13

GRASS ON THE FIRE

THE NATURE OF the student–teacher relationship in Chan distinguishes it from other religious traditions.

In Tibetan Buddhism, there is a type of practice known as guru yoga, which in Chinese is called shang shi xieng ying fa. It means to resonate with the teacher and follow his instructions totally. This will result in your mind and the mind of your teacher becoming one.

Tibetans ritualize the teacher–student relationship. The student visualizes the teacher and makes offerings to him. In Chan we don’t ritualize the relationship in this way. Yet the relationship between the teacher and student is just as important. The student needs the teacher’s guidance in order to have an awakening experience. The teacher does much more than impart knowledge. You can get Buddhist teachings on your own from reading and study. What the teacher transmits is the essence of Mind, which is not recorded in any book.

As is true in Tibetan Buddhism, in order to have an intimate relationship with a teacher, you have to completely follow his instructions. Only then will you be able to see eye to eye, think mind to mind, feel heart to heart, and benefit.

Why is it that we have to so closely follow the teacher’s commands? In Chan, we are not so much concerned with results; we focus on process. In the beginning of the relationship between teachers and students, some things may seem contradictory. It can be as though your teacher is a backseat driver. One moment the teacher tells you to go left, the next right. It can be maddening until you realize that on one side is a sheer drop and on the other a mountain of rock. You can’t see these perils, but the teacher can. So we follow instructions; we follow the words.

In Chan, the teacher doesn’t explain much. He says: Just do it! Don’t worry about why. Go right. Go left. Just do it.

We must take care, however, about blindly following what a teacher says. Before you actually commit yourself to a teacher, you must trust him or her. You need to build and maintain a relationship.

The relationship between a teacher and a student is like any other relationship. It begins casually and becomes serious over time. When you commit in a relationship, what happens? You are responsible to the other party. It is the same with the teacher–student relationship, and the responsibility works both ways.

I tell my students to get to know me for five years. To see the good side and the ugly, the skinny and the fat. After they see everything, then they can decide to commit.

The opportunity to hear the teaching is precious, and the opportunity to encounter a teacher is also precious. Both are to be cherished.

 

I’M NOT SURE whether it is because of my karma, but I always seem to encounter my teachers during the last part of their lives, when they are already old and don’t have much time left to teach me. As a result, I have always relied on my own to practice and taken advantage of every opportunity to question my teachers regarding my practice, and the instruction and wisdom they have been able to transmit has been particularly precious to me. I carry it with me always.

In this regard, I have always loved the following story. There was a dharma teacher, Xiangyan(?–898), who was revered for his expertise in the Diamond Sutra. He knew it inside out and used it in all his teachings. He had many disciples. One day his teacher, Guishan (771–853), a Chan master, came to him and asked him what has now become a famous koan.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” he said. “You must answer me in your own words. Don’t use any words that are found in the sutra. Before you were born, what was your original nature, your original face?”

The dharma teacher was in a state of shock. He didn’t know how to answer the question. He went back to his room and looked through all the sutras, trying to crack the koan. Finally, he went back to the Chan master, kneeled down very respectfully, and bowed.

“I cannot find the answer,” he said. “Will you please tell it to me?”

“That answer would be my answer,” the teacher replied. “You must look for your own answer.”

The dharma teacher went back to his room, packed his bags, and went off into the countryside, searching for the koan’s answer. He traveled far and wide, and wherever he went he had the question in his mind that his teacher had given him: What is your original nature, your original face?

One day he arrived at a mountain where there was a deserted ruin of a monastery. The place was like his state of mind—like most people’s minds. He started to tidy up. This cleaning and tidying up was a metaphor for his whole journey. The returning and returning and returning to the question.

He was sweeping energetically when he came upon a roof tile that had fallen on the stone floor. With an energetic sweep, he sent the tile flying across the room. It cut across the space, hit the wall, and shattered.

The sound of the tile shattering awakened him.

He went outside the monastery, gathered dried grass, and made a fire. He put the bundle of grass on the fire, as though it were incense sticks, offering it in the direction of his teacher. And he made three prostrations in that direction as well.

He expressed his gratitude for his teacher for pushing him to find his own answer. In his wandering, he realized his teacher had always been with him, had, in fact, been teaching him the whole time. Because his teacher wouldn’t give him the answer, he had to rely on his own effort and practice.

That parable is very close to my heart. Even though I am alone, my teachers are still teaching me.