A Slap on the Back of a Saint

The sun stood high over the region of Savatthi, the pebbles along the road radiating heat. The sound of the alms bell drifted from afar, steady and clear. Venerable Sariputta walked barefoot, his yellow robes folded in neat pleats, each step light as drifting clouds. Behind him, a middle-aged brahmin followed anxiously at a distance—a polished figure of the upper class, yet with a heart boiling over with an anger he could hardly put into words.

"He walks so serenely, nothing like what people praise. I must test him to believe it," the man muttered through clenched teeth, his right hand clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

This brahmin was well known in the area, accustomed to mingling with friends and neighbors. But in recent months, ever since the Buddha came to teach, and Venerable Sariputta took up residence at Jetavana monastery, his acquaintances had one by one taken refuge in the Buddha's teachings (Dharma). Whenever they gathered, the conversation always turned to praising Venerable Sariputta: flawless in virtue, his mind unshaken, every gesture dignified without a single flaw. Hearing this over and over, his ordinary pride began to stir. He thought to himself, "How could I possibly be inferior to a mere almsman?" A quiet jealousy took root, and he resolved to put him to the test.

That afternoon, he followed the venerable one to a deserted stretch of road. His breath came quick, his heart pounding in his chest. He hesitated for a moment, then the aggression of a man never before challenged rose up within him.

"I refuse to believe there is anyone in this world without pride. Let us see if he is truly unmoved!"

He swung his arm and struck Venerable Sariputta hard on the back, a stinging blow. By ordinary instinct, anyone whose body is struck flares up in anger—all the more so when it is deliberate. Yet the venerable one only paused slightly in his step. He did not turn around, his shoulders still perfectly composed.

"What is the matter?"

His voice was calm and gentle, as if nothing had happened at all. Then he continued walking. The brahmin stood frozen, his hands trembling. In his mind flashed an image of himself: if anyone so much as stepped on his foot by accident at the market, he would snap at them—how much more if struck on purpose. And yet before him, this saint remained unmoved, without anger, without resentment.

"Please forgive me, I have done wrong," he murmured, tears welling in his eyes.

He knelt down in the middle of the dusty road and grasped the hem of the venerable one's robe:

"Please come to my home, and let me make offerings to atone for this wrong."

Venerable Sariputta gently nodded. News of the incident spread like the wind. By evening, dozens of lay devotees came crowding to the man's gate, faces flushed, clubs in hand.

"Whoever dared strike Venerable Sariputta must be punished at once!"

The brahmin trembled as he backed against the wall. Just then, the venerable one stepped out of the house, his compassionate gaze softening over the whole crowd.

"He struck me, but I have forgiven him. He knows remorse now. Do not be angry any longer—go home in peace."

One zealous layman shouted:

"But Venerable, he insulted one of great nobility. How can you simply let it pass?"

The venerable one smiled:

"I have forgiven him, and my mind holds no trace of anger. Learn to have a tolerant heart, my children. Do not let hatred blind your eyes."

The crowd fell silent, their faces gradually cooling. They laid down their clubs, bowed in respect, and dispersed. The brahmin breathed a deep sigh of relief and invited the venerable one inside to prepare a meal as an offering. The meal passed in quiet stillness, and as he watched the venerable one eat slowly and gracefully, his admiration knew no bounds.

The turning point came when the venerable one departed, leaving him sitting alone beneath the oil lamp. It suddenly dawned on him: if he had not repented in time, then—according to what the Buddha would later teach—striking an Arhat brings the karmic retribution of hell for fifty to a hundred lifetimes, followed by rebirth as an animal enduring beatings, and even as a human, a life of lowly station. The thought of this spiritual death, which had come within a hair's breadth of touching him, made him shudder.

The next morning, he dressed himself carefully and accompanied the venerable one to Jetavana monastery to take refuge in the Buddha. Before the Buddha, he bowed his head:

"World-Honored One, I was foolish and deluded. I tested Venerable Sariputta with a painful blow. Because he forgave me, I am still alive, and now I wish to take refuge in the Buddha."

The Buddha spoke gently: "To strike one of great nobility brings suffering a thousand times over. But one who knows repentance, whose heart is made new, shall be released." From then on he lived on, cultivating the path, his reverence for Venerable Sariputta boundless.

Many years later, throughout the region of Savatthi, everyone knew of a former brahmin, now a devout layman, who swept the monastery courtyard every morning and poured water for the monks. He often told his children and grandchildren:

"My back once struck a saint, but a heart of repentance made me a new person. Honor the virtuous ones, my children—do not be as I once was."

In his next life, according to his karma and conditions, he faced the corresponding retribution: at times he was beaten badly because of that old karma, yet he was also invited into homes and honored with offerings in recompense. As life flowed on, the lesson sank so deeply into him that his old pride no longer had any hold.

## The Meaning of the Story

This story shows that the instinct of anger and pride exists in everyone; only a saint has uprooted it completely. To insult one of great nobility reaps suffering a thousand times over, but knowing remorse and taking refuge can transform karma. We must protect ourselves with a heart of reverence, and avoid creating evil karma toward the saints.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang.