The Life and Spiritual Journey of Master Chewu

21 April 2017

Fa Jing: I, your disciple Fa Jing, offer ten prostrations to the Buddha. I respectfully invite Master Chewu to grant us an interview. May you be compassionate and share the story of your life and your path of practice, Namo Amituofo.

Master Chewu:

Throughout history, the forms of practice have been diverse, yet the essence remains the same: the cultivation and refinement of the heart. From a single, focused mind, all phenomena arise, and within that same mind, all manifestations can change. Where, then, does one find the state of being unmoved? It is found by keeping Namo Amituofo firmly in one's heart and chanting the Buddha's name.

My past lives were filled with many lifetimes of practice. In this life, I have finally reaped the fruits of those causal conditions. The monastics of the temple have guided the right path, and together, we sail the ship of the Dharma through this age of the decline of the teachings. The fourfold community of disciples has gathered due to affinities formed over many lifetimes; such a profound history is not to be overlooked. We are here to reignite the true spirit of the teachings and ensure the lineage of the Pure Land continues to flourish.

The Miracle of a New Beginning

Fa Jing: I am deeply grateful for your compassionate teachings, Master Chewu. I shall now begin to record your biography. May these teachings serve as a textbook for the temple's Dharma talks and become a model for future generations of practitioners. I humbly ask for your compassion, Namo Amituofo.

Master Chewu: According to what my parents told me, my mother was already of a mature age when she conceived me. She had been diagnosed by physicians as unable to bear children, and for her to become pregnant was truly a miracle. My mother had accepted this with a calm heart, never forcing or demanding a different outcome.

My parents were devout believers in the Buddha. My mother, in particular, would go to the temple every day to pay her respects, make offerings, and clean the temple grounds. Sometimes my father would accompany her. The abbot and the other masters at the temple were all very familiar with my parents, as their sincerity in their faith was truly worthy of respect. One day, as my mother was making her usual offerings of fresh fruit, one piece accidentally fell to the ground and rolled to her feet. She bent down to pick it up, feeling deeply remorseful for such a careless and disrespectful act. Just as she was feeling this regret, the abbot appeared behind her. He told her that he had seen what happened and offered this teaching: "This fruit falling to the ground may seem disrespectful, but if you look at it from another perspective, it rolled exactly to your feet. Could this be a gift bestowed upon you by the Buddha?" My mother felt her anxiety and self-reproach melt away, though she did not yet understand the Buddha's deeper intention.

The Gift of Life

Some time later, when my mother was again at the temple, the abbot asked her, "Have you received the gift the Buddha promised you?" My mother, not understanding, replied that nothing special had occurred. After returning home, she suddenly felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. My father, in a state of great anxiety, called for a physician. After the examination, the physician smiled and congratulated my father, saying, "Your wife is pregnant!" My father was first stunned, then overcome with joy as he shared the news with my mother, who was equally delighted. At that moment, my mother remembered the abbot's words: "The Buddha will bestow a gift upon you." She suddenly understood that the Buddha was granting her a child, and she immediately told my father. Together, they went to the temple to express their gratitude for the Buddha's grace, promising to raise the child well and, if the conditions were right, to allow the child to study the Buddha's teachings.

During the time my mother carried me, she felt no discomfort and even appeared to have a dignified and serene countenance. It happened that a great drought was plaguing the land, causing immense suffering for the people. My mother endured the ten months of pregnancy, and at the very moment I was born, heaven began to send down sweet dew, resolving the suffering of the people. While some might call it a coincidence, my parents were convinced it was the result of the Buddha's power. By the time I was three, my mother brought me to the temple daily, both to express her gratitude and to allow me to be nurtured by the Buddha's teachings. The abbot grew very fond of me, and my mother intended for me to enter the temple to study when I was a little older. As a young child, I did not understand much, but the abbot allowed me to play in the temple, and the older brothers—the other novices—were very fond of me, often taking care of me and keeping me by their sides.

The Path of the Novice

When I was about seven, the abbot shaved my head, and I became a little novice, taking the abbot as my master. My master began to require me to learn calligraphy and copy scriptures, using these tasks to cultivate meditative concentration and wisdom. I followed his instructions diligently. Although I did not understand the meaning of the texts, I worked hard to copy them, completing my daily assignments. My master also began to require me to listen to Dharma talks, starting with half a stick of incense each day, while I was free to play outside the lecture hall for the remainder of the time. Having no playmates, I would talk to the flowers, plants, and small insects. If I saw an insect in distress, such as an ant that had fallen into a puddle, I would do everything in my power to save it, using a fallen leaf to scoop it up so it could continue to live. The abbot observed every drop of this compassion in me.

After I entered the temple, my mother saw me less often, fearing that her presence would hinder my practice, though I would sometimes secretly miss her. The abbot, sensing my longing, informed my mother, who then asked him to pass a note to me. The note contained only four words: "Single-minded, focused." Seeing those words from my mother, I understood her intention. The rituals I had to learn became increasingly numerous, and the abbot began to strictly require me to maintain proper deportment. Whether sitting, standing, walking, or lying down, I was to be as steady as a bell, as upright as a pine, as swift as the wind, and as curved as a bow, never allowing myself to be lax. My master was even more rigorous in teaching me the etiquette of taking meals: sit upright, keep your eyes on the bowl, eat one mouthful at a time, do not gulp, do not engage in idle chatter, and keep the Buddha's name constantly in your heart. My master taught me with great care, and I, in turn, was receptive, striving to put everything he taught into practice.

