The Moral Scale

A cool autumn breeze drifts across the courtyard of Binh Lau Pagoda, weaving through branches that are beginning to turn a pale yellow. The evening bell has already rung, holding this place in an unusual stillness, even though the streets of Hai Duong outside remain noisy. Today, the dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang carries a title that surprises everyone: "Weighing Morality."

The teacher steps onto the lecture platform, his gentle gaze sweeping over the Buddhists sitting quietly under the warm glow of yellow lights. "The world needs morality," he begins, his voice deep and warm. "Families need it, society needs it, and especially monastics must be exemplars of morality for humanity."

He smiles, a half-joking, half-serious expression. "Today, we will do something slightly strange: Weigh morality. Money can be counted, land can be measured, fat or thin people can be weighed... but how do we evaluate morality?" He raises his hand as if holding an invisible scale. "If someone’s morality is heavier and greater, their blessings from merit after death will be immeasurable. But if someone weighs several tons, they must surely be a saint."

A wave of soft laughter ripples through the audience. But immediately after, the teacher becomes serious. "Now, we will rely on specific criteria to weigh our own morality. The first criterion: We live peacefully, loving our faith and our country. Suddenly, someone comes and says, 'I will pay you to oppose your own Buddhism. Will you accept?'"

"No!" the entire pagoda answers in unison.

"They offer five million, will you accept?"

"No."

"Ten million?"

"No."

"One hundred million?"

"No."

"Ten billion?"

Some people begin to shift in their seats, chairs creaking softly.

"One hundred billion?" The teacher speaks slowly, his eyes scanning each face. Silence follows. Then he bursts into laughter. "Stop pretending. At one hundred billion, everyone would wobble and fall off the scale."

Applause rings out, mixed with detected laughter. The teacher waits for the noise to settle, then continues in a lower tone. "Thus, human morality is not infinite. When bribed to do evil, initially our morality resists; we protect what is good and our ideals. But as the price rises, at some point it exceeds our moral capacity, and we begin to falter. At that moment, our morality is worth exactly that amount of money."

The teacher continues, his voice dropping as if sharing a private story. "For example, a girl is kidnapped by bad people, forced into prostitution, and denied food. Starving, they place an extremely delicious meal before her, saying she may eat only if she signs a contract. In the grip of intense hunger, some would rather die than eat, while others think, 'Just eat first, sign later, deal with it afterwards.' At that moment, one’s life, morality, and dignity are truly worth only a single meal."

He looks down, his eyes tinged with sadness. "So who in this world possesses infinite morality? For instance, once one has determined to love their country, no amount of money can buy them. Consider the level of Tran Binh Trong. Captured as a prisoner, the Mongols promised to let him return to rule the Southern Kingdom. That was the ultimate value: wealth and power. Yet he said a sentence that all of us must learn for eternity: 'I would rather be a ghost of the South than a king of the North.'"

The teacher pauses, emphasizing his words. "That sentence sounds beautiful, but we do not fully understand its beauty. If we placed ourselves in that position, we would sell ourselves immediately. Everyone would cooperate without exception—please remember that. Throughout Vietnamese history, there was only one such person: Tran Binh Trong. His morality is considered infinite."

He then makes a comparison. "Also within the Tran royal family, there was a traitor: Tran Ich Tac, the younger brother of King Tran Thanh Tong and uncle of King Tran Nhan Tong, who held intelligence forces. Lured by his students, he lost his resolve and colluded with the Yuan-Mongol invaders. He was also of the Tran lineage and understood the Buddha's teachings (Dharma), but due to greed for the throne, he betrayed his country. In contrast, Tran Binh Trong, amidst danger and tempted by kingship, maintained his integrity. Either he had attained the fruit of Stream-Entry (Sotapanna) in Buddhism, or he was a Confucian scholar who reached the pinnacle of morality."

The teacher smiles again, a thoughtful smile. "Now, looking at that mirror, let us look at ourselves. If someone tries to bribe us to do wrong, to oppose our faith or our country... see at what price we collapse. Evaluate yourself."

A brief silence falls. The teacher continues: "Then the second criterion. Suppose we pass by someone whose house has burned down, crying in grief. We have ten million in our pocket. How much will we give?"

The teacher starts setting prices: "Fifty thousand? One hundred thousand? One million?"

Someone raises a hand: "One million."

"Two million?" A few more hands go up.

"Three million? Five million?" Whispers gradually raise the bid.

"Ten million?" No one raises a hand. The teacher nods. "This is the number by which we measure our morality. Our morality is calculated by the percentage we are willing to share."

He then presents the third criterion, his voice lowering: "Now let us speak about making offerings. Suppose we visit a small, desolate pagoda. The abbot is a young nun in Hai Duong who wants to rebuild and calls for Buddhist support. At that time, we have ten million—but this is saved money, meant for the family’s monthly living expenses. We struggle between our duty to our family, the habit of saving one million each month, and the desire to help the pagoda. If we do not make offerings, we feel remorse because we know the Dharma and consider ourselves moral people; seeing suffering, we should help; seeing a broken temple, we should assist in rebuilding. But how can we help when we still have to provide for our family?"

The teacher looks around, his eyes full of empathy. "This is a difficult problem. And it is a measure of morality. You cannot weigh it with a physical scale, but through specific situations, we see how much morality we possess, how many kilograms we weigh."

The teacher proceeds to the third criterion regarding patience and humility: "When we are insulted or scolded, what happens to our mind/heart? Anger, hatred, resentment, dislike arise. To what degree of verbal abuse can we no longer control ourselves?"

He gives a humorous yet sharp example: "A widow raised her children well and practiced virtuously. But those close to her knew she was clumsy and awkward. Someone teased: 'Now I know why your husband died early.' This sentence sounds polite but is deeply cutting; one must pause to understand it. There are also crude insults comparing humans to animals, which are heavy. But the most painful is false accusation—like someone gently saying: 'Yesterday only you and I were in my house, and I lost twenty million. Please, have mercy and return it.' Who can bear that? We are self-respecting people who guard our dignity all our lives, yet today we are labeled a thief—no one can remain calm."

The teacher shares another story about two nuns in a hut: "One nun complained: 'Oh heavens, the neighbor’s chickens are scratching up my garden!' The other nun calmly replied: 'They scratch the soil, not our skin. If we get angry, we damage our mind/heart. If vegetables are ruined, plant new ones; do not ruin your mind/heart.' But if people strike the body, slap our face, or squeeze us—the ego is triggered, and anger arises instantly."

The teacher asks: "Does anyone get angry when struck? Does one slap cause anger? What about a second slap?" Someone answers: "Angry now." The teacher laughs. "Then our morality weighs as much as two slaps."

He recounts stories of ancient masters: "In a previous life, the Buddha remained serene even when his limbs were severed by a king. Maudgalyayana sat still while non-Buddhists crushed his bones, then used supernatural powers to reconnect them, paid homage to the Buddha, and only then entered nirvana. Master Toan Khoac waited for invaders, was pierced by spears, and before dying, let out a roar echoing ten miles—a lion’s roar full of spiritual power, not fear. Those masters reached a level where bodily insults did not provoke anger. As for us, two slaps are enough to break us."

The teacher recalls Eastern culture: "Parents often lay children down and whip their buttocks. Why the buttocks and not elsewhere? Because it hurts but causes no injury. Heaven gave us buttocks to receive punishment. Being whipped so painfully by parents, do we get angry? Anyone who gets angry is flawed."

He concludes with a profound reminder: "The sutras list ten mental reflections, the tenth being: 'Do not seek to clear your name when falsely accused. For clearing it shows cowardice, and revenge prolongs enmity. Accept it with indifference.' People continue to slander us, yet we embrace the injustice calmly, neither caring nor moving our mind/heart, peaceful yet brave enough not to explain. Embrace the injustice serenely while eating rice, bowing to the Buddha, and meditating—without stirring the mind/heart. Only practicing to this extent is infinite morality."

The dharma talk ends as the yellow lights grow softer, casting long shadows of the teacher across the pagoda courtyard. The Buddhists bow their heads, each carrying an invisible "scale" in their hearts to measure their own morality.

The Meaning of the Story

Human morality is not infinite but limited, depending on specific situations. Through these weighing criteria—how much money can bribe us, what percentage of assets we are ready to give in charity, and how much insult or physical pain we can endure—each person recognizes their moral limits. The shining example of Tran Binh Trong, with his declaration, "I would rather be a ghost of the South than a king of the North," shows that infinite morality is found only in saints who have attained Stream-Entry or those who have reached the peak of virtue. Each person must reflect and practice to elevate their moral limits, aiming for complete patience and the spirit of "not seeking to clear one's name when falsely accused," just like the ancient masters.

Compiled from the dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang