Discretion

1. DISCRETION MEANS NOT TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF TO OTHERS

Ordinarily, discretion in the sense of not telling others about oneself can be considered from two angles: ethics and prudence. Since we are studying the psychology of ethics, we will look at discretion only as a fine virtue of ethical conduct.

As practitioners, whether lay or ordained, we speak little about ourselves for the sake of ethics. Even when there is something good about us, we do not tell others. By contrast, according to ordinary human psychology, when people find something good in themselves, they readily show it outwardly or tell others about it. Whatever small talent or possession they have, they talk about it. If they do a good deed that earns merit, they tell others about that too. In other words, anything that makes them seem valuable in the eyes of others, they like to tell many people.

Liking to tell others about our good qualities is ordinary human psychology. People think such things add to their worth and make others admire them. The craving for other people's admiration is a very powerful tendency in human beings. But we must understand that discretion, not recounting our good points to others, is an expression of ethics. Deep down, we do not see ourselves as important and do not need others' admiration, so we have no need to tell of our good deeds. This is the mind of a person whose attachment to self is relatively light. Usually, people who have attained very good meditative concentration do not see themselves as important. In truth, they simply do not want to tell anyone about themselves; they are not hiding anything. We must tell these two cases apart, because there are people who still see themselves as important but want to hide it from others, so they say nothing. The minds of such people are not yet truly in accord with the Way.

For example, someone has a considerable sum of money and is proud of it, thinking they are worth more than others, yet keeps it hidden and says nothing for fear of having to help other people. Plainly, this person also conceals things and is discreet about themselves, but it is not an expression of ethics. It is quite different from someone who knows they have more money than others but considers it of no importance. In fact, that money does not yet need to go to helping anyone, so they have no need to mention it. Because they see what belongs to them as unimportant, there is no need to make it known to others. This is the most basic essence of the virtue of discretion.

When we speak of our good qualities, we are boasting, and in our minds there is an undercurrent of pride in those good qualities. This is a loss in ethics, and we must be careful. As we grow older, the more we practise, keep the precepts and do good works, the more merit we gain for the Dharma and the more our blessings increase. Other people's admiration also gradually appears. At that point we easily become attached to it and give rise to conceit. Conceit itself is the root of boasting.

In the lesson on humility, we spoke at length about conceit as it exists in the mind. Now conceit is easier to see once it has come out in words of boasting. Indeed, some faults in our own minds are not easy to see, and conceit is among them. But when we blurt out a boast, we suddenly wake up: "So I have just been boasting; I have been conceited." Thus, if we do not have the wisdom to look straight into the mind and see the conceit in it, we can use our speech to learn about the faults lying hidden in our minds.

We know that the human mind is very complex and usually has two parts: the conscious and the unconscious. The conscious is the part of our mind that we can see. The unconscious is the activity of the mind that we cannot see for ourselves. For example, thoughts and images that we can imagine, picture and be aware of belong to consciousness. Or someone says a harsh word and it makes us sad. We can see and feel that sadness, so it belongs to consciousness. Besides this, a human being has many complex mental states belonging to the unconscious. The unconscious is very active and very secretive, and we cannot see it. To see its activity, we must enter very deep meditative concentration. Ordinarily, the boundary between consciousness and the unconscious in us is not clear. This depends on each person's innate wisdom. In some people awareness is very limited: they see only very coarse mental states, and a slightly subtler state escapes them. Others have very bright wisdom and very deep awareness, so they can see many secret mental states within themselves. Such people are called wise. When they make a mistake, they see it at once, or a gentle reminder from someone else is enough for them to recognise their fault immediately. Because they look very deeply into their own minds, they see even the faults that lie hidden there. These are people with the aptitude for practice. By contrast, those with less wisdom see only the coarse states of mind and usually find it hard to see their own faults. These people have a low aptitude and find practice very difficult.

Sometimes conceit comes out as action, and the action differs from case to case. Through our actions we can learn that we have been governed by conceit. For example, a person has just entered a temple to become a novice. In the temple lives an old man who was once an educated person but lost his fortune and had to take shelter at the temple to get by. Every day or two, his daughter comes to visit her father and, while there, asks him to help with her schoolwork. One day, the young novice was lying in a hammock in the storeroom reading scriptures when the old man came and asked him about a chemistry problem (probably the daughter had come to ask her father for help with homework). The novice found the problem very easy, so he stayed in the hammock, took the old man's notebook in his hand and explained it to him. When the old man understood, he was delighted and hurried back to his room with the notebook to explain it to his daughter. Afterwards a senior monk saw this and pointed out to the novice that his behaviour had been wrong. He was a newcomer to the practice, and young, yet he had stayed lying in the hammock while talking to an older person. Clearly, there was a latent conceit in that person's mind, and it had shown itself in his action. This cannot be denied. Because it showed itself in action and someone else pointed it out, he came to know that he had been conceited without being able to see it himself.