Overcoming the Obstacles of the Mind

To avoid worrying my parents, I demanded a high standard of performance from myself from a young age and rarely revealed my inner thoughts. Upon first entering the temple, I lived a life very different from what I had known, and without my parents by my side, I could not help but feel lost. However, understanding my parents' intentions and their hopes for me, I worked hard to adapt to the temple environment. Although I was young, I learned diligently alongside the older brothers. I followed them in rising at four o'clock every morning for the morning service, but because I was unfamiliar with the scriptures, I would sometimes inevitably become drowsy. At such times, my master would have me practise calligraphy or copy scriptures, focusing on every single stroke to keep my mind clear and alert. At first, this was very effective; the calligraphy shifted my focus, and the drowsiness seemed to vanish. However, after about two weeks, I began to feel drowsy even while writing. I had to find other methods, such as splashing cold water on my face or performing manual labour. Day after day, I alternated these methods to keep my head clear, and as I gradually became accustomed to the early morning routine, the drowsiness slowly improved.

When I first began to study the Buddha's teachings, I faced many challenges that required me to overcome them, and a firm resolve for the path became an indispensable element of my practice. Though I was young, I was quite diligent. My small body moved nimbly through the temple—one moment holding a broom, the next carrying a bucket of water, then washing cups and dishes—never daring to be lazy for even a second. My master constantly reminded me to "serve all beings." He taught me not to worry about whether a task could be done perfectly, nor to calculate whether it was a major or minor duty. As long as it was something that benefited beings, it was a good deed and something that ought to be done. Thus, I learned to take responsibility directly, to set aside my own physical sensations, and to move forward with courage.

The Lessons of Daily Life

Fa Jing: Master Chewu, Namo Amituofo. I would like to understand more about the obstacles you faced at each stage of your practice and how you overcame them. May you be compassionate.

Master Chewu: The first obstacle I faced was missing my parents. This attachment to emotion is not something only adults experience; at a young age, one longs for parents to be by one's side. The nature of emotion is truly formidable; it is a significant obstacle to escaping the six realms of rebirth. If one cannot overcome it, it becomes a barrier on the path of learning the Buddha's teachings. By the age of seven, I had learned basic self-care, such as eating, dressing, and bathing. The first thing one learns upon entering the temple is self-reliance—managing one's own affairs and personal appearance. After that, one joins in the temple's work and manual labour. My master first arranged for me to work in the kitchen. I had never done such work, so my master taught me from the very basics. The kitchen required a large amount of firewood for cooking, and I had to replenish the wood in the storage room every day to ensure the kitchen had enough supply. The older brothers taught me how to carry, chop, stack, and split wood, as well as how to start a fire. I had never done this before, but I learned with a sincere and active heart. At first, I was clumsy and awkward, but the brothers taught me with patience. The moment one picks up an axe to split wood, the strength and the posture must be just right; it is not easy, and it was through this that I began to temper my mind.

The older brothers were very caring toward me, and I mostly stayed close to their side. I was quiet and spoke little, but in that stillness, I could clearly observe the unique qualities of each brother. Some were naturally intelligent and could easily explain Buddhist concepts, which gave them great confidence, leading them to enjoy showing off among the monastics. Others had deep inner cultivation, preferring to be alone and immersed in the scriptures. Some were kind and approachable, always smiling and enjoying serving the public, often putting themselves last to accommodate others. Others never let their prayer beads leave their hands or the Buddha's name leave their lips, chanting incessantly. Still others had such dignified deportment that every step they took displayed the grace of a monastic. Through quiet observation, I could see the strengths and weaknesses of each brother, and I learned from them. Everyone has their own merits and shortcomings; by learning from their strengths and compensating for my own weaknesses, everyone can be a true spiritual friend and a teacher to others.

After a few years of practice, I gradually began to see my own shortcomings—the habits still deeply rooted in my nature, such as the desire to compete and the tendency to be stubborn. I rarely expressed a need for help. Whenever I encountered setbacks, I would hide my wounds in the darkness before I was willing to come out and face the public, putting on a smile as if nothing had happened. In truth, deep inside, I was not yet healed, and the wounds would still ache. I was not naturally gifted, but I was down-to-earth. I was willing to spend one, two, or even three times as much effort as others to learn, just to ensure that I could do things thoroughly and steadily. Because of my own efforts, I always gained some measure of success, and sometimes my performance even surpassed that of the older brothers, which stirred jealousy in some. At that time, I had not yet fully adjusted my own character and was easily influenced by external appearances. Seeing the jealous or resentful expressions of a brother would cause my own heart to ripple, and my inner emotions would become complex.

I endeavoured to keep my heart calm and level. However, the feelings buried deep within my heart were not truly released or let go. Instead, I compressed them again and again, tucking them away in the dark corners of my heart. They piled up there, and sometimes, a foul odour would drift out. I would quickly try to mask the scent, but the longer it remained, the more it festered. How could I possibly hide it forever? A fellow practitioner observed the ripples of my awakening and said to me, "If you let go immediately, it is just trash; why bother piling it up? Since you are walking the path with your feet firmly on the ground, why care about the gaze of others? If you care, you lack meditative concentration." Those words struck me like a bolt of lightning, and the trash I had piled up in my heart came pouring out. This made me realise that when I leave a matter unspoken, it becomes a stain upon my heart. As one stain is added to another, my once bright and clean heart becomes covered in dense, messy spots. How can one practise under such conditions? Therefore, I must learn to purify myself immediately, just as one seeks guidance from a true spiritual friend or asks for teachings. It is like chanting the Buddha-name to wash away the grime, becoming pure and unstained. This must be implemented on the path of practice, otherwise, it is impossible to maintain a pure and transparent heart. My master also constantly reminds us of the importance of cultivating the mind and engaging in true practice; to know the teachings but not act upon them only increases wrong views. Every little detail in life is there to temper and refine our character, with the profound and practical teachings of the Buddha unfolding through our daily experiences.

