The Mountain Gate and the Silent Flies

On that night, high atop the mountain, the wind whispered endlessly through the pine trees. The bright moonlight bathed the temple courtyard, where hundreds of devotees knelt in heartfelt reverence during the Vu Lan ceremony. The atmosphere was solemn and quiet, yet wonderfully warm, filled with the breath of filial piety and spiritual faith. The abbot stood before the assembly, his deep, gentle voice echoing between the mountains:

"Today, I wish to tell you a small story, but one that reflects the entire age in which we are living."

He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the horizon, where the city lights twinkled like fallen stars. Memory carried him back to the old days, when the nation was still poor and the electrical grid did not yet cover every place.

In those times, in the countryside, each evening was a long, drawn-out stretch if there was nothing to do. Every household had the faint, flickering light of a kerosene lamp. The adults would sit drinking tea, the children would play hide-and-seek. But the most crowded, lively, and joyful gathering place was always the village temple. Why? Because only the temple had enough light (even if just from pressurized lamps), and more importantly, the temple was the only place that had "people."

He recalled when he was a young novice monk, tired from a day working the fields, rushing to wash in time for the evening chanting. When the temple bell rang, villagers—young and old, men and women—would all come out. They came not only to pray for peace, but to seek connection. After the chanting, the elder monks would give a dharma talk, telling stories of the Buddha and enlightened masters. The laughter and animated discussions made the temple the cultural and spiritual heart of the entire region.

"In those days, the temple was number one," he said with a smile. But the smile quickly faded as he turned to the present reality. Technology one-point-oh, with its steam engines, and then two-point-oh with electrification, changed how people worked. But it was technology three-point-oh, and especially four-point-oh—artificial intelligence and the internet of things—that truly created a painful turning point for traditional religion.

He continued: "You know, lately I often pass by many different temples. I only need to look at the temple gate to gauge how 'alive' a place is. There's no need to ask, no need to stay for a few days. The secret lies in... the flies."

The assembly was surprised, and a few murmurs arose. He explained:

"Flies are very sensitive to the smell of food and human presence. If a temple gate is deserted, with no one coming and going, no offerings being made, then even the flies won't bother to fly in. Twenty years ago, whether more or less, you would still see the shadows of people coming and going. But now, even during the Vu Lan season, the Buddha's Birthday, many temples remain utterly still and cold. There is no human voice, no thick incense smoke, and of course, no flies either."

This emptiness is not due to natural disaster or war, but to a silent "migration" of the human soul. Time spent on Facebook, TikTok, YouTube, online games… has completely consumed the daily routine. When a young man was asked why he no longer went to the temple, he answered bluntly:

"There’s no Wi-Fi at the temple, no social media, no attractive short clips. At home, I have the whole world at my fingertips. Going to the temple is so boring, teacher."

That statement cut into the heart of the monastic like a knife. It laid bare a harsh truth: the virtual life on "the cloud" has become more real and more appealing than the real life on the ground. People are willing to spend money on data plans and invest in smart devices, yet hesitate to step through the temple’s Three-Gate entrance.

The abbot pointed to a deeper cause: "It’s not that people abandoned the temple; the temple abandoned the people." While the world advances daily with mobile phones, bank accounts, ride-hailing apps, and online interaction… many temples stubbornly cling to an isolated way of life. The monks have no phones, no bank accounts, forcing devotees who wish to make offerings or make contact to travel long distances, or else choose other, more convenient channels. The temples don’t update their music, don’t understand the language of the young, and don’t concern themselves with nutrition or community health in a modern, scientific way.

The abbot painted a vivid metaphor of the "fast-flowing river of life": everyone is racing with the times, while the temple stands still on the riverbank. Gradually, the gap between the two widens. People cannot turn back and wait; they simply move forward, leaving behind the ancient temple roofs, now lonely.

However, the abbot also pointed out that no matter how advanced technology becomes, even if robots can give dharma talks and AI can write books, there remain unchanging truths intrinsic to human nature. Machines cannot eat for you, cannot sleep for you, and most importantly, cannot cultivate your morality or attain enlightenment for you. The laws of cause and effect, samsara, and impermanence—these universal laws do not change with software updates.

**Meaning of the Story**

This story is a wake-up call about the challenge of Technology 4.0 to Buddhism and traditional religious institutions. The core lesson is: to survive and spread ethical values, religion cannot stand apart from the flow of the times. Conservatism and separation from real needs and modern communication tools will cause the temple to lose its appeal, leading to a decline in its human influence. However, technology is only a tool; the core values—such as filial piety, the karmic law, self-effort in cultivation, and true loving-kindness—remain unchanging and irreplaceable by machines. Practitioners must proactively adapt, using technology as a bridge to bring the true Dharma closer to real life, not to be swept away by illusion.

*Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang*