The Child Who Does Not Understand

In the quiet space of the Huong Van meditation hall, incense smoke curls gently through the air. Venerable Thich Chan Quang sits down, his gaze directed toward the statue of Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara that was consecrated this morning. The pedestal stands silent and solemn amidst the flickering candlelight.

The teacher speaks in a deep, warm voice to the assembly. "Today I wish to share a topic: 'The child does not understand the love of their parents.' This inspiration begins with that sacred image of Avalokiteshvara. We look up with reverence and pray, and many feel a response. But then we ask ourselves: Is it truly His blessing, or just coincidence? We doubt because we do not yet understand the infinite compassion of the Buddhas for all sentient beings."

He pauses, a faint smile appearing on his lips. "It is like a child who never fully understands the depth of their parents' love. I remember my own childhood. Back then, I was very well-behaved. But when my grandparents asked, 'Do you love Grandpa?' my mind only thought, 'If I say no, I might not get candy.' So I said yes. When Grandma asked the same, I also said yes. But when they asked, 'Who do you love more?' I was confused, unable to find words for 'more' or 'less.' Only as I grew older did I realize that young children truly do not possess mature love. Their brains are not developed enough to feel such high-level affection."

A Buddhist practitioner raises a hand. "Venerable, if so, why do children hug their parents happily?"

The teacher nods. "That is because of the feeling of safety, because those people feed them, hold them, and protect them. The baby sees them as a safe haven, not out of love. Children only have the instinct of fear: fear of hunger, loneliness, or abandonment. And people teach children using fear too: with sticks or threats of monsters. They rarely say, 'If you don't eat, Daddy will be sad,' because the child thinks, 'Let Daddy be sad; I am afraid of the monster coming.'"

Looking around the assembly, his tone becomes more serious. "This instinct of fear follows us throughout life. A person called an adult or moral being should have overcome this psychological fear. But if we still fear ghosts, punishment, abandonment, hunger, or gossip, we remain children. We must practice until this fear disappears to truly grow up."

He continues, "As the child grows and the brain develops, they begin to know how to love. But strangely, the first people they love are strangers! Classmates, especially those of the opposite sex. Parents are familiar, routine, and boring; there is no fear of losing them. So at ages ten to twenty, when emotions first develop, they turn outward, listening to outsiders more than family. Because they do not yet know how to love their parents, they become stubborn, leaving their parents bewildered."

Another practitioner asks, "So when do children finally understand their parents' love, Venerable?"

The teacher reflects deeply. "Around thirty years old, when morality and brain development are complete, people begin to love their parents. But by forty or fifty, the parents may have passed away. Life continues in this cycle. Truly, the child does not understand their parents' love, nor do they truly love them yet."

His voice grows emotional. "Fortunately, we have Buddhism and the Vu Lan festival. Temples remind us of filial piety, helping children plant the seed of loving their parents early. This accelerates brain development and perfects character twenty years sooner. If a child understands filial piety at ten or twenty instead of thirty or forty, they have the chance to become an excellent citizen. This is a great contribution of Buddhism."

He stops, lowering his voice. "We relate to the Buddha in the same way. When we kneel before Him, we only beg for things, just like a child demanding from parents. We have not yet generated supreme reverence. This means we are still spiritual infants. Only when we learn to generate true respect for the Buddha do we take a giant step on the path of practice."

Looking up at the statue of Avalokiteshvara, he says, "The Buddha never appears physically or speaks; we only see a silent statue. This is because we do not understand how the Buddha loves sentient beings. Like a child spoiled by parents, we take it for granted, unaware of the suffering parents endure to provide for us. Sometimes, the strictness of parents is also love."

He shares another story. "There was a happy couple. One day, the husband changed: he became silent, cold, and pulled away when his wife touched him. She suffered, thinking he had a lover. He demanded divorce, saying she was old and ugly. She went home crying. Then one day, a friend called her to the hospital: her husband was in emergency care. It turned out he had terminal cancer and was dying. He thought if he died while she loved him, she would suffer greatly. The only way to make her stop loving him was to act cruelly and coldly. She did not understand this."

The teacher concludes, "Similarly, when a child asks parents to buy something, they do not know the calculations and savings required. Sometimes parents must do humble or difficult work elsewhere just to support the family. We do not understand these sacrifices."

"And the love of the Buddhas for sentient beings surpasses even this. The Buddha loves us and wants us to become good people; He never indulges us to our detriment. Every time we take refuge in the Buddha, we become His child, entering His processing system. He analyzes the karma and merit we have created over countless eons, examining our soul, temperament, and capacity, and then designs a program for our transformation. That program is profound, and we can never fully understand it."

Looking at the assembly with gentle eyes, he says, "Therefore, any teacher who constantly reminds us and inspires feelings of reverence for the Buddha is authentic. Those feelings elevate our spirit significantly. We need to understand that the Buddha loves us and wants us to attain enlightenment and liberation. Even His mysterious coldness is infinite love."

Outside, the autumn wind blows softly through the trees, carrying the scent of a peaceful land. The statue of Avalokiteshvara remains silent, but now, someone in the assembly seems to feel a deep resonance within that silence.

THE MEANING OF THE STORY

This story reminds us of the limitations of worldly love and the wonder of the compassion of the Buddhas. Children are not developed enough to understand parental love, often acting only on the instinct of fear and the comfort of protection. As they grow, their love turns outward before returning to family. Only when the brain and morality are fully developed (around thirty years old) do people truly understand and appreciate their parents' love. Similarly, we often only beg from the Buddha without generating true reverence. Only when we understand the infinite compassion and patient guidance of the Buddha—like parents who love their children in unique ways, sometimes harshly but always with love—do we truly advance on the path of practice.

Compiled from the dharma talk of Most Venerable Thich Chan Quang