Every One of Us Holds a "Great Hidden Treasure ！ | Venerable Jingben | A Vesak Dharma Talk, 2026
Every One of Us Holds a "Great Hidden Treasure"
From "I Alone Am the Honored One" to Embracing Amitabha's Deliverance in Faith — Reflections on Patriarch Shandao's Verse of Refuge in the Three Jewels
Venerable Jingben | A Vesak Dharma Talk, 2026
The Most Auspicious Time in the World
Namo Amitabha Buddha.
Today is the most auspicious day in the world. Across the globe, countless beings are setting aside time of their own accord to come to temples and monasteries — to recite the Buddha's name, to bathe the Buddha, to listen to Dharma talks, to make offerings, and more. At this very moment, from West to East, from Malaysia to Singapore, in country after country and city after city, the sound of the Dharma is ringing out, one place after another.
Why? Because this is Vesak, the Buddha's Birthday — the day on which all humanity commemorates the Buddha.
Let us go back more than two thousand five hundred years. In those days, the people of the world were still groping in the dark; and yet the world was about to greet the most luminous moment in all its history. On that day, in a garden called Lumbinī, everything seemed ordinary — a queen, already with child, was passing through the garden on her way home to her parents, and she stopped to rest beneath a tree. And then, unexpectedly, the child was born.
This child was Prince Siddhārtha — the one who would later become Sakyamuni Buddha. It is a name almost everyone knows, and he is among the most profoundly influential figures in all of human history.
Renouncing the World in Search of the Truth
As a prince, he was destined to inherit the throne. From the very moment of his birth, his whole family and his whole kingdom had already laid out for him the most glorious of paths — abundance and comfort, a loving family, a great retinue, and a throne awaiting him. By worldly standards, he was born into the most honored position in the world — one anyone would long for.
Yet at the age of twenty-nine, this prince set it all aside. Rising in the dead of night, he took one last look at his sleeping family and, without disturbing a soul, quietly left the palace.
He shaved his head, put on coarse robes, and from that moment laid down his identity as a prince to become a renunciant. He left home for the sake of all sentient beings — to find a path to happiness that is true, everlasting, and complete.
At first, he spent several years studying everywhere he could, and he underwent all manner of austerities — to the point of being worn down to skin and bone, his life hanging by a thread — yet still he found no answer. At last he sat down beneath the Bodhi tree and said to himself: "This time, I will not rise from this seat until I am enlightened." And so he sat — for forty-nine days.
Then, at dawn on that final day, he lifted his gaze, beheld the morning star, and was at last fully awakened. This was the most glorious moment of all — and the true beginning of happiness for every sentient being — because a Buddha had appeared in the world.
The Buddha's Proclamation at Birth
Over the course of his life, the Buddha gave teaching after teaching, so that beings of every generation thereafter — right down to us today — might come to understand one truth of immense and far-reaching importance.
And this truth he had already proclaimed to the world at the very beginning, when he was still a newborn infant.
The moment the prince was born, he could walk. He took seven steps in each of the four directions, and with every step a lotus blossomed beneath his feet. When he had finished, he stopped, pointed one hand toward the heavens and one toward the earth, and spoke these words —
"In the heavens above and on the earth below, I alone am the Honored One."
These words are, in truth, supremely majestic — yet many who hear them for the first time cannot help but misunderstand. To say such a thing the moment one is born, in so grand a tone — is that not pride? Is that not boasting? How could the Buddha himself utter such words at his very birth?
Then again, if someone today really could walk the moment he was born, with lotuses blooming at every step and light shining from his body, he would indeed be entitled to say such a thing.
The True Meaning of "I Alone Am Honored"
Still, people in the world go on misunderstanding these words. "In the heavens above and on the earth below, I alone am the Honored One" does not mean boasting or pride. We tend to take the "I" here to be a very personal, small self — this present little "me." But that is not what it means at all.
The "I" the Buddha spoke of refers to the Buddha-nature that every one of us already fully possesses — a nature as noble as the Buddha's own. It belongs to everyone; every single person has it.
Buddha-nature is noble — it is "the one alone to be honored" — because it is complete in perfect peace and joy, perfect fulfillment, perfect compassion, and perfect wisdom. It is the most precious thing we have, and our greatest treasure.
It is only that we have never discovered this treasure.
It is like a beggar in tattered, ragged clothes — yet sewn into those very clothes is a priceless jewel, which he himself has never realized is there. To call him precious is not to say his ragged clothes are in any way grand; clothes worn to such tatters could hardly be called grand. To call him precious is to say that hidden upon him is that jewel he has never discovered.
"In the heavens above and on the earth below, I alone am the Honored One" means exactly this. This "I" is a treasure hidden within every sentient being — yet one that has never been recognized.
And so the Buddha — then still a prince — cried it out at his birth on behalf of every one of us: You already possess a most precious "I" — this is the most perfect treasure the Buddha wishes to give us.
So then — what exactly are we celebrating each year at Vesak? Why do we listen to Dharma talks, recite the Buddha's name, and bathe the Buddha, year after year? It is not merely to wish the Buddha a happy birthday. It is to remember him with gratitude — for awakening us to the fact that we ourselves possess such a treasure.
In his Commentary on the Contemplation Sutra, Patriarch Shandao says:
First, all are urged to vow and take refuge in the Three Jewels.
Monastics and laypeople, the assemblies of all times — let each give rise to the supreme aspiration.
Birth-and-death is so hard to grow weary of; the Buddha-Dharma, so hard to delight in.
Together let us rouse an adamantine resolve, crosswise transcending, cutting off the four floods;
vowing to enter Amitabha's realm, we take refuge, palms joined in homage.
So Patriarch Shandao is telling us that to first take refuge in the Three Jewels and draw near to the Buddha's Dharma is the most important thing in our lives. After all, with a treasure like this — how could we not want it?
Do I Have Buddha-Nature Too?
Perhaps someone will think: I am just an ordinary person; after half a lifetime, I have no real achievements to show for myself — how could I possibly possess so noble a treasure as Buddha-nature?
We may not know it, and we may never have noticed that our Buddha-nature is there — yet in fact, it is something we can feel. How so?
Let me give an example. A Dharma friend once asked me: "Master, with the recent arrival of AI — so-called artificial intelligence — isn't it now just like a human being? Is it really the same as a person, or not? And if not, why not?"
Artificial intelligence, put simply, is a kind of supercomputer. Let us first take a look at what it can actually do.
Today's AI can see, hear, speak, and analyze. Show it a photograph, and it can identify what is in it; play it a piece of music, and it can tell you the key; ask it a question, and it can write you a polished answer.
On the surface, what it does is much like what a human does — and in many cases, it does it even better. The pace of AI's development has, in many respects, already overtaken us: a teacher who has taught for a lifetime may well know less than it does, and the countless things we do not know, it knows them all.
Seen this way, is it not just like a human — even a kind of superhuman?
It Can See, Yet Cannot Truly See
And yet, deep down, we can always sense that it is, in the end, not the same as a human being. Even if we made an AI into a robot exactly like a person — with eyes, a nose, and a mouth — and even if it knew more than we do about everything, we would still feel that it is not a true living being. Why?
Because this machine, the AI, lacks the very Buddha-nature we are speaking of today — that is, it has no "awakened awareness." This is the most fundamental difference of all.
Take the most advanced AI: in a fraction of a second it can tell you what is in a photograph. Its "vision" may be sharper than ours, observing more closely than we can. But has it truly seen?
It can indeed identify which people and things are in the picture — but it cannot feel what that scene stirs in the heart of the person who sees it.
For instance, suppose the image shows a person being ordained — their head shaved as they enter monastic life. To an ordinary onlooker, it is simply "someone has become a monastic." To a Buddhist, it may stir joyful admiration: How wonderful — another person has gone forth! But what if the one being ordained were our own family member? That would be a feeling of an altogether different kind.
But hand that same image to an AI, and all it will tell you is: this is a scene of an ordination. So the AI only "looks"; it seems unable to truly "see" — for it has none of the feeling, none of the lived experience, that real seeing brings.
It is the same with hearing. Give an AI a piece of music, and it can analyze the pitch and describe the rhythm — but it can never feel itself moved by the music. With a human being it is altogether different. Sometimes, as we listen, our eyes well up — perhaps with sorrow, perhaps with being moved, perhaps because the melody has stirred a memory of someone or something; sometimes we cannot even say why, but the moment a certain piece of music sounds, our whole heart is stirred, as if the music were carrying us along. None of this could ever happen to an AI.
And so the AI can only look, but cannot truly see; it can only hear, but cannot truly listen. It knows everything, yet it cannot feel even the smallest part of it — not one ten-thousandth.
This capacity to truly "see" and truly "hear" is, in fact, the very expression of Buddha-nature. And it is precisely for this reason that no matter how advanced an AI robot becomes, it can never truly be like a human being — because it has no heart that can be moved. Put plainly: artificial intelligence has knowledge, but no awareness.
Where There Are Afflictions, There Is Buddha-Nature
We sentient beings are altogether different. We feel joy and anger, sorrow and delight; we even have afflictions — we feel inferior, we torment ourselves with worry. These may all look like "problems," yet they are precisely the best evidence that we possess our noble Buddha-nature. It is because sentient beings have Buddha-nature that we have all these feelings — and all these countless afflictions.
In Buddhism there is a saying: "the afflictions are themselves bodhi." It is because a person has the Buddha-nature of bodhi that he can be afflicted at all; and it is precisely because he has afflictions that becoming a Buddha is even possible. If there were no Buddha-nature, how could there be any afflictions?
This is why a robot has no afflictions at all, does not dream, and has no feelings — because it has no Buddha-nature. I recently heard that a temple abroad conferred the precepts on an AI robot. But since a robot has no capacity to feel, what meaning could receiving the precepts possibly have? Would it salivate at the sight of chicken and go off on its own to slaughter chickens and ducks to eat? When it did something wrong, would it feel regret or shame? It would not — because it is nothing more than a program running its course.
We sentient beings are not like this. In all our encounters — with people, with events, with things — we have the capacity to feel. Even in some quiet, sleepless hour of the night — perhaps the night a loved one has just passed away, perhaps while lying in bed after a serious illness — we may suddenly pause and ask ourselves: What am I really chasing after? Who am I, really? What has my whole life been for?
Would a robot ever ask such questions? Never. How could it suddenly reflect on itself, or hold a conversation with its own heart? Only a life endowed with Buddha-nature questions itself like this.
This capacity has been ours since childhood. From the moment we are born, we can feel, we can experience, we can question ourselves and think for ourselves. This is why the Buddha calls us "sentient beings" — beings that have feeling.
This is the very manifestation of Buddha-nature. What makes us sentient beings precious is not how much we know or how clever we are — for in cleverness, we fall far short of AI now. What makes us rare and noble, just as the Buddha said, is that we possess that Buddha-nature of which it is said: "In the heavens above and on the earth below, I alone am the Honored One."
Who Must Give Rise to This Aspiration?
This is why Patriarch Shandao says: "Monastics and laypeople, the assemblies of all times — let each give rise to the supreme aspiration."
Since we already possess so extraordinary a Buddha-nature, the most important, most fundamental, most urgent thing before us is to "give rise to the supreme aspiration."
To aspire for the sake of our Buddha-nature means, put plainly, to take the Buddha's Dharma truly and seriously — and from now on, to place the practice of the Dharma ahead of everything else.
But who, exactly, must give rise to this aspiration? Some people, on hearing this, think to themselves: Ah, it is the Master who should aspire; it is my father who should aspire; it is my child who should aspire — naming everyone in turn, while leaving out the single most important figure of all: "me." They name everyone else, and leave out only "me."
Look closely at the five words Patriarch Shandao used — 道俗时众等:
• 道 (monastics): those who have left the household life — practitioners with shaven heads and Dharma robes, living in temples and monasteries;
• 俗 (laypeople): householders — ordinary people with families and jobs, living their everyday lives;
• 时 (times): all times — past, present, and future;
• 众 (the assembly): the whole multitude;
• 等 (and all): everyone without exception — every single person is included.
Put together, these words mean: whether monastic or lay, past, present, or future, man or woman, old or young, those with free time and those without — every single one must give rise to this aspiration.
Notice that the Patriarch did not say only monastics must aspire — laypeople, equally, must give rise to the aspiration and learn the Dharma. Nor is it only the elderly who should practice; one cannot say, "Only my old grandfather or grandmother of the house should learn the Dharma"; the young, just the same, must aspire and learn the Dharma. Nor is it only the sick or the dying who need it; the healthy need it just as much. In short, everyone must give rise to this aspiration.
