I sincerely apologize for any hurt I have inflicted. That goes for you, @aminah, and @mcoll, @Erika_ODonnell and any others I might have injured or offended with my words.
Yes, I have become aware that I am finding a lot more anger arising in me lately. Let me tell you about one thing I have been going through.
For several years, Buddhism made me feel better better about my life, and more optimistic and hopeful. It gave me a real sense of purpose and devotion. I attended moon day pujas at least once a month, and usually twice. I often chanted the dhamma request, which I found very moving. It was a vivid poetic reminder of how fortunate people were to have the path of liberation that the Buddha taught. I also loved the Invitation to the Devas, which again had rich poetic and symbolic significance for me, even though I didn’t think it was likely that there were actual ancient Indian divinities hovering around. Buddhism seemed to me like a real force for good in the world.
It never occurred to me that many people would think that I was a bad and wrong Buddhist because I didn’t literally believe that there was a Brahma Sahampati had knelt before the Buddha. I knew some people probably did believe that, and other people probably didn’t, but it didn’t matter. We gathered, we chanted together, we meditated together, and we listened to a dhamma talk - usually focused on the means of liberating the heart through meditation and kind living, and blessedly short on ancient doctrinal heaviness or insistent scriptural literalism.
The stories and discourses and chants were for me the expressions of a poetic world of symbols and meanings, like the Greek myths, but pointing to something higher and less worldly. I drew meaning from the stories about the wandering in samsara. I always loved, for example, the story of Ubbiri and her daughter Jiva. The Buddha told her, “84,000 daughters, all named Jiva, have been burned in that charnel ground. For which of them do you grieve?” Were those young girls one Jiva being reborn 84,000 times, or 84,000 different Jivas? Why did it matter? They were all daughters. There were 84,000 grieving mothers. It’s all humanity wandering.
But ever since Bhante Sujato unleashed his diatribe, I can’t face my sangha and my old friends. Because now I can’t avoid reflecting on what they probably think about people like me: shallow, suffering from various “psychological lacks” and “existential lacks”, soullessly unable to ascend to the exalted spiritual plane from which the Buddha, and I guess Bhante Sujato, survey the cosmos and count up their lives, and commune with the spirits. I still meditate every night, and try to read and remind myself of the core teachings that are most meaningful to me. But I feel all alone now. This experience has nearly broken my heart.
Some of the things I have recently seen transpire here have shocked and alarmed me. I don’t want to say which things, because the very fact that I am shocked and alarmed by them will probably offend some people. I believe I really have tried to engage many times in rich, mature intellectual, discussion - as you put it. But my overall impression is that most of the time this is not at all appreciated, because many people are trying to maintain a fairly orthodox faith community in which potentially disturbing intellectual discussion, beyond the limited area of scriptural interpretation, is kept to a bare minimum. So I feel like the proverbial skunk at the garden party.
I should just keep my ideas to myself, perhaps. But my moral conflict comes in when I encounter aspects of of the more orthodox approaches to the teachings that might be causing harm to people - by exploiting them, or by saddling them with guilt, shame or worries that are based on little evidence, or by stunting their intellects, or by inculcating an excessive and dangerous submission to authority and authority figures, or by training them to think of themselves as inferior, dirty or unworthy. Surely, many of us can accept that Buddhism has had a fair share of problems in those areas in recent years.