茂田師兄 慈悲訓示

表 is the side of a thing that shows. Roots that run deep are why leaves grow lush; a spring far off is why the current runs long — the bearing, the achievement, the influence anyone can see never grew out of nothing, but is held up by the root and the source that cannot be seen. Both images close chapter 59 of the Daodejing: 「是謂深根固柢，長生久視之道」, deep root and firm taproot, the way of long life and enduring vision — and the first line of the main teaching returns to the middle of that same chapter, so the whole teaching flows from one source. One more thing: reading the last character of each odd line of the 鎮壇詩 straight down spells the speaker’s own 佛號, 茂田師兄, Elder Brother Maotian. This line lands on 茂, “lush” — and whichever character a line lands on, that is the character the line unpacks. The leaves are lush precisely because the root runs deep.

Wild geese and ducks are ordinary water birds, yet they lift from fields of jade; the flood-dragon lies coiled on the emerald isle and has not yet risen. 蟠 is the shape of something curled and lying still. Do not press this couplet into a single meaning — the feel of it is plain enough: ordinary-looking places hold what is not ordinary, and some things can already fly while others have not yet risen. Placed at the head of the teaching, it is a reminder to everyone in the hall — what you are looking for is already in you; it is only still coiled. This line lands on the acrostic character 田, the field: the very ground the birds rise from.

The first half quotes the Analects (述而) directly: 「三人行，必有我師焉。擇其善者而從之，其不善者而改之」 — where three walk together, one of them is my teacher; take what is good in them and follow it, take what is not and correct yourself by it. What you learn from need not be a sage; the good is a model, the bad is a mirror, and everyone near you qualifies. Hold on to the character 服 in the second half, because the first line of the main teaching, 「早服謂之重積德」, uses that same character: nobody yields at the outset, and every step late in yielding is a step late in laying up virtue. This line lands on the acrostic character 師, teacher.

讎斠 (chóu jiào) is a deliberately antique word, from the Han practice of putting old books in order — the History of the Han records the Prince of Hejian collating the pre-Qin texts he had gathered: one person reads aloud, another listens, and the two compare character by character and correct what is corrupt; the collation scholarship founded by Liu Xiang and his son over the imperial library is exactly this discipline. So 「與之常讎斠」 is not enshrining truth to be worshipped — it is taking truth down and checking yourself against it, constantly: this thing I said today, this thing I did — does it match? Where does it diverge? That is exacting, unflattering work, and it lasts a lifetime. The line lands on the acrostic character 兄, elder brother; and 我師 in the third couplet plus 吾兄 in this one make 師兄 — no teacher’s airs, no elder’s posture, but a fellow cultivator a little further down the same road. That standing sets the tone for everything that follows.

This is the arrival declared. The self-identification uses the personal 佛號, not the celestial office — which in tone amounts to setting the rank down at the door. 奉命 means coming under the Eternal Mother’s decree rather than of one’s own choosing: it states the weight of what is about to be taught, and that nothing about the occasion is accidental. 塵紅 is the red dust — this human world of change and trouble. Inside the door, homage is paid upward to the Sovereign Mother first, and only then does the speaking turn to the assembly: courtesy before words, which is itself a lesson set out to be watched. The assembly is called 弟妹, younger brothers and sisters — not disciples, not sentient beings — exactly matching the 我師 and 吾兄 of the opening verse. And 「平下心氣再表衷」 is thoroughly practical advice: nothing gets in through an agitated heart, and the best words are wasted on it — so before the teaching begins, slow the breath and let the heart settle.

Two hemistichs, each quoting a chapter of the Daodejing outright and without introduction. The first is from chapter 59: 「治人事天，莫若嗇。夫唯嗇，是謂早服；早服謂之重積德」. 嗇 is husbanding, sparing, not squandering your own spirit; do that, and it is called 早服 — submitting early, returning early to the Dao — and that early submission is virtue laid up layer on layer. The second is from chapter 45: 「大盈若沖，其用不窮」; 沖 stands for 盅, an empty vessel — the fullest state looks empty, and because it is empty its usefulness never runs out. Together they are the whole teaching’s governing rule: be early, and stay empty. Lay up virtue soon, and however thick it grows, never be satisfied with it — the moment you are full, the vessel can take nothing more.

From here five consecutive lines answer a single question: who is it sitting here today? Note also the 攻 of 專攻 — the last line of the main teaching, 「守吾職責助道攻」, uses that same character, clasping the end back to the beginning: you press the work, and someone stands alongside pressing too.

明命 comes from the Great Learning, commentary chapter 1, quoting the Book of Documents’ 太甲: 「顧諟天之明命」 — keep constant watch over the bright mandate Heaven gave, and do not let it gather dust. (Not the Doctrine of the Mean’s 天命之謂性.) This endowed bright mandate is 合同抱 — held jointly, one and the same for all; whichever of east, south, west, north or the center you come from, in this there is no difference.

This line is about outward difference: creation scatters people into every place, and each person’s family and bloodline, each person’s conditioned affinity, differ and are alike. It is only complete when read together with the line before it — outwardly the differences are large; inwardly, that one thing is the same.

Here the origin of that sameness is stated plainly: know that Heaven holds the principle of Heaven within it, and that this principle is endowed into a person as they come down into the red dust. It is not something cultivation earns; it was carried in from the start.

If everyone carries it, where does the difference lie? In this line: each has their own work and karma, and their own power of vow; and whether in sacred work or in the ordinary days of the world, what has to be produced is the same one thing — sincerity. Sacred and mundane are not split into two worlds here; the point is the opposite, that both sides require a true heart. One face at the altar and another outside the door will not do.

The root sense of 束修 is from the Analects (述而): 「自行束脩以上，吾未嘗無誨焉」. 束脩 was ten strips of dried meat bound in a bundle, the modest gift an ancient student brought to a teacher; anyone willing to come and study bearing even that slightest offering, Confucius taught. Later the word turned to a second sense, 束身修行 — binding and refining one’s own conduct — and it is the later sense that is used here, together with 自好, keeping oneself clean and holding oneself worth something. Put together: get yourself in order first, then step onto this altar ground. 革面 comes from the Book of Changes, 革 hexagram, top six 「小人革面」 — changing the old outward aspect entirely; 洗心 from the Great Commentary, 「聖人以此洗心，退藏於密」 — washing the silt out of the heart. Worth noticing: the common idiom runs 洗心革面, but here 革面 is placed first — begin with outward conduct and appearance, then wash inward, which is in fact the most workable order in cultivation: wait for the heart to be clean before you act, and mostly you never act.

The frame of 改惡遷善 is the image-text of the Book of Changes’ 益 hexagram: 「君子以見善則遷，有過則改」. The 益 image is thunder beneath wind, wind and thunder striking against each other and each increasing the other — the figure of force that grows upward; see the good and follow it at once, find the fault and correct it at once, leaving no room in between for hesitation. Only by following the ultimate principle that way do you do justice to the second half: the true Dao, in ancient days and now, is hard to come upon. That is not a courtesy — it asks you to weigh in your hand what you are holding.

Three 不有 in a row (running on into the next line), a heavy parallel construction. No deep and thick affinity with the Buddha, no merit and virtue heaped up across former lives — hear these clauses in sequence, and hear where the weight falls: not on how fortunate you are, but on how far from easy this was.

The third 不有 closes here: without the cultivation your forebears accumulated and left standing, how could you have entered the Dao and met a master who genuinely understands? Do not hear it as fatalism — that you can be sitting here today rests on a long stretch of invisible accumulation holding you up; and something got at that cost cannot be squandered offhand. This answers the opening verse’s first couplet exactly: the leaves are lush because the root runs deep, and you have come this far because there is root beneath you.

One line divides the responsibility cleanly: the Dao is transmitted to you by a master, but the cultivating is your own affair, and nobody can do it in your place. Once that is understood, how could anyone go on as muddled as before?