Imagine this: one day, someone suddenly tells you that buried beneath your house is a gold mine — an immense, priceless treasure. Could you not dig for it? And who should do the digging? "I" should, of course. If it is the gold mine under your own house, and you will not dig it up yourself, who else would you get to dig it?
It is the same here. The Buddha tells us that we already possess so noble a Buddha-nature, and that we have encountered so rare a Dharma. If we ourselves do not aspire, whom can we expect to aspire in our place?
In the Buddha's teaching, giving rise to the aspiration is always one's own affair. Patriarch Shandao said that "each" must give rise to the supreme aspiration — each one, for himself. To refuse to aspire yourself while expecting someone else to do it for you is like being hungry yourself and asking someone else to eat in your place. When you are hungry, can someone else eat for you? Of course not. Just as no one can eat your meal for you, no one can give rise to your aspiration for you. However much your parents love you, they cannot aspire for you; however much your family and friends worry about you, they cannot aspire for you — each must give rise to the supreme aspiration, for himself.
We Have Never Aspired for Our Buddha-Nature
What is more, this aspiration is a "supreme" one. The aspiration we rouse for the sake of our Buddha-nature and the Dharma is the highest and most unsurpassed of all — in other words, the highest, greatest, most important aspiration of our entire life, with none above it.
Yet most of us tend to overlook it, because the aspirations we usually rouse are mostly for worldly things.
As children, we set our hearts on getting into a good school; grown up, on finding a good job; then on raising children, on staying healthy, on earning a little more to live on. Over a lifetime, the times we have set our hearts on worldly things are beyond counting.
But let us honestly ask ourselves: have we ever once, earnestly and with our whole heart, set it upon this noble Buddha-nature — and not merely shouted slogans about it? Honestly, the vast majority of us have not.
All our lives we are serious about everything — except, all too often, about the one greatest matter of all: learning the Dharma. We are forever burying it under other things — work buries it, family buries it, entertainment buries it, the endless calculations of today and tomorrow bury it. If we were to rank the matters of our life in order, where would the Dharma come? Very often, it does not even make the list.
From morning to night we bustle about — and in doing so, with our own hands, we keep this most vital matter, the Dharma, shut outside the door. These other things are not unimportant; but we must ask ourselves: all that we busy ourselves with, all that we prize — is it really placed where it ought to be?
The Parable of the Head in the Mirror
Here I would like to tell a story from the Buddhist scriptures about looking into a mirror.
There was once a man who, the moment he opened his eyes each morning, would first of all look into the mirror. But he was peculiar in one way: when he looked into the mirror, he actually believed that his head was inside the mirror. He did not realize that his head was right there on his own neck; instead, he was convinced the head was in the mirror.
And so he doted on that head in the mirror, spending an hour or two every day grooming it. Mind you — he was not putting makeup on his own face; he was painting and daubing, stroke by stroke, on the face reflected in the mirror. Sometimes he would even adorn that mirror-face with flowers and ornaments, all manner of things, forever finding new ways to make the reflected face look younger, more charming, more refined. He busied himself like this for hours each day — and went on doing so his whole life.
Yet he never once washed his own real head, never once tended his own real face. Even though his actual face had long been caked with grime, his hair wild and unkempt, all he ever cared about was that face in the mirror.
Does this not sound absurd? And yet it is a faithful portrait of how most of us live — for we, too, so often pour all our effort into things that are illusory.
Take career and work, for instance — people pour decades into them. But as the ancients said, there is no kingdom that does not fall. Of all the mighty emperors of old, not one remains today. Tell me — which ancient dynasty has survived to the present? None. Even their tombs can scarcely be found. As the old lines go: "Where now are the generals and ministers of ages past? — A mound of weeds, and they are gone." Those whose careers were grandest and whose influence reached widest — no one even knows where their graves lie now; perhaps they were long ago overgrown with weeds, with no one any the wiser.
Others spend their time on their appearance, buying piles of cosmetics. But no cosmetic, however fine, can resist gravity slowly dragging the wrinkles downward. As fast as we lift the skin up, it sags back down — in the end, it is all in vain.
Still others pour their energy into keeping up relationships — a gift for this one, a favor repaid to that one, meeting now and then to chat, planning trips together. None of this is bad, of course. But as the ancients said, there is no banquet under heaven that does not come to an end; between people, "those long together must part." However good a relationship, in the end everyone goes their separate way. Why? Because in the end we cannot even hold on to this body of ours: at the moment of death, everything returns to nothing.
This is exactly what we meant earlier by "the head in the mirror." The Buddha said that all things are "like a dream, an illusion, a bubble, a shadow" — however beautiful the image in the mirror, the moment the person walks away and the light is switched off, the image vanishes. This is almost exactly like the worldly matters we busy ourselves with day to day: the things we take to be momentous are, in truth, neither lasting nor real. Such is worldly life — we place far too much of our heart in the wrong place.
Of course, this does not mean that work and daily life are unimportant — only that they are passing stages of life, not its purpose. Nor does it mean that family is unimportant — only that we should not let our loved ones, like us, spend their whole lives laboring over that illusory image in the mirror, forgetting that there is a "real head" upon their own necks. Otherwise, we and our loved ones alike will, in the end, come away empty-handed, holding on to nothing at all.
What is truly worth our heart's devotion is the Buddha-nature within us, and the Dharma that the Buddha came into the world to reveal — for this alone is real and eternal, truly belonging to each of us, and never to be lost.
Strike This Heart Awake
And so Patriarch Shandao urges that every one of us must "give rise to the supreme aspiration" — that we really must set our hearts a little more upon the practice of the Dharma.
At the very least, we should take it seriously; better still, we should give rise to the "supreme" aspiration — "supreme" meaning that nothing whatsoever stands higher. This matter comes first among all matters, because it is the most important of all.
Think about it once more: there is a diamond that has not yet been mined — from the outside, it looks like nothing more than an unremarkable stone. If we simply toss it aside and never give it a second glance, all the brilliance of the diamond within stays buried — it might even be thrown out with the trash as if it were rubbish. Would that not be a terrible waste?
So now we must turn our eyes toward it, treasure it, and tap away at it bit by bit, grinding off its rough outer shell so that the light of the diamond within can shine out. Is this matter important? Of course it is.
This is precisely why Patriarch Shandao, from the very start, urged us to "each give rise to the supreme aspiration" — we must earnestly give this heart of ours a good knock. Our hearts have lain idle far too long; now is the time to start them up again, like an engine being restarted. For this is what makes our life real and meaningful. Otherwise, by the time we reach the end of our days, we may truly find that nothing is left at all.
Can We Really Let Go?
Of course, such an aspiration is a fine thing — but in the next line of his verse, Patriarch Shandao reminds us: "Birth-and-death is so hard to grow weary of; the Buddha-Dharma, so hard to delight in."
We all know that drawing near to the Dharma is a good thing. But when it comes to "birth-and-death" — that is, all of this everyday living of ours, with its attachments, its cravings, its clinging — to truly grow weary of it and turn away is, in fact, exceedingly hard.
Let us honestly ask ourselves: we say with our lips, "I want to turn away from birth-and-death" — but can we really do it? The career and the wealth of this lifetime — can you truly let them go? What about the car, the house, the children? What about health and reputation? What about all the grievances and wrongs you have suffered? And what about the people you love dearly — can you really turn away from them and never again be bound by that attachment?
To be honest, many people speak of letting go — yet the vast majority cannot. It is not that they are unwilling to; it is that they truly cannot.
We can say with our mouths that "all things are empty" — but the moment we meet some concrete matter, it instantly becomes "all things are real." A child falls ill, and the heart clenches at once; someone misunderstands us, and the heart is instantly thrown off balance; we lose some possession, and the heart immediately aches; we see someone who outdoes us, and the heart turns sour in a moment.
Are these reactions a turning-away from birth-and-death? Are they a delight in the Dharma? No — they plainly show how deeply we still crave this world. I often say that if a person could really grow weary of the world and delight in the Dharma like that, he would have left home to become a monastic long ago. Even monastics today cannot necessarily manage a hundred-percent turning-away — how much less those of us who have not left home at all?
This is why it is said that "birth-and-death is so hard to grow weary of" — our craving for the world runs, at times, frighteningly deep.
The Parable of the Man in the Well
In the Sutra of Parables, the Buddha told a little story like this.
Long, long ago, a man was walking through a wilderness. On and on he walked, with no idea where he was headed — he simply kept moving forward.
Suddenly he heard a sound behind him, and the ground began to shake. He whipped around — and there was a huge, maddened elephant, charging straight at him!
Terrified, the man ran for his life, not daring even to look back, hearing only the elephant's footfalls drawing closer and closer behind him. And what lay ahead? He looked up — and there before him was a well. A large well, but a dry one, with no water in it for years; its bottom was so deep it could not be seen, pitch-black.
With no way left to retreat, he flung himself into the well. In the very instant of falling, he caught sight of a tree root growing out of the well's wall halfway down; he thrust out both hands with all his might and seized it, and there he hung in midair, his whole body held up by that single root.
The maddened elephant reached the mouth of the well and stood guard there, waiting for him to climb back up so it could trample him to death.
But when he looked down, there at the bottom of the well was a huge poisonous dragon, coiled and waiting! The dragon was as long as a building, its body sheathed in cold scales, its eyes fixed straight upward, its great mouth gaping wide — and it held that mouth open precisely so that, the moment the man fell, it could swallow him in a single gulp.
The man's luck could not have been worse: an elephant above, a poisonous dragon below, death waiting at both ends, leaving him stuck in the middle, clinging to the root. And just when we think his misfortune has hit bottom, worse was yet to come — glancing around, he saw that in each of the four directions, east, west, south, and north, there was a deadly venomous snake. They had already spotted him and were creeping along the well's wall toward him, slowly, slowly. Now he understood his situation completely: his entire life hung on this one root, and whatever happened, he must not let go.
He might have thought there was still a sliver of hope — but just then, from above his head came a "squeak, squeak, squeak." It turned out there were two mice, one black and one white, gnawing at the very root he was holding. The two mice gnawed without stopping, and the root grew thinner and more brittle by the moment. How much longer could it hold? A few days? A few hours? Probably only a few minutes — it would soon be gnawed through. Once it broke, he would either plunge straight to the bottom of the well to be swallowed by the dragon, or be bitten by the snakes; and even if by some luck he climbed out, the elephant would trample him. His death was all but certain.
And yet, at this most desperate of moments, he looked up and noticed, on a branch of the great tree above the root, a beehive. The weather was hot, and the honey in the hive was melting, dripping down the root drop by drop — and a few of those drops fell right into his mouth. Can you guess how the man reacted?
By rights, he ought to have cried out for help at once, or found some way to drive off those two mice. But that is not what happened at all. The moment the man tasted the first drop of honey, his eyes lit up: Ah, how sweet! And so he hankered after the second drop, and the third, savoring each drop of honey to the full, every drop leaving him intoxicated with delight. He seemed to forget entirely that there was an elephant above, a poisonous dragon below, venomous snakes all around, and a root still being gnawed through. In that moment, all he had eyes for was that drop of honey; he kept sticking out his tongue, hoping to catch a few more tastes.
This Story Is About Us
Having told the story this far, the Buddha asked: Do you know whom the man in this story stands for? The Buddha said that he stands for every one of us — ordinary, unenlightened beings.
That wilderness stands for our wandering through the cycle of birth-and-death over countless eons, never finding our direction. The maddened elephant stands for the impermanence of each lifetime — impermanence is forever chasing us from behind, and sooner or later it will catch us, just as the elephant chased that man. No one can escape this elephant of impermanence.
And what does the tree root stand for? It stands for the lifespan of this present life. It seems to hold us up and keep us alive, yet in truth it is growing thinner all the while. The two mice, one black and one white, stand for day and night. One round of day and night, and a day has passed; for every extra day a person lives, his lifespan is one day shorter — which is why the root keeps being gnawed thinner. From the day we were born until today, how many days have these two black-and-white mice already gnawed away? Ten years is several thousand days; thirty years, tens of thousands — yet how many tens of thousands of days can any of us have? Look at that root: is it not by now worn as thin as thin can be?
The Buddha said that the poisonous dragon at the bottom of the well stands for the place into which our karma drags us down. Every time we tell a lie or kill a living creature, we draw one step closer to that dragon; every time we lose our temper, or grasp at some advantage or pleasure, it is as if we feed one more mouthful into the dragon's mouth. Have we ever stopped to think: in living to this day, how fat have we already fed this dragon, and how close to it have we come? Look honestly, and we might well be startled.
