Marshall Glickman's Articles on Lions Roar

Marshall Glickman on the doubts, traps and insecurities that come with the title "Buddhist teacher." “Do you want to teach?” This wasn’t an offer but a question about my aspirations. I was at a restaurant with a small group of Buddhists, and if there is such a thing as a spiritual resume, I had, in a meandering way, just given mine: sitting for over twenty years, practicing according to different traditions, and eventually committing to the method of vipassana taught by S.N. Goenka, which I wrote a book about. For some, teaching would be the next step. “No,” I said. “I have too many flaws.” At the time, I was pleased with my modest-sounding and true-enough answer. But thinking about it later, I realized I hadn’t been completely honest. I’d imagined myself as a teacher plenty of times. Given free rein, I’d fantasized that I was a spiritual leader and best-selling author, free from ego, who stood on the teaching platform dispensing wisdom to an admiring audience. It’s a slightly embarrassing confession, but I suspect such daydreams aren’t uncommon. “We get a few emails or calls every day from people interested in taking our teaching training program. Some of them have never even meditated before,” explains Melissa Blacker, codirector of the Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction Clinic (MBSR) founded by Jon Kabat-Zinn at the University of Massachusetts. “You can see the appeal,” says Kabat-Zinn, with a twinkle detectable even over the phone. “It seems so simple. After all, what do you have to do but say, ‘Breathe in; breathe out’ and ‘Let go’? Plus it’s right livelihood and you have the Buddha behind you and all.” Kabat-Zinn is a respected and influential teacher who can smile at such naive notions because he knows just how hard teaching can be. “After twenty-five years,” says Kabat-Zinn, “I still wouldn’t say I’m good at it.” In my more aware moments, I recognize my fantasies of teaching grandeur as just that. I sometimes remember that should such grand visions come true, they’d bring their own challenges. The one time I was in a meditation hall with S. N. Goenka, the room was packed. All eyes and ears were on him, scrutinizing his every move and hanging on his every word. Goenkaji, as his students call him, appeared unfazed by the attention, but it seemed stressful to me. Roshi Joan Halifax says that managing her Santa Fe, New Mexico, Zen center can feel like being responsible for a small country. “Part of me was horrified when I received inka from Bernie Glassman,” she confesses. “I recognized it as the beginning of my problems.” Even lower-profile teachers with fewer responsibilities feel the pressure. Jonathan Crowley, a recently appointed assistant teacher at the Vipassana Meditation Center in Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts, admits, “Since becoming a teacher I’m more aware of how what I say and do may appear to students.” More importantly, whole communities rely on their teachers for guidance. “At times, it can feel a bit daunting,” says Crowley. “You become part of a line of teachers that in a real sense represents the Buddha.” So how does someone know if they’re ready to take on such responsibilities? Most teachers—if not all—must be prey to self-aggrandizement. Most—if not all—must space out on the cushion sometimes. Most—if not all—must occasionally get frustrated with their students. Joseph Goldstein, cofounder of the Insight Meditation Center in Barre, Massachusetts, and author of One Dharma, says, “Most people who are teaching have some combination of wisdom and ignorance.” I assume every student who has walked the dharma trail for a few seasons has seen cracks in the enlightened behavior of otherwise gifted, even master, teachers. In Crooked Cucumber, the biography of Shunryu Suzuki Roshi, author David Chadwick recounts a couple of incidents in which the venerable Roshi inappropriately lost his temper (and soon after apologized). By then, Suzuki Roshi had been teaching for many years and had attracted a large following through his genuine, fluid presence. In other words, if it could happen to him, it could happen to just about anyone. Few of us expect perfection from our teachers, but if a roshi blows up frequently at students, we’re likely to question his or her authority. What makes a good teacher, then, seems to depend on the ratio of wisdom to ignorance. How little delusion and how much wisdom are needed? What other qualities are present? And what lessons, if any, can those of us who are unlikely to ever teach learn from those who have taken on those responsibilities? “Whether we like it or not, we’re all our most important teachers,” says Thanissaro Bhikkhu, an American-born, Thai-trained Theravadin monk who is abbot of Metta Forest Monastery outside San Diego. “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t listen carefully to those whom we consider to have wisdom. But we can’t abdicate responsibility for our training or path.” Years ago, during a retreat, I asked a Vipassana