Learn the rules so you can break them
There is a quote attributed (perhaps erroneously) to the Dalai Lama: “Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.” What is the meaning behind this?
In my recent post on ideology, I argued that ideas can be beautiful and useful, but ideology often proves counterproductive since it closes minds and hardens hearts. In being dogmatic about things—enforcing rules unthinkingly and drawing boundaries readily—we quickly lose sight of the original intent of important core ideas. We focus entirely on the “what” to the exclusion of the “why.”
Of course, rules (by which I also mean laws and traditions) are often very useful and sometimes very necessary. Most of them exist for a reason, and plenty of those reasons were (and perhaps still are) perfectly good. But ultimately, rules are a means to an end, not an end unto themselves. So when we simply accept a rule without question, when we fail to delve into the original intent behind it and understand its “spirit” as well as its “letter,” we run the risk of becoming mindless servants to the rule without comprehending the beneficial purpose it was meant to embody.
This can prove harmful since, sometimes, the rules or laws or traditions we’ve unthinkingly respected for centuries or even millennia are in fact no longer useful—or worse, they have become hindrances to our personal or collective betterment. It is crucial that we be able to recognize this, and to amend or abandon those rules as necessary. But in order to recognize that necessity, we have to be willing to push back against rules on a regular basis.
Perhaps the key is to find a balance—a willingness to respect a rule when we encounter it, but also a healthy curiosity as to its continuing purpose and an examination of its greater aim. We should seek to learn what the rule has to teach us, and having obtained that insight, we can follow the rule more confidently, or bend or break it at appropriate times, or (if the rule is now rotten or no longer useful) abandon it entirely. But essential to any of these options is an understanding of both the rule’s original intent and its current application; in comparing these two aspects, we can proceed with genuine wisdom. As Richard Rohr says, “People who know how to creatively break the rules also know why the rules were there in the first place. They are not mere iconoclasts or rebels.”
So to “learn the rules” means not just a rote memorization or a surface-level understanding, but a deeper comprehension with regards to intent and effects. Once we attain that kind of insight, we are in a place to confidently break the rules when necessary.
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Religion is an obvious source of rules for many people, but also provides excellent illustrations of when and why to break them. In the Gospel of Mark, Chapter 2, we find this story:
One Sabbath Jesus was going through the grainfields, and as his disciples walked along, they began to pick some heads of grain. The Pharisees said to him, “Look, why are they doing what is unlawful on the Sabbath?” He answered, “Have you never read what David did when he and his companions were hungry and in need? In the days of Abiathar the high priest, he entered the house of God and ate the consecrated bread, which is lawful only for priests to eat. And he also gave some to his companions.” Then he said to them, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.”
Indeed, the laws of the Sabbath were given to ensure that its followers had a day of rest and reflection on which to nourish their souls. It was intended to help people, not to burden them. The Pharisees could argue that Jesus and his disciples were violating the letter of the law against “harvesting” on the Sabbath, but any reasonable person would recognize that they were far from violating the law’s spirit or true purpose. But as so often happens, ideals such as those that inspired the Sabbath laws eventually become fossilized—quite literally, as the original “organic matter” dissolves away, to be replaced by rigid stone. It seems that given enough time, any religious idea, no matter how radical or ingenious it may have been when it first appeared, will harden into unyielding dogma. As Eric Hoffer notes, “The conservatism of a religion—its orthodoxy—is the inert coagulum of a once highly reactive sap.”
The Buddha’s “raft parable” is one of my favorite illustrations of this idea that we must look beyond the calcified exterior of a rule or law or dogma and seek its true purpose. The story goes like this:
A man on a journey comes to a large body of water that cannot be safely swum, nor is there a bridge of any kind nearby. But the man must reach the other side, where he will find safety and comfort. So he builds himself a raft of wood and reeds, on which he is able to safely paddle over to the other shore. Upon reaching the other side, he thinks to himself, “This raft was of great help to me. With its aid I have crossed safely over to this side…It would be good if I carry this raft on my head or on my back wherever I go.” The Buddha asks his students if such a decision is prudent, to which they easily answer “no”—obviously the raft has served its purpose and can be left behind. “In the same manner,” says Buddha, “I have taught a doctrine similar to a raft—it is for crossing over, and not for carrying.”
The teachings of Buddha (as well as those of Jesus and other religious sages) are meant to be of practical use; their goal is to carry people to safety, happiness, and wisdom. Richard Rohr, who is a Franciscan priest, summarizes this realization that, sadly, too few religious adherents ever come to acquire: “In the beginning, you tend to think that God really cares about your exact posture, the exact day of the week for public prayer, the authorship and wordings of your prayers, and other such things. [But] once your life has become a constant communion, you know that all the techniques, formulas, sacraments, and practices were just a dress rehearsal for the real thing—life itself—which can actually become a constant intentional prayer. Your conscious and loving existence gives glory to God.”
By mindlessly adhering to rules, religious or otherwise, we fail to grasp the greater truths they were (and perhaps still are) pointed toward. Another Buddhist story describes a mentor admonishing his pupils by saying, “My teachings are like my finger pointing to the moon; do not mistake my finger for the moon!” Good rules—those worth following because they make our lives and societies better—always point to something greater, some inspiring ideal or cautionary wisdom.
And by the way, lest we assume that blind obedience to rules is inherent only to religion, it is worth noting that scientists (of both the natural and social kind) are sometimes just as guilty of quietly following the rules of their field and accepting established theories without really understanding their origin. The great psychologist/economist Daniel Kahneman, musing on what he calls “weakness of the scholarly mind” in scientific fields, mentions “theory-induced blindness: once you have accepted a theory and used it as a tool in your thinking, it is extraordinarily difficult to notice its flaws. If you come upon an observation that does not seem to fit the model, you assume that there must be a perfectly good explanation that you are somehow missing. You give the theory the benefit of the doubt, trusting the community of experts who have accepted it.”
In all areas of life, we fall victim to the ease—moral and intellectual—that rules can provide, but in taking them for granted we are neglecting a duty (to know not just what a rule does but why it exists) and foregoing an opportunity (to consider other options and potentially find a better idea). The greatest religious teachers, scientific thinkers, and artistic geniuses throughout history have been those who have persistently questioned the established rules, leaving behind those that failed to stand up to rigorous scrutiny and creating instead something more truthful.
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I’ll conclude with an example from my own life, showing that it’s important to not only challenge external rules, but internal ones as well. Overall, my temperament favors order, structure, and logic. It’s no surprise that on the DiSC personality assessment, I’m am a very high “C” (which, depending on your source, stands for “conscientiousness,” “correctness,” or “compliance”). Being a high “C” means I prize accuracy, stability, and dependability, and demonstrate a penchant for critical (sometimes overcritical!) analysis. Whenever I encounter external rules, policies, or procedures, I examine them thoroughly, and if they fail to meet my exacting standards—if they don’t seem logical or no longer appear to serve a meaningful purpose—I have no problem rejecting them and building something else to take their place.
The problem for me arises after I have accepted a rule. You see, my secondary characteristic on the DiSC is an above-average “S” (meaning “steadiness”) which increases my desire for predictability and my dislike of change. So when I have found a rule, policy, or procedure that has “passed the test” and works well for me, I can be very loath to make changes to it or try anything new. There is a comfort in having something that is reasonably effective and which I know through and through. I get to a place where, despite how eager I am to challenge and evaluate external rules, I am extremely reluctant to challenge my own internal rules.
But over time, those rules that I have embraced are just as likely as any others to stray from their original purpose or to lose their efficacy. What’s needed is a constant re-revaluation of each rule: does it still have a meaningful “why” to it, and is it still the best avenue for achieving that goal? If the answer to either question is “no,” then the prudent thing is to amend the rule (if there is a better version) or to abandon it entirely (if it has lost its purpose). Like Buddha’s raft, the rules should always take us where we need to go, and we (individually or societally) should only let them carry us, rather than have us carry them.
Given my predilection for stability and consistency, this distinction poses a challenge for me. I’m tempted to cling to those rules that have become a comfort to me, or with which I have personally identified in some way. But as I age, I’m realizing that continual growth is essential to a healthy mind, and growth always entails pushing against inertia. Only by challenging our pre-existing notions can we attain a higher level of understanding and wisdom. As such, we must always be willing to challenge rules and dogmas when we encounter them, but especially when they are our own. If they support the weight of our scrutiny, so much the better, for we can confidently continue using them (raft-like) along our life’s journey; but if they are rotten or flimsy, then we are better off tearing them apart entirely, and building something stronger and more durable in their place, no matter how uncomfortable that might be in the short term.
Postscript:
Regarding the opening quote from the Dalai Lama—I love the irony of it being part of a treatise called 18 Rules for Living. Of course, I’m assuming this is intentionally tongue-in-cheek, and is a way of him signifying that even his book of rules should be observed only so long as they are appropriate and useful.
Post-postscript:
I think the painting by Picasso that accompanies this post is an appropriate illustration of my theme. It was only after years of conventional training—learning the established techniques and time-honored traditions of Western art—that Picasso was able to so shockingly and effectively break those rules. How often are the greatest practitioners in a field those who completely mastered its rules, but then achieved true greatness by “abandoning the raft” and freely exploring the new shore they’d reached!
Addendum (03/02/20):
On a recent podcast, the philosopher Martin Hägglund made a great point about how we can follow laws but still be “free.” He argues that truly effective laws are not those we obey because of some external command (from a god or a government), since in such cases we are being coerced and can’t claim to be acting morally of our own free will. Instead, he notes that a law is most binding when we can recognize the reasons we hold ourselves to it and can continually justify it. “To be free is to be bound to a law that you have legislated for yourself,” he says, or in cases where you didn’t come up with the law yourself, “you can reaffirm it and recognize why it’s valid.” A truly effective law is one where we willingly impose constraints on ourselves because we realize the worthiness of its purpose, and because we know that the best basis for our ethics is not some external authority but rather an awareness of our shared susceptibility to suffering and death, and the need for human solidarity to help us live well in spite of those looming shadows.