The phrase 流宕不返 traces to the History of the Later Han’s 流宕忘反: dragged along by things until the will can no longer turn back. Those days are past; from now on, hold the Dao in your arms and carry it out in earnest.

The Dao is to be practiced in your own person — so: this work of nature, principle and the heart-method, have you actually understood it, and have you actually done it? This is a question, not a verdict; the tone is asking you to stop and put it to yourself.

It is precisely because understanding is not yet enough that one enters the class and studies the principles through. The class is the 率性進修班, and 率性 comes from the opening of the Doctrine of the Mean: 「天命之謂性，率性之謂道，修道之謂教」 — what Heaven endows is called nature; following that nature is the Dao; making that road clear is teaching. The class’s own name is the road this teaching describes. And the final standard is 真知真行: know truly, act truly — that is how sages and worthies are made, and short of either half it does not count.

The tone tightens from here. If you yourself will not take up and acknowledge your true nature, what talk can there be of where to lay hold, or of 面無生? 無生, the Unborn, is originally a very deep Buddhist teaching — that all things are of themselves neither arising nor ceasing; and in this Dao cultivation lineage the same word is used for the source that has never arisen or ceased, the Eternal Mother. So 面無生 is read as returning to the source when cultivation is complete and standing before the Eternal Mother — the end of the whole road. But refuse to acknowledge your own nature, and there is no destination to speak of.

This line borrows a very widely circulated verse: 「人身難得今已得，佛法難聞今已聞；此身不向今生度，更向何生度此身」 — birth in a human body is hard to come by, and hearing the true Dharma harder still; if you do not ferry yourself across in this life, which life are you waiting for? Note that the teaching writes 渡, “ferry over water,” and not 度. The character is well chosen: ahead lies the sea of suffering, and 法舟, the Dharma-boat, is about to be named — a waterway is joined up across the two lines. Wait for days to come, and the chance will be hard to meet.

逡巡 is the look of hanging back, hesitating, drawing away; the word recurs throughout the Records of the Grand Historian for scruples in the heart that keep the feet from moving. Those who are wise, those who are humane, should hesitate no longer. And 「成道勿等順帆風」 is thoroughly practical: do not wait for smooth sailing before you cultivate — a following wind never comes of itself, and whoever waits for it is only waiting for a day that never arrives.

Whether in sacred work or in the red dust, the trials are the stair that takes you upward, not the stone in the road. The weight of the line lies in whose mouth it comes from: the record attributes this teaching to the Chief Examiner of the Three Heavens, so the examinations are that office’s own business. This is not commentary from the sidelines — it tells the assembly what the questions are for. Whoever sets the paper wants you to pass.

Here the gaze moves off oneself. 法舟 is an old Buddhist figure: birth-and-death is the sea of suffering on this shore, liberation is the far shore, and the teaching that can carry beings across is the boat — also called 慈航, the boat of compassion. Bridge and boat are both set in place, and so Heaven and humankind are steeped together in 法喜, Dharma-joy — the clean gladness that rises in hearing and practising the Dharma, unlike the pleasure of the senses because it grows out of understanding.

The boat was not raised to carry one passenger: 「迎接後繼之來者」 — bring those who come after aboard, so that they too may rest in 至善. 至善 comes from the Great Learning: 「大學之道，在明明德，在親民，在止於至善」. Understanding it yourself is not enough; others must come to understand, until everyone rests together in that most complete state — which is the Great Learning’s own full sequence, and the boat’s real use.

The 騖 of 旁騖 originally means a horse at a gallop, and by extension pursuit; 旁騖 is spending your strength sideways on what does not belong to the matter. The Xunzi’s 勸學 offers the 梧鼠 as its example: it can fly, climb, swim, burrow and run — five skills, not one of them mastered, and it ends 窮, at an impasse; hence the conclusion 「故君子結於一也」, the noble person binds the mind to one thing. The Dao has its governing aim; once you have settled on it, stop looking around. And this road is 「不是空言畫什餅」 — a cake painted on paper, however lifelike, cannot be eaten; the Chan masters put it more bluntly still: 「畫餅不可充飢」, a painted cake cannot relieve hunger. The line is a guarantee: this can actually be made good on. Nobody is holding up a picture of a cake.

