Do Not Put Me on the Altar

Many years ago, my guru showed me photographs of his teacher and the teacher before him. I was fascinated. Here were the people who formed the lineage from which he had learned. I wanted copies of the photographs. I wanted to keep them and perhaps even display them so I could remember them. To my surprise, he stopped me.

"It is enough to know who came before you," he said. "Do not get stuck with their image."

At the time, I did not fully understand what he meant.

Over the years, he would repeat another phrase that stayed with me: "Do not put me on the altar."

The older I get, the more I appreciate the wisdom behind those words.

As human beings, we naturally admire those who inspire us. We collect photographs, quotations, stories, and symbols. We want reminders of the people who have touched our lives. There is nothing wrong with gratitude. But there is a difference between appreciation and attachment.

A photograph is not the person. A statue is not the teacher. A lineage is not the wisdom. The moment we become attached to the image, we risk losing sight of what the image was meant to represent.

My guru seemed deeply aware of this danger. He never claimed to be perfect. In fact, he would often say: "I am not perfect. I make mistakes too."

Strangely, this did not diminish my respect for him. If anything, it increased it. There was something profoundly honest about a teacher who openly acknowledged his own limitations. He did not place himself above criticism. He did not demand devotion. He did not ask students to surrender their judgement.

Instead, he encouraged us to learn, reflect, and think for ourselves. That is why I trusted him. Throughout my life, I have encountered traditions and communities where great leaders, prophets, teachers, or founders are presented as perfect human beings.

Perfect husbands.
Perfect leaders.
Perfect role models.
Perfect in every aspect of life.

Yet I have always found the language of perfection troubling. Perfection creates distance. A perfect person becomes impossible to relate to and difficult to question. Once someone is declared perfect, critical reflection can easily give way to reverence.

Inquiry gives way to certainty. The person becomes larger than life, elevated beyond the ordinary human condition.

For me, the people I admire most are not those who are said to be perfect. They are those who acknowledge their humanity. They recognise their mistakes. They learn from experience. They change when confronted with new evidence. They remain open to being wrong. In other words, they remain human.

This perspective has influenced my journey beyond the spiritual realm. It has shaped how I think about philosophy, identity, religion, and humanism. The more I reflect on human experience, the more cautious I become about placing anyone on a pedestal.

History is full of examples where loyalty to individuals became more important than the search for truth. Questions become discouraged. Doubts become unwelcome. The person becomes untouchable.

A good teacher does the opposite. A good teacher points beyond themselves. Their goal is not to create followers. Their goal is to create independent thinkers.

Looking back, I think my guru's greatest lesson was not contained in any lecture or philosophical system. It was contained in a simple warning: "Do not put me on the altar."

Ironically, those words are precisely why I continue to respect him today. Not because he was perfect. But because he never pretended to be.

In a world that often celebrates certainty, I found wisdom in humility.

In a world that seeks heroes, I found inspiration in someone who remained human.

And that is the greatest lesson a teacher can offer: not that perfection is possible, but that growth is.

Reflection
Can we honour our teachers best by worshipping them, or do we honour them best by embodying the spirit of inquiry, humility, and self-reflection that they tried to teach us?

As I see it, the greatest teachers are not those who ask to be remembered, but those who teach us how to continue the journey without them.

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September 2026