The Role of the Teacher as Agent Provocateur

“Tell a little truth with many lies. It’s the only way I’ve found.” — Straight Through the Heart, Ronnie James Dio

“There are some truths so big they can only be told with lies.” — Comedian Pete Holmes

Teachers in our faith tradition—the ordained priest, short for presbyter (meaning elder in the Sacred Way)—have several roles: pastor, presider, pedagogue, and provocateur. To those in pain they are compassionate counselors and comforters. To those who belong to the sangha they lead liturgy and offer blessings. And first and foremost, to those who are suffering, they provide teachings of wisdom and also provoke people to question everything, which is the beginning of wisdom. In today’s article I’m going to focus on the latter: the teacher as provocateur, commonly called the “trickster.” As Alan Watts once quipped, “Why use ‘trickster’ as a word to describe them (teachers)? Did you know that it’s terribly difficult to surprise yourself on purpose? Somebody else has to do it for you, which is why a guru or teacher is so often necessary. And there are many kinds of gurus, but among human gurus there are square gurus and beat gurus. Square gurus take you through the regular channels; beat gurus lead you in by means that are very strange indeed—they are rascals.” (One of my favorite trickster images was when Homer was confronted by a coyote trickster voiced by Johnny Cash in “The Mysterious Voyage of Homer,” an episode of The Simpsons.)

The actions of a bodhisattva are driven by clear intention. Thus, being provocative for the sake of being interesting is not enough. Our first guideline is to not intentionally harm. We seek to help others be free from suffering and the causes of suffering as skillfully as possible. Thus, we would never invoke any form of violence but would seek to stop or resolve conflict, especially before it begins. The second guideline is to enhance our own being in the process. We serve not as sacrifice but as deliverer. The third guideline is to enhance the being of another: to somehow bring liberating light into their lives.

So what does this look like in practice? One thing every teacher must deal with is psychological projection—meaning that people who look to or learn from you can project either light or shadow. One day you are riding high and they are tossing flowers at your feet. The next, they are looking for poison to add to your dinner or nails to hammer you to a tree. Because you know this to be so, you do not wait for it to happen. Sometimes you deliberately let them see just how imperfect you really are, either by not hiding your mistakes or by intentionally making them.

Let me give you a couple of classic examples and then some of my own. The first example is the story of a very famous Zen master who was holding a retreat. Following the apophatic axis, he decided to deliberately clear out any attendees who weren’t there for the right reasons. As he mounted the mountain seat, or teacher’s chair, he let go of a loud and smelly flatus effusion. Most in the group were shocked. Some laughed and scorned, some angrily judged, and others just walked away in disappointment. As the crowd thinned out the teacher smiled to himself, and as he settled down comfortably into his meditation posture, he knew it could finally begin.

Another classic is the parable of the Burning House from the Lotus Scripture, wherein a father saves his children from a burning house by enticing them with promises of better toys outside—colorfully illustrating the concept of “skillful means,” where a Buddha uses trickster methods to lead people away from suffering. By deliberate deception and appealing to their desires, he helps them realize a greater truth.

In my own practice as a martial-arts instructor, I have deliberately made a mistake in delivering a technique, called it the wrong name, or let the student land an occasional blow. I do this to see if they are really listening and checking what I am saying, and to rid them of the idea that I am—or they need to be—perfect. It removes the fear of failing and replaces it with energetic flow. I have also done this in my priestly life by sometimes misquoting an ancient scripture (to see who will catch it), offering a riddle, or embellishing a compelling story that isn’t completely factual. “Some of these things are true and some of them lies. But they are all good stories,” as George R. R. Martin wrote. After all, myths are sacred lies that tell the big truth. I do this not to mislead but to provoke two things:

1. Question everything you are taught—not in a cynical fashion, but from a seeker’s skepticism. Know it to be true by your own honest evaluation and experimentation.

2. Give up the idea of perfection, as it is the most pernicious problem and predilection that human beings face. It simply does not exist in this world. In this life, everything is a tale of trade-offs.

One of my spiritual mentors showed me this very clearly. He was a paragon of the priesthood and yet he allowed me to see his imperfections, sometimes playfully challenging my assumptions. When I saw these imperfections it did not in any way diminish my devotion to him as my teacher. Rather, it allowed me to see that if he had these failings and was still a Buddha, then I really could—or actually would—be one too.

Ultimately, the teacher serves as an example to his students. He can teach them to realize a “mushotoku mind”: to stop comparing or competing with anyone else, to give up perfection, and to find the pure bliss of giving oneself to life completely—letting go of outcomes, which we cannot control—and by doing what is wise and compassionate for its own sake and not for some ephemeral reward. So try looking at your teachers with this same compassionate wisdom. Allow their mistakes, either conscious or unconscious, to show you how the light actually appears, seeping through the cracks in our humbling humanity.