Bậc Thang Của Thánh và Phàm

The golden afternoon light slants through the temple window, casting long shadows across the wooden benches where devotees sit in attentive silence. The gentle hum of a ceiling fan fills the air as the teacher on the podium waves his hand dismissively.

"Leave the microphone alone so it can be heard clearly," he says softly. "I will endure the heat for a little while, provided that the recording remains clean and clear."

A warm smile spreads across his weathered face, marked by years of hardship, before his voice drops into a slow, contemplative rhythm.

"Today, we shall speak about the distinction between the noble one and the ordinary person."

A brief silence settles over the hall. The murmuring fades away. Noble or ordinary? We often use these terms casually—praising someone’s kindness by calling them "saintly," or cursing someone we dislike as a "common mortal." But how many of us truly understand the core essence behind these words?

"We are often unclear about this, are we not?" the teacher asks, his eyes scanning the room seeking empathy. "We do not fully grasp what constitutes the inner nature of a noble one versus an ordinary being. Today, we will explore this according to the strict standards and the very heart of Buddhist wisdom."

He offers a gentle warning: "Please listen carefully. To hear this teaching today is great merit and a fortunate connection. This topic is not easy to hear, nor is it easy to understand. If you find yourself confused, that is normal. If you fall asleep, that too is natural. There is no shame in it. This teaching is profound."

To guide everyone into the subject, the teacher begins with the most common, everyday definitions.

Regarding the concept of a "noble one," he explains, our conventional thinking suggests they must first be exceptionally kind. Kindness so deep that they jump into any task, large or small, without hesitation or concern for personal gain. This decency persists throughout their life. "If you see someone living this way five years ago, and again five years later, helping anyone who needs assistance, you might say, 'That person is truly saintly.'"

Another standard is moral integrity—gentleness, tolerance, and patience. "When you meet them again, their speech remains calm and courteous. There is no sign of lingering resentment or hidden grudges. That is the mark of true virtue." He repeats this point for emphasis, letting the weight of the words settle.

The third criterion is capability—possessing something beyond the ordinary. "For instance, if you stop to greet an elder while running errands, and he predicts your business deal will fail today, only succeeding tomorrow, and you find he was right, you might think, 'This elder is truly wise!'"

As for the "ordinary person," the teacher notes, they are simply the opposite of these three traits. They may be cruel, deceitful, greedy, or selfish. When faced with two choices, they always take the better one for themselves. They feel jealousy when others are praised. They are driven by greed for food and sleep, and they lie easily.

A half-smile touches his lips. "It is difficult to define a saint, but very easy to define an ordinary person. Just look at yourself, and you will find all the examples there, leaving nothing out."

Suddenly, his expression becomes serious, his voice dropping to emphasize a deeper truth.

But those were merely surface-level observations.

"What is a 'noble one' in Buddhism?" he asks, then answers slowly, word by word. "In Buddhism, a noble one is someone moving toward non-self (anatta). An ordinary person is someone burdened by attachment to self."

"As disciples of the Buddha, we must understand the core," he continues. "Nobility means non-self (anatta), or at least a very light, thin attachment to self. Ordinariness means heaviness and strong attachment to self."

To clarify this, he shares a famous historical example—the conflict within the Tran family.

The struggle for the throne between King Tran Canh and Prince Tran Lieu left a deep scar on the clan. Tran Lieu, who did not ascend to the throne, instructed his son, the legendary general Tran Hung Dao: "When you hold power, seize the opportunity to reclaim the throne for our family."

But when the moment arrived, when Tran Hung Dao held the supreme command of the entire army, what did he do?

"No," the teacher recounts. "He placed the fate of the nation above all else. He had the power to become king, yet he had no desire for it. Gold was in his hands, but his heart remained unattached."

"It is precisely this lack of desire," the teacher emphasizes, "that leads generations to worship him as a saint. Many heroes have defended our country, but few could refuse the throne when it was theirs for the taking. By placing the nation's interest above his own ego, he demonstrated non-self (anatta)."