In life there are many similar cases. What matters is that when we are corrected, we must sincerely admit the fault and repent at once, and never argue. This is exactly the point at which we lack the wisdom to see ourselves. Once we have recognised the fault and are trying to correct it, with a genuine wish to correct it, we will surely get past it.

People who love fame often boast about themselves. So not telling others about ourselves means that we do not love fame and do not wish to be respected. The word "fame" means not only a name but also praise, honour and the admiration in other people's hearts. Human beings commonly suffer from a sickness: a craving for others' admiration. Often this craving surges up so fiercely that people forge things and invent all sorts of stories to deceive others. The admiration for one person arises only in the mind of another, yet knowing that others admire them can make the person delighted. This has a truly formidable power. In life people pursue many things: money, love, fame and gain, and so on. Among them, the craving for others' admiration is also something that drives people to chase it fiercely. It can be regarded as a human need, and a very harmful one.

We have all heard people talk about the kōan of Master Dongshan. He said: "I have a reputation in the world. Who can remove it for me?" A monk answered by holding out his hand: "Give it to me, Venerable." Master Dongshan said: "Then my reputation is gone." That is, the monk saw that the admiration of others, which lies in their minds, is only something false that cannot be held or grasped. Yet people cling to it as real and then rejoice or grieve because of it. When others admire us we are happy; when they despise or dislike us we are sad. By holding out his hand and asking the Venerable to give him the reputation, the monk meant that it is not real, not concrete like food and clothing, but intangible and false. That is why Master Dongshan said: "My reputation is gone." In fact, that was praise, praising the monk for having understood the essence of the matter.

When we were small, many of us were praised by adults a few times. If we were ever praised and shown admiration, that delightful feeling is very hard to forget. It is a very strong, very clear feeling that even we ourselves cannot fully understand. So being admired by others is also a kind of happiness, and people constantly chase and crave it. It is also what has caused so many tragedies and so many grievances in this life.

We must see that the craving for others' admiration is very dangerous, that it is an illusion, a false hope, a deception, and we must get beyond it. We should be willing to live a pure and discreet life, not needing anyone to know us. In life we may do many good things for the Way and become known and admired by many people. At such times we must be all the more careful not to fall into craving others' admiration.

2. DISCRETION IS DIFFERENT FROM SCHEMING

In the Way, discretion means not seeking the admiration of others, because we do not want to give rise to conceit and do not want to see ourselves as important in everyone's eyes. So from the standpoint of ethics, we need to live discreetly and not boast about ourselves. But in the world, a discreet person is not always a good person. Some people are discreet because they are scheming. "Scheming" here means deeply hiding malice. A scheming person usually conceals their bad intentions to wait for a chance to carry them out. Those bad intentions are to harm others and to do wicked things to the world. Outwardly they always seem to say little, staying silent or smiling, but inwardly they are scheming and ready to do anything to harm others.

In life we meet many people who say very little. Some say little because they are gentle. Their minds are empty and at ease and unburdened, so they have nothing to say. According to science, they are people whose language region of the brain is not very active, so they speak little. Such people have an aptitude for practice, are gentle and are in accord with the Way. But in some cases, speaking little is not gentleness. They may still be cruel or rough. We must be careful in judging these two kinds of people so as not to confuse them. To know whether a person who speaks little is gentle and in accord with the Way, or scheming, we should look into their eyes. People say: "The eyes are the windows of the soul." This is indeed true. If their eyes are kind, unhurried and relaxed, we know they are gentle. If we look into eyes that are deep and treacherous, we know at once that the person is rough and cruel.

Quite a few people have fallen into ruin because of people who seemed gentle on the outside. A monk told how, when a senior monk assigned him to be abbot of a village temple in order to hold newly cleared land, the lay Buddhists met, agreed, and he went to take over the temple. When he arrived, the temple already had a keeper, called the temple owner. Persuaded by the lay Buddhists, the man agreed to let the monk become abbot. There, everyone said that the man was gentle. He spoke very little, but once the monk had dealings with him, he realised that this was a very scheming and cruel person. After a week, at dawn, when no one else was at the temple, the man went in and demanded that the new abbot leave. It turned out that all the monks and nuns who had come there had been made to leave, driven out secretly by him. Those people, afraid of something, told no one and quietly packed up and left. This abbot, however, did not accept the demand and, without taking offence, proposed asking the lay Buddhists for their opinion. That evening the lay Buddhists and even the Fatherland Front and the local authorities met. All of them supported the abbot. In the end, it was the man himself who left the temple. Afterwards he still harboured resentment and plotted to harm that abbot in a terrible way. This is what the person everyone considered gentle and quiet really was.

