Parables of the Middle Way

Ellis

Introduction

The parable often seems to be an unfashionable medium. Revered as its past use may be by Jesus or the Buddha, parable today often seems to be neglected and despised, along with its sisters, fable and allegory. My justification for using it is roughly this: that though parable may sometimes make poor literature, it potentially makes good philosophy.

If read as literature, parable may sometimes seem heavy-handed – a relic of Victorian didacticism in which an indigestible ‘moral’ is forced down the gullet of some long-suffering target of instruction. For refined modern minds, the autonomy of the reader is paramount, and morality a matter of individual preference. The symbolic story, then, should not point out its meaning, but be left in a state of ambiguity for the reader to interpret. The storyteller should exercise the same restraint as the teacher or the parent, in letting the reader make their own mistakes and their own discoveries, playing for themselves with the fascinating material of story.

From the viewpoint of philosophy, on the other hand, the parable has nevertheless been sneaking into modern acceptance from time to time under the guise of its twin brother, the thought experiment. Imagine if such-and-such were the case, the thought experiment tells us, then such-and-such another remarkable result would also follow, and that would help to justify my theory. The reader thereby thinks she is engaged in a sort of ‘experiment’, which sounds like an autonomous thing to be doing, but actually the result of the experiment, as related by a thinker, is every bit as laid down in advance as that of the parable or fable.

For example, when philosopher Derek Parfit tells us to imagine teleportation to Mars, he already knows what conclusion he wants us to draw about identity – the moral of the story. Likewise when John Searle asks us to imagine being sealed in a room with instruction manuals that help us translate one incomprehensible Chinese character into another, this whole situation is directed towards helping us understand the difference between an organic and an artificial intelligence. These profound and fascinating thought experiments work so well precisely because they do not leave the reader too much to her own devices. Rather they lead us in a path of thought already trodden by a philosopher, recapitulated much more powerfully because of the imaginative form in which it has been related. A thought experiment is often very difficult to tell apart from a parable.

Given that some of the philosophers I most admire (not to mention great religious figures of the past), are thus already using parables to good effect, I feel not too much embarrassment in taking up the genre: not as bad literature, but as good philosophy. I want to use parable as a way of conveying ideas.

However, as the ideas are likely to be unfamiliar to most, I do think that in most cases they will need pointing out. This is no more disrespectful to the reader’s autonomy than the arguments of any philosopher with a case to make. To leave the stories I want to offer without commentary might possibly succeed in intriguing the reader: but my goal is not merely to intrigue, it is to suggest ways forward. To consider such suggestions in a critical spirit, and (if they are judged helpful) to apply them to other contexts requires autonomy enough. So I will be offering commentary and discussion with each story. That does not imply that the story is not potentially independent of the teller, and may not also have implications that remain untold in any such commentary.

Nevertheless, I also don’t want to create a false division between literature and philosophy. Many of the purposes and benefits of each are compatible. Personally, I was a student of literature long before I became one of philosophy. I probably learnt much more of importance about ethics, for example, from rich and ambiguous characters like those in, say, George Eliot’s ‘Middlemarch’, than from say, Immanuel Kant’s extremely abstract treatment of the subject. Good literature is better than philosophy, even at fulfilling philosophical goals, when the literature is rich and the philosophy clunky.

So when I say that I want to create good philosophy rather than bad literature, I mean that if the philosophy is both subtle and adequate to the complexity of experience, it can have many of the strengths of literature, whilst still allowing itself the explicit explanations and models offered by philosophy. A philosophy that cannot be conveyed in an imaginative form may well be less adequate for that, as well as harder to read and engage with and thus limited in the audience it is likely to reach. So I aspire to create philosophy that is good because it adopts some of the adequacy to experience found in literature, rather than taking away the adequacy of literature by imposing an inadequate conceptual framework on it. Parables do convey a moral, but are better when that moral goes beyond traditional pieties.

As to my theme, the Middle Way, I have already toiled for a long time in conceptual explanation, both at introductory and at a more advanced level. I refer you to ‘Migglism’ for introductory explanation, and the ‘Middle Way Philosophy’ series for a more detailed one. The purpose of this book, instead, is imaginative exploration of the philosophical themes in those books. Instead of occasionally using examples to illustrate points, I will draw points out of examples – letting the stories take the lead and allowing the philosophy to take a secondary role to the stories.

As to the stories themselves, they are a mixed bag of the familiar and the unfamiliar. Some of the stories have developed from examples that I have already used in trying to explain Middle Way Philosophy in one context or another. In other cases I want to point out the Middle Way implications of a story that is already well-known, and in yet others to revise or up-turn a well-known story so that it does become more helpful. Some of these stories come from the Buddha, some from Jesus, some from various philosophers, either retold in a way similar to the original, or in a form substantially altered, according to my purpose in relation to the story. Very often I have explored the implications of a relatively simple parable or example more fully by imagining their application in some context in modern life.

When I first drafted this book, it consisted in interleaved stories and commentaries. The commentary would follow each story directly. However, the Middle Way Society’s publications committee unanimously urged me to give the stories a little more breathing space. At first somewhat against my own immediate inclinations, I removed the commentaries to a separate second part, and concluded that they were right. This arrangement still leaves you free to read the commentary directly after each story by leafing ahead if you wish, but encourages the alternative of reading the stories alone first. You may then prefer to come back to the commentary at a later stage. However, I would urge you not to just to read the stories and skip the rest altogether, even if the reading may seem a little heavier. The commentaries are an integral part of my purpose here, of bringing together story and philosophy.

At the end of each commentary I have also recommended some further reading, to encourage you to follow through these themes in my introductory book, ‘Migglism’, and the more detailed ‘Middle Way Philosophy’. The references to ‘Middle Way Philosophy’ follow the form I.1.a etc, where the initial roman numeral is the volume, the arabic numeral the section, and the lower case letter the chapter. 

Whenever we start relating to ideas through the imagination rather than only through conceptual belief, I think creative results are perhaps made more likely. New weak neural connections may be formed rather than old strong ones merely being reinforced. In the terminology in which I have come to discuss these things, meaning is integrated by such stories. They may also lead us to re-examine our beliefs, as new models become available for thinking about old problems. The spark between imagination and critical thought can, I hope, be a powerful catalyst for such re-thinking.

The Parables

The Ship

The lovely ship ‘Progress’, laden with important passengers and precious cargo, was just entering the dangerous strait between Scyllia and Charybdisland when the weather began to look more threatening. Captain Jack Everyman scowled at the gathering cloud and the rising wind.

It’s not looking good, he said to his first mate, Mr Scyllius, We could be driven straight onto those rocks if we call in at Scyllatown.

But we have to call in there! protested Mr Scyllius, My mother will be waiting for me, and she has a legacy to give me from my lately deceased uncle! Also the Prince of Scyllia wishes to join us on the voyage. We will displease him!

That won’t do any of us any good if the ship is turned to matchwood on the way said Everyman, You and the Prince and your money will all alike go to feed the sharks.

Yes, chimed in Mr Charyb, the Second Mate, who came from the rival state on the other side of the strait, Scyllia is too dangerous at the best of times. The docks are thronged with cut-throats! I don’t know why the ship has to include it on the itinerary at all. Come to Charybdisland instead: it’s a great deal safer and friendlier. The people there are actually rational and behave like proper human beings!

Not likely, replied Everyman gruffly, The passage into Charybport is just as dangerous. Not rocks but sandbanks! It may look smoother, but the threat lies just beneath the surface. Not in this weather!

But the Oracle of Charybport is due to give a final revelation! cried Charyb, I need to hear it! And the Chief Priest wants to join us on the voyage. He will be most displeased!

That seals it, replied Everyman ironically, If we’re lucky enough not be eaten by sharks, the Prince of Scyllia and the Chief Priest of Charybdis will probably kill each other in any case, and trash the ship in the process!

What do expect if you let hypocritical scum from Charybdisland on board? cried Scyllius

It’s the immoral rabble from Scyllia that cause the trouble! protested Charyb. Just look at the statistics on crime in sea-going vessels. They bear me out!