The Unspoken Grief of a Child

When I was twelve, I faced a major event in my life: my mother passed away due to illness. My heart was filled with deep sorrow. Although I had left home at a young age, there was still an unspoken, lingering bond of affection between us. When my mother fell ill, she never told me, so as not to affect my practice or my spiritual achievements. She was suffering from terminal bone cancer. At first, she still came to the temple to pay respects to the Buddha, but later, following the master's advice, she stopped coming for a long time. Although I was worried, I did not dare to ask too much about worldly matters, and this concern remained buried in my heart, unvoiced. Unexpectedly, a few months later, the news arrived that she had passed away. I was utterly devastated. I returned home to bid her a final farewell, and upon returning to the temple, I could no longer suppress my emotions. I took the initiative to tell my master that, in truth, I still had a deep, unbroken attachment to my family. It was only through my mother's passing that I found the courage to face this longing for familial love that had been compressed at the very bottom of my heart. After hearing this, my master said, "I have actually seen this for a long time; I was just waiting for the Causal Conditions to mature." He had not expected, however, that the conditions would mature under such circumstances, forcing me to face it.

The Wisdom of Letting Go

At twelve years old, I completely let go of my ego and wept bitterly before my master, releasing the long-accumulated grief in my heart. It turned out that my emotions were so profound, like grass pressed down by a heavy stone, never truly eradicated. With my mother's passing, the stone was ruthlessly removed, and I clearly saw that every blade of grass was still growing well; they had merely been bent by the weight of the stone and had never been pulled out by the roots. After I calmed down, my master gently took my hand as I knelt there crying and guided me: "What is called 'emotion' is the heart being pulled, the mind being accompanied, thinking of each other by day, and meeting in dreams. It is impossible to cut, and the more you try to sort it out, the more chaotic it becomes. If you do not let go, it will always be an obstacle. Everything is but an illusion." He continued, "Even parents are but a combination of karmic conditions from one lifetime. In this life, you are parent and child, but where will you meet in the next? Let it go, child. Dedicate your body, mind, and spirit to the infinite realms, and act on behalf of the Buddha to save the world. All men and women in the world are your fathers and mothers. By generating a greater heart and a greater vow, you will open up a much broader world." I understood my master's meaning. Gradually, I stifled my sobs, wiped the tears from my face, and looked at my kind master with bright, focused eyes, saying, "From now on, I will be more diligent in my spiritual achievements and follow the teachings." I bowed in gratitude, and my master revealed a faint smile, reaching out a compassionate hand to pat my shoulder, as if bestowing upon me the strength to continue moving forward.

Navigating the Transitions of Youth

At fifteen, I entered puberty, and my body naturally transformed into that of a man. Sometimes, physiological reactions would occur inadvertently. To calm these reactions, even in freezing weather, I would douse myself with cold water, wishing to wash away the impurities that should not be there. I would chant the Buddha-name with all my heart, not allowing delusions or messy thoughts to arise. If I saw female devotees approaching, I would become even more flustered, finding excuses to turn and leave, fearing that I might become tainted by inappropriate emotions. I deliberately kept a distance from women. Feeling frustrated by this, I sought my master's help. My master understood that I had entered the next stage of life—the transition from boy to man. He explained that these physiological phenomena were natural and would pass after a period of time; there was no need to be overly nervous, just respond to them naturally. However, he warned that I must never have improper thoughts towards women. I must understand my identity and strictly observe the precepts. In particular, lust is the head of all evils and the cause of the evil consequences of the hells; I must not allow even a single such thought to arise. I took these words to heart. To pass through this transition, I worked diligently at the temple, taking the initiative to shoulder the heavy, manual labour, hoping to divert my attention and energy. After about two weeks, I felt that I had passed the danger zone, my physiological state stabilised, and I was deeply grateful for the Buddha's blessings.

In my subsequent practice, I have always tried my best to avoid contact with women. When it is necessary to speak with them, I do so with respect, maintaining an appropriate distance and keeping my eyes lowered to avoid the arising of thoughts and intentions. The boundaries in relationships between men and women are drawn clearly, without the slightest ambiguity.

The Path of Diligence and Stillness

My learning speed is slow, and I need to spend twice as much time as others to master a task. However, I can endure hardship and toil; I can do more, learn more, change more, and let go more than others, while sleeping less and eating less. I cherish every minute and second of my practice, never daring to be lax or lazy. Yet, this physical body inevitably experiences fatigue and weariness. Whenever my body becomes exhausted and refuses to obey, I find a quiet place to sit down, calm my heart, and visualise the Buddha-light covering my head. The light radiates in all directions, expanding into every cell, making them active and awakened. By absorbing myself in the Buddha-name, I can replenish my energy in about five to ten minutes and continue on my way.

The path of practice is truly not easy. If one does not let go of ego-attachment and self-centred thoughts, it is difficult to speak of learning the Buddha's teachings, for this "self" will inevitably stand as an obstacle in the way. If one says they must first deal with this "self," that is truly a difficult task! In reality, this "self" is very complex, and it is governed by the "heart" within. The heart has many forms and can give rise to ten thousand phenomena. It carries the habits accumulated over countless lifetimes, and it will manifest them for you to see at unexpected and inadvertent moments. If not for others pointing them out from the side, one might remain unaware of what kind of habits are hidden within this heart; sometimes, one is simply lost in ignorance.

The Art of Letting Go

As I mentioned, dealing with this "self" is troublesome because it is so complex. If that is the case, how should one practise? Learning the Buddha's teachings is about subduing the self, which means subduing this heart. Since this heart is so changeable, why not first learn to "let go"? After "letting go," one can then "cultivate and adjust." What is called "letting go" is to reach "no-self." Everything is nothing, everything is empty. With no heart, the heart is empty. Since there is no heart, there will be no habits to shake this heart, and the habits will no longer dominate this "self."

On my path of practice, every little bit of tempering has been to refine the act of letting go of this "self." I started from the most basic level: "obedience." I learned to obey the teachings of everyone, to obey the scolding of everyone, and to obey the reminders of everyone. Without my own views, I simply obeyed. Starting from there, whenever others gave me guidance, I would push the "self" to the background and listen respectfully. There is no right or wrong in what the other person says; if I perceive right or wrong, it means this "self" has manifested again to judge the other person. In truth, there is no right or wrong; everything is only what the heart manifests and what consciousness transforms. It took me several years to learn this "obedience."

This "self," achieved over countless lifetimes, is deeply rooted. It has strong habits and firm attachments that do not allow others to infringe upon it. The moment someone steps over the line, the "self" immediately triggers a defensive mechanism, jumping out to protect itself and ensuring it does not suffer the slightest harm. This defensive mechanism is exactly what we must learn to let go of through "obedience." Whether others criticise or praise me, I can let it flow past like water in a stream—bending where the river bends and staying straight where it is straight. Everything follows the natural course, without clinging to any edge.

At eighteen, I realised the meaning of this "obedience" and began to learn it. To be honest, it is not easy. At eighteen, one is in the prime of youth, with one's own views, thoughts, and opinions. When these "self-views" arise, they must be ground away and removed one by one. It is a process of grinding again and again, reminding myself repeatedly. This tempering is not a matter of two or three years of effort; it is a lifelong study. This "self" has already been dedicated to the infinite realms, and at any time and in any place, I must always follow the beings and act on behalf of the Buddha to save the world. Therefore, I have made "obedience and no-self" the most important focus of my life's practice.

The Ripples of the Heart

The "ripples of the heart" can be like surging waves or as still as stagnant water; it all depends on the heart. As people see things with their eyes, thoughts arise, feelings are generated, and the ripples of the heart follow. When the eyes see evil, the heart generates evil thoughts, giving rise to anger, jealousy, greed, and doubt, each producing different kinds of waves. The waves of anger are violent, like surging, crashing waves; the waves of jealousy also contain anger, like a sudden torrent that later becomes a deep, stagnant flow, trapped in the depths of a well; the waves of greed are like the deep ocean—once greed arises, the great waves can sweep away the sand and even swallow an elephant; the heart of doubt is like a stream constantly crashing against large and small rocks, believing in nothing, colliding with itself, and creating obstacles.

Once the ripples of the heart arise, they become obstacles to practice. If the heart cannot be calm, one is creating karma. Creating karma is terrifying, but what is even more terrifying is failing to notice the ripples in one's own heart—not knowing that one is creating karma and destroying the Buddha's teachings. This is truly frightening. Everyone has these ripples. In my practice and purification at the temple, I constantly warn and observe my own fluctuations. Every time a ripple arises, I observe what kind of mental note caused it, then chant the Buddha-name to stop it, and remind myself that I must change. With every bit of change, I gain a bit of peace, eventually reaching a state where the heart is like still water, "unmoved" and steady.

At the age of twenty, Chewu began to reflect deeply on his own practice. He questioned whether he could truly empathise with the suffering of sentient beings. Having grown up in the temple, surrounded by a serene and tranquil environment, he had been able to cultivate his mind with ease. However, he realised that the suffering of the world could not be understood while remaining within the temple walls. Thus, Chewu decided to descend the mountain alone and travel through the human world. After bidding farewell to his master, he left the temple with only a simple bag and his alms bowl.

The Harsh Reality of the World

Chewu walked tirelessly, crossing rivers and traversing forests. As he approached the outskirts of a city, a group of masked men in black suddenly emerged, demanding his money. Chewu, having brought nothing with him, explained this honestly. The leader pointed a sharp blade at him, threatening to kill him if he did not produce wealth. Without a trace of fear, Chewu stood as still as a mountain. He pressed his palms together and said, "Namo Amituofo. Is this what the world has become? It is truly lamentable. If my humble life can restore your kindness, then I am willing to let you take it." Hearing these words, the man’s hand trembled, and the group quickly fled. Chewu felt a deep sense of sorrow, realising that in the struggle for survival, the inherent goodness of humanity had been buried under layers of greed.

Continuing his journey, Chewu came upon a house near the shore. He could smell hot food being prepared, yet he heard the sound of weeping. Peering inside, he saw an elderly woman sitting alone at the table, sobbing. Chewu knocked on the door, and upon seeing him, the woman knelt and pleaded, "Venerable, please help me! My son never returns. He just shouted at me and left without a backward glance!" Chewu helped her up and listened to her story. He sighed, "The mother longs for her son, yet the son does not return. A meal is prepared, but he leaves in anger. The mother waits in vain, weeping in despair." Filial piety is the duty of a child, yet here, the son berated his mother while she waited in agony. Where had filial piety gone? Chewu’s heart was heavy with grief.

The Illusion of the Worldly Dream

As evening approached, Chewu sought shelter and found a dilapidated hut. Though it was cluttered and chaotic, it offered protection from the wind and cold. As he sat on the floor, he noticed a dog’s nest where a mother dog was nursing her puppies, while others played happily. The scene was harmonious, leading Chewu to lament, "Even animals understand the value of family harmony better than humans do."

The next day, after washing by the river and foraging for wild greens, Chewu entered the city. He witnessed a young woman running in terror, colliding with him as she sought a place to hide. After the pursuers had passed, Chewu comforted her and learned that her father, a compulsive gambler, had sold her to a tavern to pay his debts. She had fled to avoid a life of degradation. Chewu sighed, "Kinship is destroyed, and human bonds are forgotten. Even one's own daughter is treated as a commodity!" He was deeply saddened by the cold-blooded nature of a world stained by worldly dust.

As he moved through the city, he saw officials posting notices to capture a thief who had been stealing from the common people. Chewu lamented, "The thief acts with blatant disregard for the law, continuing his crimes even while wanted. It is a sign that people have lost all sense of shame." He also witnessed men harassing a woman in the street. He stepped in to intervene, sighing at the sight of people indulging in their desires, acting without restraint or fear of the law.