There are also cases in which people hide their strengths, their wealth, their advantages, their real power. These are people of capability. We are not yet saying whether this is bad or good, but we must admit that they are capable people. Sometimes we too need to know how to apply that capability in life. Not telling about our real strength and strong points is first of all for the sake of ethics, and then for the sake of prudence. A prudent person usually does not tell what they have, especially about money. In the world, those who often boast of what they have are usually people without capability. A person without money who still scrambles to buy things to keep up with everyone else is even more shallow. Such people find it very hard to accomplish great things.

People who have had occasion to deal with the underworld all say that the bosses and big shots usually appear gentle and speak politely, quite unlike their henchmen, who always act with knives and cleavers, pick fights wherever they go and speak coarsely. The bosses are capable people who know how to hide their real strength so that others do not eye them. It is the same in business: those who do big business usually do not let others know their real strength for fear of competition. Today, the "theft" of production technology in order to compete is one of the most pressing problems in the world. That is why people usually keep their technological and technical secrets. In the past, our Vietnamese people and the Chinese commonly "hid their craft", especially family-inherited crafts. As a result, many crafts gradually faded and their transmission was lost, and now they no longer exist.

In the West, by contrast, when scientific theories were discovered, they were usually made public for everyone to know. For example, an English scientist invents a modern technique for building steam engines. Afterwards a German scientist continues the research and invents another, more advanced technique. Their civilisation therefore advanced by leaps and bounds. Today, in science and technology, we have to learn a great deal from the West. It can be said that they have almost given technology to humankind for free. However, when society has fierce economic competition, people also begin to hide their strengths, their good points and their progress. That is why copyright law came into being. All inventions and discoveries are registered for protection. If anyone imitates them, the author can ask the law to intervene. But after fifty years, that intellectual property becomes the common property of humankind, and anyone has the right to use it. Thanks to this, humankind progresses more and more.

So capable, prudent people usually hide their strengths. But a person who boasts is not always shallow, harmless or incapable of great things. In some cases, someone boasts and is still shrewd and calculating. That is the case of boasting in order to cheat. We usually meet this kind of person in two fields: religion and the economy.

In religion, such people usually imitate the Buddha and Christ. When the Buddha attained the Way, he declared that he had become a Buddha, the Awakened One. Christ also said that he was the son of God. But their lives proved those words true. We must admit that the teachings the Buddha left are wonderful. Before him no one had spoken like that, and after him no one could speak better. Today people say a great deal, and the books written about the Buddha outnumber what the Buddha taught. But all of them must rely on what the Buddha said. The Buddha's life was a magnificent portrait of ethics that no one can match. So what he said about Awakening was proved by his whole life, which was full of supernormal powers, wisdom and ethics. Christ also preached for only three years before he died, but he displayed his supernormal powers, miracles, wisdom and ethics.

Later, many religions were founded by leaders who also boasted loudly and advertised themselves. They proclaimed themselves gods and saints, and out of every ten people who heard them, two or three believed. So when we meet people who say flatly that they have realised the Way, we must be careful: they may well belong to this case. For example, the leader of the Aum Shinrikyo cult also declared that he had attained the Way. Many people, finding it so appealing, believed him and donated a great deal of money to him. He had centres built for manufacturing weapons and chemical agents, with the aim of seizing and ruling Japan itself. In the end, the plan failed, and he and his followers were arrested.

In the Mekong Delta region of our country, there was once a man named Nguyễn Long Châu who also called himself a god and a saint. Anyone who opposed him would at once be secretly struck down by his people. At one time, people also passed around a tape recording of the voice of a woman who claimed to be possessed by God in order to preach. What she said had no depth, and her voice had nothing of divine power. But many people still believed and still prostrated themselves for her to grant blessings.

The world also has many credulous people. So by exploiting people's faith, many religions and beliefs have been founded. The purpose of those religions is to deceive in order to satisfy personal ambitions. In our Buddhism too, there are people who try to look as though they have attained the Way in order to win the admiration of lay Buddhists. Although this is not common in Buddhism because of the prohibitive precepts, we must be careful.

In countries with freedom of belief and religion, many people have founded bizarre religions, spreading mistaken ideas and bringing wrong views to people. Of course, after death, such people will fall into hell to repay the lies they have told. But in their present life, at first they achieve their ambitions and win the submission and admiration of some credulous people.

In the economic field, there are many cases of boasting about one's real strength in order to deceive others. Experience shows that quite a few people have lost their homes and everything because they believed in someone else's wealth. The money they saved coin by coin, they paid in to the organisers of rotating credit groups, only to end up empty-handed, able only to look up and cry to heaven. Many shocking cases in recent times have mostly involved the business of large companies. Directors did not hesitate to flaunt their assets in order to borrow against them from banks and plunged into the harsh whirl of the market economy. In the end, when everything came to light, people learned that it had been a swindle too, borrowing here and mortgaging there. This is boasting, but it is not at all out of shallowness; it is a scheme.

3. IN PRACTICE, THE VIRTUE OF DISCRETION IS IMPORTANT

That is the question of discretion and boasting in worldly life. In spiritual practice, the virtue of discretion is important. For when we tell others about our good points, something not good appears. That is also why our lives have so many ups and downs. We go up because at times we know how to be humble, and down because we still suffer from the habit of boasting.

For example, a person sees that they have many strengths: capable, diligent, quick-witted, thorough in their work. They go and boast of this to others, and straight away something unfortunate happens. Whatever they do meets with bad luck and does not succeed. Not only monastics but lay Buddhists too often fall into this. If we pay attention, we will see that whenever we consider something good about ourselves, something not good comes right away.

We must also be discreet about our daily practice. If we tell others, we will meet obstacles and will no longer be able to practise. For example, a person sits in meditation very diligently, three sessions every day without fail. One day, while talking with someone, they let slip: "I sit in meditation three times a day." Suddenly, the next day, that person can no longer sit. When the time for meditation comes, unrelated things turn up of their own accord: illness, sickness, obstacles at work... In this way they sometimes have to give up sitting altogether for a whole month.

Or take someone who practises recitation of the Buddha's name. Walking, standing, lying, sitting, they recite the Buddha's name. If they recite only in the mind, no one knows. But wanting to encourage the lay Buddhists in their practice, the person tells them: "I am always like this, reciting the Buddha's name whether walking, standing, lying or sitting." Afterwards that person meets many difficulties and obstacles in reciting. Often, even while reciting, the monk's mind is full of all sorts of irrelevant matters. The recitation itself then vanishes somewhere.

In general, we must not reveal the effort of our practice to others. Even when sitting in meditation, we must find a secluded place and not sit in an open spot where many people can see, except when sitting together in a group in the community. At home, lay practitioners learning to sit in meditation also need to be discreet. When the time comes, each person should go into a room and close the door, letting no one know. Only in this way will our sitting last. This is precisely the effort of our practice.

There was a monk who once boasted that he practised meditation very well. One time, draped in his robe and dressed in yellow, he sat in meditation on a rock. The place where he sat was very exposed, and everyone passing by could see. He sat the first day, the second day, and after that he was never able to sit in meditation again. The first reason was that the monk had boasted of his practice in words, and then he boasted in action. He sat in meditation but chose a place where the lay Buddhists passing to and fro could all see him. His practice was lost as a result.

So a single word can sometimes cost us our practice for months, sometimes for a few years or even a few lifetimes. Often, even after seeing our fault, we have to repent for months before we regain the practice. In some cases, because of one careless word, it takes a few years, or a few decades, or even a few lifetimes before we get it back. So we must be careful with our words and never boast.

We also should not talk about results we have attained, because we will lose them. In the book A Treatise on Cause and Effect, the author cites the story of Master Zhiyi and a monk, from the anthology Zonglin. When Master Zhiyi went to see the monk, the man did not bother to sit up and greet him, but only spoke about the concentration he had attained. He claimed that he had attained concentration. Thanks to it, when he heard a disturbance in the mountains and turned his mind toward it, he knew that a monk was contemplating impermanence and contemplating it very effectively. So when that spiritual force went out, he, thanks to his concentration, perceived it. The monk asked Master Zhiyi: "What concentration is that?" Master Zhiyi answered: "That is peripheral concentration, not yet deep, only on the outside, but because you spoke of it, it is lost." Hearing this, the man was startled, stood up and said: "It is lost." As soon as he said it, the concentration that had been in his mind for months, for years, vanished by itself. Regaining that concentration is not simple; it may take twenty or thirty years. Because it is so dangerous, we must be careful not to speak of the good results we have attained.

