The Blade and the Venomous Snake

The monk Sapadasa harbored a mind of weary melancholy across many lifetimes, yearning for self-destruction. Yet, through twenty thousand years of diligent practice, it took only a single moment of letting go for him to attain the path.

On a quiet afternoon in the dharma hall, sunlight slanted through a crack in the door, casting long lines upon the red brick floor. The monks were chanting sutras when a green snake slithered in. Its body was long and slender, but its head was triangular, its eyes cold and detached. It glided between the rows of cushions, causing a few practitioners to shift slightly. One monk stood up to shoo it away, but the snake suddenly raised its neck, flared its hood, and hissed fiercely. Everyone recoiled, their hearts pounding.

A young monk named Sapadasa sat in the corner of the hall, his face expressionless, his eyes sunken from years of sorrow. He watched the snake, and a familiar wave of despair welled up within him. The others surrounded it, using a branch to pin down its neck, then deftly guided it into a clay pot and sealed the lid. Someone said, "Let me take it and throw it away." Sapadasa stood, his voice hoarse. "Let me. I'll go."

He carried the pot out of the hall and walked step by step into the empty forest behind the monastery. Reaching an ancient tree, he stopped and looked around to ensure he was alone. He opened the pot's lid, thrust his hand inside, and deliberately swirled it to provoke the snake into biting. But strangely, the snake merely dodged back and forth, never opening its mouth. Surprised, Sapadasa withdrew his hand, then thrust it in again, stirring more vigorously. The snake only slithered away, refusing to strike. He muttered, "What kind of venomous snake is so tame?" He poured the snake onto the ground, and it swiftly vanished into the grass.

Returning to the hall, he told the monks, "That snake wasn't venomous." They looked at each other and laughed. "Good heavens, it reared up, hissed, and bared its fangs so fiercely, yet you say it wasn't venomous? Look at its triangular head!" Sapadasa did not argue. He sat down silently, but a nameless sorrow still smoldered within his heart, like a dulled blade that nonetheless kept cutting at his mind.

The next day, the monks gathered to shave their heads, each helping the other. Sapadasa asked for a sharp blade, saying, "Let me shave myself." He took the blade and quietly left the monastery, walking deep into the forest. At the foot of a great tree, he leaned against the trunk and raised the blade to his throat. Before pressing down, he paused, closed his eyes, and reflected on his entire monastic life. He saw that he had lived correctly according to the precepts, practiced diligently without cease, and had nothing to regret. "Dying now is acceptable," he thought. But a strange light suddenly arose within his mind. His entire being seemed to sink into a different state, and all the sorrows of so many years vanished in an instant. He stood there, motionless, and in that very moment, he attained the fruit of the path.

That evening, when the other monks saw Sapadasa return, they were all astonished. His face was radiant and serene, bearing a gentle smile, utterly unlike the melancholy of previous years. One asked, "Venerable one, why have you changed so wonderfully?" Sapadasa smiled and recounted the entire event. That night, the monks brought the matter before the Buddha. The Buddha looked at Sapadasa, then said to the assembly, "This person has practiced meditative concentration for twenty thousand years. Though his mind was afflicted with deep sorrow, he never once ceased his diligent practice. Today, his conditions ripened. He only needed to place the blade upon his neck to attain the path."

The Buddha further recounted Sapadasa's past lives: during the time of the Kassapa Buddha, he was also a monastic tormented by sadness, wanting to return to lay life. A fellow practitioner heard this and said, "Remember to leave your robes for me, don't bother taking them." That remark deepened his despair, making him feel that no one in the world truly cared for him. This sorrow followed him through many lifetimes, becoming a profound psychological ailment. Yet, because he maintained the precepts and practiced diligently in every life, he ultimately still attained the path.

The Buddha then spoke this verse: "One who lives a hundred years in indolence without diligent practice cannot compare to one who lives a single day with wholehearted devotion to the true Dharma." He taught that the duration of practice matters less than the merit accumulated over lifetimes. For one with a deep foundation of practice, it takes only a single moment of decisive letting go to realize the fruit.

The meaning of this story:

The teaching here is that the human mind may repeat its patterns across lifetimes, but if we persevere with diligence and uphold the precepts, then no matter how severe the psychological burden, we can still attain the path when our wholesome conditions mature. Do not be disheartened by the length of time. Do not set limits on your practice. Aspire to boundless diligence to achieve the boundless fruit.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang.