Asian Philosophies final exam until 4/3

Buddhist Ethics

Buddhist ethics form a branch of value theory—the philosophical investigation of right and wrong. At first glance, Buddhism seems to offer a clear moral code. The Five Precepts—refrain from taking life, stealing, sexual misconduct, lying, and intoxicants—are simple, voluntary guidelines. They're not commandments but tools for reducing suffering and generating good karma. Still, Buddhist ethics are deeply flexible and emphasize intention and consequences, especially when moral rules conflict.

This flexibility is grounded in compassion. In the Sermon on the Four Noble Truths, we hear: “All creatures love life, all creatures fear pain.” This statement is often interpreted as a moral foundation for vegetarianism and pacifism, akin to the Jain argument from sentience. However, not all Buddhists follow these ideals rigidly—many do, but the tradition allows for variation based on context, capacity, and interpretation.

This leads to classic Buddhist moral dilemmas. Suppose someone asks, “Do you like my outfit?” and you don’t. Do you lie to be kind, or do you tell the truth and risk hurting them? Buddhism might treat this situation through the lens of trishna (craving). Maybe the person asking is seeking reassurance due to attachment. Compassionate honesty might help them detach. A Buddhist might favor saying something like “It’s not very flattering” rather than “It’s ugly” or offering a false compliment. The key is truthful speech, expressed kindly. More broadly, Buddhism holds that lying or withholding truth is usually wrong when someone has a legitimate claim to the truth—especially when that knowledge is essential to their wellbeing or moral autonomy.

The flexibility and depth of Buddhist ethics come into sharp relief in the Great Compassionate Case. A previous life of the Buddha, called the Great Compassionate (GC), is a ship captain who discovers a pirate planning to kill the entire crew. GC considers three options. First, he could warn the crew, but they would likely kill the pirate in anger, generating negative karma. Second, he could do nothing and allow the pirate to kill them, resulting in massive harm and karmic burden for the pirate. The third option is that GC kills the pirate himself. GC chooses the third, and though killing is a grave moral act, he does it with minimal suffering and anger, taking on the karma himself to spare others from greater harm.

This story reveals that intent matters, but it isn’t everything—consequences matter too. Buddhist ethics, at least in this case, resemble consequentialism: the idea that the moral rightness of an action depends on the outcomes it produces. But unlike utilitarianism, Buddhism does not value pleasure (hedonism) as the ultimate good. Instead, it aims to reduce suffering and negative karma, always in light of the fundamental truth that there is no self (anatman). This makes selfishness incoherent; there is no fixed self to act in the interest of. Instead, ethical action is always outward-facing, aimed at universal liberation.

A critical concept here is upaya—skillful means. This is the idea that sometimes an imperfect or unconventional action might still be the best path toward reducing suffering or enabling enlightenment. Even lying or killing, while normally wrong, could be justified in special circumstances if they prevent greater harm. It’s about pragmatic compassion, not rigid rule-following.

Confucian Ethics

Confucianism, rooted in the sayings of Confucius (551–479 BCE), is both a personal and political philosophy. Emerging during China’s Warring States Period, Confucius sought to restore social order and harmony through ethical cultivation and stable hierarchical relationships. He wrote little himself; most of what we know comes from the Analects, a compilation of his teachings by followers. These are short, often poetic or conversational reflections—not a formal system, but a framework.

The core of Confucian social thought is hierarchy grounded in virtue. Individuals thrive within a harmonious society, and that society functions well when people occupy their roles appropriately. Confucius identifies Five Key Relationships: father-son, elder-younger brother, husband-wife, older-younger friend, and ruler-subject. Each of these is hierarchical, but mutual—leaders care for followers; followers respect and trust leaders. The ideal relationship model is the parent-child bond: nurturing, respectful, firm but loving. Parents should guide without controlling; children should obey without losing themselves.

Even non-hierarchical relationships, like modern egalitarian marriages, can adopt this structure by leaning into relative competence—letting the more skilled partner lead in certain domains. Hierarchy, for Confucius, isn’t about domination; it’s about moral guidance and trust. Ideally, leaders are also learners, and power dynamics can be fluid. The Emperor, the top of the hierarchy, must also listen, consult, and remain virtuous—or risk losing legitimacy.

This connects with the idea of filial piety: deep respect and loyalty to parents, even when they seem wrong. The idea is that the parent, possessing wisdom and experience, deserves deference. That logic does not transfer easily to political leaders—Confucius doesn’t assume that rulers are inherently wise. In fact, he suggests the people must be vigilant, because real political wisdom is rare.

As a system of virtue ethics, Confucianism echoes Aristotle. It doesn’t primarily ask, “What is the right action?” Instead, it asks, “What kind of person should I be?” The Junzi (君子), or noble/gentleman, is the ideal person—moral, cultivated, balanced. Becoming a Junzi requires practicing virtue, especially in difficult moments. Virtues help us navigate both hardship and prosperity; without them, we risk failing even when things go well.

Three core Confucian virtues form the foundation of moral life. Ren (仁) is benevolence or compassion—the emotional core of morality, modeled on the parent’s care for a child. Li (礼) is ritual propriety—the external form, ranging from “please” and “thank you” to funerals and state ceremonies. Li reinforces Ren. Finally, Yi (义) is righteousness—moral integrity and doing the right thing even when it's hard. Together, they form a complete moral character.

Confucius also believed in the importance of role models. We often don’t know what’s right until we see it embodied in someone else. That’s why it’s essential to live among the virtuous and imitate them, even if at first we are merely "faking it"—eventually, the virtues become internalized through practice. Virtue is like a skill: learned over time, ideally in childhood, refined through repetition, not reducible to rules.

Politics and the Mandate of Heaven

In politics, Confucianism teaches that rulers derive authority from Tiānmìng (天命)—the Mandate of Heaven. Tian (Heaven) is not a god but a cosmic force of order and morality. Ming is the right to rule. This mandate is conditional: if a ruler becomes corrupt or cruel, natural disasters, social unrest, or loss of legitimacy may signal Heaven's withdrawal. In contrast to the Western “divine right of kings,” Confucianism allows—and even expects—resistance when a ruler fails to embody virtue.

Confucius was wary of law as coercion. Laws depend on external enforcement—threats, punishments—but don’t build internal virtue. Excessive reliance on coercion may suppress behavior, but it doesn’t cultivate character. Virtue must be inspired by example, not fear. Ideally, a good society needs only minimal laws—coordination tools like traffic signals. Real peace arises when people are well-fed, safe, and morally cultivated. As Mencius said, it’s unreasonable to expect virtue from starving people. Good governance, then, begins with securing people’s basic needs and modeling ethical behavior.

Daoist Ethics

Daoism (Taoism) developed alongside Confucianism but often stands in contrast. While Confucius emphasizes hierarchy, order, and moral cultivation, Daoism promotes spontaneity, balance, and harmony with nature. Its legendary founder, Laozi, may not have been a historical figure. His attributed text, the Daodejing (Tao Te Ching), is a series of poetic reflections—fragmentary, paradoxical, and influential.

The key concept is the Dao (道)—the Way. It is not a god or a force with will, but rather the underlying principle of the universe, akin to the laws of nature. The Dao gives rise to Qi, or vital energy, which differentiates into Yin and Yang—complementary opposites. Yin is associated with the dark, cool, feminine, and internal; Yang with the light, hot, masculine, and external. The goal is balance, not static but dynamic—constantly shifting in response to the world.

One major Daoist ideal is Wu Wei (无为), often translated as “non-action,” but better understood as non-striving or effortless action. It means moving with the grain of things rather than forcing your will upon them. Chapter 78 of the Daodejing uses water as a metaphor: it yields, but erodes stone. It is gentle, yet powerful. This suggests a political and ethical vision of gentle influence, slow change, and adaptability.

Daoism is not quietism or passivity. It doesn’t recommend ignoring injustice. Rather, it encourages responsive action—changing things in the style of water: subtly, persistently, and in harmony with conditions. This aligns with ideas of nonviolent resistance and martial arts like Tai Chi, which redirect energy rather than confront it head-on.

Zhuangzi’s ox butcher story illustrates Wu Wei in practice. A skilled butcher no longer thinks about where to cut; he moves with the anatomy of the ox. At first, he had to learn and struggle, but eventually his movements became spontaneous and intuitive. This represents effortless excellence, achieved only after deep learning. Daoism supports mastery—but only when it's deeply internalized and responsive.

Daoism also tends toward skepticism. It warns against rigid thinking and false certainty. The world is fluid; knowledge is provisional. The moment you think you’ve nailed something down, it will shift. That doesn’t mean truth doesn’t exist, but it questions our access to absolute truth. This skepticism makes Daoism wary of elaborate political systems or complex hierarchies.

In contrast to Confucius, Daoist Chapter 18 offers a satirical critique: when people start talking about virtue, it’s a sign that virtue is lost. The best societies, for Daoists, are the most natural—those where rules are few, competition is minimized, and people live simply, guided by instinct, not institutions.