In modern times, people often wonder why so many spiritual practitioners spent year after year in remote mountain dwellings. The answer is simple: They had an acute awareness of the grave facts of life—that we are mortal, that time is running out for each of us, and that we can use this precious life to secure a lasting attainment of liberation and enlightenment.
They saw worldly success and social recognition, even in dreams at night, as nothing but demonic attempts to seduce us away from the attainment of enlightenment. Seeing mundane pursuits as the futile chasing of a mirage, they removed themselves from the world like a wounded deer recovering from an injury, until they attained stability in the awakened state. Having attained the perfect stability of enlightenment, the masters among them engaged in work for others, by establishing monastic centers where the Buddha’s teachings could be practiced and passed on.
It’s amazing what a single authentic spiritual master can accomplish in terms of the common good. When you have the chance, try to read the biographies of the early Buddhist masters and the original founders of the major monasteries in Tibet. See how they went off and practiced with great dedication, and how they later built magnificent temples for the benefit of others. If you could have seen the number of beautiful statues of exquisite craftsmanship that existed before the communist destruction—gilded with the offerings of devoted people and created for over a thousand years—you would be quite impressed. Yet every single founder of this exquisite abundance had been a true renunciate, while regarding worldly honor and success as an attack by demonic forces.
The spiritual influence of a single enlightened being can spread into every corner of human civilization. There have been innumerable examples of this over the centuries. For instance, before he built the temple complex at Tsurphu in Central Tibet, where the Dharma flourished for centuries, the first Karmapa had already spent decades in meditation sheltered by nothing more than the overhang of a cliff. But there came a time when he reached such a level of realization that there were abundant signs of extremely high spiritual attainment.17
Like the Karmapa, there have been thousands upon thousands of practitioners who followed Milarepa’s example. When someone stayed in an unpopulated valley or a remote cave, having abandoned futile involvements, and thereby had the time to awaken to true enlightenment—now, that impresses me!
My family became linked to these early Barom Kagyu teachers through the master Tishi Repa, one of Darma Wangchuk’s main disciples. Tishi Repa had four other gurus as well, and in their honor he fashioned a famous hat with five peaks—one at the center and one in each of the four directions.18
In Tishi Repa’s time, a tradition of spiritual relationship between China and Tibet had begun whereby the Chinese emperors sought out and invited the most eminent Tibetan master to be the imperial guru. At regular intervals, a search party was sent to travel throughout Tibet to find the greatest master of the day. As his fame had spread far and wide, the lama with the five-peaked hat received an invitation from the emperor. That’s how he became known as Tishi Repa—tishi being the Chinese title for the imperial preceptor, the highest religious rank. Below a tishi were two masters of the pakshi rank, and below each pakshi were two dignitaries with the position known as goshir. The tishi position also included an entourage of forty religious officials, all paid from the emperor’s coffers.
While perusing the archives during my stay at Tsurphu, the main seat of the Karmapas, I came across ancient correspondence with China. A similar invitation from the imperial court to become a tishi was once sent to the third Karmapa. In those days, an invitation sounded more like a command.
One of the letters read: “To the west, no lama has been found to surpass you in spiritual qualities. The emperor has established this fact through his many emissaries. You alone must now be the imperial preceptor. If you fulfill his wish and come to China, the emperor will bestow every boon upon you in both spiritual and secular affairs. If you fail to fulfill the emperor’s wish, you will never have another happy day.”
Along with the document came a large seal of pure gold, a sign of exalted rank. Two high-ranking officials had personally carried the invitation to Tsurphu. The letter continued, “Commence your journey to China immediately, together with these two officials. Unnecessary delay of departure, even for a single day, will result in dire consequences.”
Such an “invitation” required Tishi Repa to go to China—he simply had no choice. But he did so in a highly unusual manner. Perhaps he knew intuitively that traveling in the style of a grand master of Tibetan Buddhism would cost him his life or perhaps it was simply a personal choice, but he chose to dress as a wandering beggar.
“That attire is entirely inappropriate,” the Chinese officials objected. “While traveling on imperial command, you must proceed in a dignified manner with the proper pomp and circumstance befitting a grand lama.”
They negotiated back and forth, until it was agreed that the traveling party of the grand lama, including his own retinue of forty religious officials, would travel all the way to China in the traditional way. Tishi Repa, however, was permitted to accompany the caravan on foot dressed as a beggar in a simple cotton robe and carrying only a wooden walking staff. He walked the entire distance from Kham to the distant Chinese capital while everyone else rode on horseback.
There are written accounts of the miracles and other signs of accomplishment Tishi Repa displayed at the imperial court. But he also saw that the emperor’s dynasty, which was of Mongolian descent, would last no more than thirteen years. When ten of those years had passed, Tishi Repa thought it best not to be in the capital when the dynasty fell, and so he made excuses to leave. But the imperial family categorically refused to let him return to Kham.
“Times are taking a turn for the worse,” Tishi Repa thought. “The emperor’s life is running out, and if I stay I will get caught up in warfare and internal strife. I must escape by stealth.”
And so he slipped away. When the emperor discovered that Tishi Repa had fled, he sent out search parties in all directions. After two or three days, they caught up with him, and under strict guard Tishi Repa was marched back to the imperial court, where the emperor kept the master under lock and key.
“How will imprisoning me help you?” Tishi Repa asked. “You are the ones who are in trouble! Three years from now, both the dynasty and the crown prince will meet an untimely end. What can you do about that? I didn’t want to be a witness to all that, so I decided to leave. You wouldn’t let me, so I had to flee.”
“Lama, do not speak in such a manner!” replied the emperor. “What you say couldn’t possibly come true. Anyone who speaks as you do is to be punished! But since you have been my guru, I will excuse you. And if you really intend to leave, I will let you. In return, try your best to ensure that my life does not end.”
So, with a change of heart, the emperor showered Tishi Repa with gifts and provided him an escort back to Kham. When the party arrived at the border, Tishi Repa’s mount lay down and refused to stand up again. He told his escorts, “This is a sign that from now on I will return to being a wandering beggar.” And he proceeded on foot.
Along the road, he met Sakya Pandita, the head of one of the main branches of Buddhism in Tibet, who was on his way to China. Sakya Pandita wanted to honor him by arranging an extravagant welcoming party. However, Tishi Repa replied, “There is no need for all that! Just treat me like the humble beggar that I am.”
He continued on his pilgrimage and, taking a very long route home, visited Lhasa. A few days after finally arriving