Two Masters and the Trap of the Self

In a small temple in the Ninh Binh region, as the evening wind drifted through the bamboo grove, I sat with the abbess nun, sipping hot tea in the cool air. She sighed softly, her gaze drifting far out to the courtyard covered in falling yellow leaves, and then slowly told me about a master who lived in this very land.

That master was famous throughout the region for keeping the precepts with extraordinary seriousness. He not only avoided women as one avoids fire, but went so far as to be somewhat harsh and severe with himself. It was said that whenever he went somewhere, if anyone—even just a woman—happened to brush against the hem of his robe, then as soon as he returned to the temple, he would take out a pair of scissors and cut off that hem, without the slightest regret. He would rather wear a tattered robe, a few scraps of cloth fluttering in the wind, than keep anything that had been "defiled" by the touch of the opposite sex.

Hearing this, I felt a mixture of admiration and curiosity arise within me. Someone who practiced so strictly must surely be a true and worthy practitioner. But then the nun hesitated, lowering her voice as if afraid of something, and said: "But... that master now has three children, all of whom are married and have proper families of their own."

I froze, unable to believe my ears. A man who avoided women so strictly that he would cut off the very hem of his robe—a man I had just thought of as a true practitioner—could he really... have a wife and children? It seemed absurd, a true paradox. I could not understand how someone who had once practiced such severe asceticism could fall so far. The nun simply shook her head, her eyes full of meaning, as if to say that in Buddhism there are things that outsiders find difficult to explain.

The story reminded me of another master, in the South, whom I had once heard about. He too was a strict practitioner who had kept the precepts his entire life, deeply respected and admired by countless Buddhists. But in his old age, when illness descended upon him and he lay on his sickbed, that master suddenly became delirious, crying out only one thing: "Find me a wife!"

His disciples around him were panicked, not knowing what to do. They dared not speak of it outside, fearing it would destroy the reputation of their revered teacher. They could only stand looking at one another, anxious and helpless. The master lay there, delirious, repeating his demand for a wife, refusing to close his eyes. Finally, a trusted lay devotee devised a plan. He asked a young woman, also a close devotee, to come, and said to the master: "Venerable teacher, this is your wife. We have found her for you." Hearing this, the master grasped the woman's hand, and with that, he breathed his last and passed away forever.

Two stories about two masters, one in the North and one in the South, both ending in the same tragic way. Both were serious practitioners who kept the precepts with ascetic rigor, yet at the end of their lives they fell in ways no one could have foreseen. I sat there in that small temple, my heart full of questions, wondering: Why could people so determined to keep the precepts break them so easily? Had they placed too much confidence in their own willpower, exalted themselves too much, until the self arose and obscured everything?

But then I suddenly remembered my teacher's instruction: that keeping the precepts is not only a matter of willpower, but also a matter of taking refuge in the Three Jewels. If one relies only on one's own strength, the self will gradually grow, arrogance will quietly develop, and that very arrogance will be the flame that burns up all the merit of one's practice. Like a precious gem, if only one side is polished smooth while the other rough sides are neglected, it is still not a perfect jewel. A practitioner is the same. One cannot focus solely on a single method of practice, but must cultivate comprehensively—mindful of the Buddha, mindful of the Dharma, mindful of the Sangha, mindful of the precepts, mindful of the heavens, mindful of generosity—so that the mind remains balanced and does not go astray.

Those two masters, perhaps, placed too much emphasis on keeping the precepts through personal willpower, and forgot that they needed to seek the Buddha's protective grace, needed to repent their karmic obstacles every day. They believed that because they could keep the precepts and everyone respected them, that was enough—and so the self grew larger. And once the self grew large enough, the fall became inevitable. It is a costly lesson for all who walk the path of practice: never be proud or self-important, never think you have enough virtue in the precepts, but always remain humble, always take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha.

Sitting in that quiet temple, watching the curling incense smoke rise, I silently reminded myself: the path of keeping the precepts is truly arduous. It is not a matter of a single day, but of a long and ongoing process, requiring patience and unceasing effort—and above all, a deep and abiding faith in the Three Jewels.

The Meaning of the Story

This story reminds us that keeping the precepts is not merely a matter of personal willpower. If we rely only on our own strength, the self will arise, arrogance will grow, and that very thing will lead to our downfall. A practitioner must combine self-reliant determination with taking refuge—seeking the Buddha's protective grace, always remaining humble, practicing repentance, and cultivating all the methods of practice comprehensively, so that the mind remains balanced and does not go astray. The fragrance of precepts, the fragrance of meditative concentration, and the fragrance of wisdom are the most precious fragrances we can offer up to the Buddha.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang