Download Traces of Consequentialism and Non

Traces of Consequentialism and Non-Consequentialism In Bodhisattva
Ethics
Gordon Davis
Philosophy East and West, Volume 63, Number 2, April 2013, pp. 275-305
(Article)
Published by University of Hawai'i Press
DOI: 10.1353/pew.2013.0015
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http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/pew/summary/v063/63.2.davis.html
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TRACES OF CONSEQUENTIALISM AND
NON-CONSEQUENTIALISM IN BODHISATTVA ETHICS
Gordon Davis
Department of Philosophy, Carleton University
[email protected]
It is difficult to generalize about ethical values in the Mahāyāna Buddhist tradition,
let alone in Buddhist philosophy more generally. One author identifies seventeen
distinct ethical approaches in the Mahāyāna scholarly traditions alone (i.e., not including various folk traditions).1 Nonetheless, in comparative studies in the history of
ethics, there is increasing recognition that several different Buddhist traditions have
stressed a foundational role for universalist altruism that was largely absent from ancient Greek eudaimonism and perhaps even absent — qua foundational — from most
other premodern traditions of moral reflection in the West, including much of the
Christian tradition.2 In particular, ancient and medieval Indian works on what Barbra
Clayton has called “bodhisattva ethics” may now be seen as collectively constituting
a unique achievement of moral reflection prior to the modern period, at least as regards moral reasoning that is focused on ideals of impartiality and a universalist
concern for sentient beings. In recent work, Clayton and Charles Goodman have independently stressed the depth and scope of this achievement. More controversially,
however, they have also advanced the more specific claim that the mature Mahāyāna
conception of morality is either straightforwardly consequentialist or a hybrid form of
perfectionist consequentialism.3
Clayton and Goodman have succeeded in highlighting some consequentialist
aspects of Mahāyāna ethics, while also reminding us of the inherent theoretical
strengths of universalist act-consequentialism as a moral theory.4 In the present article
I will not be casting any doubt on those strengths per se, which are indeed formidable from a theoretical standpoint. However, when we scrutinize a range of Mahāyāna
discussions of bodhisattva vows, we notice some pervasive non-consequentialist reasoning that seems to have been overlooked by these authors and others (and not
merely at the level of practical deliberation, but also at the foundational level of what
is ultimately thought to justify vows, precepts, and other moral norms). Most commentators admit that there are at least signs and symptoms of consequentialism in
Mahāyāna ethical writings — even those who deny any definitive evidence of a unified underlying consequentialist foundation. But there appear to be grounds for a
stronger counterclaim, namely that there is also evidence of a commitment to foundational non-consequentialism in some of the key texts.
Like most ethical theorists, I use the terms ‘consequentialism’ and ‘non-­
consequentialism’ in such a way that the claims they denote cannot be combined
into a unified or hybrid view (I offer definitions of these terms in the next section).5
Even a ‘trace’ of each in the same work may thus indicate an inconsistency, unless
Philosophy East & West Volume 63, Number 2 April 2013 275–305
© 2013 by University of Hawai‘i Press
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one of the claims can be interpreted as strictly theoretical and the other as a theoretically noncommittal expression of a practical mindset. However, in light of my
­title, I should clarify at the outset that I am not charging any particular vision of the
bodhisattva ideal with inconsistency. The traces that Clayton and Goodman cite in
support of a consequentialist interpretation, and those I see as indications of nonconsequentialist thinking, are scattered enough that the issue is not necessarily one
of consistency or inconsistency, at least as regards any particular text or any parti­
cular school of thought. Ironically, though, it may be that it is contemporary systematizers who come closest to risking inconsistency, in attempting to distill and refine
the putatively consequentialist insights of mature Mahāyāna ethical theory.6
Since the first part of this article addresses these consequentialist interpretations
on their own terms and deals with the possibility of Mahāyāna non-consequentialism
only indirectly, it may be worth previewing the general shape of the non-­
consequentialism that we will ultimately find to be operative within the bodhisattva
ideal. Perhaps surprisingly, it is not the sort of virtue-based non-consequentialism
that Damien Keown has defended and that Goodman sees as the main rival to his
interpretation.7 While Goodman acknowledges that virtue is one of the goods worth
promoting (along with happiness, wisdom, and other goods, thus allowing trade-offs
between these in the interest of maximizing the overall good), Keown retains a more
traditional understanding of virtue as something whose importance to the agent precludes impersonal calculations and the trade-offs they entail. In any case, both of
their approaches highlight virtue as a central concept (generalizing from conceptions
of kuśala-dharma, kuśalamūlāni, pāramitā, and brahmavihāra), and perhaps it is indeed one central concept. However, it may be that the most important form of nonconsequentialism that surfaces in Mahāyāna ethics takes the very different form of a
view based on deontological restrictions — restrictions that are grounded in distributive considerations.
In the last two sections of this article, I will compare this view to one of Kant’s
formulations of the categorical imperative. The deontological element that emerges
in my analysis of bodhisattva ethics will turn out to be analogous to the one that is
operative in Kant’s ideal of a ‘kingdom of ends,’ in which every person contributes
equally to a system that safeguards virtue and happiness. It is not the combination of
virtue and happiness per se, however, that indicates the key parallel with bodhisattva
ethics, but rather the idea that eventually a status quo involving an unequal distribution of duties will be superseded by an equal distribution (when all are equally engaged in sustaining the highest good). It is understandable that some would treat
Kantian deontology as a view that, compared to the other main positions in contemporary moral theory, seems to have the least affinity with Buddhist ethics in general.8
Yet we will find that there are important aspects of the bodhisattva ideal that parallel
the Kantian notion of a deontologically structured kingdom of ends. Goodman and
others may be right that some Buddhist insights provide grounds for critiquing some
aspects of Kantian ethics, and it may be understandable, in light of other theoretical
considerations, that they would reject Kantian principles; but, for better or worse, we
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find analogous principles at the heart of many classic versions of the bodhisattva
vows.
The Case for a Consequentialist Interpretation of Bodhisattva Ethics
The most persuasive case that Clayton and Goodman make for the role of consequentialist reasoning in the Buddhist tradition is with respect to Śāntideva’s writings.
The realization that Śāntideva’s moral philosophy may have at least the rudiments of
a consequentialist structure is an insight of potentially enormous importance, not
only for how we think about Buddhist philosophy but also for how we in the West
account for the origins of major ethical ideas — considering that we may have to advance the date of birth of universalist consequentialism by at least one thousand
years. For the present purposes, I do not wish to rule out the consequentialist interpretation of Śāntideva, which is in any case sufficiently persuasive that it deserves
recognition of its potential importance, even if — as both Clayton and Goodman
­admit — the case cannot be airtight, and the theoretical orientation of Śāntideva
­cannot be made out with certainty. I will give only cursory indications that some of
the same doubts I have about the alleged consequentialism of the whole Mahāyāna
tradition also apply to some remarks by Śāntideva. Meanwhile, however we might
qualify our conclusions about Śāntideva, we will see how strong indeed is the case
for reconceiving the history of ethics in light of these new interpretations, insofar as
there may be more than a few ‘traces’ of consequentialism in these Indian Mahāyāna
writings on ethics.9
Moreover, Goodman highlights evidence of a tendency for the indirect forms of
consequentialism in early Buddhist ethics (especially rule-consequentialism) to develop in the direction of act-consequentialism in late Indian Mahāyāna ethics, and in
Śāntideva in particular. Asaṅga’s discussions of justifiable precept violation and the
reflections of various sutras on the moral demands of ‘skillful means’ may have been
two of the key turning points in this development. (Interestingly, Goodman puts more
emphasis on the former than on the latter.10) This is an evolution that displays fascinating parallels with the transition in consequentialist thinking that took place between Hume and Bentham.11 Here, too, there are valuable transcultural resources for
those who wish to broaden our conception of the history of ethics, insofar as a similar underlying dialectic may have been present in the early phases of both Mahāyāna
casuistry and modern Western consequentialism.
Before summarizing Goodman’s and Clayton’s arguments in favor of a con­
sequentialist interpretation of Mahāyāna ethics, I will define some of the terms that
they use and that we shall use here. First of all, there is Clayton’s term ‘bodhisattva
ethics.’ Bodhisattva ethics is, of course, oriented around ‘bodhisattva vows,’ but in a
particular way. Some of these vows, such as the vow to help all beings to reach enlightenment and liberation, appear in the quotations from Śāntideva below, and are
discussed more fully in the next section. But, as Clayton points out, the point of using
the term ‘bodhisattva ethics’ is to acknowledge that some strands of Mahāyāna ethics
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are different, for example the Pure Land approach with its tradition of Amitabha
­worship. The latter tradition refers to bodhisattva vows, but tends to see them as faits
accomplis, existing in the past — particularly in Amitabha’s own past — rather than as
obligations that people are still called upon to heed in their own lives. Bodhisattva
ethics, by contrast, seeks to articulate moral obligations that apply to actual people
in this life.
Turning now to the term ‘consequentialism’ itself, we should guard against some
common misunderstandings of this theoretical category. Later in this section, I characterize consequentialism in relation to its most famous manifestation, utilitarianism (the view that Clayton mainly invokes in her Moral Theory in Śāntideva’s
Śikṣāsamuccaya). For now, it will help to summarize Goodman’s characterization of
the more generic view. What consequentialist theories have in common, he says, is
that they “define the right in terms of the good. . . . [C]onsequentialists believe that
there are certain things that are both objectively and intrinsically good [and] that the
appropriate response to . . . intrinsic goodness is to promote it.”12 Promoting value is
distinguished from a common deontological attitude — “For Kant [by contrast] . . . the
right response to objective value is not to promote it, but to respect it” (Goodman,
Consequences of Compassion, p. 35)13 — and is also distinguished from a common
feature of virtue ethics, which “recommends that we respond to objective value by
embodying it” (p. 38). To simplify my own discussion, I will sometimes use a related
term that has been deployed by Philip Pettit, who originally introduced the term ‘promotion’ in this context, and who generalizes the opposing disposition that underlies
both respecting and embodying by calling it the honoring of value(s).14 ‘Honoring’ is
thus a criterion of non-consequentialism. Whenever we notice an expression of a
fundamental moral demand that calls for honoring in this sense, even if it refers only
to an isolated rule or virtue within an otherwise teleological approach, this suffices
to indicate that a view is non-consequentialist. (Note, meanwhile, that we can sometimes promote — in the sense of produce or realize — a value by not honoring it, for
example by not embodying some ideal in the very act of furthering its implementation, and this is precisely what consequentialism requires in such cases — most controversially, in cases of killing for the sake of saving lives.15)
Also, like Goodman, we will sometimes refer to Derek Parfit’s distinction between ‘agent-neutral’ and ‘agent-relative’ values and reasons and, by extension,
agent-neutral and agent-relative theories. Goodman introduces these terms while
contrasting consequentialism with pure virtue ethics, saying “[e]ach of the versions
of virtue ethics of which I am aware is an agent-relative theory; that is, it gives different aims to different agents” (p. 43).16 This is indeed true of virtue ethics, even if some
of the aims in question derive from putatively universal virtues. What courage requires of me is often not what courage requires of you, even if we are considering
how best to solve a problem we face together. And it is true even if some aims are
instances of a master virtue such as that of honoring one’s virtues (or aspirations,
values, commitments, etc.), as in each case of moral deliberation it is one’s own virtues that matter most — according to traditional virtue ethics — when one deliberates.
“But all versions of universalist consequentialism,” Goodman notes by way of con-
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trast, “are agent-neutral. They give to all agents: that the lives of all sentient beings go
as well as possible” (p. 43).17 This entails, of course, that the agency of those who are
better placed to act effectively should sometimes take over tasks that are ordinarily
part of one’s own moral commitments, and that one’s own agency should sometimes
even be engaged in ways that temporarily contradict worthy aims and values, at least
at the level of surface action-description, whenever this will further the fundamental
agent-neutral aim.
Finally, the fact or the claim that some aim is ‘fundamental’ may be explained by
a foundational theory, or the ‘foundational values’ of a theory or belief system, as
opposed to the factors we routinely take into account in our practical (including
moral) decision-making. Goodman alternates between referring to “factoral” versus
“foundational” levels of moral thinking (p. 59) and referring to “decision procedures”
versus “structures of evaluation” (p. 114). The distinction — in both cases — is not just
between superficial versus deep levels of moral thinking, but more precisely between
the overt modes of deliberation that agents use in practice versus the considerations
that may ultimately justify such modes of deliberation. Another pair of opposed
terms, sometimes easier to handle, is ‘guide’ and ‘standard’ — a pair that I take to refer
to the same meta-ethical distinction. A guide is used to approach a practical or moral decision (and can provisionally ‘justify’ it, in a derivative sense), while a standard
can be invoked to explain the ultimate justification for the correct decision, as well
as for the adoption of the guide. This meta-ethical distinction may seem foreign to
ancient Buddhist texts, but it could be argued that it is present in many texts and
traditions in ways that are often overlooked. Indeed, there is reason to think that the
notion of ‘ultimate truth’ (paramārthasatya) was sometimes considered to apply,
above all, to insight into the nature of intrinsic value, and that on this basis the notion
of an ethical or evaluative foundation was implicit in at least some Mahāyāna
­philosophy.18
In any case, an understanding of the role of foundational principles helps to
­explain how it is that Goodman can acknowledge aspects of particularism in the direct moral engagements of advanced moral agents (thereby accommodating some of
the insights of Charles Hallisey and Abraham Velez de Cea in their descriptions of
Buddhist ethics19). Any moral particularism that can be ascribed to bodhisattvas is,
according to Goodman, foundationally justified by whatever good consequences
result from actions that flow from a particularist mindset. Consequentialism remains,
then, the foundational standard, while particularism is merely a kind of practical
guide (though both deserve to be called ‘moral’ in different ways). Like the ‘ultimate
truth’ in its other aspects, the consequentialist foundation can abide in the background even when it does not directly guide one’s actions. Clayton makes an analogous point about the underlying consequentialist justification for the exceptional
prerogatives of bodhisattvas.20
Whether such a consequentialist foundation does in fact underlie Mahāyāna ethics
is, as noted above, mainly explored by Goodman in connection with Śāntideva’s
Bodhicaryāvatāra. However, like Clayton, he begins his discussion of Śāntideva with
passages from the Śikṣāsamuccaya. One of these, in his own translation, discusses
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moral shortcomings, and Goodman replaces Bendall and Rouse’s term ‘sin’ with
‘fault’; the latter part of the quotation thus reads:
[I]f [the bodhisattva] does not seek the collection of the conditions for [the future happiness of all beings], and does not strive for what will prevent the obstacles to this, or he
does not cause small suffering and depression to arise as a way of preventing great suffering and depression, or does not abandon a small benefit in order to achieve a greater
benefit, if he neglects to do these things, even for a moment, he is at fault.21
Goodman then compares the stance expressed here to classical act-utilitarianism,
even though his ultimate interpretation reads Śāntideva as an act-consequentialist
— that is, an act-consequentialist whose aims are not limited to the hedonistic value
theory of classical utilitarianism. Nonetheless, Goodman comments:
Not one of the major characteristics of classical act-utilitarianism is missing from this passage. The focus on actions, the central moral importance of happy and unhappy states of
mind; the extension of scope to all beings; the extreme demands; the absence of any
room for personal moral space; the balancing of costs and benefits [i.e., including interpersonal trade-offs]; the pursuit of maximization; every one of these crucial features of
utilitarianism is present. (p. 90)
For the purpose of summarizing Goodman’s case for Śāntideva’s being an actconsequentialist, we can condense the above-mentioned characteristics of utilitarianism into four that apply more generally, that is, to consequentialism in general.
(Since Goodman’s plea for a consequentialist interpretation is not as heavily qualified as Clayton’s, I shall focus on it for now.) I list them here in the order in which
Goodman addresses them, when he turns to the Bodhicaryāvatāra: (1) the expectation that moral agents be ready to undertake extreme forms of self-sacrifice; (2) universal scope (especially regarding those who may benefit, as opposed to how
obligations are distributed among agents); (3) maximization in the context of limited
options, that is, requiring intrapersonal and interpersonal trade-offs, potentially involving ‘transgressions,’ as traditionally conceived; and (4) a value theory, that is, an
account of what has intrinsic value, that is amenable to aggregation and maximization. (The classical utilitarians’ focus on pleasure enabled them to develop accounts
that were amenable in this way, but theirs are not the only accounts that are so amenable. If it is possible to compare the overall cultivation of virtue[s] in two different
societies, then it is possible to aggregate such goods and to gauge how levels of virtue
may be affected by trade-offs involving other goods, such as pleasure or happiness.
Following Derek Parfit’s terminology, Goodman calls a value theory that includes
more than one kind of good an ‘objective list theory,’ and he defends such a theory,
making the view he ultimately wishes to defend a consequentialist one, rather than
a utilitarian one.)
The following are some key passages that Goodman cites from Śāntideva’s
Bodhicaryāvatāra, in support of an interpretation that encompasses each of these
components of consequentialism:22
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(1) [3.9–10; chapter 3, verses 9–10:] May I be an inexhaustible treasure for impoverished
beings. May I wait upon them with various forms of offering. . . . I give up without regret
my bodies, my pleasures, and my good acquired in all three times, to accomplish good
for every being. (cf. 5.87 and 8.102)
(2) [3.21:] So may I be sustenance of many kinds for the realm of beings dwelling throughout space, until all have attained release. (cf. 3.32–33 and 10.31 ff.)
(3) [5.84, 87:] Even what is proscribed is permitted for a compassionate person who sees
it will be of benefit. . . . [O]ne should not relinquish one’s life for someone whose disposition to compassion is not as pure. But for someone whose disposition is comparable, one
should relinquish it. That way, there is no overall loss. [8.102:] . . . [S]ufferings belong to
[no one]. . . . They must be warded off simply because they are suffering. Why is any limitation put on this?23
(4) [7.23:] All doctors use painful treatments to restore health. It follows that to put an end
to many sufferings, a slight one must be endured. [7.28–30:] The body experiences pleasure as a result of acts of merit. The mind is pleased through learning. When he remains
in cyclic existence for the benefit of others what can weary the Compassionate One? . . .
Proceeding in this way from happiness to happiness, what thinking person would despair
. . . the Awakening Mind, which carries away all weariness and effort? [8.107–108:] [T]he
suffering of others is as important as the things [that bodhisattvas] hold dear. . . . Those who
become oceans of sympathetic joy when living beings are released, surely it is they who
achieve fulfilment. What would be the point in a liberation without sweetness? (cf. chapters 3 and 10 of Bodhicaryāvatāra, and their many references to happiness [sukha] and
benefit [artha], e.g., 10.55–56, which Goodman cites)
Perhaps the most strikingly consequentialist claim here is that in relation to the
reduction of overall suffering there should not be “any limitation put on this” (8.102).
Śāntideva may have believed that there is nothing in the Buddhist heritage as a whole
that justifies any such (non-consequentialist) limitation. And judging by his appreciative remarks concerning non-Mahāyāna traditions (e.g., 5.89), he may not have regarded such traditions as entirely mistaken — for example, when they judge that it is
worth treating the precepts as for all intents and purposes inviolable. Rather, he may
have thought that at least some of them advocated a non-consequentialist system as
an upāya, that is, for consequentialist reasons. (As Goodman shows, on pp. 131–139,
this is neither inconsistent nor an allegation of inconsistency, even though it may
involve a kind of benevolent deceptiveness.) This raises the question of whether consequentialism is a deep commitment that is shared by most, if not all, Buddhist traditions, and Goodman also addresses the extent to which his conclusions can be
generalized across Buddhist ethics as a whole.
In generalizing, albeit tentatively, about the role of consequentialism in ancient
Buddhist texts, Goodman points out that a range of goods, including various kinds of
pleasures and worldly prosperity, were always counted among the things worth promoting via Buddhist practice. Once this is kept in mind, the Theravāda emphasis on
inviolable precepts can be understood as part of an overall rule-consequentialist
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view. Goodman acknowledges meanwhile that some versions of the pariṇāmanā
vows were focused on storing karmic merit for one’s own future use, but he notes
that both Mahāyāna and non-Mahāyāna communities increasingly stressed vows
that would transfer merit from oneself to others. This was true to a greater extent in
Mahāyāna contexts, where standardized formulations focused on all others, and this,
Goodman says, “fits into the general pattern . . . [of ] a gradual evolution of the Indian
Mahāyāna tradition toward act-consequentialism, as the ethical implications of the
bodhisattva ideal slowly unfolded” (p. 92). Goodman’s claims about evidence of
consequentialism in early Buddhism are qualified accordingly, but when it comes to
the later Mahāyāna tradition, Goodman identifies very strong claims either “at the
heart of Mahāyāna ethics” or emanating directly from it, including the claim “that
we can ignore the distributive effects of our actions and simply maximize the good”
(p. 96).
In the next section we shall see that, on the contrary, such indifference to distributive effects would conflict with some central Mahāyāna premises. Goodman is
correct in treating such indifference (at the foundational level) as a core component
of consequentialism; but the upshot is that certain key Mahāyāna doctrines appear to
be non-consequentialist. Ultimately, I will suggest that these exceptions are more
than mere appearance. Meanwhile, Barbra Clayton highlights a different aspect of
Śāntideva’s thinking that is perhaps only prima facie non-consequentialist; this aspect involves an apparent agent-relativity that turns out to be compatible with foundational agent-neutrality. By considering this — perhaps merely apparent — exception
to a simple consequentialist framework, we will notice a more pervasive exception,
and a more acute problem with the consequentialist interpretation of bodhisattva
ethics.
Before expanding on this problem, a final preliminary clarification may be in
order. There is not room here for any lengthy discussion of methodology, but one
point may be worth stressing at the outset. There are two very different ways of citing
exceptions in order to critique a generalization about Buddhist consequentialism — whether we have in mind the general pattern alleged by Goodman above or only
the more modest generalization about Mahāyāna ethics in particular. One involves
pointing out various specific traditions within Mahāyāna Buddhism, where consequentialism is clearly not a guiding principle, and in some cases perhaps neither a
guide nor a foundational standard. Finding such exceptions is presumably not difficult, considering the possibility noted at the outset that there may be as many as
seventeen different ethical systems in Mahāyāna textual traditions alone (as Hōdō
Ōno claims). If an exception were found in this way, however, Goodman and ­Clayton
could reply that they are concerned with articulating the most defensible and coherent system that Mahāyāna Buddhism has to offer, not with describing the details of
belief and practice in every single tradition. But there is another way to critique a
contemporary defense of Buddhist consequentialism, namely to find exceptions
among some of the very ideas or values that such writers as Goodman and Clayton
themselves use to construct — or reconstruct — an interpretation of Buddhist ethics.
It is this approach that I shall take here, and hence there is nothing in my approach
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that precludes, or begs the questions posed by, a normative or reconstructive
­methodology.24
The Bodhisattva’s Readiness for Self-Sacrifice and Three Forms of Super-Moralism
Of the major normative theories discussed by ethical theorists, act-consequentialism
requires, at least potentially, the greatest sacrifices from moral agents. For better or
worse, it is a theory that can make extremely heavy demands on moral agents.25
Since Mahāyāna ethics envisages bodhisattvas as likewise subject to heavy moral
demands, it is tempting to invoke this fact to reinforce the parallel between Mahāyāna
ethics and consequentialism. We should be careful, however, to distinguish different
forms of moral ‘demandingness.’ We can bring them all under the umbrella of what
I will call super-moralism. As I shall use this term, super-moralism goes beyond
­so-called ‘commonsense morality’ (which involves fairly limited agent-relative constraints on the pursuit of self-interest), but is not necessarily consequentialist. What
is consequentialist is the particular form of super-moralism that I will call super-­
impersonalism.
We can call a view super-impersonalist if it claims that aggregate considerations
determine not only certain calculations of overall value or net benefit but also a criterion of right action. Impersonal aggregation evaluates states of affairs sub specie
aeternitatis, such that one cannot adjust the evaluation of outcomes or practical options merely on the basis of their relation to one’s position, relationships, or temporal
location. We might say that, rather than starting from the individual person’s interests
and working outwards to account for others’ interests, the impersonal perspective
starts from a radically external point of view, and assesses individual choices in terms
of how they contribute to overall value from that point of view.26 Many moral philosophers have acknowledged that the impersonal perspective has an important role
to play in moral reflection, but some of these, like David Hume, have stopped short
of making this perspective the only criterion of right action. Hume’s view might be
considered to have an impersonalist aspect, but it is not super-impersonalist.27 If a
Humean becomes an act-consequentialist, her view becomes a fully impersonalist
super-moralism. But there are at least two other forms of super-moralism worth keeping in mind, which I shall call super-altruism and super-collectivism.28
As a foundational moral standard, consequentialism is altruistic, but in practice
it requires altruistic actions only when such actions have better overall results than
less altruistic ones. A consequentialist agent should modify or even abandon altruism
(qua guide) whenever doing so would produce better results, impersonally speaking.
Conversely, anyone who pushes their altruism and devotion to self-sacrifice further
than is required by aggregative considerations would have to be a kind of non-­
consequentialist. If someone honors an ideal of self-sacrifice as both a guide and a
standard, we should call that person not an impersonalist (since their ideal is not
agent-neutral), but rather a super-altruist. Examples might include a Christian martyr
who willingly dies even when little is to be gained from the impersonal perspective,
or — perhaps — a bodhisattva who offers his body as sustenance for hungry animals.29
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It will turn out, however, that this sort of self-sacrifice, though it may contravene the
aggregative component of consequentialism, is not the principal way in which bodhisattva ethics diverges from consequentialism.
A third way of being a super-moralist actually pulls back from super-altruism in
the following way: rather than believing one should do more than others are expected to do for moral purposes, one might believe that others should do exactly as
much as one does oneself. A modest version of this — and one that clearly does not
reflect the actual, ‘gradualist,’ practice of the traditional Buddhist saṅgha — would be
a contractualist ethic which emphasizes everyone’s respecting the same rules to the
same degree. In such a view, there may not be a collective aim or aspiration, but the
norms of basic cooperation and coexistence would be collectively upheld and, in a
sense, egalitarian. On the other hand, what I will call super-collectivist are those
views which are collectivist at both levels, in terms of both the aim of cooperation
and the (equal) distribution of duties in the cooperative effort. An example would be
a claim to the effect that, after an adequate social system and/or spiritual level has
been attained, everyone should contribute equally to an overall result that is the
greatest possible under the circumstances. The latter part of this formulation might
echo consequentialism, but the requirement that everyone contribute equally makes
this super-collectivism non-consequentialist. In effect, there is an additional constraint to be honored: the overall good is not to be produced by the most efficient
means available, but rather by an egalitarian collective approach, whether or not this
happens to be the most efficient way forward.30 This, too, might seem to run contrary
to the gradualism of some Buddhist social systems (and certainly runs contrary to
consequentialism), but it turns out that it plays an important role in Mahāyāna bo­
dhisattva ethics.
In most of what follows, I continue to focus on Goodman’s consequentialist inter­
pretation, and on how these other possibilities compare with his interpretation — ­partly
for the sake of simplicity (because he considers mature bodhisattva ethics to be more
straightforwardly consequentialist than Clayton does), and partly for dialectical reasons. These dialectical considerations can, however, be explained with Clayton’s
help. As we shall see, Clayton identifies an aspect of Śāntideva’s ethics that threatens
the consequentialist interpretation, even though she thinks it can be accommodated
within a modified consequentialism. In his book, though, Goodman anticipates this
problem, and shows Śāntideva giving what is in effect a pure consequentialist reply.
I shall argue that it is, ironically, at just that point in the dialectic that we notice a
more persistent non-consequentialist aspect of not only Śāntideva’s ethics but
Mahāyāna bodhisattva ethics more generally.
It seems clear that the bodhisattva’s intentions are super-moral in some sense.
Extreme self-sacrifice is noted in accounts of, as we might put it, both ‘bodhisattas’
and ‘bodhisattvas’ — that is, in both the Pāli-based Theravāda tradition and the
Mahāyāna tradition (mainly in the Jātaka stories of both traditions). In the contemporary scholarly discussion of Mahāyāna ethics, however, there is a debate about the
accuracy of one traditional description of the bodhisattva as someone who will postpone even nirvāṇa itself in order to help other beings progress toward it. Though I
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shall discuss a few accounts in which such postponement is countenanced, this
is not the place to attempt to resolve that debate. What is important at present is
­whether Goodman in particular believes such postponement to be obligatory for
bodhisattvas, and whether there are theoretical implications when an ethic requires
such sacrifices. Insofar as Goodman does believe this — as I shall show presently — the
question is whether the implications for super-impersonalism, super-altruism, and
super-collectivism require a consequentialist or a non-consequentialist interpretation
of the bodhisattva’s vows.