He saw a family weeping bitterly over the death of a loved one, and he sighed, "People are so deeply trapped by emotional entanglements. Whether it is a father mourning a child, a child mourning a parent, or spouses weeping for one another, they remain unable to escape the cycle of the six realms of existence." He also saw a man being trampled and bullied by a group of thugs for failing to pay a toll, while onlookers stood by, too afraid to help. Chewu lamented, "In this world, the powerful run rampant, oppressing the weak."

The Path of Awakening

In the city, Chewu witnessed the myriad states of human life. He saw how the world was rotting under the influence of the Five Desires and the Six Dusts. No one was clear-minded; no one was awake. Everyone was lost in the illusion, whether they lived a life of romantic entanglements or a simple, plain existence. People struggled and strove, acting out a play within a dream—a play entirely manifested by their own minds. Their habits were the directors, orchestrating the highs and lows of the drama. Every character was played by one person: the "self." The self craves this, so that person appears; it desires that, so another appears. The complexity of the plot depends entirely on this "self," which is governed by the "heart." To practise is to cultivate this heart.

Chewu saw how the original, pure, and kind nature—the face one had before one's parents were born—had been sculpted into ugly, impure forms through the weathering of the world. It was truly a tragedy. If the Buddha’s teachings could be spread widely, they could supervise, tame, and soften the habits accumulated over countless lifetimes. By stripping away these layers of impurity, one could rediscover the original, luminous, and bright true self.

The Call of the Buddha

Having seen the illusions of the world, Chewu was filled with a tragic, heroic ambition. He decided to temper his will and toil his body to undergo a complete transformation. He vowed to save the world with a pure, selfless heart. He moved forward with great resolve, following the flow of destiny. He walked the most rugged mountain paths, with no retreat, fearing nothing, trusting only in Amitabha Buddha. He believed that the Buddha would clear the way, cutting through the thorns and brambles. After climbing layer upon layer, a sudden light appeared before him. Rubbing his eyes, he saw a small hermitage. Thirsty and exhausted, he approached to ask for a cup of water. Before he reached the door, an old monk appeared with a cup of water, saying, "The journey was long, but you have arrived. Your steadfast heart has moved Amitabha. With single-minded faith in the Buddha, you will eventually see the Buddha. The gates of the temple are open." Chewu did not fully understand, but he drank the water, grateful for the monk’s compassion.

The old monk invited Chewu to rest. Inside, he saw a pure and dignified statue of Amitabha Buddha, flanked by Bodhisattvas Avalokiteshvara and Mahasthamaprapta. The light from the Three Holy Ones was radiant. Chewu was deeply moved; he had never seen such a captivating and soul-stirring sight. As he knelt to pay his respects, Buddha-light shone from above, revitalising every cell in his body. He felt completely refreshed, and all his fatigue vanished, guided away by the Buddha-light.

Chewu found this immediate response to be inconceivable. After bowing three times, he rose to ask the old monk why this place was so magnificent. To his surprise, the monk had vanished, leaving only a note written in red on white paper: "My child Chewu, out of pity for the suffering of beings, you are willing to share their burdens. Having returned from the human world, you are guided back by the Buddha. I hope your heart to save beings will be vast and boundless. Let this place be your foundation for seclusion. The mountains are pure and quiet; live by your own labour. Every blade of grass and every tree is a sentient being, practising with you, all possessing Buddha-nature. When you have attained success, descend to save beings, bringing forth a new beginning to attain the fruit of Bodhi together. Do not doubt; have only faith. Faith can break ten thousand obstacles. Begin your practice wherever you are, and save beings according to Causal Conditions."

The Seclusion of the Heart

After reading the letter, Chewu understood that everything was a manifestation of Causal Conditions. He resolved to have faith only in Amitabha, living in the present moment without overthinking, and began his diligent practice in seclusion. The hermitage contained only the three Buddha statues, a straw mat, and a room filled with dusty, disorganised sutras. Chewu began to tidy the place. Each morning, he went into the forest to gather firewood, pick wild vegetables and fruits, and draw water from the ancient well in the backyard to cook his simple meals. Though the hermitage was humble, it was a serene and quiet environment for practice. Chewu focused his entire being here.

He familiarised himself with the surroundings—a hermitage nestled in the forest, surrounded by trees, birdsong, and flowers. The fruits and plants were unusually large, unlike anything he had seen before. He planted some in a small plot outside to serve as his main food source. This pure environment naturally purified his heart.

Chewu made prostrations his primary practice. Every day, he diligently bowed, visualising the Buddha-light shining upon him, replacing his cells, and keeping his heart fixed on the Buddha-name. When he felt the presence of karmic creditors causing physical discomfort, he surrendered his body and mind entirely to the Buddha, repenting for the negative karma he had created in the past. His illnesses gradually healed naturally, which he found truly inconceivable.

The hermitage was filled with sutras. He focused on the Amitabha Sutra, with the Lotus Sutra, the Shurangama Sutra, and the Diamond Sutra as supplements. He studied with a calm heart; when he encountered parts he did not understand, he did not force his mind to grasp them, but simply let them be. It seemed that with every bit of purification, he understood the sutras a little more. This happened repeatedly, so he followed the Causal Conditions, not forcing himself to read every text in detail, but remaining unattached to the philosophy of the Dharma. Sometimes, he would have a sudden "Aha!" moment, filled with Dharma joy as if he had discovered a treasure, gaining immense benefits from the Dharma.