As for the four venomous snakes alongside, they stand for the four great elements — earth, water, fire, and wind. They seem to sustain the body, yet at any moment they may "go on strike." Once the four elements fall out of balance, we sicken here and ache there: at the top, a stroke; in the middle, stomach and kidney disease; below, legs that no longer walk well, knee cartilage worn away, even diabetes severe enough to cost a limb. These four snakes of "earth, water, fire, and wind" lie hidden within our very bodies, ready to bite us at any moment.
And yet, even surrounded by such manifold dangers, we go on craving the things of this world — that is, the "honey" — unable to let go, sinking ever deeper into our infatuation instead. We seem to forget that above us is the elephant of impermanence, ready to devour us at any time; that below us waits the dragon; that beside us are the snakes that will bring our body to ruin; and we forget that the root called "lifespan" is being gnawed through by time, moment by moment. Right up to the instant we fall, what we are still dwelling on is the "honey" of this world. The Buddha said: this is exactly what all sentient beings are like.
Hard to Weary Of, Hard to Delight In
Perhaps someone will say: Master, the way you put it, are we really as bad as all that? To tell the truth — yes, we really are.
For example: today we hear a moving Dharma talk and our heart is deeply stirred; we even make a vow: "From this day on, I will practice in earnest and have less to do with worldly affairs." But within a few days, a friend sends an invitation to a gathering, and we forget our vow completely; the company suddenly gives us a raise and a promotion, and we are overjoyed; our family treats us well and takes us out to eat, drink, and have fun, and once again we feel like the happiest person under heaven — and at such moments, where has the Dharma been set aside?
Or again: today we understand that this body is impermanent, and we nod and say, "Yes, I should hold this body lightly." But the next morning we get up, look in the mirror, and find a pimple has appeared on our face — and our mood instantly sinks to rock bottom, desperate to squeeze that pimple out. A whole big face, and yet it cannot abide a single pimple. Or we notice a few more white hairs and tense up at once; a health-check report shows one figure slightly high, and that night we cannot sleep. This is precisely "birth-and-death is so hard to grow weary of; the Buddha-Dharma, so hard to delight in."
Or again: today we lose a hundred dollars from our wallet and feel the pain of it all day long; yet if we miss a Dharma talk that might have changed our life, we think nothing of it: "Never mind — the Master gives talks all the time; there's no harm in coming next time." Lost money can be earned again, and still we ache over it like this; yet to miss a teaching that could save our life leaves us unmoved. Set the two side by side, and it turns out that, in our hearts, the Dharma counts for even less than a hundred dollars.
And again: someone offhandedly says one unkind word, and we can be angry over it for a week — even nurse the grudge for a lifetime. Yet the Buddha's scriptures say so much; have we really taken any of it to heart? Again and again the Buddha urged that a mind of anger is harmful and that we should cultivate patience — how many times he must have said it. Yet while another person may have spoken only in passing, we can stay angry for a full week, and some of us never let it go to our dying day. The truths the Buddha taught with such earnest, tireless care, we cast aside entirely. If you doubt it, the next time you lose your temper, just watch your own state of mind — is it not that you simply cannot swallow that grievance? If we could truly grow weary of the world and delight in the Dharma, how could there be anything we could not swallow? By then, we would not even weigh whether we could "swallow it" or not, because it would be of no concern to us at all.
So the meaning of these two lines of Patriarch Shandao's teaching is this: "birth-and-death is so hard to grow weary of" — our craving for the world runs especially deep, and we can hardly let it go; "the Buddha-Dharma is so hard to delight in" — our longing for the Dharma is especially faint, and we can scarcely rouse ourselves to it.
Many people suppose that "finding it hard to leave the world" is because "we do not yet understand the Dharma well enough." But that is not so. The principles of the Dharma are ones most people have already heard — who, for instance, does not know the truth of impermanence? And yet, when matters actually come upon us, still we cannot grow weary of the world or let it go. Why? Because the sweetness of this worldly "honey" is all too real; and what is more, for countless eons we have been chasing after that sweetness — so to grow weary of it now is far from easy.
In other words: what ought to be let go, we cannot let go; what ought to be taken up, we cannot take up. Such, exactly, is our attitude toward birth-and-death and toward the Dharma. We sincerely wish to grow weary of birth-and-death, yet the moment something happens, we sink right back into it; we sincerely wish to long for the Dharma, yet when it comes to actually rousing ourselves to diligent practice, before long we slip back again — and especially after practicing for many years, we slip back without even noticing.
Some people are very earnest when they first take up the practice; but think back: that fervor we had when we first encountered the Dharma — after ten years, twenty years, thirty years, how much of it is left now? Can we still be as ardent as we were at the start? As the old saying goes: "In the first year of learning the Dharma, the Buddha is right before your eyes; by the third year, the Buddha has faded into the clouds." Once the heart grows lukewarm, that, in truth, is already backsliding.
This is what is meant by "birth-and-death is so hard to grow weary of; the Buddha-Dharma, so hard to delight in."
The Only Way Out
Of course, some will ask: "Master, if that is so, then what are people like us to do?" To save unenlightened beings like us, we must rely on Amitabha Buddha.
And so Patriarch Shandao goes on to say: "Together let us rouse an adamantine resolve, crosswise transcending, cutting off the four floods; vowing to enter Amitabha's realm, we take refuge, palms joined in homage."
This is precisely our way out — and for unenlightened beings who cannot make headway in other Dharma paths, it is the one and only road to life.
This is why, throughout his lifetime of teaching, Sakyamuni Buddha was everywhere guiding us toward Amitabha Buddha — it can be seen all through the scriptures. However poor and lowly our capacity as ordinary beings, we can still be delivered by single-mindedly entrusting ourselves and exclusively reciting "Namo Amitabha Buddha."
It is like a person who cannot swim falling into the sea: no matter how he thrashes and strains, he cannot reach the shore by himself. But at that moment, if a lifeguard or a navy crew throws him a life ring or a strong rope, they can pull him up out of the water. Even if he is already on the verge of drowning, without an ounce of strength left, it does not matter — so long as those on the boat have enough strength to haul him up, that is enough.