There are four formulations worth considering, in Goodman’s book, of the central bodhisattva vow of compassionate, universally directed moral commitment. But
I begin with three, at least two of which seem to presuppose that ‘postponement’ is
part of this commitment:
[A] bodhisattva . . . vows not to pass into Nirvāṇa, but to remain in the cycle of birth and
death in order to liberate all the other beings who are trapped there. (p. 5)
[A] bodhisattva takes a vow to remain in cyclic existence for the duration, to benefit all
beings. . . . In the mature Mahāyāna, even after the bodhisattva finally attains Buddhahood, he or she will continue to manifest in cyclic existence, in order to help all others
reach Buddhahood as well. (p. 15)
[It is a] distinguishing characteristic of Mahāyānists . . . [that,] rejecting any intention to
attain liberation for themselves alone, they aspire to become Buddhas and free others
from suffering. (p. 74)31
In assessing the model of the bodhisattva vows invoked here — which John
Makransky has called the ‘postponement model’32 of how the path to nirvāṇa is affected
by such vows — we would need to ask what kinds of nirvāṇa are temporarily dispensable and what kinds are not. When Goodman refers to the “mature” Mahāyāna conception of Buddhahood, he may be thinking of apratiṣṭhita nirvāṇa, which, because
it permits active engagement in cyclic existence, may never need to be postponed
(but see again my note 31 for exceptions).33 Before we address this key issue, however, there is something else worth noticing in these claims about the bodhisattva
vows.
Though these claims emphasize the equal importance of all beings in one sense,
Clayton notices an apparent agent-relativity in the ideal articulated here.34 It appears
that bodhisattvas are required to do more than other agents, and not just whenever
necessary, but as a general rule — such that from the point of view of a bodhisattva
what seems to matter is not just that benefits be received by all, but that he or she
bring about the benefits.35 She claims that this agent-relativity could be accommodated within a form of consequentialism, but many would counter that such a view
could not be genuine consequentialism. What should be done, we may ask, if the
diminishing returns from a particular bodhisattva’s efforts mean that it would be
­better for him to retire into final liberation (or perhaps a passive form of apratiṣṭhita
Buddhahood), and meanwhile allow other bodhisattvas to perform tasks that he can
no longer perform as effectively? If agent-relativity is fundamental, the bodhisattva
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should not step aside in this way, but according to consequentialism he should do
so. Even if this is only a hypothetical question, a natural interpretation of the vows
implies that the bodhisattva is committed to not only wishing for and supporting the
best interests of others but also being the one to carry out whatever is required. In this
way, altruism is treated as something more than a useful service; it is a duty — and we
now seem to have a commitment to non-consequentialism.
In other words, the vows that Goodman cites — along with even more striking
agent-relative formulations that can be found in Śāntideva36 — seem to endorse
­super-altruism. In its extreme form, the vow of compassionate engagement suggests
that the bodhisattva takes himself to be the one who must make every sacrifice, and
while this puts everyone else’s well-being ahead of his own, it puts his agency ahead
of those who may be better positioned to help those needing assistance. Ironically,
the view would be no less super-altruist even if a degree of self-fetishizing (or, more
precisely, the fetishizing of one’s own benevolence) seemed to be playing a role. But
in reply Goodman suggests that Śāntideva’s considered view is that a bodhisattva is
willing and eager to have other bodhisattvas carry out the good deeds that he has
indirectly made possible (p. 91), and, in a different context, he reiterates that it does
not ultimately matter who brings about the benefits to others (p. 97).37 In this way,
Goodman preserves his agent-neutral, impersonalist interpretation, and wards off the
charges of inconsistency that would come with an acknowledgment of foundational
super-altruism. A consequentialist such as Goodman might be able, meanwhile, to
explain any textual evidence of apparent super-altruism. For instance, portrayals of
extreme self-sacrifice might play an instrumental role in inspiring acts of self-sacrifice
that are more rationally justifiable (and typically less extreme). Similarly, Clayton
notes that when the agency of bodhisattvas is made to seem privileged, “the reasoning is consequentialist . . . [the belief being that] a bodhisattva will ultimately benefit
more beings than a non-bodhisattva.”38 This is not super-altruism, because the justifiability of altruist action now depends on an assessment of costs and benefits.
It is perhaps debatable whether these considerations are sufficient to reconcile
the valorizing of extreme altruism with consequentialism. But even if they are, there
is another feature of the bodhisattva vows that is harder to square with consequentialism. The goal of the bodhisattva while hovering at the edge of cyclic existence is
not to usher others directly out of that existence (into the final liberation of parinirvāṇa),
but rather to help others become bodhisattvas themselves — that is, to become beings
who can themselves help other beings, to the point where eventually every being is
ready to move collectively, and with equal and simultaneous effort, toward a higher
state. This is evident in the second description above, where Goodman speaks of
“help[ing] all others reach Buddhahood as well.” It is also evident in this fourth formulation (where Goodman is addressing more explicitly the development of
pariṇāmanā vows):
Mahāyānists . . . specifically dedicated their gifts to a single purpose: the attainment
of supreme wisdom, that is, of Buddhahood, by all beings. (p. 77; cf. Bodhicaryāvatāra
3.33)
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We should note that Goodman speaks here of a single purpose for the dedication of
karmic merit, not of a single purpose of all action and cooperation, and it is at least
an open question whether collective Buddahood (with all having realized apratiṣṭhita
nirvāṇa) is the final aim, or whether collective Buddhahood has the further aim of
liberation from cyclic existence. Makransky suggests that both these conceptions of
the final aim historically overlapped, throughout long periods of philosophical development in both Indian and Tibetan Mahāyāna Buddhism.39 In any case, bearing in
mind that this Buddhahood would retain a kind of benevolent agency, the penultimate or ultimate goal of the bodhisattva is to bring about a kind of collective agency,
where all beings contribute equally to what is jointly required, soteriologically and
thus morally. If this goal is the penultimate goal, it would follow that all bodhisattvas
must postpone the ultimate goal, for the same future duration. Drawing on a classic
metaphor, we might say that though some may be in a position to leap from the boat
to the shore (even without slowing down the boat or getting in anyone’s way), all are
committed, instead, to pulling together and staying together until they may dis­embark
simultaneously. I will call this the collective navigation ideal.
There seem to be elements of both agent-neutrality and agent-relativity here. On
the one hand, the role of this ideal seems to back up Goodman’s claim that it does
not ultimately matter who does good deeds (or at least we might infer this from
the fact that the eventual fellowship of Buddhahood is not restricted to a handful of
­bodhisattvas). On the other hand, the task that holds the bodhisattva back from liberation is that of getting others not only to liberation as well but to a position where
they can contribute equally to the eventual liberation of all beings. This attributes a
kind of intrinsic value, not just to the agency of the bodhisattva but to the equal
agency of others. In this view, the shape of collective agency should not just be organized in whatever way will maximize benefits. Rather, the duties of collective agency
should be shared equally, and in line with the idea of agent-relativity this means that
each agent takes up her own share of benevolent activity. There is no question that
the bodhicitta-inspired agency of all these present and future bodhisattvas has intrinsic value (for both consequentialists and non-consequentialists), but for consequentialists the unconstrained nature of maximization demands instead that we not
require this agency to be equally distributed. And indeed, in accepting the ideal of
maximization, Goodman would presumably endorse a ‘disembarkation’ to liberation
that is not hampered by the practical constraints of egalitarian coordination. On the
one hand, then, we have this commitment to maximization in consequentialism, and
on the other we have Goodman’s own acknowledgment of both the need for collective postponement and the ideal of collective agency, which appear to conflict with
the ideal of maximization.
In other words, the bodhisattva ideal appears to entail a form of super-collectivism
that is ultimately non-consequentialist. Moreover, there are further elements in
Mahāyāna Buddhism — also acknowledged by Goodman — that suggest that the
­ideal of super-collectivism was and is regarded as intrinsically valuable. In perhaps
the clearest acknowledgment of a postponement model (which we can now see to
have consequentialist and non-consequentialist variations), Goodman mentions a
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classification of three types of bodhisattva, commonly alluded to in Tibetan texts, that
distinguishes those who attain Buddhahood before helping others reach it, those who
postpone it to ensure simultaneous collective attainment, and those who postpone it
until after all others have reached it first. Referring to the important nineteenth-­
century Tibetan philosopher Patrul Rinpoche, he then notes that “Rinpoche claims
that the last form of aspiration is the most courageous. . . . [T]he most praiseworthy
type of bodhisattva is one who postpones his own welfare for the longest. This claim
seems very difficult to square with a eudaimonist interpretation” (p. 106).
Though Goodman is more focused here on critiquing eudaimonism than defending consequentialism, this classification has implications for the latter. This is particularly evident when we notice that the relevant passage from Rinpoche actually treats
the latter two bodhisattva types as comparable in merit (which he calls, respectively,
the boatman’s way and the shepherd’s way, implying simultaneous arrival in the one
case and an additional delay — while one guides one’s flock to safety — in the other).
The first of the three cases, meanwhile, is called the king’s way, since this bodhisattva
“proclaims himself sovereign [and] after that . . . his wish to take care of his subjects
come[s] into effect.”40 In his summary, we notice that Rinpoche somewhat disparages the king’s way, but associates each of the other approaches with deities of comparable importance:
The king’s way, called “arousing bodhicitta with the great wish,” is the least courageous
of the three. The boatman’s way, called “arousing bodhicitta with sacred wisdom,” is
more courageous. It is said that Lord Maitreya aroused bodhicitta in this way. The shepherd’s way, called “the arousing of bodhicitta beyond compare,” is the most courageous
of all. It is said to be the way Lord Manjuśrī aroused bodhicitta.41
It is also worth noting that when Paul Williams questions the role of postponement in
the bodhisattva ideal, he focuses on the third model, commenting that “if all other
beings must be placed in nirvana before a particular Bodhisattva attains nirvana himself there could obviously be only one Bodhisattva . . . [or else] we have the absurd
spectacle of a series of Bodhisattvas each trying to hurry the others into nirvana in
order to preserve his or her vow.”42 He also notes that some contemporary Tibetan
philosophers reject what is in effect this ‘shepherd’ model of the bodhisattva ideal.43
Perhaps, despite being the ‘most courageous’ — were it possible — the fact that the
shepherd’s way is “beyond compare” implies that it is indeed impossible.
