A Detour of a Moment, a Shortcut of a Day

At midday in Dong Xoai, the sweltering heat radiates off the asphalt, softening it. A man stands in the middle of the street, holding a slip of paper with an address written on it, squinting toward the southwest.

"Where is Thanh Long Pagoda?" he asks a passerby.

The other man points into the distance: "Go straight southwest, in the direction I'm pointing, and you'll get there."

The man nods and sets off with his head down. He has the right direction, so he goes straight, cutting through narrow alleys, climbing over people's fences, scrambling up onto rooftops, squeezing through chicken coops. He believes he is taking the shortest, fastest route.

But then, as he climbs over a high wall, a voice shouts: "Who's there!" Next comes the loud barking of dogs, and then a crowd grabs hold of him and drags him down. They call the police. He is taken to the station, and only after much pleading and explaining is he released, seven days later.

There is another man who also hears the directions to Thanh Long Pagoda. But instead of going straight, he turns onto the main roads, winds his way through several streets, turning left and right, following the wide paved roads. A little over ten minutes later, he is standing at the pagoda gate, sweat beading on his forehead but a smile on his lips.

The winding road, which seems long, leads to the destination. The shortcut, which seems close, leads astray.

This is the lesson our ancestors passed down: "A detour of a moment, a shortcut of a day." But this lesson is not only about finding the way to a pagoda. It runs deeper and wider, touching every corner of life.

In love, there are two people who once loved each other deeply, who made vows as solid as mountains and seas, who overcame countless hardships to be together. But as time passes, they grow weary of each other. When they meet, they no longer want to talk; they no longer even cook for one another. They seek out psychologists and relationship counselors, but every effort is in vain.

"If there's no affection, then try to stir some up," people advise.

But affection does not simply rise on command. You cannot love just because you want to; it doesn't work that way. Everything has causes behind it. No one meets another by chance and loves them without reason. If in a past life you owed each other much, if there was much kindness between you, then in this life the love is deep. If the kindness in a past life was little, then the love in this life is little. It is all cause and effect (karmic law).

Someone asks: "Then why do so many young men love a beautiful girl in the village? Could they all owe her a debt?"

The teacher replies: "That is simply a man's natural instinct, not a bond of love and gratitude. That kind of liking cannot yet be called deep, abiding love, the kind willing to sacrifice life and death for one another. Distinguish clearly between lust for beauty and a love heavy with longing that endures hardship. The two are worlds apart."

So when you see a teacher step forward onto the path and win the support of many people, do not think it is because of talent. It all comes from conditions (dependent origination) of past lives. In past lives, that teacher endured hardship and formed wholesome bonds with sentient beings.

There was a teacher whose pagoda had few Buddhist followers. When asked for advice, he said: "Go out and build roads."

"Build roads? How?"

"Yes. Just go out to the villages and diligently take a hoe to fill in the potholes so people can travel. Then, five years from now, Buddhist followers will begin coming to your pagoda."

The path is that long. Do not resort to tricks, do not flatter, do not try to win favor. The more you indulge people, the lower your spiritual dignity falls. You must walk the true path of the Buddha's teachings (Dharma), serenely sowing wholesome connections within the true Dharma, so that sentient beings come to owe you a debt of gratitude. Then they will naturally come to the pagoda, in the posture of a proper Buddhist sincerely seeking the path.

In some places, teachers let people come into the pagoda and play cards wildly, thinking, "Let them have fun; if we scold them too harshly, they won't come at all." That is already a defeat. If you must flatter people to get Buddhist followers to come, then the pagoda loses its virtue, and the teacher loses his spiritual dignity.

For example, when there is a new center, if you call your disciples to hold the place and no one knows the Dharma, no one bothers to come. Then remember: "If people do not come to you, you go to them." Prepare a little food, a little cake, and carry it bag by bag to visit the whole village, house after house. When you arrive, greet them warmly and offer the vegetarian cakes made by the pagoda.

"Where do you live, teacher?"

"Right over there, my pagoda is just around that corner."

At first, people do not care to come, do not bother to pay attention. But you keep caring for them. Then people begin coming to the pagoda. Once they come, open classes teaching virtue to children. What parent does not want their child to be virtuous? They send their children to the pagoda to learn goodness. Now they owe the pagoda one more layer of gratitude.

When the children come to the pagoda, feed them. Coming to the pagoda means eating; it is a bite of rice and a bite of the teachings. The connections with sentient beings then spread wide, and the pagoda gradually flourishes.

But what matters most is that the teachers themselves must have virtue, spiritual strength, and depth of practice. If you form connections with people and bring them to the pagoda, but your virtue is not firm and solid, then consequences will follow later: criticism, praise, and all kinds of unpleasant talk.

When people come to the pagoda, they must be able to look upon the life of the teacher and see it overflowing with virtue, so that their reverence endures, the pagoda remains warm and welcoming, and its good name spreads far and wide.

The power of the spiritual is stronger than anything else in life. People are drawn by money, by winning the lottery, by good food, by entertainment. But all of it pales before the spiritual.

In our pagoda, having the Buddha means having the spiritual; having sutra chanting means having the spiritual. What is needed is the virtue of the monastics as the final spiritual force that draws Buddhist followers in at once. The Buddha is the Buddha Jewel, the sutras are the Dharma Jewel, the monastics are the Sangha Jewel. When these three are complete, Buddhist followers will naturally flock to the pagoda.

The Buddha Jewel is already absolute; erecting a Buddha statue is enough. The Dharma Jewel must be truly beautiful sutras with clear meaning; do not chant sutras that no one understands. The Sangha Jewel is monastics who genuinely practice with real virtue. When the Three Jewels are complete, a heavenly spiritual power appears at once, becoming a spiritual strength that draws everyone to the pagoda, more powerful than any worldly amusement.

Venerable teachers, you must cultivate and practice in earnest. All tricks and schemes are only temporary measures, nothing more.