For example, when we have practised meditation and been able to gather the mind into concentration, we feel peace and happiness. That feeling of joy, happiness and peace cannot be described in words. Sometimes, unable to restrain ourselves, we reveal it to others. Then we lose that concentration at once. But why do we speak of our good points? This process usually passes through two stages. First, in our own mind we acknowledge that we have the good quality, and then we speak of it.

For example, we practise forbearance and accommodate others in the community. That is, whatever anyone in the community says, harsh or mild, we are glad to accept it and resent no one. This is a good quality we have had for many years. One day, seeing this person and that quarrelling and getting angry with one another, we suddenly make a comparison and notice that we are forbearing people. That is, in our mind we have first acknowledged ourselves as forbearing. Once we have admitted this, at some point, when talking with others, we suddenly say: "I am a very forbearing person." Saying it seems unimportant, but afterwards annoying things happen one after another and make us lose our temper. That is, forbearance is no longer there.

Those are small matters. In the course of practice, there are bigger, more important matters, above all the effort of practice, the wisdom attained and the concentration attained, and we must be extremely discreet about them. When there is something good and we have already acknowledged it to ourselves, we must keep in mind: "That is not certain yet." If we speak of it, all that good will be lost and will fall apart. We must always be aware that, because we have not truly realised sainthood, the virtue we have and the good quality we have are not certain. Or, though we have a good quality today, it may not yet have been tested, and when we meet difficulties and obstacles we may not be able to keep it, and so on. As soon as we discover something good in ourselves, we must tell ourselves this. If we get past the first stage, we will surely not stumble in the second stage, speaking boastful words.

Some good things that are lost, we can regain after only a few months, but some losses are so serious that it takes a few lifetimes to regain them. Saying so is not at all an exaggeration. There was a practitioner who attained the Way through meditation, gave rise to wisdom and prajna, was unhurried and free, and answered Zen questions like clouds and wind. In his Dharma talks, he said that this very mind alone is the Buddha, a mind empty like space, a mind pervading the whole Dharma realm. That is, he described the mind he had realised and said that this mind is the Buddha, thinking himself as fully awakened as the Buddha, with nothing more to seek. When he died, he passed away properly seated in the lotus posture. Even at that level, we think it is still not certain. Why? Because in the next life, depending on his merit, he might become a king. After one life as a king, the seeds of desire he has sown would take who knows how many lifetimes before he could recover. It may be after twenty or thirty lifetimes that he gradually understands his fault and tries to regain the practice he realised in that life. We know that the practice of passing away in the lotus posture would take twenty lifetimes to regain at exactly that level.

We all know more or less of Su Dongpo (China), a man of free spirit who nevertheless struggled in officialdom. It is said that in his previous life he was Monk Shijie, who practised at Wuzu Temple. That Zen master Shijie had a tremendous power of awakening. Many people who exchanged Zen phrases with him were defeated. Because he was so sharp, he was praised by other Zen masters. When he died, he was reborn as Su Dongpo. So how do people know that Su Dongpo was a later incarnation of Wuzu Shijie? The story goes that once, having some business, Su Dongpo went to a certain region. At the same time, three people, including two monks, also went there. When they arrived, the three each said that the night before they had dreamed of Wuzu Shijie. They did not understand why the person they met today was Su Dongpo. Then Su Dongpo remembered that when he was small (around seven or eight years old), he often dreamed that he was a monk at the temple where Wuzu Shijie had practised in a previous life. From stories like this, people believe that Su Dongpo was a later incarnation of Wuzu Shijie. Throughout his life, Su Dongpo suffered countless hardships and setbacks, exiled up and down in officialdom. Yet in his previous life he had been an outstanding monk.

So in some cases, a single careless word or a misunderstanding about something makes a person endure great hardship, and the practice and good qualities they had are lost and are regained only after two or three lifetimes, or sometimes two or three dozen lifetimes. That is why we must always have some "mantra" to protect ourselves, to keep our mouths from letting out boastful words.

In life, with plans for work, we sometimes should not speak of them early either. Those who often announce in advance what they intend to do usually meet obstacles in their work. Indeed, having lived long in the world, we will see that this is very true. Our folk saying goes: "Say it beforehand and you won't get there." And a Western proverb says: "One of the secrets that helps a person succeed is to keep it secret to the end." To draw such lessons, people in the past must have gone through bitter failures.