That’s enough! said Everyman sharply. Both men knew that he had no sympathy with their partisan bickering, and the tone of command was enough to silence them. Either I please you both or I please neither. There’s no way I’m going to visit one port but not the other.

At the moment, a sudden shaft of sunlight burst through the gathering black clouds, and the wind seemed to drop.

That’s an interesting meteorological indication, sir said Scyllius carefully, Do you think it might mean we could risk it?

It’s a sign! cried Charyb in half-ironic triumph, God wants you to go to Charybdisport! He could never allow you to leave his Chief Priest standing on the quay.

Maybe it’s a sign, and maybe it isn’t, said Everyman, But if we take the risk, we go to both ports. Agreed?

Reluctantly, both men agreed. Everyman turned the ship towards Scyllatown.

As they neared Scyllatown, however, the weather deteroriated again. The clouds massed, the rain lashed down, and the winds blew up to storm force. Having made up his mind, though, the Captain set his jaw, held course and ordered the sails down.

Look at those rocks! cried Charyb, We’ll be wrecked! Let’s get out of here, Jack!

Just hold your course! urged Scyllius, We’ll be OK. Many ships have still managed to dock safely in weather like this.

They were driven closer and closer to the rocks, to the terror of all on board, but Jack Everyman held his nerve. At last the wind began to abate a little, and the quay of Scyllatown loomed before them through the film of rain.

As soon as they docked they sent messengers into the town to find Scyllius’s mother and the Prince. Both were surprised but happy to find that the ship had dared the weather to dock there. Captain Jack Everyman urged the Prince to board without delay, and made sure that all cargoes were loaded and unloaded immediately.

Are you not going to wait for better weather, Captain? asked the Prince’s Aide-de-Camp, Why do we go so soon?

The Captain shook his head, We’re leaving immediately, he said, and sailing to Charybdisport. The Aide-de-Camp looked at him incredulously, as if he had said they were sailing for Hell. The Captain did not tell him why he feared lingering in Scyllatown even more than the storm. Charyb had been right about the throngs of cut-throats.

With the Prince and more precious cargo on board, the ship set off again in weather that was not much better than the conditions they had arrived in. This time the journey lay straight across the strait, for Scyllatown and Charybdisport, each the capital of a diametrically opposed kingdom, lay right opposite each other. Each could even see the other in clear weather. Many had been the ships sunk and men’s lives wasted in endless warring over that strait. In public all was enmity, with all visitors from the opposite realm requiring special clearance from the authorities. Any stray sailor from the opposing realm who wandered incautiously in either city would first be spat upon, then quietly dispatched in a dark alley. Yet behind the scenes, the authorities in fact maintained quite a cordial relationship with each other.

It was a battered-looking Progress, with a snapped foremast but otherwise intact, that limped into the harbour of Charybdisport a few hours later. The Prince of Scyllia had barricaded himself into a stateroom below decks and refused to stir, the misery of seasickness only slightly alleviated by the news that they had landed in Charybdisland. The quay in Charybdisport was much better maintained than that in Scyllatown, but the sailor who jumped onto the quay was immediately upbraided by the harbourmaster for wearing what he took to be leather shoes. This is an insult to Charybdis! he roared, Take away your unclean footwear this instant! The terrified sailor soon leapt back on board to comply.

After an inspection by the harbourmaster for both leather footwear and signs of disease, a few sailors were judged pure enough to be able to land temporarily. However, they were only able to precede into the town to view the wonders of the Great Temple and listen to the Great Oracle after paying hefty additional bribes to the harbourmaster. Only Mr Charyb, as a native, was able to avoid these strictures. Captain Everyman was again desirous to be off as soon as possible, and instructed the sailors to be back in an hour at the most. He was relieved to see that the Chief Priest’s sumptuous carriage soon rolled up. The extremely obese Chief Priest was then brought on board in a litter borne by four slaves.

He was greeted, somewhat to his surprise, by the Prince of Scyllia, who had unbarricaded his state room as soon as he glimpsed the Chief Priest’s arrival through a porthole. Hello, old fellow! He proferred a hand, Terrible weather, what!.

