The Music of the Zither in the Midst of Hunger

The late afternoon sun slanted through withered trees, casting a layer of pale dust over the red dirt road leading into the borderlands of the state of Chen. The air hung thick and heavy, like a storm about to break, but what chilled the heart more than the weather was the deathly silence that enveloped the weary travelers trudging along. For three days now, since losing their way into this war-torn region, not a single grain of rice had touched their stomachs. Hunger gnawed at their bellies, their limbs trembled with weakness, and the emptiness in their chests grew larger by the moment, swallowing up their reason.

From behind came the faint, labored breathing of the disciples. They looked at one another with eyes full of anxiety and despair. One of them, his face pale green, his lips cracked and bleeding, tried to steady himself on his feet but collapsed again. He turned to look at his teacher, Confucius, who sat leaning against the trunk of an ancient tree. The teacher was gaunt as well, his robe worn and frayed, yet his eyes still shone with a stillness that seemed almost otherworldly.

"Teacher," the disciple's voice trembled, hoarse from thirst, "we have wandered too far. Our food is gone, and the villagers have shut their doors tight for fear of enemy soldiers. If we find nothing to eat today, I fear... I fear we will not survive."

Confucius nodded gently, offering no immediate reply. Slowly, he raised his thin hand and lightly touched the strings of the zither resting across his lap. The instrument sounded, graceful and clear, tearing through the quiet darkness descending around them. The disciples nearby began to stir. Some clutched their heads and cried out; others collapsed to the ground, eyes rolling from the agony of hunger. The tension spread like a small fire through a dry forest.

"Teacher!" another disciple shouted, his voice full of indignation mixed with fear. "How can you still have the heart to play music? We are about to starve to death! The principles you have taught us about virtue and character—can they fill this empty stomach now? Or are they merely empty words in the face of such extremity?"

Confucius paused, his thumb gliding softly across the strings, drawing out a long, resonant note. He lifted his head and looked directly into the panicked eyes of the disciple. That gaze held not the slightest wavering, not the slightest fear of the death drawing near. His voice rang out, soft yet firm and clear:

"A noble person in poverty holds fast to their integrity, while a petty person in hardship turns to wrongdoing. I do not play the zither to forget my hunger, but to remind myself of this: the body may waste away, but the heart must always turn toward beauty and goodness. If I allow fear to control me, I will lose the most noble part of my humanity."

With that, he resumed playing. The melody now grew more majestic, like wind sweeping through rocky mountains, like a river rushing onward. Those sounds seemed to carry an invisible strength, seeping into every weary cell of the disciples. The disciple who had shouted moments before suddenly fell silent. He watched his own trembling hands slowly grow steady. The hunger remained, the pain remained, but the chaos in his mind had settled. They came to understand that in the harshest of circumstances, when knowledge or physical strength proves powerless, it is inner character alone that allows a human being to stand firm.

That night, though no one slept well from hunger, the atmosphere in the camp had changed. There were no more complaints, no more quarrels. In their place was a reverent stillness toward the old teacher sitting between heaven and earth, using the sound of his zither to nourish the hearts of those on the verge of collapse. The lesson of inner resilience had been engraved deeply—not through empty words, but through extraordinary action at the boundary between life and death.

The Meaning of the Story

This story illustrates the second aspect of spirituality according to the view of Thích Chân Quang: the divine nature of sentient beings, expressed through extraordinary virtue. When a person is able to rise above ordinary instinctive reactions—such as fear, anger, or greed—in the most severe of circumstances, they have touched the threshold of holiness. It is precisely this serene, unshaken state of mind in the face of external conditions that generates a special energy, helping a person advance spiritually and connect with the higher levels of the universe.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Thích Chân Quang