Pt 1: Why It Is So Rare to Find a Great Master

There are millions of people across the world practising Wing Tsun and Wing Chun in various forms. But how many of these are truly masters—and why is it so rare to find great masters in any field?

It’s often said that in any discipline, there are rarely more than a handful of true greats. But why is this? And how do we come to recognise them?

The Snake Oil Problem

One of the greatest challenges in life is learning to see clearly—to distinguish those who are genuinely skilled from those who simply claim to be. It’s the classic snake oil problem. As the saying (often attributed to P.T. Barnum) goes, “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

Humans, by nature, are trusting. And so we are often taken in by confidence tricksters—people who appear competent in how they carry themselves. They present well, move with ease, speak with certainty—but in truth are like puppets: impressive on the outside, but empty on the inside. They are all stage, with nothing behind the curtain.

The Visibility Problem

This leads to what I call the visibility problem: the most visible people are often not the most skilled. In fact, masters are often quiet—too busy training, refining, studying—to be posting daily on social media. I know for myself, and many of my colleagues, this is the last thing we think of when doing our daily routines.

So many of those who reach prominence are not masters of their craft, but masters of promotion. And ironically, that is usually a poor indicator of genuine depth, because most masters are focused on their own development—not on telling everyone how great they are.

My Role as a Teacher
My own role, as a teacher, is to facilitate the development of students and teachers – to help bring out their latent potential (you can read more about the six skills of a master in an earlier post). My job is to help others see for themselves—to develop discernment.

And this is hard. We are all too prone to being judgemental: forming opinions based on what we like or dislike, on characteristics we are drawn to or repelled (often based on our own experiences and perception). I was certainly guilty of this in my younger years. But in Wing Tsun, our focus is not on judgement, but on discernment. The aim is to see clearly, but without condemnation or personal preference. For, as the saying attributed to John Bradford goes, “There but for the grace of God go I.” Or as the Chan Buddhist saying states “When you see faults in others, reflect on whether you have them too.”

The Master’s Eye
As a master, you become far less interested in personalities. You understand we all have them, but they do not reflect our deepest essence. Indeed, Wing Tsun was developed as an art to take you beyond the mask of our personality —to strip back what is superficial and train you to see clearly. As a master, you become less interested in personal charm or charisma.  You then begin to analyse and ask more poignant questions such as:

·       Are things congruent?

·       Do the words match the actions?

·       Are there gaps in logic or inconsistencies in behaviour?

Wing Tsun trains both the rational and intuitive aspects of the human being. This dual development gives rise to what I call the Master’s Eye—a cultivated ability to see beneath the surface, to understand deeply, and to know what is valuable. You learn to trust both your logic and your feeling

The Ego Trap

Then comes the ego trap—perhaps the most subtle and insidious of all. Too many people become focused with their own greatness and forget that the true measure of a master lies not only in their own actions, but in the actions of their students. As I’ve told my senior students for years: There is no master without students.

The greatest responsibility of a master is to pass the art on—not to become the most famous person in the room. In the early part of your martial journey, your role is to become the best you can be. But once you reach the level of a master, you realise: your role is to create a positive legacy. This is something the Shaolin Temple understood deeply. It’s not either/or. You can pursue personal greatness and create lasting legacy—but that requires an understanding that your wider purpose is now greater than yourself.

The Economic Trap

There is also the economic trap. The reality is: it’s difficult to teach and still make a living. You have to make tough decisions. You must monetise your skill in ways that serve your students, not simply extract money from them.

There’s nothing wrong with charging for the art. In fact, it's often essential. As humans, we mostly value what we pay for—and this can be a strength or a weakness, depending on how it's approached.

But what you want to avoid is turning your teaching into a McDojo—where the focus becomes artificial barriers and constant upselling, rather than the art itself. I've seen this in martial arts organisations, where the structure feels more like a business funnel than a path to mastery. The trap is summed up well by Oscar Wilde: “They know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”

True masters must navigate the middle way—a path that offers financial sustainability without sacrificing the integrity of the art. This is the same challenge faced by great institutions everywhere, from the Shaolin Temple to modern charities.

My path as both practitioner and teacher—across ancient wisdom, modern education, and personal mastery—gives me a unique lens on what true martial art actually means to me. This is why I teach not only techniques, but frameworks for understanding—like the Wisdom Triangle, which we’ll explore next.

Sifu