of piety, but barely
relevant to the difficult choices we face amidst the grind of daily life’.
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The challenge for Buddhism is then one of survival in a world of blistering change, increased
individualism, and consumerist self-interest. The irony here is that the entire Buddhist project
is predicated upon radical change: the account that Buddhism gives of the world relies upon
the concept of dependent origination (Pāli paṭiccasamuppāda; Skt. pratītyasamutpāda),
which dictates that all entities rely on an innumerable amount of causes and conditions for
their existence. All this takes place in a constantly shifting, changing flux, and so in principle,
we might think that Buddhism is well placed to deal with change on a big scale. And yet for
whatever reason, Buddhism’s religious institutions don’t appear to have changed much – if at
all – since the Middle Ages.

How can Buddhism deal with this on an institutional level? Bodhi writes that one way of
dealing with a clash of worldviews is to retreat inwardly, which would effectively see
Buddhism step back from the modern world and try to protect its cultural heritage, actively
renouncing modernity in favour of adherence to what has become an outmoded praxis. This
should be undesirable for what I guess are obvious reasons – ideas that don’t adapt tend to
die out in much the same way that organisms die when they fail to adapt to new
circumstances or surroundings. Should Buddhist monastics choose this route – and there are
some that have – then they run the risk of resigning Buddhist teachings to the past; they
relegate the Dhamma/Dharma to the scrapheap of history, consigning Buddhism to the
history of ideas. If the Buddhist monastic order wants to avoid this – and it seems obvious to
me that they should – then something else has to be done. Bodhi suggests that instead of
looking in, the Buddhist monastic orders should be looking out, they should rediscover what
he calls the ‘inner vitality’ of Buddhism and try to place new emphasis upon it. Bodhi
advocates the rediscovery of the ‘truly timeless’ message of the Buddha, which is to say that
he advocates a renewed focus on the liberative strand, or the ‘message’ of Buddhism. On
this, he writes:

One impressive feature of the Buddha’s teaching is the independence of its liberative
core from any particular cosmology, its ability to speak directly to our most fundamental
concerns in a way that is immediately and personally verifiable no matter what
cosmology one adopts.

This liberative core endures as the only aspect of Buddhism truly relevant across time: it is as
true now as it was in the Middle Ages, and it was as true in the Middle Ages as it was in 500
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BCE: craving causes dissatisfaction, and so it is with this craving that we need to dispense.
This is especially apparent, thinks Bodhi, in our current time of unfettered consumerism,
which serves only to illustrate that affluence, hoarding of expensive possessions and all that
sort of stuff doesn’t really make us happy or satisfied. We always want something else; we
want more, or we want something newer, better, faster etc. This is the crux of the problem.
Bodhi – like all Buddhists – believe that ultimately, craving and desire can never be defeated
by simply yielding to whatever desire happens to rear its head at a given point in time.
Temporarily sating desire is always a losing strategy. Here’s an example of why.

A pleasurable experience (hearing one’s favourite record, for example) gives us a sense of
satisfaction (sukha) for a characteristically short period of time (are any of us in a permanent
state of satisfaction after enjoying only once something that pleases us?). So, when I take
great pleasure in hearing my favourite record, I am cultivating attachment and grasping on
multiple levels. I initially enjoy the temporary feeling that hearing the record elicits within
me. I can then be said to grasp at three things in regards to pleasure: the record itself (as
deliverer of pleasure), the feeling of pleasure, and the ability to feel the pleasure.

More specifically, I suppose we become attached to the ability to sate a desire as and when
it arises, thus reinforcing the idea of self – of me both doing the action required and feeling
the benefit of its result. I then feel the urge to replicate this feeling of
satisfaction/contentedness and so spend time and effort on reproducing the pleasurable
effect by which ever means we came by it (in this case, hearing our favourite record). The
result is a temporary sense of satisfaction, but a stronger attachment to the ‘I’ that we think
is being satisfied. It is this latter point against which the Buddhist project attempts to work.