Fancy meeting you here! the Priest responded, Don’t think I’ve seen you since the Ball after Finals! Time goes by, what!

But then the Prince glimpsed the Captain coming towards them along the passage. Quick, the Captain’s coming, he said in an undertone, It might be prudent to be more statesmanlike.

That’s an insult to Charybdis! shouted the Priest suddenly, putting on a convincing, but rather wobbly, shake of anger. I will hear no more of this blasphemy! He then turned and waddled back along the passage towards the Captain.

Your holiness is quartered in the front state-room, as his highness from Scyllia occupies the rear one. said the Captain politely, I hope it will be to your liking.

The priest waddled on to inspect the front state room, It will do, He said eventually. Just don’t let that sacrilegious scumbag anywhere near me!

Once more, then, the ship set sail in some haste, as soon as passengers and cargo had been loaded and unloaded, and the foremast replaced. One sailor who had lingered too long, captivated by wonder in the Great Temple, had to be left behind. As they set out the storm had already abated to a gale, and before long it sank to a pleasant breeze. Within hours the clouds had drifted away, and the sun shone, as the ship beat down the strait to further its journey.

The captain and mates gathered again on the bridge. That was a hard passage, captain, remarked Scyllius, and Charyb for once nodded his agreement.

Ay, ‘twas hard, remarked the Captain. It would have been hard enough just to sail down the strait in such weather, let alone pick up passengers. Yet I’m glad I allowed you both to persuade me. What would be the point of a voyage without passengers?

As long as the Prince and Chief Priest don’t kill each other. added Charyb.

They haven’t yet. said the Captain, Who knows, a pleasant voyage in the sunlight may help ease their enmity!

The Lute Strings

Gaynor had now given up her early obsession with music and decided to focus on her career. In fact, it had been several years now since she had even thought about music. Instead, her focus was on the completion of this project, the approval of her boss, the likelihood of more responsibility in the next project, the need to overcome obstructive colleagues and placate demanding customers, the determination to make an impression for her ability and commitment. She had barely noticed as her relationship unravelled and her boyfriend moved on. She lived alone now, and worked.

But suddenly, like a swimmer stricken by weakness in mid-channel, she began to find herself undermined by turbulence around her that she only started to recognise because she had ceased to make progress forward. One morning she woke up at 3am overwhelmed by despair – knowing suddenly that she was not good enough and there was no point. She could not go to work and she could not go on. She took time off, and at first her boss was sympathetic. You’ve been overdoing it, Gaynor she said on the telephone, But you’re a valuable asset to the company, so you need to look after yourself. You take some time off and get better. The doctor advised a new treatment: mindfulness based stress reduction. Really good for depression, he had said, much better than giving her drugs. So one afternoon, Gaynor found herself in a class learning how to meditate.

At first it was really annoying. The mindfulness teacher led them in a body scan and then told them to focus on the breath. For Gaynor, the body scan had just made her feel insecure about her body: it wasn’t good enough, it was full of tension. Then when asked to focus on the breath she just found it boring. She tried doing it for a few seconds, but then immediately started thinking about the office again.

In the discussion afterwards, Gaynor asked the mindfulness teacher how she could focus on her body or on the breath without getting stressed about it. To her they just seemed like new sources of stress. Why go to a meditation class and fail at doing something else, having just failed at going to work? If she tried to stop doing these things, she would float around and then just land right back on her stress points.

Well, the Mindfulness Teacher seemed to be searching for the right response, have you ever played any music – an instrument of some kind?

A sudden stab of memory at the word music: Gaynor and her lute, at the age of 14. That lute given to her by her aunt, and the local guitar teacher keen on the baroque, who had taught her and encouraged her. At one time she hadn’t just played music, it had seemed that music had also been playing her.

Yes, responded Gaynor after a pause, I used to play the lute, but I gave it up to concentrate on my career.

"Ah! Well, there’s a story told by the Buddha about a lute. Once there was a monk who came to him whose name was Sona. Sona had been trying too hard in meditation. Like you he was just finding it another challenge, another source of stress. But Sona also used to play the lute. So the Buddha asked him, ‘What happens if the lute-strings are too tight?’ What would you