Therefore, for some tasks, when we are planning something, we should discuss it only with those who have the duty and responsibility and with those who are determined, and should not tell others widely. Once we have spoken of a plan, we feel as if we have already done it, already enjoyed the credit, and so we can no longer do it. This sounds strange and cannot be explained, but it is true, and we need to take note of it.

For example, some people say to everyone they meet: "Someday I will certainly become a monk or a nun, I will become a Buddha." In reality, such a person will never be able to ordain, let alone become a Buddha. A monk told how, before he ordained, he and a friend promised each other that they would become monastics, and only the two of them knew it. But a few days later, to his surprise, the other friends also knew about it, knew that his friend planned to ordain. Then the plan of the two of them could not be carried out because, for some reason, circumstances at that time were very difficult and the conditions seemed not yet ripe. Later, when the conditions suddenly appeared, that person told no one at all and went straight into the temple. Afterwards he learned that the friend who had made the promise with him in the past had married and never stepped onto the path of practice.

It is not only in practice; it is the same in worldly affairs. If we speak of our plans too early, people in the world also find it hard to succeed. So whatever we do, we should do it quietly and silently, silent in a humble way, without boasting, and we will surely succeed.

4. CASES IN WHICH WE MAY TELL OF OUR GOOD POINTS

However, in life there are also cases in which we may tell of our good points. These are people with profound understanding who have many good qualities. When such a person knows that they have ten, they may tell one or two when they need to encourage others. For example, when we see someone who has come to the temple to practise but prostrates to the Buddha little, we advise that person to try to prostrate. To be persuasive, we may tell of what we have gained from diligently prostrating. But we must note one thing: the results we have attained may be very special, and we should say only a very little. For instance, thanks to diligent prostrating, we naturally gain intuition and can know this or that. Or when we have prostrated a great deal, wherever we go we bring good luck to others. Or anyone who treats us well finds good fortune the next day, and so on. All of these we must keep hidden and not say. When urging others to prostrate, we tell only a very small amount to encourage them. We can tell them that thanks to prostrating, our resolve for the Way has become steadier and we commit fewer faults.

Another example: when we see someone who comes to the temple but is not diligent in volunteer service, we know that person will not have merit. A person who has left home must live a life of utmost altruism, caring for the Three Jewels and the Dharma, caring for fellow monastics and for living beings, caring for everyone, and never caring only for themselves or seeking ease. Only in this way will merit gradually grow. Perhaps that person's understanding of the Way is not yet deep and so they are lazy about service. We must urge that person to try to do service and work diligently, regarding service as an offering to the Three Jewels. We can say that thanks to diligent service, we find life more comfortable, and whenever we need something, before long we naturally get it. Telling fellow monastics what we ourselves have received is to encourage and spur them on. In truth, the results gained through service are ten times greater, but we do not say so. When we are diligent in service, the mind of altruism develops. Then the mind of altruism becomes a source of strength that supports meditative concentration very effectively. Diligent service creates merit; merit sinks deep into the mind, wisdom opens, and suddenly we study with great clarity and skill and can teach the Dharma very profoundly. The good results of service we do not tell in full; we tell only small merits in order to encourage our fellow monastics. This is the case of having ten and telling only one or two.

The second case in which we may talk about ourselves is when the person has practised to the point of no longer seeing a self. Although they tell their own story, they still see it as someone else's story, because they see it as a law that must naturally occur.

For example, meeting a lay Buddhist, we say: "The roads in the village often get damaged. If you lay Buddhists try to repair them, filling in the roads brings great merit. I am very diligent in building roads. Wherever there is a damaged road, I shoulder a hoe and go to work, looking for potholes to fill, and when I have a little money I hire people to help with the roadwork. Later, when I was a little better off, I built bigger roads. Thanks to that, now I have a car to ride in." Speaking this way is not very good. Tell it the same way but suppose the story belongs to another person: "Once upon a time there was a man who was diligent in building roads..." We tell our own story but as though telling another's story, no longer regarding ourselves as important.

The third case in which we may tell of ourselves is when, having told one good point, we add a few of our shortcomings. For example, when urging lay Buddhists to try to practise humility, we let slip a boast that we are humble, always see ourselves as dust, and thanks to that are always loved by our fellow monastics and everything succeeds easily, and so on. Afterwards, we must tell a few of our faults to make up for it. In life, there are many people who surprise us because they never tell of their successes or good qualities and tell only of their bad deeds and failures. Such people are worth learning from.