He then mentions another figure known to every Vietnamese child—Saint Giong.

"That boy grew up, defeated countless enemies, and then vanished into the sky without claiming credit or accepting titles. Because he performed great deeds without attachment to merit, we call him a saint. This aligns perfectly with the Mahayana path: doing much work, yet forgetting the work entirely."

The teacher opens another chapter of memory—a story from the rural South involving bamboo fences, simple farmers, death, and karmic retribution.

"A woman married into a wealthy family but disliked her role as a daughter-in-law. She falsely accused her father-in-law of assault. In those days, village laws were severe. The old man was publicly shamed and died soon after. The woman inherited the fortune."

"In her old age, she fell ill and became bedridden, unable to control her bodily functions. Her descendants grew weary and disgusted. They built a platform extending over the riverbank, allowing her waste to fall directly into the water below. She could not die, yet she could no longer live as a human."

"All she had left was her mouth. She confessed the sin she had committed forty years prior. She realized that her current suffering was the direct result of cause and effect (karmic law)."

The story ends in a profound silence.

The teacher resumes: "However, consider how far our goodness extends. We cannot remain good forever. Suppose a poor person comes asking for money. You give them some today, and again next week. But by the fifth month, your face grows cold. You still have money, but you no longer wish to give. Your kindness has limits. If you feel irritation despite having abundance, you are still an ordinary person. But if you continue to give for ten or twenty years, understanding their hunger, never wavering—then you begin to transcend the ordinary."

"When you endure discomfort to do good, when you act differently from the norm, you start to approach the status of a noble one. You begin to exceed the standards of common humanity."

Then, the teacher poses a question many have never considered: "Why must we strive to be noble? Why make life so difficult?"

To answer, he takes us back to ancient China, to the philosopher Wang Yangming. As a child, when asked why he studied, other children said, "To become officials," or "To help the people." But young Wang Yangming sat calmly and replied:

"To become a sage."

No one expected such an answer. "It was a response no one else had ever given."

The teacher smiles, his gaze distant. "Except for one person who, unknowingly, gave the exact same answer. That person is sitting here. As a child, I was asked the same question."

He recalls: "Once, my sister asked me, 'Why do you study?' I answered, 'To become a sage.' I did not know why I said it. Only later, reading history, did I realize I had echoed Wang Yangming’s childhood vow."

But why strive for sainthood?

"If there is even a spark of wisdom in your mind," the teacher explains, "you will crave something beyond the ordinary. Those without wisdom are swept along by the current of life. They eat when others eat, wear what others wear, marry when others marry, and die when others die."

"But a person with wisdom feels uneasy with this passive drift. They sense that life should offer something higher, something transcending the mundane. This longing arises only in those possessing wisdom."

He looks around the hall, his tone grave. "Those with wisdom view the pursuit of enlightenment and moral cultivation as natural. It is the inherent desire of a wise soul. For those with lesser insight, the idea of becoming a noble one seems strange or impossible. This difference marks the boundary between those who will awaken and those who remain trapped in samsara (cycle of rebirth)."

The teacher delves deeper: "If we drift through life unconsciously, creating blessings and sins without awareness, where do we go after death? Driven by ignorance and delusion, unable to distinguish right from wrong, we inevitably fall into the three lower realms: hell, hungry ghosts, or animals."

"A wise person contemplates death while still alive. Death is unknown to all. The realm beyond is mysterious. But for the wise, the question of what lies after death haunts the mind. They seek to know because they know they must go there."

"Those who ignore this question usually suffer negative rebirths. They consume their present blessings in pleasure, unaware of the consequences. Once merit is exhausted, they fall."

"The wise look toward the end. Their minds transcend the limits of this life to investigate the next. The fool ignores the destination; the wise prepare for the journey."

He uses a relatable analogy: "Imagine being told you will move from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City next year. A wise person immediately researches the climate, the map, housing options, and future colleagues. They prepare. But if you just nod and forget, focusing only on leisure, you will arrive in confusion and distress. That is the difference between mindfulness and heedlessness."