Trust yourself, respect yourself, cherish yourself — all three words begin with 自. This is not an invitation to conceit; it is the opposite. Only someone who genuinely values himself cannot bear to squander himself. The lines before spoke of how hard-won the affinity with the Buddha, the former lives and the forebears’ accumulation all were, and this follows straight on — since what you carry is that rare, meet it with an attitude of the same size. Do that, and glory shows in the world of itself, without needing to be contended for.

八風 is the Buddhist term for the eight states that stir a person most: gain and loss, disgrace and honor, praise and blame, pain and pleasure — four running with you and four against. Not floating up when things go well, not collapsing when they do not, unmoved whether you are lifted up or trodden on: that is 八風不動, attested verbatim in the 五燈會元, a Chan lamp history — 「對五欲八風不動，不被見聞覺知所縛」. And 固窮 comes from the Analects (衛靈公): stranded in Chen with the food gone and the disciples sick with hunger, Zilu asked in irritation, 「君子亦有窮乎？」 — does a noble person also come to such straits? Confucius answered, 「君子固窮，小人窮斯濫矣」. 窮 here is not poverty but being hemmed in with nowhere to turn; the noble person holds himself in it, the small person breaks loose and does anything at all. One Buddhist and one Confucian, saying the same thing: however things change outside, the compass needle inside does not move. Do that, and only then does the name fit — a noble person who raises a wind of virtue.

The previous line ended on 立德風, and this line takes up that 風 and runs on without a break. 風行草偃 comes from the Analects (顏淵): Ji Kangzi asked Confucius about putting the lawless to death in order to promote the lawful, and Confucius replied that governing has no use for killing — 「君子之德風，小人之德草，草上之風，必偃」: the virtue of those above is wind, the virtue of the people is grass, and when the wind passes over, the grass bends of itself. The transforming power of virtue lays no hand on anyone. Hence 承任重 — able to raise such a wind, you carry a heavier charge on your shoulders; influence and responsibility are exactly the same size. 翹企 is the posture of rising on the heels with the neck stretched out in hope — the compound is itself classical, 後漢書 having 「翹企延頸，待望讎敵」, with 延頸企踵 the commoner form — and the one standing on tiptoe here is the speaker, hoping that everyone present may 貫始終 — carry it through from first to last, one thread from beginning to end. It is the softest line in the whole main teaching: after all that principle, it comes to rest on an earnest craning look.

Today’s words come only this far. Set these cautions and rules 放心中 — and note that it is inside the heart, not down on paper.

The measure of 謹言慎行 is set out plainly in the Book of Rites (緇衣): 「言必慮其所終，而行必稽其所敝」 — before a word leaves your mouth, consider where it will end; before an act, examine what harm it may bring. 二六時中 is a common Chan phrase: the ancients divided a day into twelve double-hours, six in daylight and six at night, together the “twice six” — the full twenty-four, day and night, unbroken; the Blue Cliff Record has 「須是自己二六時中，打辦精神」. So the weight of the line falls on those three characters 二六中 — care in speech and conduct is not a rule for the altar hall but a practice through every hour and in every setting, and a practice that breaks is no practice. As for the second half, 「畢竟升降會不同」, the tone suddenly bears down: when all is said, whether a person rises or falls will in the end not be the same. Not one further word is spent on it, but 畢竟 is left sitting there, and everyone understands.

No departure on a cloud, but 「隱身一旁立」 — the form hidden, standing off to one side. That is precisely an examiner’s posture: during an examination the invigilator does not leave the room, only stops speaking. 守吾職責 is keeping to what falls within one’s own charge, and 助道攻 is helping everyone press forward in the work of the Dao. And that 攻 is the very character of the second line of the main teaching, 「探討真諦更專攻」; the same character clasps the end back to the beginning, which amounts to saying: you press the work, and I stand alongside pressing too.