The fourth case is that we may tell of ourselves when the mind that loves fame is gone. We have no craving for others' admiration and no wish to be respected, and we tell only to encourage others or to offer them an experience in practice. Of course, we must eradicate the mind of loving fame and craving others' respect at its root. When we speak of ourselves, we will still lose merit and lose some of our practice, but sometimes, because that experience is necessary, we must speak so that others can practise, especially about the tricky points in meditative concentration.

The Buddha and the arhats are a special case: they declare their attainments because their minds are completely free of self. The Buddha declared it because he was completely without self and no longer had the mind of loving fame. This is also necessary for establishing his standing. Likewise, when the arhats had realised it and the self dissolved, they too declared:

The three knowledges I have attained,

The Buddha's teaching is done.

He said it in glory, roaring the lion's roar, because he no longer has a self. He said those words not out of pride or love of fame. As for us, we should not say such things, because we do not yet have selflessness, so speaking easily leads to error and to being deceived by the ego.

Manifested bodhisattvas also rarely reveal their identity. They usually keep their identity hidden. The Buddha and the arhats still speak about themselves, but manifested bodhisattvas always hide. Sometimes, when they appear in the world, they pretend to commit a few faults so that beings will not think them lofty. When everyone thinks they are as ordinary as anyone else, they are easier to approach and to teach. And if they had no faults, if they were too extraordinary, people would be suspicious and wary and careful, and the bodhisattvas could not carry out the programmes they have planned.

We often tell the story of Master Xuyun going on pilgrimage to Mount Wutai to pay homage to Bodhisattva Manjushri, taking one prostration every three steps. He passed through a winter of snow and fell ill, and Manjushri appeared as an old man named Wenji and cured him. On the way, the Master saw an old man walking the opposite way. When the Master fell ill, the old man looked after him and then went on his way. When the Master had to lie ill by the road, he saw the old man again. The old man said: "I have just gone and come back." After curing him, the old man carried Xuyun's luggage so that he could prostrate to the Bodhisattva. Seeing this, the old man said: "Enough, you have prostrated enough, stop prostrating." Master Xuyun did not know that he was Manjushri and said resolutely: "My mind is made up; I would rather give up my life than fail to pay homage to the Bodhisattva." Feeling sorry for him, the old man said: "Then give me your luggage and I will carry it so that you can prostrate more easily." So the old man, the very Bodhisattva that Master Xuyun was prostrating to, carried the bag walking behind, while the Master went on prostrating once every three steps ahead of him. When the Master asked: "What is your name, sir?" the old man answered: "My name is Wenji." "Where do you live?" "I live on Mount Wutai. When you come to Mount Wutai and ask for me, everyone knows me." Master Xuyun assumed the old man wandered around the temples and so everyone knew him; it never occurred to him that every temple on Mount Wutai enshrines Manjushri. After arriving, he went from temple to temple asking: "Is there a gentleman named Wenji here?" No one knew. Later, when he met a senior monk and told him the story of meeting the old man Wenji on the pilgrimage road, the monk was startled: "Oh no, that was Bodhisattva Manjushri!" The story is deeply moving, but it also proves that manifested bodhisattvas usually keep their identity hidden.

Sometimes there is a manifested bodhisattva beside us whom we do not recognise because they look very ordinary, even very simple-minded, and still commit faults. We must be careful and not look down on such people.

5. THINGS WITHIN THE SANGHA THAT SHOULD NOT BE TOLD OUTSIDE

Within the Sangha, there are things about which we must be discreet and should not tell outsiders. For example, we must not speak about the temple's finances. Whether the temple is rich or poor, only the people in the temple should know. If it is poor and we say so outside, people will think we are greedy and soliciting offerings. If we say the temple is rich, people who do not understand will think we are boasting. This is very dangerous.

Moreover, we do not fully understand our teacher's plans. Sometimes the teacher needs to save a sum of money to restore the temple or to do something else, but the teacher is discreet and does not say so. If we go about boasting of the temple's accumulated funds, we may unwittingly harm our teacher and prevent the teacher from carrying out a great Buddhist undertaking as hoped. So it is best that we do not tell anyone about the temple's finances.

As for the faults of our fellow monastics, of monks and nuns, we also should not talk about them outside. Who lives without committing faults? Moreover, a fault is not fixed and unfixable. Often we see a fellow monastic commit a fault one day, but by the next day they have corrected it. The ancients often said: "Once a word is out, four horses cannot catch it." If we carelessly speak outside about their faults, we cannot take it back, and people will go on thinking badly of our fellow monastics. So we should not speak of our fellow monastics' faults outside, but try to find a way to point out the faults so that they can correct them.

As we grow older and go out to do Buddhist work, meeting many people, we will hear many shocking stories about the faults of practitioners that may leave us stunned. In some cases, after hearing, we are dumbfounded and do not understand how such a thing could happen. But even so, we must remain silent. We remain silent because we know the causes that led to their faults and believe that the fault is not fixed; one day that person will overcome their fault. If everyone now spoke of that fault widely outside, then even after the person had corrected it, the bad reputation would remain. So in the face of others' faults, we must stay calm. That is, we keep hoping, keep waiting for the correction, and keep believing in the good in people, and should not think that the faults they commit are permanent.

There are special plans of the temple for which conditions are not yet sufficient, and we should not speak of them either. Often, if they are spoken of too early, things cannot proceed smoothly.

We also must not boast of our teacher's reputation or our school's. Our teacher may be talented and virtuous and may have taught many, but we should not boast. In fact, speaking of good things so that people take refuge is fine, but without care it is easy to mix the ego into it. Boasting of the teacher also means that oneself is included in it. So it is best that we stay silent.

Another matter we should discuss is the benefit of the teachings and its consequence, admiration. For example, later, when we go out to teach and many lay Buddhists or monks and nuns listen, understand, practise and develop admiration. That is a very natural consequence, but we should not be concerned about it. Our purpose is to go and teach, bringing the benefit of the teachings to everyone, so that others hear, understand and can practise. When we go out to teach, we make only one vow: to bring the teachings, to bring the light of the Dharma, to open everyone's understanding. That is all. So when the consequence arises, the admiration of lay Buddhists or others, we must cut it off at once and absolutely not get entangled in it. We do not need people to know us, admire us or revere us; we only need them to understand the Dharma and be able to practise. This is very important, and practitioners must remember it. Perhaps at first, when we have just begun to teach, people do not yet admire us much, and we are not drawn into it. But after a long time, admiration appears, and we can very easily be drawn into the craving for that admiration. That would mean that we have begun to go wrong. So each of us must guard this mind very carefully.

6. A LITTLE ON THE MEANING OF YIN AND YANG

In the lesson on the breath and ending meditation, we looked briefly at yin and yang. Yin is the hidden part inside; yang is the part shown outside. In any structure, the hidden part is the important part, and the part shown outside is the part for use. According to King Wen (China), the ratio that expresses wisdom is 5 to 1 (five yin to one yang). If our inner strength is 5, we let only 1 show outside for others to know. In other words, having accomplished 5 parts, we reveal only 1 part and should not let people know much. Of the good qualities we have, we should not reveal everything outside. Only those who have lived close to us for a long time will know our good points. Only then will our good qualities last.

In a temple, the temple's outward form belongs to yang, and the content of practice in the minds of the monks and nuns belongs to yin. So the content of practice must be five times the outward form of the temple. A temple that achieves this ratio will grow and be lasting. Conversely, temples that are very imposing, magnificent and beautiful outside but whose Sangha practises little inside will decline after a time. So when assessing a temple, we need to look at how strong the Sangha's practice is. We say this so that we can see that outward form often destroys the content of practice. We must be careful and always give more weight to the spiritual than to form. A temple may not be beautiful or large, but if we practise well it is still worth more than living in a temple that is too beautiful and hard to practise in.

It is the same with the form of clothing. When we shave our heads and put on the kasaya to go out on the street, we have already boasted. For that form tacitly tells everyone that we are monastics, people of ethical conduct. So we must practise more than people think of us. If people think we are compassionate and generous, we must be even more compassionate and generous, five times what people think, to make up for the form we have unavoidably displayed. Not to mention that if we also wear a string of beads, put on a ceremonial hat, wear a formal robe and shoes, we must practise a great deal to make up for them. However much form we display, that much content we need to fill it. For example, when people see us wearing a string of beads all the time, they will think we must recite the Buddha's name diligently and that our practice must be very lofty. If people think we recite a hundred rounds of the beads a day, we must recite five hundred rounds to be enough. If we only wear the beads, finger the rosary wherever we go, and keep a ceremonial hat on our heads while not practising inside, then after some time our merit will run out and we will have to return to lay life, because in us the content does not match the form. Understanding this, we must know how to hide the form and put in plenty of content so that our life of practice lasts. This is very difficult, and we must make an effort to accomplish it.

When doing charity, Buddhist groups should also be discreet and should not film or photograph a lot in order to display their reputation. If there is less boasting, everything will last longer.