This leaves a bodhisattva ethicist with a choice between the king’s way, the boatman’s way, or a combination that permits some to take one way and some to take the
other. When we think of a boatman, of course, we could picture him acting as a
shepherd does, ushering others to shore before he himself steps off the boat. Insofar
as we use this metaphor, then, and insofar as we want to distinguish it from the third
model, it would be better to think of the bodhisattva as engaged in ‘collective navigation,’ as I called it earlier, supposing meanwhile that this will culminate in simultaneous collective liberation. Since the king’s way is clearly considered inferior — not just
instrumentally but intrinsically — it would appear that the super-collectivism of the
boatman’s way has a claim to be considered a paradigm of the bodhisattva ideal.
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And since the ideal of universal and equal compassionate engagement describes an
outcome that is extremely remote in time (and meanwhile the course of events that
leads from here to there is inscrutable, a fortiori if the bodhisattvas are postponing
omniscient Buddhahood), this super-collectivism must function more as a foundational moral standard than a practical guide.44
It is perhaps also important in this connection that the metaphor of the river
crossing has deep roots, not only in the Pāli Canon, but also in Mahāyāna reflections
on skillful means.45 Indeed, the latter’s interpretation of boatmanship as an upāya
might be thought to reflect a consequentialist orientation, were it not for the emphasis on collective navigation and the constraint imposed by collective simultaneous
liberation. Furthermore, not only does Śāntideva use the image of the boat making
the river crossing (Bodhicaryāvatāra, 3.17), he emphasizes collective agency in
­verses such as these:
I summon the world to Buddhahood and to worldly happiness meanwhile. (3.33)
When the transmission of Buddha-qualities comes equally from both ordinary beings and
from the Conquerors, what logic is there in not paying that respect to ordinary beings
which one pays to the Conquerors? . . . The greatness of the intent comes not from itself
but rather from its effect, and so the greatness is equal. In which case ordinary beings are
the equals of the Conquerors. (6.113–114)
[T]hose full of compassion cannot come near to feeling joy when living beings are in
distress.46 (6.123)
By this merit of mine may all beings . . . always act skilfully. . . . May the circles of the great
assembly of Bodhisattvas be seated all around. (10.31, 10.36)
It is notable that, in the last of these passages, Śāntideva looks forward to all beings acting with equal skill — and hence all acting as perfected bodhisattvas — and
not just benefiting equally or maximally.47 The consequentialist, however, is com­
mitted to a different view. If we ask the hypothetical question of whether we should
favor the king’s way if it were to be a more effective means by which bodhisattvas
can promote the good of all beings, the consequentialist would say that we must (i.e.,
as ethicists we must, and as agents so must bodhisattvas, in this view). By contrast,
insofar as Śāntideva and the other sources cited here treat super-collectivism as
­intrinsically superior, they would give a non-consequentialist answer. They could do
this either by saying we must absolutely commit to collective navigation or by saying
that the intrinsic pro tanto value of collectivism adds at least one non-consequentialist
factor to moral deliberations.48 It turns out, then, that a distributive consideration — not one concerning the distribution of benefits, but rather the distribution of moral
activities — does enter into this stream of Mahāyāna ethics. Going back to Goodman’s comments on Rinpoche, he is surely right that some sort of altruistic moral
theory is implied by these sources, but he too readily assumes that universalist
­consequentialism is the only theory that fits them. I now turn to consider a non-­
consequentialist framework that may fit these sources even better.
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The Ideal of ‘Collective Navigation’ and the Kantian ‘Kingdom of Ends’
A fuller treatment of these themes might require a new formulation of a foundational
standard for bodhisattva ethics, and perhaps the best way to approach that would be
to introduce new terms and concepts, or variations on Mahāyāna concepts, rather
than search for parallels within the limited resources of Western moral philosophy. To
some extent, I have already taken that approach by using the term ‘super-collectivism’
in a neutral and clinical way. However, lacking the space here to develop a comprehensive theoretical framework along these lines, we can at least consider one notable defender of egalitarian collective agency in the Western tradition — namely
Immanuel Kant. Among other reasons for doing so, this is perhaps worthwhile for the
reason mentioned earlier: that similarities between Buddhist ethics and Kantian
­ethics are rather neglected, in comparison to those that have been explored invoking
consequentialism, virtue ethics, or even moral particularism. The similarities run
deeper than one might expect, though I will also note some stark differences as
well.
To avoid confusion, it is worth acknowledging straightaway that if we take Kant
at his every word, his ethics will certainly seem too rigid in its conception of moral
duty to offer a close match for the particular form of super-collectivism that we find
in bodhisattva ethics. For, even though — as I claim — bodhisattva ethics is not truly
consequentialist, it does allow for precepts to be overriden in the interest of the common good, in ways that Kant ruled out by treating humanity as an ‘end in itself ’
rather than a mere means to the common good. Whereas bodhisattva ethics does not
recognize any particular moral duty as absolute (not counting the general imperative
of promoting the good of all beings), Kant’s conception of humanity seems to endorse
notions of absolute rights and absolute duties. The so-called ‘formula of humanity,’
however, is just one of Kant’s formulations of the categorical imperative. In addition
to this, and the well-known ‘formula of universal law,’ there is a third principle, usually referred to as the ‘formula of the kingdom of ends,’ which envisages both the
achievement and the benefits of collective agency — and which even offers an opening to a kind of semi-consequentialism (albeit an opening which Kant appears not to
have wanted to explore, at least in the form of a normative moral theory).49
The feature of the kingdom of ends that should interest us is not so much the notion of equal subjection to laws, but rather the principle of equal participation in a
collective endeavor. This principle emerges as Kant outlines his ideal:
A rational being belongs as a member to the kingdom of ends when he gives universal
laws in it but is also himself subject to these laws. He belongs to it as sovereign when, as
lawgiving, he is not subject to the will of any other. (Kant, Groundwork, Ak. 4:43350)
As the passages below make clear, an individual does not enter such a ‘kingdom’
merely by adopting universalizable maxims; what Kant has in mind is an ideal that is
realized only when all do so. Meanwhile, the reference to a ‘sovereign’ may be a
veiled reference to a divine being; but this can be taken with a grain of salt. It is introduced mainly as a placeholder in his conceptual apparatus (as are theistic con-
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cepts in the architectonic of the first Critique), and also perhaps to make room for
faith in a future kingdom of ends, aided by a — merely ‘postulated’ — divine agency.
Nonetheless, he continues:
Duty does not apply to the sovereign in the kingdom of ends, but it does apply to every
member of it and indeed to all in equal measure. (Ak. 4:434)
He makes clear, of course, that no human being can occupy the role of sovereign. (As
he says elsewhere, “We are indeed lawgiving members of a kingdom of morals . . .
but we are at the same time subjects in it, not its sovereign, and to fail to recognize
[this] . . . is already to defect from it” (Critique of Practical Reason, Ak. 5:82).) There
is an interesting, albeit mainly suggestive, parallel here with Rinpoche’s demotion of
the ‘king’s way.’ But most important for our purposes are the twin claims that in the
kingdom of ends moral duty applies to all agents “in equal measure” — and this includes obligations of benevolence and compassion51 — and that if there were such a
state of collective virtue, all agents would in fact contribute equally to the common
good, including the happiness of all.52
Kant makes very few references to overall happiness in the Groundwork (though
it is frequently noted as a feature of the common good in later works), but he makes
both claims in this passage:
[A] kingdom of ends would actually come into existence through maxims whose rule the
categorical imperative prescribes to all rational beings if they were universally followed.
It is true that, even though a rational being scrupulously follows this maxim himself, he
cannot for that reason count upon every other to be faithful to the same maxim . . . [or
count] upon [a resulting] expectation of happiness; nevertheless that law, act[ing] in
­accordance with the maxims of a member giving universal laws for a merely possible
kingdom of ends, remains in its full force because it commands categorically. (Groundwork, Ak. 4:438–439)
Like the bodhisattva’s dual aspiration of cultivating bodhicitta and ultimately helping
to bring about a collective enlightenment, there are two stages outlined here for the
moral agent. So long as not everyone is morally engaged, the moral agent nevertheless performs actions as if such universal cooperation were imminent, but at a later
stage the moral agent may actually participate in such a state of universal cooperation — that is, the realized kingdom of ends.53 The first stage infuses the agent with moral
goodness (but not saintliness, about which Kant is skeptical, to such an extent that we
can perhaps extrapolate that many Kantians would endorse a morally motivated
postponement of any such spiritual distinction, in the name of equality). The next
stage then realizes ‘the highest good,’ which includes not only the virtue of the morally good person but their — and everyone else’s — happiness as well. The first stage
brings to mind the notion of arousing bodhicitta (‘Awakening Mind’), and the second
stage brings to mind the idea of collectively achieved buddhatva (‘Buddhahood’).