teacher if it was necessary to have had a “nirvanic dip” before teaching. “No,” he answered. “There are good players and good coaches. The best players aren’t necessarily the best coaches, and sometimes the best coaches aren’t the best players.” I nodded, did a little bow and shuffled back to my cushion. But later I began to wonder about his answer. So recently I asked other teachers that same question. Not surprisingly, all agreed that it’s best to have a teacher who is both a great player and a great coach—someone who lives the teachings, communicates his or her understanding well, and has a thorough knowledge of his or her Buddhist tradition (and ideally, has had exposure to other schools). “One needs insight, a strong practice, and a good grounding in early Buddhism,” says Halifax. But of these, she believes knowledge of texts is least important. “The sutras offer crucial guidance and contain the conceptual core of Buddhism. But if you’ve had a profound realization and have a deep practice, it might not be necessary to know the sutras.” “A teacher should have experienced the deathless,” says Thanissaro Bhikkhu, who is known to his students as Than Geoff. “In dharma, you have to be a good player before you can be a good coach. You have to know where you’re headed and how you got there. That’s why conviction in karma is a characteristic of a stream-enterer. They see the principle of karma through the process of their awakening.” Although experiencing “the deathless” may not be a goal for all practices, most traditions expect teachers to have some fundamental insight into the nature of reality and the mind. “In Tibetan Buddhism,” explains Reginald A. Ray, author of Secret of the Vajra World, “ultimately the teacher needs to learn how to rest his or her mind in nonconceptual awareness and to let his or her responses and actions emerge from that in a natural way.” Expressing a similar sentiment, former Zen and now Vipassana teacher Trudy Goodman says, “You should be standing on the solid ground of emptiness.” I wondered if there was a way to express that in more practical terms. “The traditional Zen answer,” offers Kabat-Zinn, “is that your mind should no longer be attached, or you should know when it is attached.” Acknowledging that phrases like “nonconceptual awareness” may be a bit abstract, Ray explains, “By saying a teacher should be ‘selfless,’ I don’t mean that someone is without ego. But rather that when working with students and presented with a need, teachers can let go of whatever agenda or self-concept they are carrying and meet that need directly.” Yet, while insight is crucial, Ray points out that insight alone doesn’t make a teacher. “Some of the most realized people in our sangha don’t officially teach,” he says. “It’s just not their thing.” I had been under the impression that once someone reaches a certain level of realization he or she is almost obligated to step into a teaching role. But as Ray explains, “The obligation is to help others.” Or, as Zen poet and author Norman Fischer puts it: “The commitment is to the practice and to sharing it however you can. Some people teach by the way they sweep a floor; others by their presence in the meditation hall; others by working in a soup kitchen.” That sounds so classically Zen that at first I didn’t really hear it. But after I listened to my taped interview with Fischer a second time, it started to sink in. “A good spiritual teacher,” explains Fischer, “fully manifests the karma of his or her own life as a way of expressing dharma. People differ so much, it’s hard to say what a spiritual teacher is supposed to look and taste and feel like—a really good one might be quite the opposite of what you would expect.” Fischer’s words resonated on the second hearing because by then most of the people I’d talked to had, in different ways, said the same thing: that each teacher, though pointing to the same basic truths, will express his or her understanding in his or her own way. In A Path with Heart, Jack Kornfield writes, “Spiritual practice can never be fulfilled by imitation of an outer form of perfection. This leads us only to ‘acting spiritual.’ While we may be genuinely inspired by the examples of wise teachers and traditions, their very inspiration can also create problems for us. We want to imitate them instead of being honest and true in ourselves.” Often we associate achievement or great skill with vast knowledge and complexity. We tend to think that teachers know something we don’t, as though somehow they have possessions we need. And while it’s true that the teachers I spoke with have a great deal of knowledge, their true skill lies not in what they’ve gained, but rather in what they’ve let go of. As Kornfield notes, “Letting go sounds so simple, but it’s also an advanced practice.” “A teacher is in a role,” says Fischer. “In a sense you’re not really the teacher, but channeling the Buddha’s teachings.” Clearly, this leaves little room for egotism. “There have been...

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