Practitioner Che Wu realised that one is always prone to laxity and laziness. As an ordinary person, I am no exception and experience these states as well. The signs of my own slackening include a scattered mind, a lack of focus, a feeling of weakness throughout the body, a lack of motivation, a sense of melancholy, dull eyes, and a tendency toward drowsiness. I often feel as though I am not getting enough sleep, and sometimes the symptoms mimic those of a common cold. Laxity is a natural phenomenon for ordinary people. When one lives in the world, facing the same people and things day after day, one loses a sense of freshness, and the body easily becomes weary and fatigued. At such times, appropriate adjustments and the introduction of new activities can alleviate this state of stagnation.

The Art of Renewing the Spirit

For instance, during my period of practice, I followed a fixed daily schedule. After a while, my body began to experience bouts of drowsiness. To adjust, I replaced the periods prone to lethargy with different activities: I would perform prostrations, practise calligraphy, go into the forest to teach the Dharma to nature, or work in the vegetable garden. These changes prevented my spirit from scattering. Sometimes, when my physical strength could not bear the load, I recognised that timely rest to restore my energy was essential, as the physical body has its limits.

I chose to listen to the Buddha-name, allowing it to permeate my entire body. This allowed every cell to receive the purification and blessing of the Buddha-name, awakening and revitalising them. This method was extremely effective for me; it awakened my dormant cells, allowing me to restore my energy and continue my efforts.

Cultivating the Mind in Daily Life

Carrying the mission to save beings, I constantly sharpen and spur myself on. Life is practice, and practice is the cultivation of the mind. How does one cultivate the mind? Consider these five aspects:

• Overcoming Greed: One must not be attached to anything. For example, do not be greedy for the beautiful scenery of nature, do not be greedy for sleep, do not be greedy for food, and do not be greedy for the dignity of the Buddha’s image. Even in the most subtle moments, one must not harbour greed. One must always maintain a clear awareness, perceiving and then discarding such thoughts.
• Subduing Anger: How does one become angry? It happens when spiritual obstacles manifest; even the smallest matter can cause one to flare up in rage. When anger arises, remind yourself that everything is an illusory appearance. A moment of anger cannot be exchanged for a day of peace, and one would have to start the practice all over again—it is not worth the loss. Moreover, everything is but a phantom.
• Transcending Ignorance: In making any decision, one must follow the teachings rather than acting on one's own will.
• Removing Arrogance: As the body, mind, and spirit are purified, one can penetrate deeper into the philosophy of the Dharma. Everything is a natural phenomenon; there is no room for self-satisfaction or pride.
• Dispelling Doubt: Doubt easily grows during practice because one may feel that there is nothing to touch, nothing to see, and nothing to prove. What is there to doubt? Do not doubt yourself, your abilities, or your true self. Everything is empty and void; to be ignorant is to know nothing, yet to be truly aware is to know everything. There is no need for doubt.

If one can diligently persist, keeping the heart fixed on the Buddha-heart with single-minded focus, why worry about not seeing the light of the heart? Why worry about not seeing one's true self? The true self is inherently empty and does not cling to appearances; this is the ultimate wonder. Practising alone in the mountains, a heart of perseverance governs everything. I persist in what I do and what I learn, without doubt, without mixing in other thoughts, and without interruption, moving forward with the heart to save all beings.

Tests of the Path

During my seclusion, I encountered several inconceivable experiences. One day, after completing my daily and evening practice, I was about to sleep when I heard a knocking at the door: bang, bang, bang. I thought it was an auditory hallucination and ignored it, as the mountains were sparsely populated and it was late at night. I pulled up my blanket and lay down. Then, the sound came again, clear and distinct. Someone was truly knocking. Who could it be? Unable to fathom it, I got up to open the door. Outside, it was pouring with rain. I saw a woman drenched from head to toe, begging me to let her in to escape the storm. Seeing the torrential rain, I let her in. As it is easy for a man and a woman to be misunderstood when alone together, I showed her the toiletries, let her stay the night in the hut, and I immediately put on my cloak and left. I hid under a large rock. The wind and rain were fierce, and the cold bit into my bones, but I spent the night that way. When I returned to the hut at dawn, the door was still locked. Inside, the woman was gone, and none of the items had been used. It was as if it had been a dream. What had I seen? I did not understand, but I firmly believed it was a test from the Buddha or Bodhisattvas. Fortunately, I had no impure thoughts, so I immediately let it go without further reflection.

On another day, I went out to gather wild fruit. Upon returning, I saw the hut engulfed in flames and heard the screams of a woman and a child inside. Without hesitation, I rushed forward, charging into the fire to save them. As I stepped into the inferno, the hut instantly returned to its original state. There was no fire, and no woman or child to be seen. I suddenly awoke from the dream. Everything was an illusion; the dream was testing my courage and resolve.

Yet another day, while walking in the forest, a large, ferocious bear suddenly charged at me. I had no way to retreat, but my heart was fearless, and I stood my ground. As the bear lunged, I closed my eyes and chanted, "Namo Amituofo." Instantly, there was silence. When I opened my eyes, the bear had vanished like smoke. Everything is a test. This physical body exists only to save beings; there is nothing to fear.

The Mission of Saving Beings

In the mountains, where time seems to stand still, I have lost track of how many days have passed. Every day, I cherish the time, not daring to be lax. Saving beings is the goal of my practice. In the mountains, I purify myself bit by bit, not allowing my thoughts to wander. The silence of the mountains allows me to be even more still. Any ripple in my heart is clearly perceived; I pull these ripples out to examine and purify them, not letting them interfere with my practice, which in turn strengthens my clear awareness. My heart dwells in Amitabha. Practising in the mountains, the various inconveniences of life only deepen my firm resolve. I do not want a "self"; I dedicate myself entirely to Amitabha, without a shred of fear or hesitation. The Ultimate Vow I have made was not achieved in a single day.