Though Śāntideva is somewhat more concerned with happiness, of various kinds and
at various times (both before and after universal enlightenment), we may recall here
his remarks in the Bodhicaryāvatāra:
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I summon the world to Buddhahood and to worldly happiness . . . . (3.33)
[M]ay all beings . . . always act skilfully. . . . May the circles of the great assembly of Bodhisattvas be seated all around. (10.31, 10.36)
There are some major differences between the Kantian ideal and the bodhisattva
ideal, of course. One of these might best be highlighted by using a phrase from Paul
Williams, who argues that an advanced-stage bodhisattva might be akin to an “unconscious automaton.”54 Even if one prefers Goodman’s less pejorative description
of such bodhisattvas as effortlessly and fluidly engaging in acts of compassion, one
will be struck by metaphysical as well as moral differences. Metaphysically, both
descriptions suggest some form of determinism (a view that Goodman attributes,
­approvingly, to mature Buddhist metaphysics [pp. 145–163]), whereas Kant considers libertarian free will to be both metaphysically real and crucial to the foundations
of morality.55 Meanwhile, the instinctive compassion of the bodhisattva contrasts
with Kantian descriptions of agents as struggling under a heavy burden of ‘duty.’
However, this latter difference is perhaps less important than it may first appear.
Since Kant’s fuller account of the kingdom of ends emphasizes that virtue will be
perfected (not just the ‘external’ performance of duty), and also that happiness will
result, the agents cooperating together there should not be thought of as self-doubting,
morally struggling agents. In fact, a natural way of extending Kant’s account might
add that the ‘duty’ to perform acts of benevolence will be superseded by the simple
performance of acts of benevolence, at least when the kingdom of ends is real and
not merely ideal. The perfection of virtue closes this gap between duty and performance, just as it does in the lives of advanced bodhisattvas. The key point here, in
any case, is that according to both ideals, the goal of moral engagement is not to
build a system that will most efficiently sort individuals into cohorts that follow one
another into the highest state of happiness, but rather to work collectively toward a
world in which all beings can attain the highest good simultaneously, and through
equal effort.
Moreover, despite important differences in the approaches of bodhisattva ethics
and Kantian ethics, there may be another deep similarity that sets these approaches
apart from consequentialism. Consequentialism, with its focus on efficiency in the
pursuit of results, considers the passage of time as an important factor in the assessment of outcomes, and thereby in the determination of right courses of action. Meanwhile some might wonder, in reaction to the quantitative emphasis of Clayton and
Goodman, whether a foundational Buddhist ethical theory should seek to quantify the
rate at which beings attain liberation.56 If indeed we should question whether such
temporal considerations are fundamental to Buddhist ethics, then some Buddhists
will see parallels in Kant’s own subordination of such considerations — which may
explain the lack of detail in his writings regarding the teleological norms that would
or should guide our progress from non-ideal circumstances to the kingdom of ends.
Unlike consequentialists — and utilitarians especially — both Kantians and at least
some bodhisattva ethicists can be expected to resist a moral theory that invokes a
maximizing standard focused on temporal efficiency.
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Concluding Remarks
In making comparisons with Kantian ethics, it is not my intention to valorize Kantian
principles or to defend a Kantian version of Buddhist ethics, or for that matter to defend any non-consequentialist form of Buddhist ethics along these lines. For all that
I have said, Goodman may be right to defend universalist consequentialism as a selfstanding moral theory. If deontological alternatives are worth considering, how­
ever, it is not merely due to their prominence as rivals in modern debates about
­con­sequentialism — and whatever intuitive appeal they may have — but perhaps also
due to their long-standing appeal in more than one ancient non-Western tradition,
including the very tradition that Goodman and Clayton highlight. Nevertheless, it
must be admitted that Śāntideva’s ethics in particular does sometimes seem to come
very close to a form of consequentialism. It comes close enough, in fact, to warrant
a major reform in the way philosophers teach and discuss the history of moral phi­
losophy, in particular regarding the development of consequentialist ideas prior to
modern utilitarianism. And to do justice to these earlier developments, philosophers
in the West should redouble their efforts to approach the history of ethics as a history
encompassing multiple civilizations, and not just as a history of the European or
­Atlantic philosophical heritage.
While some may sympathize with this plea for bridging old philosophical divides, some may have the opposite reaction, on scholarly grounds (as opposed to, for
example, polemical relativist grounds). The latter may react to the considerations
presented here by saying that they simply illustrate yet again the folly of trying to
impose a theoretical framework on Buddhist ethics — let alone a Western theoretical
framework.57 On the other hand, if we concede this point too readily, we risk ­begging
Goodman’s question about how we might best reconstruct a systematic Buddhist
ethical theory. If we are willing to join Goodman, Clayton, and others in their theoretical efforts, whether with one grain of salt or many, what we should be asking is
why some form of deontological collectivism would not or could not have a place in
that theory.
Notes
I wish to thank Mark Siderits, Noah Quastel, and two anonymous referees for their
written comments, and also Ashwani Peetush, Bindu Puri, Hari Prasad, Ajay Verma,
Chris Framarin, Stephen Harris, Ethan Mills, Angela Sumegi, Heidi Maibom, Mary
Renaud, Noel Salmond, Richard Mann, and the members of a Carleton and University of Ottawa reading group for many discussions related to the themes of this article.
1 – ōno, Daijō kaikyō no kenkyū, whose analysis is summarized by Chappell, “Are
there Seventeen Mahāyāna Ethics?”
2 – I define ‘foundational’ — in the sense, here intended, of fundamentally justificatory
— in the first section. One might hesitate to say the same thing about the
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­ istorical foundations of, for instance, Christianity. In relation to the latter sense
h
of ‘foundations,’ one might argue that the founders of Christianity advocated a
kind of universalist altruism, which, however, gradually developed justifications
based partly or mainly on non-altruist considerations — already present in one
form or another — such as personal salvation or the imitation of divine models
(which then became major forms of motivation for moral engagement in various
Christian traditions).
3 – Clayton, Moral Theory in Śāntideva’s Śikṣāsamuccaya; Clayton, “Śāntideva, Virtue and Consequentialism”; Goodman, Consequences of Compassion.
4 – Remarks comparing Theravāda ethics with consequentialism — arguably a much
more problematic comparison — can be found in Premasiri, “Moral Evaluation
in Early Buddhism”; Kalupahana, Buddhist Philosophy, p. 61; and Dharmasiri,
The Fundamentals of Buddhist Ethics, p. 27. In the case of Mahāyāna ethics, the
possibility of a consequentialist interpretation is noted with some skepticism in
Keown, The Nature of Buddhist Ethics, but endorsed by Mark Siderits in “The
Reality of Altruism” and in some of his other writings. Meanwhile, in the context
of a particular area of applied ethics, comparisons with consequentialism have
also been suggested by Wendy Donner in “The Bodhisattva Code and Compassion.” There are deep and interesting questions, of course, about the extent to
which these Western ethical concepts are commensurate with Buddhist ones.
Though there is not room here to discuss these questions in detail, I do acknowledge some related methodological problems in note 24.
5 – Though this may sound obvious, it is not uncommon to hear of a theorist such as
John Rawls being described as consequentialist in some respects (e.g., in his use
of the maximin principle and the difference principle), but non-consequentialist
in others (e.g., in the absolute priority given to human rights). As we shall see,
proper consequentialism cannot allow any limitation on the maximization of
value, so any appeal to a non-consequentialist standard will make a view (such
as Rawls’) fundamentally non-consequentialist. (See below for a definition of
‘standard,’ as I use the term here.)
6 – For reasons that will become apparent, Clayton is less vulnerable to this charge,
though the closer she comes to agreeing with Goodman that an unqualified
consequentialism is present in Śāntideva (and she is perhaps closer in “Śāntideva,
Virtue and Consequentialism” than in her earlier book), the more vulnerable
her interpretation may be as well.
7 – Keown, The Nature of Buddhist Ethics.
8 – As Goodman argues, and as Peter Harvey suggests in An Introduction to Buddhist Ethics, pp. 50–51 — and as is suggested by the relative paucity of comparisons with Kantian ethics in the archives of journals such as the Journal of
Buddhist Ethics.
9 – For some persuasive arguments to the effect that later Mahāyāna ideas — both
consequentialist and non-consequentialist — have antecedents in the Pāli ­Canon
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(hence the term ‘trace’), see Dharmasiri, The Fundamentals of Buddhist Ethics;
Velez de Cea, “The Criteria of Goodness”; and chap. 3 of Goodman, Con­
sequences of Compassion.
10 – Goodman highlights Asaṅga’s arguments for the “permissibility of lying, stealing, sexual misconduct, and killing, when these actions are motivated by a
compassionate wish to benefit all beings” (Consequences of Compassion,
p. 78). Even though these arguments are not unique to Asaṅga, many Buddhists
remain unaware that at least one major tradition countenances exceptions to
the principle of nonviolence, and that this is not for the sake of accommodating
‘practical’ or ‘pragmatic’ considerations that force a compromise with morality;
rather, such exceptions are grounded in the deepest moral value — the overriding importance of maximizing benefits for all beings.
11 – As Christine Korsgaard notes (The Sources of Normativity, pp. 86–87), Bentham
concluded that Hume’s own form of teleological justification does not permit a
rigid focus on virtue or rule-following (a consideration that discredited Hume’s
own preoccupation with virtue, combined as it was with a form of consequentialism), even if Hume was right that typically the virtues are important foci for
promoting happiness.
12 – Goodman, Consequences of Compassion, pp. 23–24. This formulation nicely
removes a common confusion between consequentialism and pure instrumentalism. Pure instrumentalism claims that there are no objective normative criteria other than those that guide means-ends reasoning (and is thus a form of
moral skepticism). In a less polemical sense, though, instrumentalism can be
said to play a role in determining consequentialist rightness (of actions), even if
that rightness is ultimately dependent on the promotion of states or things that
have intrinsic value from an impartial perspective.
