Printed in the Summer 2021 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Trull, David, "Questions That Cause Unnecessary Talking " Quest 108:3, pg 16-19
By David Trull
One day I was sitting on a lakeshore discussing spiritual progress with a friend. We touched on the salvific nature of suffering and the capacity of the human spirit to transform suffering into transcendence. We spoke about the beauty of the world and humanity’s role as the intended audience for divine art.
It was a fairly new form of discussion for me, one that revolved around the letting go of superfluous elements of life, living in a manner that would provide uninterrupted happiness. This is accomplished through understanding life as the progression through spiritual levels. Typically, I am given to debating metaphysical questions in an either/or fashion. I am open and wide-ranging about the experiential data that I admit into my consideration, but I am wired with an inborn desire to boil it down to “the answer.” Despite my curiosity and awe at the universe, I do yearn to finally nail it all down. The idea, however, of a deep letting go has been beckoning for some time, and has sometimes pushed me further into the spiritual realm than the philosophical.
Earlier in the day, my friend had purchased a large inflatable raft in which our group had enjoyed floating around the lake, soaking up rays. It was now sitting idle in the shallows. A group of kids arrived during our conversation and began playing in these shallows. After a time, my friend took notice of them and reflexively offered the use of our raft. Their eyes lit up, and they eagerly took her up on the offer. They laughed and chased each other on and off it for over an hour.
It was a simple act of kindness, but its coincidence with our spiritual discussion drew me towards an interesting reflection: neither of us knew the ultimate answers to the metaphysical questions we were discussing—far from it—yet that act of kindness was so simple, and the ensuing joy tangible. My friend had moved from the unsolvable problems to an easy act of benevolence; the rewards of the latter act were much more palpable than those of the prior. It made we wonder about the relation of metaphysical questions and true happiness. I had always considered them inextricably intertwined—but are they?
This reminded me of the concept of avyakata, which a Buddhist friend had mentioned to me not long before. Translated as “the unanswerable questions” or even more aptly, I think, as “the questions that cause unnecessary talking,” these were lines of inquiry which the Buddha refused to take up. He declined to answer them because he felt that they spawned unwise reflections.
The Buddha sought to alleviate suffering through nonattachment and the doctrine of no-self. He sought to provide medicine to those who are sick with the suffering of this world. His concept of enlightenment is not identical with philosophical enlightenment. Indeed some of the questions he brands unanswerable are the oldest metaphysical inquiries in existence, such as: “Is the world eternal?” “Is the universe finite?” “Does the soul exist after death?” and “Are body and soul identical?”
In sermon 1 of The Lesser Malunkyapputta Sutta, the Buddha is called out by one of his followers for failing to offer teachings on these questions. The disciple upbraids the Buddha for neglecting his duty as a spiritual leader. Knowing the answers to these questions, for this student, is essential to spiritual attainment and is the fundamental work of a sage.
The Buddha replies that these queries would merely distract the disciple from what he is truly seeking. He says, “It is as if . . . a man had been wounded by an arrow thickly smeared with poison, and his friends and companions, his relatives and kinsfolk, were to procure for him a physician or surgeon; and the sick man were to say, ‘I will not have this arrow taken out until I have learnt whether the man who wounded me belonged to the warrior caste, or to the Brahmin caste, or to the agricultural caste, or to the menial caste . . . until I have learnt the name of the man who wounded me, and to what clan he belongs . . . until I have learnt whether the man who wounded me was tall, or short, or of the middle height.’”
The Buddha here paints a picture of the universal individual, mortally wounded and in dire straits. This is each of us. We are thrust into this world without warning and flail about in a world of cyclical suffering. We clutch at objects and relationships which promise stability and a foundation, but they are equally flailing and cannot rescue us. The Buddha continues: “Any one who should say, ‘I will not lead the religious life under the Blessed One until the Blessed One shall explain to me either that the world is eternal, or that the world is not eternal . . . or that the saint neither exists nor does not exist after death’—that person would die . . . before the Tathagata had ever explained this to him.”
This refusal to answer, then, is founded upon the most practical of reasons: these questions do not profit a man who is in immediate danger of perishing. They are not the healing balm he requires. When we truly comprehend our wounded state, these questions become as ridiculous as asking about the caste or the height of the doctor. When we truly grasp our spiritual plight, these questions fade into the absurd.
I recalled another conversation I had with a different friend. He asked me what I thought would happen after death. He assumed that I must have some belief to go on. I responded that I simply did not know and that I failed to see how anyone could know such a thing. We may have our conjectures, but such a question is unanswerable. Perhaps it also causes unnecessary talking?
My friend was startled at my response and expressed incredulity that I could live happily without having some assurances of what lies in wait beyond the grave. I pondered this and concluded that I had for some time been operating under my own personal version of Pascal’s wager: it is better not to worry oneself with what will happen after death, because, regardless of what it may be, one loses nothing by loving others and seeking the truth.
This is not to ignore death: in fact a constant awareness of death’s necessity is fundamental to a good life, I believe. But whether we will find ourselves in the afterlife of one of the monothestic religions, pure nothingness, some state of convergence with a higher and universal consciousness, or a completely ineffable experience, we lose nothing by the pursuit of holiness here in the temporal world.