This is what "together let us rouse an adamantine resolve, crosswise transcending, cutting off the four floods" means. To cultivate, by our own power, an adamantine steadiness, unmoved and unshaken, is far too hard; to cut off the four floods — to extinguish every affliction — by our own power is utterly impossible. But we can take refuge and entrust our very lives, giving ourselves over to Amitabha Buddha, who is himself adamantine and indestructible; to Amitabha Buddha of Infinite Light and Infinite Life; to Amitabha Buddha, who attained Buddhahood ten kalpas ago and may be called the King among Buddhas. In this way, Amitabha Buddha can carry us across — "crosswise" — directly.
This "crosswise transcendence" relies on the Buddha's power, not on our own. As we said just now, it is not a matter of swimming to shore under one's own power, but of a lifeguard, a strong rescuer, hauling the person straight up. Amitabha Buddha rescues us in just this direct way — and this is what "crosswise transcending, cutting off the four floods" means.
And it is precisely because Amitabha Buddha offers such a deliverance that our reliance on him can be as steady as adamant. Otherwise, how could ordinary beings like us ever trust it? Imagine if Amitabha Buddha told us that his deliverance came with only a fifty-percent guarantee — a fifty-percent chance of being saved, and fifty percent not — would we still have confidence? We would not. Never mind fifty percent; even seventy or eighty percent would not be enough.
It is precisely because Amitabha Buddha's "crosswise transcending, cutting off the four floods" is a full ten out of ten — one hundred percent — that we can rely on him as steadily as adamant. Otherwise, confidence could never arise in us at all.
Now I would like to share a true account — one that happened in our own time, to an ordinary person just like you and me.
The Story of Xiaohua
The central figure in this account is a laywoman named Xiaohua, fifty-four years old this year, a Chinese woman living in Canada — an ordinary modern woman with a job and a family.
Xiaohua has been learning the Dharma for no short time. She first encountered the Buddha's teaching back in 2015 — by now nearly ten years ago. How did she practice at first, and how much did she take on? In her own words:
I began to learn the Dharma through reciting mantras, group practice, repentance ceremonies, taking the Eight Precepts, and even short-term monastic ordination.
Notice this list: mantras — recited; group practice — attended; repentance ceremonies — performed; the Eight Precepts — taken; she even underwent short-term ordination. This is a very earnest practitioner — by no means the sort who merely talks about it and lights a stick of incense only on holidays. She did nearly everything one could do. By rights, having done so much, she ought to have been brimming with confidence. And yet — what did she herself say?
Faced with my own heavy afflictions and shallow roots of goodness, I often doubted whether I could, in this one lifetime, accumulate enough roots of goodness, merit, and karmic conditions to be assured of rebirth in the Pure Land of Bliss.
Whenever I recited the Buddha's name, my mind was constantly scattered with stray thoughts. I could never reach the state of single-minded, unbroken concentration, and this left me deeply lost — unsure whether I should go on along this path of learning the Dharma at all.
At that time, Xiaohua had not yet encountered the Pure Land school, and her understanding of Amitabha Buddha was still incomplete. And this is exactly what Patriarch Shandao meant by "birth-and-death is so hard to grow weary of; the Buddha-Dharma, so hard to delight in" — the more earnest she was, the more her confidence kept retreating, step by step. She sincerely wanted to learn, and she put in a great deal of practice, yet she could never pull herself free of her many karmic obstacles and afflictions. In the end she grew so lost that she even wondered: should I go on walking this path at all? She was nearly ready to give up the Dharma altogether, having utterly lost confidence in herself.
Is there anyone here who, before coming to know Amitabha Buddha, went through something similar? In fact, quite a few of us have. We are forever measuring whether we are good enough by our own "effort" — yet the more we calculate, the less sure of ourselves we feel. Because our afflictions as ordinary beings run so deep, trying to hold ourselves up by our own strength alone is simply too hard. Xiaohua's worry and struggle went on for many years. And what happened next became the turning point of her transformation.
Shattering the Stone on Her Heart
Just when I was feeling so confused, the COVID-19 pandemic broke out, and I was confined at home. During that time, here in Canada, I happened to come across Venerable Jingben's teaching videos. Hearing the Master explain Amitabha Buddha's great compassion and his unconditional deliverance of all beings, it was as if I had suddenly found hope. So this was it — Amitabha Buddha had long ago perfected, on our behalf, all the merit for rebirth in the Pure Land of Bliss; we need only recite his Name with single focus, and our rebirth is assured.
Hearing these teachings, I felt as though I had found a priceless treasure. I am grateful to the Master for spreading the Dharma and benefiting beings — for giving me, in the midst of my confusion and despair, a pillar of faith and the strength to keep going. From then on, I recited the Name wholeheartedly every day. Whether getting up, walking, riding in a car, or before sleep, I would recite "Namo Amitabha Buddha," that great Name replete with myriad virtues. In this daily recitation, I often felt Amitabha Buddha's protection and blessing.
Look closely at this sentence of Xiaohua's: "Amitabha Buddha had long ago perfected, on our behalf, all the merit for rebirth in the Pure Land of Bliss." In other words, it is Amitabha Buddha who has already completed the practice for us — it is not for us to do the cultivating ourselves, not for us to cut off our afflictions ourselves, still less for us to attain some lofty state on our own.
It was Amitabha Buddha who, ten kalpas ago, already completed every bit of merit on our behalf. This is exactly what Patriarch Shandao meant by "crosswise transcending, cutting off the four floods" — we need not exert our own strength; Amitabha Buddha can deliver us directly.
With this one truth, the great stone that had weighed on Xiaohua's heart for nearly ten years — the stone of "I must rely on my own practice in order to be saved" — was shattered in an instant. Her whole being grew light; and it was precisely this realization that gave her, amid her confusion and despair, a pillar of faith.
Notice that Xiaohua was still the same Xiaohua. She had not suddenly become more skilled at practice; she had not suddenly cut off all her afflictions; she had not suddenly dissolved all her karmic obstacles. Yet because she accepted Amitabha Buddha's deliverance, her resolve became as firm as adamant. The sublime, it turns out, is as simple as that. And Xiaohua also shared how it was precisely this faith that helped her and her husband through a great ordeal together.
The Buddha's Light in the Blizzard
Her husband is sixty years old this year, and had always been in good health.
At three in the morning on March 1, 2024, her husband suddenly woke her from her sleep and said, "My right hand and right foot feel numb — the whole right side of my body, especially." This was in fact a classic sign of a stroke, though at the time they did not know it. When he got up, he had trouble walking, as if he had lost his coordination, stumbling as he went. Thinking it was high blood pressure or a flare-up of gout, he took some medicine and went back to sleep, and Xiaohua went to work as usual.
But at midday, when Xiaohua phoned home, she could not reach her husband at all. In that moment she was seized with panic — in Canada, her husband was her only family, and if something had happened to him, it was more than she could bear to imagine. In such a lonely, helpless moment, whom did Xiaohua turn to?
The first thing she thought of was to recite the Name — praying for Amitabha Buddha's blessing, that she might reach her husband as soon as possible. This is exactly what it means to rely on Amitabha Buddha. We who recite the Name are not saying that from now on we will never worry, never fear, or that we have some absolute certainty; rather, that in moments of panic, fear, and helplessness, our hearts can still lean and rest upon Amitabha Buddha. This is what reliance on Amitabha Buddha means.
And so, not long after Xiaohua recited the Name, her phone suddenly rang: it was the hospital, saying that her husband was already in the emergency room and needed to be admitted. The moment she heard this, she set off at once for the hospital. What she went through next was, one might say, quite dramatic. She wrote:
That day, the weather in Canada could not have been worse. A blizzard swept across the whole city; the snow fell so thick I could barely see ahead. The sky was darkening, the temperature had dropped to more than twenty degrees below zero, the entire city was buried in ice and snow, and the cold wind cut straight into my face.
After getting out of the car near the hospital, I found myself in total darkness. Everything around me was a blur; the blizzard had numbed my hands and feet, and every step forward was painfully hard. It is a large area, and I wanted to find the hospital's main entrance — but in the swirling snow, all I could make out were signposts lost in the endless white.
I felt helpless, but I knew I could not give up. So I began to rely on Amitabha Buddha, reciting his Name as I called for help. In that darkness, holding fast to my faith in Amitabha Buddha, I walked forward one step at a time. Though I was in the midst of a blizzard, there was a thread of warmth in my heart, because I knew that Amitabha Buddha was right beside me.
And then, unexpectedly, a light suddenly flashed before me, showing me the way ahead — ah, it was the entrance to the hospital; I had finally made it! Through that hard journey, it was Amitabha Buddha who gave me strength, who let me overcome one obstacle after another and reach the hospital safely to see my husband. Amitabha Buddha's protection was like a bright lamp, lighting a path before me that led toward hope.
Is this not extraordinary? In such snow and wind, and in the dark where she could not see the road, Xiaohua — an ordinary woman — made her way through, alone, on the strength of reciting the Name. Most remarkable of all, Amitabha Buddha even sent forth light to guide her, like a lighthouse — for otherwise, in a blizzard like that, she could never have seen the way. Amitabha Buddha truly lives up to his name: Amitabha is also called "Infinite Light," and so the Buddha's light shines especially bright. The story is not yet over; let us read on:
Recovery Amid the Recitation of the Name
When I reached the ward, I finally saw my husband. The doctors diagnosed a stroke. The suddenness of it left him terrified and at a loss, and it pained me deeply to see him. Fortunately, before leaving I had gone home to fetch his daily necessities, and I had also brought along the pendant bearing the holy image of Amitabha Buddha and the Buddha-card that the Pure Land school had sent us. The moment I saw my husband, I handed him these Dharma treasures. I watched as his earlier fright, once he took them, gave way to a smile — the smile of one who had found hope again, and something to lean on. In that moment, I was deeply grateful for the peace of mind that Amitabha Buddha had brought my husband.
With trembling hands that would not obey him, my husband placed the Buddha-pendant around his neck, and a smile appeared on his face. Throughout his hospital stay, whenever he was awake, he would recite the Buddha's name without ceasing from his sickbed. Under the blessing of the Name, together with medical treatment, his blood pressure was at last brought under control. On the seventh day, my husband was transferred to a rehabilitation facility for therapy. Though he still needed a wheelchair to get about, he was deeply grateful that, blessed by the Name, he was able to leave the hospital after just seven days and move on to the rehabilitation facility to continue his treatment.
During his days at the rehabilitation facility, my husband took part in a series of therapy sessions. As he walked, with every single step he recited the Buddha's name; he said it gave him tremendous strength and courage to overcome every difficulty. At first he had to rely on a wheeled walker, but after only five days his walking had improved markedly, and he began to use an ordinary walker; later still, he could walk freely with just a cane.
Yet although his steps grew steadier, his right hand was still very weak, and lifting it was a great strain. To help him recover control of his hand, the therapist designed a series of tasks. He told the staff that what he most wanted to learn to write now was the Name "南無阿彌陀佛" (Namo Amitabha Buddha), and so he practiced doggedly every day. At first it was a hard challenge, but in the end he mastered the writing of the Name, and gradually regained his everyday functions. The doctors and nurses were all amazed at how quickly he recovered. On March 22, my husband was at last able to return home from the rehabilitation facility. From the stroke to his good recovery and homecoming, it had been little more than twenty days in all.
Amitabha Buddha's compassion is boundless, and we have been deeply blessed by his grace. It is by relying on this Great King of Healing (Amitabha Buddha) and his six-character Name that we have been able to break free of all manner of afflictions and illness. We are filled with gratitude that, in this precious life, we have encountered the path of reciting the Name; from now on, we will recite the Name all our lives without change, never turning back, until we are reborn in Amitabha's Pure Land. We pray, together with everyone: may all sentient beings come to believe in the Buddha and recite his Name, be freed from the sufferings of this present world, and in time be reborn in the Land of Ultimate Bliss in the West, leaving suffering behind and attaining joy. Namo Amitabha Buddha.
Does this not feel like something of a miracle? A man of sixty, just struck by a stroke, his right hand trembling and his body refusing to obey him — and yet, on the strength of this one phrase, "Namo Amitabha Buddha," he did his walking rehabilitation while reciting with each step, and practiced his writing while writing out the Name. Before he knew it, in less than three weeks from stroke to discharge, he was able to return home to recover on his own — and even the doctors and nurses were astonished at how quickly he healed.
What this couple shared at the end is especially telling: from now on, they will recite the Name all their lives, never changing. This is exactly what Patriarch Shandao meant by "adamantine resolve" — not reciting the Name only when all is well, but keeping our reliance on Amitabha Buddha in our hearts no matter what befalls us; not being free of fear, but, when fear comes, still holding to this one phrase, "Namo Amitabha Buddha."