I did not feel the suffering of the human world when I was young. I decided to leave the temple and come alone into the world to live among people. I saw the myriad states of human life, and every scene I witnessed helped me to awaken. The terrifying thing about the suffering of the human world is that people are trapped in it without knowing they are suffering; they are even infatuated and attached to it, without a single thought of seeking liberation. During my seclusion, I studied many sutras and treatises. In truth, all paths lead to the same source, which is entirely within this "heart." I have had many profound realisations. I searched for the Truth within my own heart and discovered that everything is "void." No-self, no-thought, no-birth, no-death—how free and joyful!

Awakening to the Truth

When I truly calmed my heart, performing prostrations, reciting the sutras, and studying the teachings daily without a single deluded or messy thought, I surrendered myself completely to the Buddha. I let the Buddha lead me to learn the Dharma and to learn purification, layer by layer, as the filth was gradually removed. After some time in seclusion, I began to see images. Although they were blurry, I could vaguely grasp what they were; they seemed to be my past lives. Because of these visions, I finally understood what it means to have created negative karma over accumulated lifetimes. No matter how thoroughly I read the sutras, I could not have truly felt this until I saw these scenes. In these visions, I awakened and repented for the sins I had committed in the past, which had left beings trapped in the sea of suffering! And are not the myriad states of this human world all caused by karma? Reincarnating, reincarnating, endlessly reincarnating! How could one know that a person passing by is actually one's mother from a past life? This world is like a spinning wheel; it turns and turns, and whatever it lands on, one does. After being reborn, one starts all over again. But these past events are still stored in the consciousness. I felt terrified. I finally woke up, but so many beings are still asleep. My heart is filled with sorrow.

I fell into a great illness during this awakening. I was weak and spent most of my time in bed, relying on a little food to sustain myself. In a dream one day, I seemed to have lived through a whole life, like a fleeting dream. The Che Wu who did not become a monk, the Che Wu of the secular world—that was how he lived his life, and where did he go after death? No one knows. When I awoke, I wept bitterly, bowing to the heavens to thank my parents for their kindness in giving me the opportunity to learn the Buddha’s teachings in this life, so that I would not drift in the dust of the world.

I was blessed by the Buddha and was able to find myself through seclusion. Everything in the world is an illusion! I knelt before the Buddha and made a great vow: in this life, I must spread the Dharma to benefit beings, allowing people to hear the Buddha’s teachings, to understand the illusory truth of life, to see through and let go, and to no longer be greedy or attached. I clearly understand that if people do not truly awaken, it is difficult for them to truly see through and let go. But no matter how difficult it is, I will save as many as I can. After I made this great vow, my illness naturally healed within a few days. I became even more convinced of the inconceivable power of the Buddha and more certain of my mission to save beings. I am still a novice monk, but I will surely become a Bhikshu who acts on behalf of the Buddha to save the world!

It has not been easy for me. Just as I made my vow, karma came to test me. I do not cling to this physical sensation; even if the test is great, I must push through. The drowsiness became more severe than before, but I was not afraid, for I knew in my heart that this was also caused by karma. I repented for my past and sincerely begged my karmic creditors to allow me to contribute to the Buddha’s teachings so that more people could hear them. I became even more diligent in my prostrations to overcome my sleepiness, though it seemed that even while prostrating, I was in a state of drowsiness. I began to prostrate on small stones so that I would not be comfortable or at ease, and this indeed improved the situation. I can prostrate under the scorching sun or in the biting wind. I am willing to try every method that can keep me awake, as long as my heart is fixed on the Buddha-name.

Namo Amituofo

When reciting the Sutras, I always kept an ice pack nearby. The moment I felt my mind drifting or my focus slipping, I would immediately press the ice against my eyes, neck, and face. I needed that sharp, freezing sensation to jolt me back to clarity. When I felt drowsy while studying the Sutras, I resolved never to sit in a comfortable position. I ensured the table was at a height that forced me to keep my spine straight, and I sat on the very edge of the chair, leaving most of my weight unsupported, so that I could not succumb to ease or lethargy. If I still felt myself drifting off, I would immediately go outside to catch the breeze, splash water on my face, or perform stretches to regain my alertness.

Regardless of the method, I understood that every time I fell into a stupor, it was a sign that I had lost my vow. I had to remind myself of the suffering of all beings. Thinking of their pain, I would summon my willpower and resolve to break through. How can one expect the fragrance of the plum blossom without enduring the biting cold? How can one hope to help beings leave suffering behind without the constant, unyielding practice of perseverance?

The Return to the Temple

I continued to refine myself in the mountains, tempering my physical body until I finally broke through various obstacles. I knew it was time to progress further, so I resolved to descend the mountain and pay my respects to my teacher. The desire to save beings remained constant in my heart. The path down the mountain was overgrown with thorns and tangled weeds, but I did not fear the hardship. I walked the entire way, hacking through the brambles to carve out a new path, my heart filled with the grand ambition to descend and save all beings. Finally, I returned to the temple to express my gratitude for the Buddha’s grace. A little novice appeared and asked who I was. I told him I was Chewu and wished to see the Abbot. The novice turned and left, and soon I saw my teacher walking slowly toward me. I stepped forward and bowed to thank him for his kindness.

My teacher was delighted to see me return. He took my hand and looked at me with kind, compassionate eyes, saying: "My student Chewu, you have returned after three years. I can tell how you have learned by your appearance. Your eyes are bright and full of spirit, and though you have not groomed your dishevelled face, you hold a pearl within. Your inner light is as clear and pure as glazed glass, unmatched in its dignity. You have returned today with your studies complete, and I have been waiting for you to return to spread the Buddha’s vows. Prepare yourself anew to expand your strength; the time to deliver beings is in every passing second. Do not spare any effort, for there is no time to wait. In the blink of an eye, another moment passes, and beings remain trapped in their suffering. I hope you will lead them out of their dark prisons, saving them one by one so they may leave suffering behind. Only then will your diligent practice not have been in vain." I understood my teacher’s intention, and I, too, made a great vow. Soon, I adjusted my robes and began my mission anew.