The counterpart to cultivation of attachment to pleasure is varying degrees of dissatisfaction.

On the Buddhist worldview, such dissatisfaction arises in virtue of our attachment to the
specific phenomenon (the record) and the circumstances that might prevent us from
actualising the feeling of satisfaction to which we are attached (playing the record). This only
ceases – and then only temporarily – when we find ourselves in a situation whereby we can
once again play our favourite record. We might find ourselves in the unfortunate situation
whereby we can no longer feel a given (or indeed any) pleasure whatsoever – this would, I
expect, cause great anxiety: nobody wants to be in a position whereby they never again feel
pleasure (or perhaps more accurately, where they cannot sate a desire and feel the
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(temporary) result). We find ourselves, then, trapped in an endless circle of temporary,

fleeting desire-satiation, all of which is ultimately doomed to inadequacy, and all of which
serves to simply reinforce the very ‘I’ notions that fuel the cycle to begin with.

The importance of avoiding attachment to strong notions of self will become clearer over the
course of the module, especially when we cover the anātman doctrine in a few weeks’ time,
but for now I just want to force upon you the Buddhist rationale for saying that satisfying
desires is not the way to lasting satisfaction. It is because the satisfaction of desires are always
temporary and always breed a more insidious attachment to the self or the ‘I’.

The way to liberation is not to be found in temporary satisfaction of desires, but in

methodically training the mind to let such desires pass us by without engaging with them in
any real way (and so not acting upon them). Perhaps this is what ‘renunciation’ can mean in
the modern era. Instead of the ascetic world renouncing of the Indian traditions, we can have
a modern eschewal of consumerism; the realisation that we cannot buy ourselves happiness
– though plenty would disagree – and that we can (and perhaps should) commit to use less,
to buy less, to buy into the rat race a little less. Bodhi writes that ‘the stress required today
should be on the benefits of Dhamma practice visible here and now: on the happiness and
fulfilment won through greater self-knowledge and mastery of the mind.’ Only once this is a
focus can we progress spiritually toward the release from saṃsāra (the cyclical process of
birth, rebirth and so on), an endeavour that should benefit all humankind.

I asked you to read a chapter by Walpola Rahula for the seminar, and I want to pick up from
where Bodhi ends with some remarks by Rahula in that chapter. Rahula was a strong
advocate of ‘Buddhism for everybody’, agreeing with Bodhi that it would be impossible for
everybody to be world-renouncing monk, squatting in caves or forests whilst engaging in
marathon sessions of meditation. He went further, though, declaring that if Buddhism were
to be the sole preserve of the monastics, it would be ‘useless to the masses of mankind’. The
point then is very clearly that Buddhism ought to be – and in fact is – a praxis that can be
adhered to both in the modern world and in one’s own home.

For Rahula, then, ‘renunciation’ resolutely does not involve ‘running away physically from the
world’, but simply committing to live a ‘pure life’. He cites Sariputta (the Buddha’s chief
disciple), who said that the person that lives purely in a village or town is superior to they that
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pursue the ascetic lifestyle but nevertheless live Impurely. The important thing for Rahula –
as for Sariputta – is thus piety (devotion to the spiritual life). The useful thing about Rahula is
that he supports his argumentation with canonical references. The vast majority of the Pāli
Canon can be found free online, and so if you are interested in this side of the Buddhist
project, it’s worth you checking some of it out. In fact, I will put some links to this stuff on
Moodle when I have full access.

The other interesting aspect of Rahula’s argument for a socially-engaged Buddhism is that he
explicitly states what Bodhi only alludes to: practicing Buddhism in the community, whilst
living a ‘normal’ life (i.e. not living as part of a monastic order) is to the benefit of the people
around you and so is more praiseworthy, courageous, and so in some important ways, more
important than practicing Buddhism set apart in a monastery. Traditional renunciants run the
risk of detaching themselves too much. On this, Rahula writes that

if a man lives all his life in solitude, thinking only of his own happiness and
“salvation”, without caring for his fellows, this surely is not in keeping with the
Buddha’s teaching which is based on love, compassion, and service to others.