Which path to follow, then? I have excessive interior nagging articulated along the lines of Homer Simpson’s famous religious crisis: “But Marge, what if we chose the wrong religion? Each week we’re just making God madder and madder!” I did not have the vocabulary to articulate my concern before learning of the avyakata, but that is what I feel towards the identification with one particular man-made religious tradition. Fretting about doctrinal and scriptural differences, spending a lifetime attempting to decide which one holds the keys to heaven—it does not seem a worthwhile pursuit while one is bleeding out spiritually. Stopping the bleeding is the key.
How does one stop this bleeding? Love and the pursuit of truth: making one’s life, as much as possible, a reflection of the True, the Good, and the Beautiful. Emerging from the self and living for others. Experiencing union with the entire cosmos and its oneness. The spiritual life does not depend on dogma; it depends on the transcendence of the self. Dogma and what the Buddha terms “becoming enmeshed in views, a jungle of views, a wilderness of views; scuffling in views, the agitation (struggle) of views, the fetter of views” is a stumbling block. The “agitation of views” places countless interpositions between oneself and the Truth, when what we seek is a direct unity.
If the avyakata are indeed stumbling blocks, why do we perceive nobility in them? I myself have long considered the pondering of such problems to be that which makes life truly rewarding. Socrates famously remarked: “The unexamined life is not worth living for man.” Are we to discard this observation? It seems that, if we truly must justify the worthiness of these questions, we must consider them in some way related to the alleviation of suffering and to the attainment of enlightenment.
Despite my concern about their spiritual utility, I have certainly found pursuing metaphysical questions to be tremendously valuable. Probing deeper into the nature of reality continually rewards one with the sense that all is connected, if one only peers deeply enough into Being. The microcosm leads to the macrocosm, and vice versa. Attempting to understand the nature of the world led me to pursue spiritual growth in the first place, and to the power to realize the distinction between avyakata and spiritual growth on that lakeshore. I have received so much; surely I must give philosophy her due?
Perhaps we must consider the avyakata in the way the medievals considered philosophy to be subordinated to theology, the “Queen of the Sciences,” as they called it. Philosophy offered the means by which man’s rational nature could articulate the previously ineffable. She was the handmaid of theology. It was precisely the observation that a rational understanding of God and his works could provide some measure of happiness in this life that marked the greatest advance of thinkers like St. Thomas Aquinas.
Even the preeminent theologians ultimately arrived at the same realization as the Buddha: their best efforts at description were null compared to the ultimate reality. Aquinas, after a lifetime of laborious synthesizing, was granted an experience of the beatific vision. He entered into a trancelike state, and when he emerged he commanded that all his works be burned, for “the end of my labors has come. All that I have written appears to be as so much straw after the things that have been revealed to me.” When later pressed to return to his work, he replied again: “I can write no more. I have seen things that make my writings like straw.”
We may portray the spiritual realities in symbols, but they are ultimately inexpressible through the mediation of signs and reason. There is such a fullness to the ultimate reality that it cannot exist as an object to be comprehended. It must simply be entered into. Here we find hints of the Eastern concept of the profound letting go and subsequent emptiness, which is the fountain of all forms.
If we cannot turn to philosophy to find the fullness of life, to what can we turn? To me, there appear to be two essential requirements for human happiness: love and work. One must have others to love and care for, for whom one wills good more than for oneself. Work can encompass many pursuits, but it must be meaningful to the worker, must engage one’s strengths, and must ultimately be in the service of those whom one loves (this category may be expanded to a larger and larger group as one matures spiritually). It is the opposite of the “alienated labor” described by Karl Marx.
Why are these two elements fundamental? They each expand the self, driving it to merge with a more supreme whole. Nothing wishes to exist purely as an atom. As Leonardo da Vinci remarked, “Every part is disposed to unite with the whole, that it may thereby escape from its incompleteness.” Through the expansion and convergence of our souls with the All, we achieve spiritual peace. Loving others and laboring upon valuable endeavors benefiting those whom we love brings us out of ourselves while preserving our agency. Our individual efforts remain, but they are part of a larger whole, a deeper context. We remain wholes, and yet serve as parts. It is only when a human is fully absorbed in these two orientations of life that we locate happiness: it is never found apart from conditions, as far as I can tell. It is, however, often found divorced from metaphysical knowledge, as the Buddha warned us. We may learn the nature of our medicine and take it without asking unnecessary questions.
Love and work are a process of expanding and merging, rather than dividing and categorizing. The unknowability of the avyakata points to a different method for happiness: merging with the All. We should remember that these questions are pleasurable, but good only insofar as they lead us to expand and merge—to ascend the spiritual ladder. They are a faithful handmaiden but must, at times, be abandoned in order to walk alone.
That day on the lake, I was shaken out of my pondering by the smiling children dragging our raft onto the shore. They thanked us effusively. I laughed at how true it was that one did not need to comprehend the ultimate nature of the universe to love someone—even someone you have never seen before and will never see again. Neither does one need to pass a thousand hours chasing the origin of species to play pretend with a small child. It is clear where the source of joy lies. Perhaps Jesus was right when he taught that one must become like a little child to enter the kingdom of heaven.
I recalled a song I had heard years ago, “Rexroth’s Daughter” by Greg Brown. In it he asks, “What is real but compassion as we move from birth to death?” I was left to ask the same question.
David Trull has worked as a fireworks salesman, forensic tax researcher, railroad logistician, teacher, songwriter, and musician. He studied philosophy through a Great Books immersion program at Thomas Aquinas College in Ojai, California. A lifelong autodidact, he has advanced his explorations through a self-designed curriculum focused on the intersection of philosophy and theology. Raised in St. Louis, Trull now orbits between Santa Barbara, California, and the San Francisco Bay Area.