The Path of Teaching

I first became a Bhikshu, and after three years of rigorous training and testing, I resolved to dedicate my life to the service of the Dharma. After receiving the Precepts and becoming a Bhikshu, I returned to the temple for further refinement under my teacher. Once I was a Bhikshu, my teacher began to let me practise giving lectures. During my seclusion in the mountains, I had studied many Sutras and treatises, and I had gained my own insights. I learned to articulate what I had realised, and my first lecture deeply moved the hearts of the audience. After my teacher’s careful guidance, I began to lecture to the public, and devotees were invited to the temple to listen. My dignified appearance and presence soon attracted many followers. Having travelled through the world and witnessed the myriad states of human life, I wished to use my lectures to teach and transform people’s hearts. I hoped to awaken the lost, help them find themselves from within their own hearts, and guide them to seek liberation from the six realms of rebirth and rebirth in the Western Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss.

I used historical allusions, true stories, and my own personal experiences to touch people’s hearts. I employed "skillful means" tailored to the capacity of each being, hoping to have a genuine impact on the world rather than letting people become merely obsessed with Buddhist theory. I sincerely hoped that all people could leave suffering behind, learn to change themselves through the Sutras, and let go of this stubborn, rigid "self." I hoped to see a world with a little less selfishness, a little less conflict, and a little more compassion and great love. However, I knew clearly that learning to let go of the "self" is truly difficult. Yet, I would do my best, even if it meant only a small contribution. I did not count how many people truly changed, but I hoped that every lecture would plant a seed of the Buddha in the heart-fields of every devotee, inspiring the good roots already present within them, allowing those roots to grow and evil thoughts to fade away.

Overcoming Internal Obstacles

I was not gifted with eloquent speech, so my lectures lacked elaborate flourishes or flowery packaging; they were simply straightforward and humble. Yet, I sincerely wanted to transform every being. I hoped my lectures would help them see a little more of the suffering in the human world and the suffering of the six realms of rebirth, so that they might create fewer causes for reincarnation and chant the name of Amitabha Buddha more often. My sincerity was something the followers could truly feel, and this attracted many to come and listen. However, this success inadvertently aroused the jealousy of my fellow monastics.

I had not anticipated such a situation. At first, I only felt the cold treatment from my fellow brothers, but later, I began to be ostracised and ignored. I felt the intense waves of jealousy. I knew I could not let this affect me, but my heart ached. The transmission of the Buddha’s teachings requires the monastic community to be of one heart. I was not superior to my brothers; in fact, I needed their help and support. I felt somewhat discouraged. My teacher saw through my heart at a glance. Through a fortuitous encounter, he spoke with me about the matter. I told him of my grand vow and the current situation. My teacher understood completely and even told me that such situations are common in monastic communities. It is said that when one Buddha appears in the world, a thousand Buddhas support him, but how many monastic communities can truly achieve this? Most are filled with jealousy, comparison, and concerns over gain and loss. If this is the case, who will save the beings?

My teacher sighed at the changes in this Five Turbidities and Evil World and was actively trying to restore harmony within the monastic community to reduce the growth of evil actions and thoughts. He told me that the harmony of the monastic community is of utmost importance. A monastic is one who represents the Buddha to save the world; they do not act for fame or profit. What they see and what they think should only be the suffering of beings, with no trace of self-interest involved. If one acts for fame or profit, they are not a disciple of the Buddha; they are even destroying the Buddha’s teachings. Regarding my desire to save beings, my teacher expressed his praise and hoped that I could achieve the "great compassion that arises without conditions" and the "compassion of oneness." He encouraged me to exert even greater compassion and to learn the perspective of non-duality.

A Life Dedicated to Deliverance

I followed his teachings and readjusted myself, facing the jealousy of my brothers with even greater compassion and making a firmer vow to save beings, fearing neither hardship nor obstacles. I interacted with my brothers with the most sincere heart, lowering myself and considering others in all things, allowing myself to endure like the earth—pure and equal.

Under my teacher’s guidance and our mutual encouragement, the relationships among the brothers gradually became harmonious. Each of them became capable of giving lectures and transmitting the Buddha’s lineage, eventually leaving the temple to spread the Dharma and working hard to spread the Pure Land teachings. I did not leave the temple. After my teacher passed away, I succeeded him as the abbot. The days passed very quickly, and I was soon thirty-eight. Through various causal conditions, I accepted many disciples. I placed great importance on their education, fearing that they might create causes for the hells. I had to know the character and capacity of each disciple clearly before teaching them according to their needs.

Every disciple had to start by learning in the kitchen, serving the community. Through this, I tempered their habits. From the smallest tasks—like placing a cup of water or a rice bowl, chopping wood, carrying water, pounding rice, or cooking—they had to serve with sincerity and a selfless heart, living in harmony and cooperating with one another. Furthermore, while the great Sutras are important, all teachings return to the same source: there is nothing that is not about refining this "heart." This heart can lead you to rebirth in the Western Pure Land, or it can drag you down into the hells. Therefore, in teaching my disciples, I placed great emphasis on the refinement of their character and habits, cultivating each of them to be gentle, kind, respectful, and frugal, so they could be pure, equal, and free from impurities, using the most pure and good hearts to save beings.

I seized every second to lecture on the Dharma, hoping that for every person I could influence, one more would leave suffering behind and find happiness. I exhausted all my strength to save beings. By the time I was seventy, I had over ten thousand disciples, and I knew the time of my departure in advance, passing away freely to be reborn in the Western Pure Land of Ultimate Bliss.

I am not skilled with words, but I have left these few lines to describe my life, fortunate to share them with the world.

Fa Jing: Thank you, Great Master Chewu, for your compassion. Namo Amituofo.

The content of this interview was recorded by the Buddha’s disciple, Shi Fajing.