‘Service to others’ is indeed a central aspect in the Buddhist framework, especially in the later
Mahāyāna schools where the bodhisattva ideal is fully developed. A bodhisattva (Pāli
bodhisatta) is a person that is ‘bound for awakening’ but chooses to forego it in order to teach
the Path to other people. There are analogues within the Theravāda canon, but the
terminology tends to be slightly different. Rahula writes in The Bodhisattva Ideal in Buddhism
that

out of great compassion for the world, [the bodhisattva] renounces [liberation] and
goes on suffering in samsara for the sake of others, perfects himself during an
incalculable period of time and finally realises Nirvāṇa and becomes a fully
Enlightened Buddha. He discovers The Truth and declares it to the world. His
capacity for service to others is unlimited.

Similarly, Rahula thinks that the major difference between the monastic Buddhist and the lay
Buddhist is that the monastic should expect to devote their lives to the spiritual and
intellectual development of other people. In virtue of their position as a monk or a nun, the
monastic finds themselves absolved of the responsibilities of the average layperson. A
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layperson with a family to look after cannot, for obvious reasons, fully commit to the service
of others: they have a duty to their family, employer and so on. All of these worldly duties
serve to occupy vast portions of their time. A monk, then, has no such problems. They have
cut the majority of their worldly ties and have duties only toward their order and the laity.
This places the monastic order at the very centre of society, acting not just as religious
teachers, but also as intellectuals. The idea is that monastics become the intellectual and
spiritual heart of the communities around them.

Rahula is very quick to point out to us that Buddhism is not just ‘interested in lofty ideals, high
moral and philosophical thought’. The Buddha was concerned with happiness (or perhaps
‘satisfaction’ is better), and he recognised that many factors combine to affect our
happiness/satisfaction – indeed, the central Buddhist concept of dependent origination
dictates that this be true! With this borne in mind, Rahula writes that the Buddha
acknowledged that living a pure life based on good spiritual principles is difficult in adverse
material and social conditions. Living the good life is difficult if you can’t afford to feed your
kids, or if you are living on the streets. Despite the Buddhist distaste for material affluence,
then, there is acknowledgement that some basic standards of living are required to practice
Buddhism successfully.

To this end, Rahula details some discourses in which the Buddha talks about social and
economic matters, including one interesting example from the Digha Nikāya (26), where the
Buddha argues that poverty is the cause of crime and so immorality. Earlier in that same
Nikāya (5), the Buddha laments the punitive approach to criminality, arguing that crime is to
be eradicated by making sure that people are adequately provided for. Some of this sutta
advances what looks like a modern welfare state, with adequate wages, capital provision, and
grain provided to farmers. At the heart of this approach is the idea – shared by many today
– that if adequate provision and adequate opportunity is presented, people will be less
inclined toward criminality.

Improving your economic lot is then of instrumental value to Buddhist practice; it has value
insofar as it allows people to take seriously their spiritual commitments without worrying too
much about their socio-economic state. Being able to live within one’s means is crucial to
being able to commit to the Path. It provides the foundation required for the laity to live
comfortably and devote some of their time to their moral and spiritual development.
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Now to the role of the state. Rahula cites the Ten Duties of Kings (perhaps we would want to
rename it the Ten Duties of Government), a Buddhist text that outlines the rules to which any
ruling party ought to aspire. I will read them out as presented by Rahula.

The first of the 'Ten Duties of the King' is liberality, generosity, charity (dana). The
ruler should not have craving and attachment to wealth and property, but should
give it away for the welfare of the people.

Second: A high moral character. He should never destroy life, cheat, steal and
exploit others, commit adultery, utter falsehoods, and take intoxicating drinks I’d
be disqualified!). That is, he must at least observe the Five Precepts of the layman.

Third: Sacrificing everything for the good of the people (pariccaga), he must be
prepared to give up all personal comfort, name and fame, and even his life, in the
interest of the people.

Fourth: Honesty and integrity (ajjava). He must be free from fear or favour in the
discharge of his duties, must be sincere in his intentions, and must not deceive the
public.

Fifth: Kindness and gentleness (maddava). He must possess a genial temperament.

Sixth: Austerity in habits (tapa). He must lead a simple life, and should not indulge
in a life of luxury. He must have self-control.

Seventh: Freedom from hatred, ill-will, enmity (akkodha). He should bear no

grudge against anybody.

Eighth: Non-violence (avihimsa), which means not only that he should harm
nobody, but also that he should try to promote peace by avoiding and preventing
war, and everything which involves violence and destruction of life.

Ninth: Patience, forbearance, tolerance, understanding (khanti). He must be able

to bear hardships, difficulties and insults without losing his temper.

Tenth: Non-opposition, non-obstruction (avirodha), that is to say that he should

not oppose the will of the people, should not obstruct any measures that are
conducive to the welfare of the people. In other words he should rule in harmony
with his people.
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I don’t know about you lot, but I think the world would be a very different place if all our
politicians adhered to even just a few of those duties! You will notice that all of them are
based on the avoidance of conflict, a lack of ego or hubris, and a dedication to providing for
the people that are governed. The big question is, I guess, whether these ten principles are
workable in the modern age, which is something that we can talk about in the seminar. For
his part, Rahula implores us to at least try to do things this way. ‘You will say’ claims Rahula,
‘this is all very beautiful, noble and sublime […] but impractical’. It’s an excuse we hear time
and time again. ‘In a perfect world… If only we could… It’s just not practical!’ But, Rahula
asks, what is so impractical about governance according to these principles? The problem as
he sees it is really that we tend to use ‘not practical’ as a lazy synonym for ‘not easy’. Of
course it isn’t easy to stick to the ten duties. The old adage says that nothing worth doing is
easy. If all our decisions were made purely on the basis of taking the easiest option, most of
us wouldn’t even be in this room. So yes, governing according to some strict moral guidelines
is not easy. And yet the point is that despite the apparent difficulty, we should try. It might
be risky, says Rahula, but it is leagues away from being as risky as nuclear proliferation.

Before we finish, let’s quickly return to the notion of renunciation. All considered, what is
renounced according to a thinker like Rahula? It is not the world in toto, because we have
seen that he thinks such a thing would be disastrous for humankind. Instead, then, it seems
that what is renounced is the struggle for power: the internal struggle that kowtows to ego,
and the external struggles between people. Buddhists should renounce desires driven by ego,
which includes unfettered consumerism and blind self-interest. The transcendence usually
associated with renunciation, then, is simply a mode of being where none of these negative
things plague us. It is a new way of seeing and interacting with the world. It is a world where,
as Rahula puts it

Hatred is conquered by kindness, and evil by goodness; jealousy, ill-will and greed
do not infect men’s minds; where compassion is the driving force of action; where
all, including the least of living things, are treated with fairness, consideration and
love; where life in peace and harmony, in a world of material contentment, is
directed towards the highest and noblest aim, the realisation of the Ultimate Truth,
Nirvāṇa.
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Seminar Questions:

 Questions re the lecture or the reading

 Is Bodhi right regarding the importance of the switch in focus back to the liberative
aspect? I other words, would this sort of modernism make Buddhism more attractive
to younger people?
 Are the Ten Duties realistic principles for good governance? Why?
 Should religion have any place in the governance of a modern society?
 Should religious practitioners have a duty to work for the benefit of everybody else?
Should we all have that duty, regardless of religious affiliation?
 Does the perception that religion (or some religions) are too detached from real life
contribute to dropping adherence mong younger people?
 Can Buddhist ideals be successfully integrated with modern life?