13 – Due to the number of citations of Goodman’s Consequences of Compassion in
the rest of this article, I will henceforth use in-text citation of page numbers for
this work (and will also use in-text citation for Śāntideva’s Bodhicaryāvatāra,
but in that case with chapter and verse numbers).
14 – Pettit, “The Consequentialist Perspective,” passim.
15 – Ibid., pp. 125–130. Not all forms of consequentialism require a readiness for
such choices on the part of all agents (Sidgwick introduced the idea of obligations that vary according to the knowledge or expertise of agents, within a
consequentialist framework). Another way in which contemporary consequentialism often departs from classical utilitarianism is in placing happiness alongside other goods and in allowing for trade-offs between them. These points are
relevant to assessing critiques of comparative ethical theory (and of consequentialism in this context) such as Michael Barnhart’s in “Theory and Comparison
in the Discussion of Buddhist Ethics.” By focusing on utilitarianism, which he
calls ‘democratic’ in its universalism, Barnhart underestimates the scope for
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parallels between Buddhist ethics and the perhaps less ‘democratic’ forms of
consequentialism introduced by Sidgwick and later consequentialists. Nonethe­
less, I, too, think these parallels have their limits. However, since Barnhart also
questions other theoretical parallels that I shall explore (with non-consequentialist
theories), I comment further on his critique in notes 20 and 57.
16 – What I call ‘pure’ virtue ethics here is simply what Goodman means by ‘virtue
ethics’ when he is critiquing it. There can of course be a role for virtue(s), in two
different kinds of consequentialism–one in which virtues are seen as the primary means to promoting overall value (sometimes called aretaic consequentialism; cf. Hume’s view as described by Roger Crisp in “Hume on Virtue,
Utility and Morality”) and one in which virtues are among the things that have
intrinsic value. Goodman endorses an approach of the latter kind, but because
it is agent-neutral, it is not a traditional (or pure) form of virtue ethics.
17 – This would be the ultimate foundational aim that all agents share. In practice,
though (or, as I put it below, in terms of practical guidance), consequentialists
can and do believe that different agents should have different aims, not only as
circumstances change but possibly also in ways that depend on what sort of an
agent one is (cf. Goodman, Consequences of Compassion, chap. 7, on the possibility of consequentialist elitism).
18 – Taking this possibility seriously would seem germane to Goodman’s approach,
but several problems arise here. One is the apparent obstacle presented by the
Mahāyāna identification of ultimate truth and emptiness. (As David Burton suggests, in his Buddhism, Knowledge and Liberation, there is perhaps no obstacle
here in the case of the Yogācāra conception of śūnyatā; I take this suggestion
further in “A Meta-Ethical Turn in Buddhist Ethics.” Meanwhile, Goodman admits that he is “not aware of any Buddhist text that explicitly speaks to the issue
of explanatory priority” (Consequences of Compassion, p. 188), and he even
wonders whether there was any clear conceptual distinction between intrinsic
and instrumental value in ancient Buddhist literature (p. 127). A foundational
standard arguably must specify intrinsic value(s), while a guide is typically
­instrumental — and this is no less true for someone who believes, like Kant, that
the conception of humanity as an end in itself is both a standard and a guide.
The value of a practical guide, however, may be registered at the level of conventional truth (saṃvṛtisatya), and is instrumental (despite seeming sacrosanct
to some), whereas in at least some contexts we may regard paramārthasatya as
referring to the ultimate value that constitutes the foundational standard for
­ethics in the broadest sense (i.e., including soteriology). This point is briefly suggested by Matthew Kapstein, who draws on a passage in Prajñākaramati’s commentary on Śāntideva’s Bodhicaryāvatāra (Kapstein, Reason’s Traces, p. 217).
19 – Velez de Cea resists the term ‘particularism’ (in his “The Criteria of Goodness”),
though it is embraced by Charles Hallisey in “Ethical Particularism in Theravāda
Buddhism.” But Velez de Cea does not suggest an alternative term to express
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what it is we might be endorsing when we endorse an unprioritized balancing
of various moral criteria.
20 – Clayton, “Śāntideva, Virtue and Consequentialism,” pp. 20–22. Even if Michael
Barnhart is right, then, that for Buddhists “[e]thical deliberation follows neither
specific rules nor principles” (“Theory and Comparison in the Discussion of
Buddhist Ethics,” p. 30), it does not follow that principles do not hold at the
foundational level. Barnhart may try to preempt this move by adding that morality “does fine on deliberation alone” (p. 33), but he does not address questions
of realism versus anti-realism in a way that would be sufficient to cast doubt on
the distinction between foundational and practical levels of normativity. (In “A
Meta-Ethical Turn in Buddhist Ethics,” I discuss some Buddhist ethicists who do
address these questions in this context.)
21 – Goodman, Consequences of Compassion, pp. 89–90; cf. Śāntideva,
Śikṣāsamuccaya, p. 16.
22 – Goodman cites the translation, as I do here, by Crosby and Skilton (Śāntideva,
The Bodhicaryāvatāra, trans. Crosby and Skilton). Henceforth I will make in-text
references to chapter and verse numbers of this work; unless otherwise noted,
the translations are those of Crosby and Skilton, whose verse numbering I
­follow.
23 – Cf. Śāntideva, Śikṣāsamuccaya, p. 140.
24 – On the contrary, I adopt a similar methodology, one that draws on both Goodman’s approach and what Christopher Ives calls a ‘constructive’ methodology
(Ives, “Deploying the Dharma”). Ives speaks of “breaking out of . . . [the] embeddedness” of one — or presumably any particular Buddhist — “parochial . . .
­morality” (p. 31); meanwhile, Goodman seeks a “deeper understanding of Buddhist thought than we could acquire by merely restating the categories of the
texts themselves” (Consequences of Compassion, p. 4) — by using contem­
porary theoretical concepts to analyze them. Like Ives, who focuses on “core
Buddhist values” (Ives, “Deploying the Dharma,” p. 33), Goodman nonetheless
looks for a “fundamental basis” for ethics within Buddhism itself (Consequences
of Compassion, p. 5). This approach might be resisted from two very different
directions: on the one hand, by those who doubt, on historical and philological
grounds, that ethical concepts from these different traditions are commen­
surable, and on the other hand by those who fear that the vitality of ‘engaged
Buddhism’ would be sapped by a focus on foundational theories. Without
­attempting a full response to either of these views, it is at least worth noting
that if they are right we cannot know that until we have fully explored several
transcultural conceptual frameworks, as well as an approach that is sensitive to
both the theoretical and the practical while reserving a niche for the purely
theoretical.
25 – Cf. Singer, Practical Ethics, and Mulgan, The Demands of Consequentialism.
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26 – This is not meant to call to mind the Rawlsian appeal to the ‘original position’;
on the contrary, rather than imagining limits to our information, a super-­
impersonalist would have ideal deliberation make use of all available information (as, e.g., in act-utilitarianism).
27 – In his Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, for example on page 44,
Hume uses the term ‘general’ to mean something like ‘impersonal,’ and he implies that the ‘general’ point of view is the most strictly moral one, even if it is
(excusably) not the one from which we typically act.
28 – We sometimes come across epithets such as ‘hyper-moral’ or ‘hyper-altruist,’
but I wish to avoid prefixes such as ‘hyper’ and ‘ultra,’ which are loaded in such
a way as to suggest that the view in question is excessive and thus flawed. Many
ethicists do indeed think that what I call ‘super-altruism’ is excessive or extreme, but the choice of this term at least allows this to be an open question.
29 – A famous example of the latter can be found in the Jātaka tale of “The Tigress”
(Haksar, Jatakamala: Stories from the Buddha’s Previous Births, pp. 25–32).
30 – One version of this view could be super-moralist in two senses, by comprising
two phases. There may be (1) a consequentialist, and thus super-impersonalist,
criterion regarding what actions are to be taken to reach the stage at which collective effort is possible, and (2) a strict sort of egalitarianism from that point on,
which goes far beyond any elements of fairness or equity that enter into commonsense morality. Could such a view be consequentialist? As note 17 suggests, consequentialism (qua standard) can entail the use of variant forms of
deliberation (qua guides) in different contexts by differently qualified agents;
but consequentialists cannot possibly envisage a two-phase division of labor as
strict as this one, either as guide or standard, and so would not morally allow it
(without evidence of its being the long-term maximizing option, qua guide).
Meanwhile, if we decide to call this sort of semi-consequentialism ‘consequentialism,’ we again risk having to call someone like Rawls a ‘consequentialist’
(which would ultimately be misleading, for theoretical purposes).
31 – It is also, however, a common Mahāyāna belief that attainment of Buddhahood
is by its nature the most effective way of helping others, such that postponing
this is never called for, even if postponing some other kind of nirvāṇic calm may
be (though an intriguing counterexample seems to emerge in Śāntideva’s apparent subordination of the aim of Buddhahood in Bodhicaryāvatāra 6.133; cf.
also 1.27). Partly on these grounds, Paul Williams doubts that a sweeping commitment to postponement is really meant to be part of bodhisattva self-sacrifice
(Williams, Mahayana Buddhism, pp. 58–61 — a point originally made in the
first edition of 1989). Others, such as John Makransky, have responded by noting its pervasiveness in Mahāyāna texts, while acknowledging the complicating
role of the belief noted above (Makransky, Buddhahood Embodied, pp. 336 ff.).
But if we are willing to ask a hypothetical question (perhaps for Williams a
purely hypothetical question) about what one would be required to do in a case
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where more good is done by postponing Buddhahood, the question seems to be
answered by such common remarks as that it is “for the benefit of living beings
alone [that] one should dedicate everything to Awakening” (Śāntideva,
Śikṣāsamuccaya, 5.101). That is, the purpose of Awakening (including Buddhahood), namely benefiting others, must have moral priority over Buddhahood
itself. Many commentators seem to overlook the fact that this moral subordination of Buddhahood is compatible with its having the highest spiritual and prudential value. (The same could be said of nirvāṇa, though perhaps only in
certain traditions — namely, the moral subordination of nirvāṇa is compatible
with its having the highest spiritual value.)