They are ordinary people. Xiaohua is just a middle-aged woman in her fifties — no high-powered career woman, and certainly no eminent monastic or great sage. She had been on the verge of losing her aspiration for the Way altogether; but as conditions ripened, she encountered Amitabha Buddha, took firm hold of his deliverance, and from that point her faith grew solid and firm.
So this "adamantine resolve" does not mean becoming all-powerful or afraid of nothing; it means that we can single-mindedly entrust our lives — that whatever may happen, we can rest our whole heart upon Amitabha Buddha. If they could do it in the face of such great hardship, then surely we can do it too — can we not?
Two Buddhas, One Goal
Patriarch Shandao said, "together let us rouse an adamantine resolve" — and notice that word "together." "Together" means that the one Amitabha Buddha sets out to save is never just a single person; nor are we ever reciting the Name alone.
Throughout his lifetime of teaching, Sakyamuni Buddha, knowing well how hard the other Dharma paths are to practice, everywhere guided beings toward Amitabha Buddha, calling on all of us "together" to rouse the adamantine resolve to recite the Name. And Amitabha Buddha, knowing well the capacities of us ordinary beings, helps us — unconditionally and directly — to "transcend crosswise and cut off the four floods."
In the Amitabha Sutra, we see Sakyamuni Buddha tell how the Buddhas of all ten directions — himself included — are each, in their own lands, ceaselessly urging beings to turn toward Amitabha Buddha. It is for this very reason that this year's Vesak keepsake, a carry-along charm, has been given the name "Two Buddhas, One Goal": though Sakyamuni Buddha and Amitabha Buddha are two Buddhas, alike they lead us toward this one goal, "Namo Amitabha Buddha."
So how many are there who recite the Name? A great many indeed. Not only are there countless reciters of the Name here on this earth — there are reciters throughout the worlds of all ten directions. On the path of reciting the Name, we are not alone. Patriarch Shandao said: "Following the teaching of the two Honored Ones, the gate of the Pure Land is wide open." With Sakyamuni Buddha's guidance and Amitabha Buddha's protective care, the gate of the Pure Land path is flung wide open — wide enough to deliver all beings without exception.
We Are One Family
For this year's Vesak, we have made a song for everyone, titled "One Family in Amitabha, You and I Walking Together" — which happens to chime exactly with what we have spoken of today.
Here I would especially like to rejoice in the volunteers of our temple. At every Dharma service, the first to arrive and the last to leave are often the volunteer Dharma friends; and behind the everyday teaching videos, too, are many Dharma friends quietly giving of themselves out of sight. Year in and year out, they prepare everything with great care — hard work, to be sure, yet a happiness as well, for, as we have said today, this is one of the truly meaningful things in life. All that they do is to repay the Buddha's kindness, and to let more people hear of the deliverance held in "Namo Amitabha Buddha." And so we warmly welcome every friend who has the heart, the affinity, and the same vow to repay the Buddha's kindness, to join our big family of volunteers.
In fact, as the lyrics let us feel, this "one family" is not only the volunteers — it includes every person who recites the Name. For each of us who recites the Name recites the same one Name, and rests under the protective care of the same one Buddha. Some are not long-term volunteers, yet in everyday life they too support the temple as conditions allow, and share this wonderful path with those around them, each according to his own measure and strength. So we are all, in fact, the same — all of us hands and feet of Amitabha Buddha, all of us "One Family in Amitabha, You and I Walking Together."
This family of Amitabha Buddha is as vast as the entire Dharma-realm. Patriarch Tanluan said: "Reciting the same Name, we follow no separate path; reaching across the whole Dharma-realm, all are brothers." Patriarch Shandao, too, said: "Together let us rouse an adamantine resolve; may we enter Amitabha's realm." The whole Dharma-realm is Amitabha Buddha's home; throughout the whole Dharma-realm there are countless reciters of the Name.
So do we imagine that when we recite the Name, we recite alone? We do not. The moment we utter the Name, countless others throughout the world are reciting that same Name; the moment we lean upon Amitabha Buddha, countless beings throughout the whole Dharma-realm are leaning upon him too. On the path of reciting the Name, we are never alone. We are not each practicing on our own; we are companions walking together, fellow passengers who have boarded Amitabha Buddha's great ship of vows — together we rouse the adamantine resolve.
Today's Meeting Is No Accident
And so, that on this most auspicious and solemn Vesak, so many of us — you, and I, and others — can sit together in one place, hearing the Dharma, bathing the Buddha, and reciting the Name, is in truth no accident at all. After wandering through countless eons to reach this day, we have at last come together, to recite as one this majestic phrase, "Namo Amitabha Buddha."
And know this: behind it all is the unseen blessing of Sakyamuni Buddha — who said, in the Sutra of Infinite Life, that it was out of compassion and tender pity that he handed this path down to us; there is, too, Amitabha Buddha sending forth light to shine upon all the worlds of the ten directions (from the Contemplation Sutra), and the Buddhas of all ten directions watching over us everywhere (from the Amitabha Sutra). Through countless eons, time has turned round who knows how many times — and today, at last, we have come back: back here to Amitabha Buddha, to hear together the path the Buddha left for us, and to recite together this Name that Amitabha Buddha accomplished on our behalf. All of this is the convergence of conditions that the Buddhas have brought about for us; long ago they arranged countless conditions on our behalf, and today, at last, those conditions have ripened — all so that today, every one of us could find our way here, to "Namo Amitabha Buddha." How auspicious this is, and how rare.
And so we must not fail the guidance, the blessing, and the protective care the Buddhas have given us through countless eons. From this moment on, let us join our palms deeply, "vowing to enter Amitabha's realm," and recite this one phrase, "Namo Amitabha Buddha." In this way, our commemoration of the Buddha today will not have been in vain — for the goal the Buddha wished to give us will at last have been reached; and Sakyamuni Buddha, Amitabha Buddha, and the Buddhas of all ten directions will surely rejoice greatly.
And here I will bring this year's Vesak Dharma talk to a close. May you all, in the days ahead, often hear the Dharma, recite the Name, and take part in group practice — whether in person or online, all are welcome. And should you feel moved to go further — to serve as a volunteer, to support the Dharma, or even to aspire to become a monastic — that would be more complete still.
My blessing to you all: believe in the Buddha, recite his Name, and be at peace and at ease.
Namo Amitabha Buddha.
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