Post #44: Skillful Means and Taking Refuge in a Psalm

8 July 2023

One of the hardest lessons in life, for me, has been to accept that no matter how right one may be about something (and who can ever be sure), it all goes wrong so very easily if one does not find skillful means with which to apply it. Not that I am reliably right, but that my problems arise more commonly, it seems to me, from the right thing wrongly done than the other way around (something bad being given a deceptively attractive appearance by just the right touch). I may sound as if I mean to flatter myself, but not at all. There are experts in tone and tact and all manner of delicacies, as there are masters in every art; and I have come to accept the dire need for those arts of smoothing the way, as being indispensable even to the best purpose or cause. Which is not a recognition in any way to my personal advantage.

Without skillful means, nothing can come out well—but what a challenge! It means facing not only the world of difficulty that comes with trying to form at least some approximate idea of what is right (or true or good or beautiful, as a Platonist might put it), but at the same time to reach with a sure hand for the proper way to get it across, without which one might as well be wrong, for all its practical effect. A solid Dhamma practice should help, no doubt, by making one look inward before striding too forcefully forward, too loudly or harshly, whatever the case may be; but skillful means are few and hard to find, no matter how sincerely one is looking, while the wrong ones are countless and all too readily at hand.

One cannot even judge the rightness of one’s efforts by their results. Things can miscarry because one was simply wrong, either in judgment or intention—or unwise at least, or not sufficiently aware, too imprudent or impatient, insufficiently tactful, too flatfooted or lacking the right touch—all that and a thousand things besides; but they can also go wrong through no fault of one’s own sometimes, and who really knows. Sometimes it is clear enough, and the fault was manifestly one’s own; the damage may or may not be reparable, but at least one knows that one has amends to make and only oneself to blame, meagre consolation though it is. Other times perhaps one was right, but deficient in choosing or applying the proper means; and other times still, one may not have been to blame at all, only in the wrong place at the wrong time. Buddhists traditionally embed this harsh truth in karmic packaging, to make it more acceptable, though perhaps at the price of doing an injustice to our current selves when they (occasionally) have nothing to answer for.

It should breed nothing but humility, this awe-inspiring recognition of one’s own triple fallibility—motive, judgment, means employed—only I’m not so sure how much good all this humbling is really doing me. Spiritual paths seem to take it as axiomatic that mortifying our pride can only be salutary: blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the kingdom of heaven. But meekness alone hardly does the trick, for me at least; one needs to find one’s confidence somewhere too.

I am reminded of a Psalm (the ubiquitous 23rd), which I sometimes recite to myself with a different Lord in mind. (If it was a Jewish king’s prayer before it became a Christian one, then maybe it can take one more turn.) The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want: I woke up with that phrase on my mind in the early hours of the morning after what was perhaps the darkest night of my life, from which, had it been up to me alone, I might not have wished to wake up. The green pastures and still waters were not then much in evidence, to say the least, but I suppose my soul was indeed restored, enough at least for me to get up and resume my life in the morning, which was no mere trifle at the time. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness, why not, though I’m less sure that it has to be done for anyone’s name’s sake …

But the key part is the next one, isn’t it, and nothing very original in saying so: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me. That part gets me every time. To be walking through the valley of the shadow of death, what a magnificent phrase, so apt, so evocative, and so very chilling—except of course for what comes next. Thou art with me, whoever or whatever thou may be, thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.But do they, really, comfort me? Certainly not the chastising rod, I’m afraid—but perhaps the pilgrim’s staff for this pèlerin on his wanderings through Samsara? I can’t say for sure, only hold on to the formula in hopes that faith may spring up around it sufficiently to one day make it true, preferably in this life…