The Vow of Compassion

This is a record of an interview with Mufeng, who sought Chao Du at the Hsiang Kuang Pure Land Buddhist Centre in Australia. He now resides in the Western Land of Dharma Nature. This account reflects upon his life approximately 320 years ago. Recorded by the chief writer, Shi Fa, on May 14, 2019.

Mufeng speaks:

"Namo Amituofo. I am Mufeng. When I was first abandoned on the mountainside, I was snatched up in an instant by a wolf dog. The creature had no intention of harming me; instead, it gripped the collar of my clothing and began to trot steadily toward the deep mountains. But before we could reach the place the dog intended to take me, I suddenly tumbled from its jaws. The wolf dog collapsed, blood streaming from its body, and never rose again. It had been struck down by a hunter's long arrow. Three or four hunters emerged from the woods, and one of the older men shouted, 'Everyone, come quickly! Look! That wolf dog was carrying a human infant!' The others rushed over, and one of my companions exclaimed in disbelief, 'It really is a little boy! He must have been discarded by his own family.' Another asked, 'What should we do? Shall we take him with us?' A third replied, 'Of course we must take him! Are we to leave him here to be torn apart by wild beasts?' After a brief discussion, they decided to take me in. One of the hunters placed me into the basket he carried on his back, and I spent the journey home swaying and tumbling within that woven container."

A Miraculous Rescue in the Wild

"Before we even reached the hunter's home, I could hear the joyful laughter of children from afar. From within the basket, I heard the hunter muttering to himself, 'Children truly are innocent and precious!' He quickened his pace, as if he could not wait to return to his family. As he stepped into the courtyard, a group of children swarmed out to surround him, shouting, 'Father is back! Father is back!' His wife emerged from the house and asked, 'Did you have any luck today?' The hunter walked inside, followed by the entire family. He set the basket on the table and lifted me out. His wife gasped in surprise, 'Whose child is this? Why have you brought someone else's baby home?' The hunter explained, 'I found him in the jaws of a wolf dog while hunting today. It seems he was abandoned.' The woman took me from his arms and studied my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my brows, and my ears. She sighed with pity, 'This child is so exquisite; his features are so refined, yet he is a child that no one wants. I wonder which family could be so cruel? It is truly heartbreaking.' The hunter suggested, 'Indeed! I felt such pity for him that I brought him back. What do you think if we raise this child as our own?' After a moment of reflection, his wife nodded, 'We have no other choice; we certainly cannot abandon him now!' From that day on, I lived in the hunter's home, becoming the ninth child of the family."

A Heart That Could Not Kill

"The hunter became my father, his wife my mother, and all their children my brothers. We became a family, living together in that small wooden cabin. Mother said happily, 'It has been years since we had a child this small in the house; he is truly adorable.' Father decided, 'Let us name him Mufeng.' Mother agreed, 'That is a wonderful name. All the children have the character 'Mu' in their names, so this makes us feel even more like a true family!' My brothers, seeing how cute I was, vied for the chance to hold me; they all cherished me dearly as their newborn younger brother.

Time passed, and I grew day by day. After a long period of drinking rice water, I began to eat solid food. Mother tried to feed me meat, but the moment it neared my lips, I felt a wave of nausea and could not swallow a single bite. She tried for several days, but eventually, she had to accept that I was a child who simply could not eat meat. Everyone in that house loved meat; they ate the game Father brought home at every meal, especially the fresh wild boar, which was their favourite. Yet, I dared not touch it, subsisting only on the vegetables grown in our garden. When I was old enough to speak, my eldest brother asked, 'Mufeng, this meat is so delicious, why do you refuse to eat it?' I shook my head and told him, 'I do not know why, but the very scent of this meat makes me want to retch.' When I witnessed these animals being slaughtered, I felt a profound sorrow. I dared not watch; whenever Father prepared to kill a pig or any other creature, I would run away, unable to bear the sight of such cruelty. My brothers found this strange. My second brother said, 'You grew up with us, so you should be accustomed to this life. We have watched Father slaughter hundreds of pigs since we were small. At first, it was shocking, but now we are used to it and feel nothing. You should be the same; why do you still look so terrified?' I did not understand it myself. It was not fear I felt, but a deep, aching sadness. Why I felt this way, I could not say."