32 – Makransky, Buddhahood Embodied, pp. 336 ff.
33 – Apratiṣṭhita nirvāṇa is variously translated as ‘non-abiding nirvāṇa’ or ‘nonfixed nirvāṇa,’ where ‘fixed’ suggests a kind of final extinction; it would be
tempting to gloss the phrase as ‘life-preserving nirvāṇa’ (if one could not just
resort to ‘non-parinirvāṇic nirvāṇa’).
34 – Clayton, “Śāntideva, Virtue and Consequentialism,” pp. 20–21.
35 – Unless, that is, the stress on the bodhisattva’s agency is just a rhetorical way of
emphasizing the Mahāyāna’s going beyond the mere wishing for collective
welfare (as evidenced in, e.g., the Metta Sutta — included in Walpola Rahula’s
translations in What the Buddha Taught, pp. 97–98), and moving toward the
idea of a more engaged compassion. The engagement could take a consequentialist form — it may just be a matter of ‘putting consequentialism into practice’
— but it is admittedly easier to express the urgency of this by using first-person
formulations. This is an appealing possible explanation for the emphasis on
bodhisattva agency, an explanation I have not seen discussed elsewhere, yet it
risks reading much more into Śāntideva than his texts seem to warrant. (To
­simplify my use of pronouns, I will henceforth refer to bodhisattvas in the
­masculine — which is indeed the paradigm in Śāntideva, even though there are
notable instances of female as well as androgynous bodhisattvas in various
Mahāyāna texts; cf. Williams, Mahayana Buddhism, pp. 223–226.)
36 – Śāntideva, Bodhicaryāvatāra (Crosby and Skilton, trans.), inter alia, 2.8–9, 3.6–
21, 4.4–6, 4.12, 5.82, 6.124–125.
37 – On p. 97, Goodman cites the Śikṣāsamuccaya to this effect (Bendall and Rouse
translation, p. 144); Śāntideva makes the same point in the Bodhicaryāvatāra,
5.77.
38 – Clayton, “Śāntideva, Virtue and Consequentialism,” pp. 21–22.
39 – Makransky, Buddhahood Embodied, p. 21 and passim.
40 – Patrul Rinpoche, The Words of My Perfect Teacher, p. 218.
41 – Ibid.
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42 – Williams, Mahayana Buddhism, p. 58.
43 – Ibid., p. 59.
44 – Two qualifications are required here: (1) the context of Rinpoche’s discussion,
with a heading translated as “Arousing Bodhicitta,” may suggest that the ultimate vision does provide a kind of guidance to the bodhisattva — spiritual guidance, if not practical guidance; (2) the possibility remains open to a bodhisattva
ethicist to treat consequentialism as the moral standard, but only if he or she is
willing to treat each allusion to collective agency as a mere upāya, for example
a sort of motivational story for bodhisattvas, which would omit mention of a
non-collectivist practical possibility that might be less inspiring. Whether
Śāntideva or any other ancient Mahāyānist can be read this way is another
question, and as a general interpretive strategy this approach risks reducing
everything in every Mahāyāna text to a (theoretically) unreliable upāya.
45 – As John Schroeder notes, in Skillful Means, p. 65.
46 – If we think of the desirable form of joy as apratiṣṭhita nirvāṇa, that is, a perfected form of benevolent engagement, and if we think of distress as involving,
among other things, an incapacity for such engagement, then this passage also
implies that the bodhisattva postpones perfection until collective agency is possible. Other passages implying an obligation of postponement are 3.21, 7.28,
8.107, 9.52, and 10.55.
47 – As I have mentioned, this may seem to conflict with the commonly accepted
division of Buddhists into monks and laypeople, with different expectations applying to each. It is a notable feature of some Mahāyāna traditions, however,
that there is a tendency to break down this division — not just in Śāntideva’s
verses, such as 6.113 — 114 ( just cited), but also in such texts as The Holy Teaching of Vimalakīrti (trans. Thurman), and writings both by and about Candragomin (e.g., Tatz, Difficult Beginnings, passim).
48 – The latter possibility might be thought to bring consequentialism back into the
picture, or at least to suggest a consequentialist reply — namely that collective
agency can be included in the basket of goods that we should seek to maximize. Without delving into the theoretical issues this raises, we can at any rate
note that if the bodhisattva pariṇāmanā vows are as sacrosanct as Śāntideva
suggests, the commitment to collective agency will seem intended as a constraint to be honored rather than something that merely concerns a good to be
promoted.
49 – Semi-consequentialism might include the sort of view mentioned earlier (in
note 30), on which a kingdom of ends would operate in ways that are not consequentialist, but an unconstrained instrumentalism would be invoked to guide
us to that state. In some of his essays, Kant seems to contemplate such a phased
approach (essays where, incidentally, the kingdom of ends is often associated
with the ‘highest good,’ a state in which happiness and virtue coincide), though
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it is safe to say that he provided no more than a loose and ambivalent outline of
such a view. For instance, the prospect of such phases emerges only at the very
end of his “Theory and Practice” essay (in Kant, Perpetual Peace and Other
­Essays, p. 89), and is left undeveloped, except insofar as nature is vindicated in
its apparent instrumental role in optimizing trade-offs on the road to the kingdom of ends.
50 – ‘Ak.’ refers to the Berlin Akademie edition of Kant’s works; this pagination, by
volume and page number, is the standard multilingual referencing system (for
works other than the Critique of Pure Reason), and is indicated in the margins
of all translations cited here. I use this pagination for in-text citation of Kant’s
works throughout the rest of the present article. All citations of the Groundwork
and the Critique of Practical Reason are from Mary Gregor’s translations, included in Kant, Practical Philosophy.
51 – These personal qualities are defended by Kant in his later work, the 1797 Metaphysics of Morals, included in Kant, Practical Philosophy, pp. 570–579, Ak.
6:450 ff. — though many ethicists object to his treatment of them as having
worth only as rational duties, that is, not as purely emotive responses. It is worth
considering whether Goodman’s descriptions of the most advanced stage of
compassion (Consequences of Compassion, pp. 5–7, 120 ff.) are in some ways
quite close to the Kantian conception, insofar as this śūnyatā-inspired compassion no longer involves an emotive response to the suffering of any particular
person or being.
52 – The following remarks from Kant’s Nachlass support this unorthodox-sounding
formulation: “Virtue would produce happiness if it were universally practiced”
(Kant, Notes and Fragments, p. 461); “[the] unity of all ends of a rational being
. . . would, if it were practiced by everyone, produce happiness” (ibid., p. 470);
“Morality is the practical universal condition of happiness, and it is a system of
happiness from the freedom to make oneself worthy of happiness” (ibid.,
p. 472).
53 – In “Anticipations of Kantian Universalism in Mahāyāna Buddhist Ethics,” I discuss some apparent affirmations of this ideal of universal cooperation in the
Lankāvatāra Sūtra.
54 – Paul Williams, “Is Buddhist Ethics Virtue Ethics?” p. 116.
55 – Another metaphysical difference I will not discuss in detail is one that pits Kant’s
view of the transcendental self against Buddhist notions of anattā/anātman. On
this topic, Goodman may be right that the Buddhist view supports a consequentialist form of impersonalism; but here, again, there are developments in the
Mahāyāna tradition that make room for agent-relative alternatives in ethics,
such as the notion of an individual Buddha-nature and associated notions of
tathāgatha-garbha and prakṛtinirvāṇa. There may — on the other hand — be ways
of reconciling non-consequentialist approaches with various interpretations of
anātman and śūnyatā.
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56 – There are admittedly some Mahāyāna texts that seem to quantify ‘time to liberation’ in various ways, but at least one of these says of itself that its for­
mulations are only skillful means, namely the Lotus Sūtra (see Watson, The
Lotus Sutra). In this text, even the karmic calculations themselves are impressionistic and rhetorical, suggesting that precision is impossible and perhaps
even undesirable.
57 – I have already mentioned one scholar who might react in this way: Michael
Barnhart (“Theory and Comparison in the Discussion of Buddhist Ethics”). Barnhart is right that there are elements in Buddhist ethics that are historically
unique, such as the emphasis on anattā/anātman, which a fuller discussion
should indeed account for. (As just pointed out in note 55, we should not assume that a turn to a partially Kantian ethic would mitigate or blunt the implications of anātman.) However, if, as many contemporary Western ethicists agree,
anātman deserves greater attention in moral philosophy, this is not because it is
‘indigenous’ to the Buddhist tradition (as Barnhart puts it) or any other. And if,
nonetheless, indigenous non-Western ideas have special value as such, a normative explanation of such value will likely resort to familiar general values or
principles, perhaps even making the ‘theoretical approach’ inescapable. In “A
Meta-Ethical Turn in Buddhist Ethics,” I offer some reasons for thinking that
theoretical comparisons are indeed inescapable. Meanwhile, in discussing the
limitations of deontology as a framework for interpreting Buddhist ethics, Barnhart highlights the Kantian model of deontology, and this serves as a reminder
of how important it is to distinguish the key features of the ‘kingdom of ends’
ideal (here taken to be relevant to bodhisattva ethics) from Kant’s conception of
ethics as a whole. Neither Kant’s metaphysics of personhood, his meta-ethical
prescriptivism, nor his principle-monism need be part of any development of an
analogy with the ‘kingdom of ends’ ideal. (That ideal is indeed partly deontological, but this just goes to show that deontology need not be tied to those
features of Kant’s approach.)
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