The Gaze of the Eyes

In the early morning, mist still hung softly among the trees before the temple. I was sitting in meditation in my small hermitage when heavy footsteps echoed toward me. The wooden door creaked open, and a middle-aged man stood towering before me. He said not a word, only gazing at me with deep, hollow eyes that were cold as an endless abyss.

He was the temple caretaker, whom the villagers often described as gentle and quiet. They would say, "Rest assured, Venerable, he is very kind; he never harms anyone." Yet from that first glance, I felt a chill run down my spine. There was no compassion in those eyes, only calculation and something else that made me realize this person was far from simple.

I recalled the story of another lay Buddhist woman. She once told me, "Venerable, when I married, my mother said, 'That man is gentle and quiet; you should marry him.' I listened to my mother and wed him. But who could have known he was violent and cruel? He beat me for years until I finally had to divorce." I shook my head when I heard this, and now, I was facing someone wearing the same mask of being "gentle and quiet."

One week after I arrived to serve as the abbot, on an early morning when the temple was empty, he entered my room. He did not knock or greet me. He simply stood there, looked straight into my eyes, and said, "Leave this temple."

I sat calmly, showing neither surprise nor fear. I asked, "By what right do you expel me?"

He gave a faint, bitter laugh, his voice rough and hoarse. "I have guarded this temple for decades. Many monks and nuns have come here, and I have driven them all away. You are no exception."

I looked directly into those eyes, where the malice I had sensed from the first day resided. I replied, "You cannot decide this alone. Gather all the lay Buddhists, involve the local authorities, and then we will discuss it."

He froze, surprised by my calmness. He muttered a few words under his breath and left. That evening, the lay Buddhists and the authorities held a meeting. They declared, "Please stay, Venerable. We support you." So I remained, while he stormed out of the temple in anger.

But the story did not end there. After leaving, he sought every possible way to harm me. Sinister plots occurred one after another, causing me to endure a period of great suffering because of this person. I came to understand: a quiet exterior does not always signify kindness. Some people are silent because their mind/heart is spacious and peaceful, but others are silent because they hide cruelty within, waiting for the right moment to strike.

How can we tell the difference? We must look into the eyes. If the eyes show compassion, ease, and relaxation, then the person is truly kind. But if the eyes are deep, cunning, and cold, no matter how little they speak, we should never place our trust in them.

The Meaning of the Story

The lesson on the virtue of discretion goes beyond merely refraining from boasting about one's own merits. It also involves vigilance against those who conceal a dark nature beneath a quiet exterior. The eyes are the windows to the soul—look into them to discern truth from falsehood, rather than rushing to believe in words or outward silence.

Compiled from the dharma talk of Most Venerable Thich Chan Quang