Meet the allegedly sex-crazed ‘CEO monk’ who disgraced a world-famous kung fu academy

BEIJING, China — No, Grasshopper, you won’t get a Mercedes and a harem of girls by becoming a Shaolin master.

Unless, that is, you’re Shi Yongxin, abbot of China’s famous Shaolin Monastery, who has disappeared from public view amid a deepening financial and sexual scandal that’s put the spotlight on some decidedly unholy practices at the once-sacred birthplace of Shaolin kung fu.

For years, Abbott Shi, who was long rumored to have an MBA (he has spoken out to say he doesn’t), ran the temple as a profitable enterprise, peddling an idyllic vision of ascetic living in the mountains. Once a modest disciple, Shi eventually presided over a Shaolin-branded empire that, since its 1997 trademarking, has come to encompass kung fu schools, traveling martial-arts shows, a failed IPO attempt and, most recently, plans for a $297 million Australian spinoff that would include a temple, hotel and golf course.

This commercial success attracted criticism in plenty, along with intense media interest (Newsweek, who lengthily profiled the abbot twice, observed that Shi’s business acumen came with persistent dark rumors).

In response, the monastery sought brand and online media managers — no knowledge of Buddhist scriptures required. The abbot’s admirers included Kissinger, Putin and Shaquille O’Neill, but Shi’s detractors were never far from the iPad-wielding monk, even as the 54-year-old assured interviewers that, as far as the government was concerned, “Everyone is very satisfied.”

But when the stories of Shi’s corruption resurfaced last month, in the midst of a high-profile campaign on corruption, Shi’s veil of official protection was quickly torn — then rent asunder.

Abbott Shi at the temple during the shooting of a kung-fu reality TV show.

The intrigue began with accusations that the supposedly celibate monk had fathered a son with at least one female devotee. Further revelations, including that Shi was expelled from the temple in 1988 for gangster-like activities, including organized theft, prompted the government to act: “Our [religious affairs] bureau takes this extremely seriously and will swiftly clarify,” a notice promised this week.

“The business-oriented development path [Shi] has guided Shaolin Temple along give[s] the impression it is being more commercialized than any other religious body,” the Beijing News drily observed. But the fact that years of free-market capitalism may have corrupted the noble Shaolin tradition has interested China’s public less than a drip-feed of tabloid detail.

Shi was a “maniacal womanizer,” a whistleblower believed to be a former disciple alleges, who used millions of embezzled dollars to support his sexual habit, with children and grandchildren in Anhui province and a mistress in Australia. One woman boasted she has the underwear — supposedly an intimate gift from the abbot — to prove it. Another said she had preserved Shi’s DNA in a soiled condom. Allegations that the so-called “CEO Monk” ate beef despite Buddhism’s vegetarian lifestyle are probably the least of his worries.

For now, the temple is zealously defending the abbot, warning its anonymous accusers of the possible legal repercussions. But these claims are unlikely to be contested in an open courtroom. On China’s strictly controlled internet, spreading rumors is a reliable sign that an official attempt to defenestrate Shi may be underway.

If so, Shi will surely not be the first spiritual icon to be exposed as a huckster, or worse: former qigong “master to the stars” Wang Lin, for example, currently faces charges including murder, while Wu Zeheng, an alleged cult leader, stands accused of multiple rapes and fraud. Oftentimes, it’s not hard for a charismatic visionary with an appetite for good living to make his way to some far-flung township in China and claim to be a living god.

Celebrities like singer Faye Wong are mocked for kowtowing to Taoist “masters” who were later exposed as charlatans, but the corruption goes all the way to the bottom.

Fake monks, selling bogus blessings and swilling beer on the subway, have long been considered a nuisance. In 2013, an investigative report by Southern Weekly exposed how a failed development at one ancient Buddhist site in Xian had left an abandoned “scenic spot” crawling with “monks” targeting gullible tourists. The Shaolin scandal has already exposed the lifestyle of another false abbot in Wenzhou, a city in Zhejiang province, whose alleged career, crimes and even name bear a startling similarity to Shi’s.

The real question about Shi’s apparent downfall may be not whether it happens, but why it took so long.