The First Step Into the Unknown

"One day, Father called me over and said, 'Mufeng, come here. I will teach you how to slaughter a pig.' He held a sharp blade and commanded me to take it. I looked at the wild boar before me—it was still breathing, though its body was severely wounded and it could no longer move. I saw the panic and helplessness in the boar's eyes. I told Father I did not want to learn, but he insisted, 'If you want to be a real man, you must learn to kill.' He forced the knife into my hand. No matter how I protested, he remained adamant. I held the blade in my right hand, but it trembled uncontrollably. The shaking grew so violent that before the steel even touched the boar's skin, I dropped the knife in terror and bolted from the house. I ran as fast as I could, fearing Father would chase after me.

I ran and ran, until I had left the entire forest behind. It was my first time leaving that woods, my first glimpse of the world beyond. I had no idea where to go, and every sight was utterly foreign to me. Though I did not know my destination, I kept walking until my legs ached and my stomach growled with hunger. I sat on the stone steps by the roadside, watching the crowds pass by. Suddenly, a ball rolled to my feet. I looked toward the direction it came from and saw my eighth brother! He was three years older than me—I was seven, and he was ten. He loved to wander off on his own and only return home when it was time. I never expected to encounter him on this street.

He asked, 'Why are you here all by yourself? Do you know the way back?' Before I could answer, my stomach spoke for me with a loud, hungry rumble. He asked, 'Who told you not to eat meat? If you ate meat, you wouldn't be so hungry!' I shook my head, 'I will not. Eating meat is cruel. I would rather starve than eat it.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out some money Mother had given him before he left—she always gave him a little in case he needed it, though he rarely spent it, preferring to return home for meat. He took me to find food, and after searching, we found a shop that sold no meat. The owner asked, 'Child, how many steamed buns do you want?' I asked my brother, 'Shall we share one?' He nodded, so I bought a single bun, and we returned to the stone steps to eat half each. As I ate, I was lost in thought. He asked, 'What are you thinking about?' I told him, 'Father wanted me to learn to slaughter a pig today. I couldn't even hold the knife steady; I was shaking so much that I dropped it and ran away. I don't want to learn, but Father says a man must know how to kill. What should I do? I don't want to go home and face him.' He laughed and said, 'Then just tell Father you want to be a monk! Monks eat vegetarian food and chant the Buddha's name; they don't have to carry knives or kill pigs. Isn't that exactly what you want?' He was only joking, but I took it quite seriously. I couldn't help but ask, 'What do monks do? Why don't they have to eat meat?' He laughed again, 'You don't really want to be a monk, do you?' I replied, 'If being a monk means I don't have to eat meat, then of course I want to be one!' He laughed even louder, 'Don't be ridiculous! Monks cannot marry or have children, they have to chant every day, and they have no freedom at all. If you become a monk, you can't sit on the roadside eating buns with me, and you can't come home. You have to live in a temple. If Father takes us out to play, you can't go because you are a monk, a practitioner, and you must set the best example for everyone.' I asked curiously, 'Why are there so many rules for monks?' He replied, 'Why... you ask me why? I don't know, because I've never thought about being a monk. I love meat; my life would be empty without it. Do you know how tempting the aroma of meat is? And the texture when you chew it! Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.' As he spoke, he actually wiped his mouth. I could not comprehend how meat could be so delicious. When I thought of living animals being slaughtered and their flesh cut away piece by piece, I dared not think any further."

I initially did not want to return home, but my eighth brother insisted on pulling me back. He knew I had nowhere else to go and that our family would be frantic with worry if they came out looking for me. When we arrived home, Mother had already prepared the meal. The entire table was laden with meat, save for a single plate of vegetables—that was my portion. The whole family sat down to eat, and Father had a strict rule that no one was to speak during meals. Consequently, the only sounds throughout the entire dinner were the clinking and clattering of bowls and chopsticks. As soon as I finished eating, I retreated to my room. My older brothers were already lying on the bed, playing and joking around. My eldest brother noticed me and asked, "Mu Feng, why the long face? I wanted to ask you during dinner, but Father forbade us from speaking. What on earth has happened to you?" My eldest brother was over ten years my senior, practically a young man already. I asked him, "Eldest Brother, do you know what monks actually do?" He looked at me, puzzled. "Why the sudden interest in monks? Are you interested in becoming one?" I nodded and told him, "Eighth Brother told me today that monks eat only vegetarian food and chant the Buddha's name all day; they never touch meat. If I could become a monk, I wouldn't be forced by Father to learn how to slaughter pigs and hunt. I think that would be wonderful." My brother pondered for a long time before speaking: "In our region, no one has ever become a monk, and I have never seen one here. However, I once heard about the Buddha’s teachings from an elderly man who used to chant the Buddha's name. He would often sit under a large tree and share these teachings with everyone. I listened a few times, so I know what monks do. The old man said that those who become monks are incredibly compassionate people. They are not like us, obsessed with eating, drinking, and playing every day. They do not have the various desires that we do, nor do they concern themselves with worldly emotions. They practice either alone or alongside other monks in a monastery. Their primary purpose in leaving home is to help others. The old man called it... sentient beings, yes! He said monks leave home to save sentient beings because sentient beings suffer greatly and need the Buddha’s teachings to help them. Monks are the ones who introduce the Buddha’s teachings to sentient beings, and they use these teachings to help them resolve their afflictions and overcome the difficulties they encounter in life." I listened with such intense focus that I didn't even realise my mouth was hanging open. After hearing my brother’s explanation, I was even more interested in becoming a monk. Deep in my heart, there had always been a desire to help people, but I hadn't known how to go about it. Now, hearing what my brother said, I felt that what I wanted to do was very similar to what monks do! From that day on, I began asking everyone I met where I could find a monk.

The Journey to the Monastery

It took a great deal of effort to convince Father and Mother to let my eldest brother accompany me on a journey that lasted over ten days to reach this monastery. I only told them I wanted to visit, keeping my true intention of becoming a monk to myself. Along the way, my brother explained the monastery's rules to me—such as maintaining silence, walking softly, showing respect when seeing the Buddha, and bowing politely to the masters. I was surprised that he knew so much about the monastery just from listening to a few talks by that old man; he spoke as if he had been there before. I couldn't help but ask, "Eldest Brother, have you been to a monastery before?" He was startled by my question and asked in surprise, "How did you know?" I smiled and said, "I guessed! Because I know you also dislike eating meat, and you only do it because Father and Mother force you to." Upon hearing this, he immediately wore a look of resignation. He told me, "Actually, I have also wanted to leave home. I don't know why, but I feel drawn to this path. But I know Father and Mother would never permit it, as I am the eldest son and their greatest hope in life. I don't want to disappoint them, but I also don't want to abandon my dream. Whenever I think about it, I feel a sense of sorrow, so I try to bury that feeling with other things. I never expected you to have the same thoughts. I suppose I am lucky that you are the one who brought this up, giving me the chance to visit the monastery with you." Hearing him say this made me so happy. The more people who become monks, the greater the power to save sentient beings. This is a truly good thing.

A Difficult Choice and Parental Disapproval

We paid our respects to the Buddha at the monastery and shared our aspirations with the masters there. They invited us to attend the sutra lectures, and my brother and I were overjoyed. Although we still didn't know how to break the news to our parents, the mere thought of beginning to learn the Buddha’s teachings filled our hearts with inexplicable joy. From that day on, we went to the monastery every week to listen to the lectures, but we didn't tell our parents where we were going. It wasn't until they grew suspicious that they asked my other brothers, "Where do your eldest brother and Mu Feng go every week?" My eighth brother immediately jumped in and said, "They go to the monastery because Mu Feng wants to become a monk!" Father and Mother’s expressions changed instantly upon hearing this, especially Mother. She shouted, "Become a monk?" My eighth brother nodded triumphantly, as if he had just revealed some earth-shattering news. That evening, as soon as my brother and I returned home, we saw Father and Mother sitting in the living room. Mother was holding a wooden stick, clearly waiting to punish us. My brother asked, "What is going on?" Mother immediately demanded, "You want to become monks, don't you?" My brother was too afraid to speak, so I bravely said, "Yes! We want to leave home to save sentient beings. Please, Father and Mother, fulfil our wish." Mother struck us hard on our backs with the stick, scolding, "Unfilial sons! Unfilial sons! We raised two unfilial sons!" My brother and I endured the beating without a word, and it was only when Father took the stick away that Mother finally stopped.

The Path of Diligent Practice

For an entire week, Mother refused to speak to us. Her expression told us that she was deeply hurt and disappointed. My brother and I didn't know how to comfort her, but we held firm in our conviction. We knew we had to leave home in this lifetime. After attending those lectures, we understood the suffering of sentient beings even more clearly. We could no longer waste our lives or let time slip away; only by leaving home to practice could we truly help them. My brother and I prayed constantly for the Buddha's blessing, asking for help so that we could successfully leave home.

Time passes quickly, and two years had already gone by. During those two years, neither my brother nor I ever abandoned our dream of leaving home; we continued to actively seek the opportunity. In those two years, we changed significantly through our study of the Buddha’s teachings, earning the praise of the entire village. We realised that the greatest difference between before and after studying the Buddha’s teachings was the growth of our compassion. We learned how to help others, how to introduce the Buddha’s teachings to them, and how to help those who were suffering find liberation. Although we had not yet left home, we had already begun to learn how to spread the Dharma, explaining simple principles to people wherever we went. Over those two years, many villagers benefited, and they would come to our home to share their joy with me, my brother, and our parents. One by one, more and more people came to tell our parents about the good deeds my brother and I had done. Father and Mother seemed to begin accepting our practice. By the third year, when we once again expressed our desire to leave home, they did not beat us, nor did they oppose us. Instead, they said, "If you truly want to leave home, you must be determined. We have watched you two diligently doing good deeds for the past two years, so there is little left for us to say. We have come to terms with it; our family will manage without the two of you. Just remember to tell us before you leave so we can see you off." My brother and I both knew that although Mother’s words were a bit bitter, she had finally accepted our decision.

A Life Dedicated to Saving Beings

The next morning, my brother and I prepared to depart. Father and Mother felt it was all too sudden, as if we had no attachment to the home at all. In truth, that was not the case; it was because we knew that the suffering of sentient beings is extreme and cannot be delayed for even a moment. Since we were determined to leave home, we had to act immediately to realise our true nature and help sentient beings as soon as possible. Father, Mother, and my seven brothers saw us off. My second brother even held his child in one arm and his wife’s hand in the other as he walked with us. Seeing the sacrifices he made for his family only strengthened our resolve; we knew that this path was the only correct one.

At the monastery, I was a little novice, and my brother was a Bhikshu. We each practiced diligently, never forgetting the suffering of sentient beings. The environment of the monastery allowed for a much faster purification than practicing at home. Every day, immersed in the Buddha’s teachings, our hearts became more settled and clear. My brother and I were filled with gratitude for this magnificent Causal Condition to leave home and study the Buddha’s teachings. This sense of appreciation and gratitude drove us to practice even harder, never allowing a moment of laziness. After decades of effort, we finally realised our true nature, practiced widely in the world to save others, and ultimately attained rebirth in the Western Pure Land, fulfilling our Ultimate Vow.

Practitioner Su bears the suffering of all beings, never uttering a single word of complaint. Although not a monastic, his heart is already that of a pure Bhikshu. His Precepts are as clear as lapis lazuli, his conduct is pure, and he strictly upholds the Universal Principles, never violating the Precepts. All sentient beings in the three-thousand-great-thousand worlds are one with Practitioner Su; he views them as himself, as one body. The suffering of sentient beings cuts through Practitioner Su’s heart like a knife. To help them leave suffering behind as soon as possible, he has never been lax in his thirty years of practice. Whether listening to the sutras, performing prostrations, chanting the Buddha's name, or reciting the sutras, he is always diligent and persevering, with unparalleled willpower. It is only because of this that he has been able to realise the Dharma Body and perform Chao Du for the endless spirits of the universe. Namo Amituofo.

Throughout history, very few practitioners have truly understood that the vast majority of sentient beings remain trapped within various dimensions, unable to be saved. If it were not for Practitioner Su opening these dimensions today, these sentient beings—who have been trapped for thousands of years—would still be unable to escape their confinement.

The Agony of Attachment

The suffering of these sentient beings stems from their deep-seated attachments. They are so fixated on the specific space or dimension they once occupied that they simply cannot let go. Even when the Buddha arrives to guide them, they stubbornly cling to their own attachments. This is why, when Practitioner Su performs Chao Du, he must engage in extensive lectures to enlighten these beings.

The Power of Compassionate Teaching

Every sentient being within these dimensions can hear the voice of Practitioner Su as he delivers his teachings. He may have to save them once, twice, or even three times, but eventually, there will come a moment when they are successfully saved. Once these sentient beings finally release their attachments and awaken from the darkness of their dimensions, they truly realise the magnificent nature of the Buddha’s teachings. They are moved to tears, filled with immense gratitude towards Practitioner Su for his compassionate rescue. Namo Amituofo.

This interview was recorded by the chief writer, Buddhist disciple Shi Fajing.