The Bodhisattva's Manifestation and the Boy Who Asked to Ordain

That evening, An Quang Pagoda lay quiet, with only the rustle of dry leaves drifting across the courtyard. Venerable Thien Hoa, the abbot, was sitting in the reception room drinking tea when a little girl of about nine or ten walked in, one hand clutching the hem of her ao ba ba. Her eyes were clear, yet unusually resolute.

"Venerable teacher, I wish to ordain."

The abbot set down his teacup, gazed at her for a while, and shook his head. "My goodness, how can I accept a girl? If you wish to practice, go to a nunnery."

The girl said nothing more. She only bowed her head and turned away. A few days later, word came that she had died. She died quietly, like a flower falling in the deep of night, unnoticed by anyone—except that the old abbot would now and then glance toward the temple gate, a faint unease stirring in his heart.

Seven or eight years passed. One morning, a boy of about nine or ten walked into the pagoda, fair and rosy-skinned, with a gentle, girlish grace in his manner. He stood before Abbot Thien Hoa, pressed his palms together, and said in a clear voice, "Venerable teacher, I wish to ordain."

The abbot looked at the boy and, seeing that he was still so young, said, "My goodness, you are far too young. Ordain? Wait a few more years and we shall see."

The boy did not waver. His eyes looked straight at the abbot, and he said a single sentence that made the whole room fall silent. "Last time I asked, you said girls are not allowed to practice. Now I ask, and you say I am too young. So when, teacher, will you let me practice?"

Abbot Thien Hoa started, his hands trembling as he set down the teacup. He remembered the girl of years past, her quiet death, and now this boy—his voice, his eyes, his way of speaking—like a perfect reappearance. He was silent for a long while. Then he nodded and said, "Very well. I accept you."

The abbot gave the boy the dharma name Minh Phat. From then on, the boy grew up in the pagoda—fair-skinned, soft-spoken, with a graceful, flowing ease like that of a young woman. People often saw him with a towel slung over his shoulder and his trouser legs rolled to uneven heights, sitting in the kitchen of An Quang Pagoda, instructing the monastics as they cooked the rice. Strangely, however many portions he told them to prepare, that was exactly the number of guests who arrived that day, not a single portion off. In those days there were no telephones and no word sent ahead, yet he seemed able to read the thoughts of those still on their way.

Once, someone, seeing how young the boy still was, blurted out, "That Nguyen brat, is it? I knew it!" That person never imagined that a single disrespectful word would cause his blessings from merit to vanish. The master later recounted, "From then on, that person's spiritual life was beset by hardship. Despite deep devotion, he broke midway and could never rise again."

As for Master Minh Phat, though still young, his dignified virtue was great, and every abbot and senior monastic held him in deep respect. He never claimed to be a bodhisattva, yet all who met him sensed something extraordinary—a keen awareness, a profound wisdom, as if he had known everything in advance, ever since he was a little boy.