Knowing How to Accept Correction

That morning, in Jetavana monastery, golden sunlight spread across the brick-paved walkways. The monks were gathering before the dharma teaching when an elderly monk walked in, his robes neatly arranged, his bearing dignified. But what caught everyone's attention was not his appearance, but how different he was from all the other monks there.

He was a monk from a wealthy family. After his wife passed away, he aspired to ordain, but he never gave up his possessions. He remained the owner of a vast estate. He built a private dwelling right next to the monastery, with servants to attend to him, abundant food, and many kinds of clothing to change into. His life was no different from that of a wealthy nobleman still living at home.

This made the young monks in the monastery uncomfortable to look upon. One day, they came together before the Buddha and respectfully said:

"World-Honored One, that gentleman, though he has ordained, still lives exactly like a worldly person. He keeps his property, dresses luxuriously, has servants, and a home full of comforts. This hardly seems in keeping with the teachings of the World-Honored One."

The Buddha listened, then summoned the wealthy monk. His voice was gentle, not harsh:

"My friend, one who has ordained no longer owns property. You should give it all away in generosity, or make offerings to the Sangha. Live in harmony with everyone in the community, rather than dressing so luxuriously."

Gentle as the Buddha's words were, when the monk heard them, his face flushed red and his hands clenched tightly. He felt deeply insulted. Pride surged up within him, and unable to contain himself, he stood up abruptly and shouted:

"I don't want to wear these robes anymore!"

With that, before the entire assembly, he tore off his robe, threw it on the ground, and stood there naked, his face dark with anger. The surrounding monks were stunned; no one could say a word.

The Buddha's face remained full of compassion, without a trace of anger. He looked at the monk, paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then said:

"My friend, in a past life, you were someone who knew how to accept correction. When I scolded you then, you knew how to listen. Why have you become so wayward now?"

The entire assembly fell completely silent. Everyone listened intently, for only the Buddha could know the countless past lives of all sentient beings. And the Buddha began to tell the story:

"In ancient times, in a certain kingdom, the king's first queen bore two sons: the elder named Mahimsasa, and the younger named Chanda, meaning the moon. When the first queen passed away, the king married a second queen. She bore a prince named Surya, meaning the sun.

The second queen grew greedy and fearful that her son, being the youngest, would not inherit the throne. She secretly connected with the court officials, bribing them and forming a powerful faction. She planned to push aside the two sons of the former queen to place her own son on the throne, and was even prepared to kill them."

The Buddha paused, looked around the assembly, and continued:

"When the second queen went directly to the king and said, 'Your Majesty, I ask that you one day pass the throne to my son,' the king was startled. He understood this was no small matter. Anyone bold enough to speak so directly must have prepared very thoroughly. The king knew he had been isolated. If he refused at that moment, the queen could raise a rebellion with a wave of her hand.

The king was wise, so he stalled: 'A matter as great as this—today is not an auspicious day. I will summon the officials to discuss it carefully.' Hearing this, the queen smiled coldly, for she knew the officials had all taken her side.

That very night, the king secretly summoned his two elder sons and said:

'I have been isolated. You must leave at once and hide in the distant mountain regions at the frontier. When you hear news of my death, return with an army to take the throne. I will prepare a formal declaration of your inheritance.'

The two princes obeyed their father and departed at once into the darkness of night. But as the saying goes, 'Man proposes, heaven disposes.' The youngest prince, Surya—though born of a different mother—had been deeply loved by his two elder brothers since childhood. In the darkness, seeing them pick up their bundles and leave, he ran after them without knowing what was happening. And so all three princes disappeared together."

At this point in the story, the entire assembly held its breath. The Buddha continued:

"The three brothers crossed forests, waded through streams, traveled many days and nights, and climbed up into the high mountains. One day, they stopped beside a large lake with crystal-clear water. The eldest brother said to the others:

'Go down to the lake and fetch water for drinking and cooking.'

But in that lake lived a yaksha. In ancient times, yakshas were numerous; they possessed extraordinary powers, could transform themselves, and were unpredictable in their virtue. This yaksha claimed the lake as his own territory. He had made a vow: anyone who came to drink the water and could speak the truth of the sages would have his lifelong service; but anyone who could not, he would seize and devour."

When the two younger princes went down to the lake, the yaksha appeared and asked:

"Do you wish to drink from this lake? Then tell me the teaching of the sages."

The two young princes had only studied the arts of governing a people and a kingdom; they knew nothing of the truth of the sages. They stammered and could not answer. The yaksha grew angry and imprisoned them both in a stone cave.

When his brothers did not return after a long wait, the eldest brother, Mahimsasa, went down to the lake himself. The moment he reached the shore, the yaksha appeared and demanded:

"You want to drink the water? Speak to me the teaching of the sages, and then I will let you drink and release one of your brothers."

Mahimsasa answered calmly:

"The sage is one who has great love for all people. In his heart is great humility; he does not see himself as important. He lives a life of gentleness and reverence, even while being very serious."

Hearing this, the yaksha felt deep admiration. He bowed with palms joined and promised to release one of the brothers. Mahimsasa said:

"Release my youngest brother."

The yaksha glared at him and shouted:

"Just now you spoke the truth of the sages, yet in the very next moment you violated it. By proper order, the middle brother Chanda should be released first. Why do you demand the youngest?"

Mahimsasa smiled and replied:

"You know one thing but not two. If I asked you to release my full brother first, then later, when we return to the palace, people would criticize me for favoring one mother over another. I accept that you keep my full brother captive in order to save my half-brother, so that everyone may know my love knows no boundaries."

Hearing this, the yaksha was profoundly moved. He knelt and bowed, released both brothers, and asked to serve all three. From then on, the yaksha used his powers to provide for the three princes, allowing them to live in peace in the high mountains."

The Buddha paused here for a moment, then said:

"The three brothers lived quietly in the mountains, no longer concerned with contending for the throne, since the youngest was with them as well. After their father the king passed away, they returned to the capital. The eldest, Mahimsasa, took the throne, and the two younger brothers were granted titles. The yaksha was rewarded by the king with a life of comfort."

The Buddha looked directly at the wealthy monk, his voice deep and warm:

"Mahimsasa of that time was myself. Chanda was Sariputta. Surya was Ananda. And the yaksha who knew how to accept correction when I explained the truth—that was you, the one standing before me now. In the past, when I explained, you knew how to accept correction. Why is it that today, with just one gentle word of admonition, you flared up with such pride?"

When the wealthy monk heard this, it was as if thunder had struck beside his ear. He stood frozen, and tears suddenly rolled down his cheeks. He remembered everything: in a past life he had been a yaksha, and because he knew how to accept correction, he had been freed from that wretched existence. Yet now, because of one gentle word of admonition from the Buddha, he had become proud, had thrown away his robes, thrown away everything. He fell to his knees, picked up his robe with trembling hands, put it back on, bowed his head, and offered his repentance:

"World-Honored One, I ask for repentance. I was wrong. From this day forward, I will give away all my possessions and live in harmony with the Sangha."

Only then did the Buddha speak this verse:

"If doubt is not fully removed, then even if one goes naked, matted-haired, smeared with ashes, fasting, rolling on the ground, in filth, or crouching, one is not a person of true worth."

In other words, no matter how severe one's ascetic practice, no matter what hardships one endures, if the mind still harbors doubt, afflictions (kleshas), and wounded pride, one is not a true sage. Only when the mind is free of all doubt and all unwholesomeness is one truly practicing the path correctly.

From that day, the monk completely transformed. He gave away all his wealth in generosity, lived a life of simplicity in harmony with the Sangha, and practiced with diligent effort. The story of his pride became a great lesson for everyone.

The Meaning of the Story

This story reminds us of the harm caused by wounded pride—the first door that blocks the path of practice. When we are admonished, if we become defensive, make excuses, or argue back, we have not yet passed the first test. One who knows how to accept correction is one who knows how to listen, to admit fault, and to change. Do not let old unwholesome habits obscure the wholesome conditions (dependent origination) created over many past lives. Train your mind/heart, overcome wounded pride, and open the door into the house of the noble ones.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang