The Child Who Asked His Mother and the Secret of the Gods

That afternoon, pale golden sunlight slanted through the ancient trees of the temple grounds, casting dancing spots of light upon the red brick floor. The air was still, broken only by cheerful birdsong somewhere in the distance and the faint, drifting fragrance of agarwood incense. Into this tranquil space came a small family on a visit. A young mother led her son, a boy of about three or four, with big, round, dark eyes that gazed about with unusual eagerness.

The abbot stood at a distance, watching mother and child with gentle eyes. The little boy ran about endlessly, one hand clutching the hem of his mother's shirt, his mouth never ceasing to ask questions. Whenever he saw something new—whether a dry leaf or a stone statue—he would stop, tilt his head to study it closely, then turn to his mother:

"Mommy, what is that? Why is it like that?"

The mother answered each question patiently, but the boy never seemed satisfied. No sooner had one question ended than another followed, coming in waves like small ones lapping at the shore. The abbot smiled, and an interesting thought arose in his heart. He said to himself: "This child will surely be smarter than I was as a boy. When I was young, I had fewer troubles, fewer questions like these."

This small event became the starting point for a profound dharma talk on human nature and the origin of religion. The abbot invited the lay Buddhists to sit down, and his warm voice rose into the quiet space:

"Human beings are a troublesome species, always full of questions. From the earliest times, we have wanted to know the reasons why. I remember seeing that little boy, and I realized that whoever begins questioning early in life grows up to be very capable. But in the end, all of us carry within us this instinct to search for answers."

He explained further that we should not assume people today are smarter than people of ancient times. The capacity for thinking and creativity is the same; the only difference is that we have accumulated knowledge across many generations. If a person from ancient times appeared today, they would be bewildered by a mobile phone—that glossy black box with a speaker that makes sounds—but before long, they would come to understand it, for their wisdom is in no way inferior.

The problem lies here: in the distant past, when scientific knowledge was not yet sufficient to explain natural phenomena, people fell into a state of deep anxiety. They feared thunder and lightning, and were bewildered by illness and sudden death. A sudden rainstorm did not merely wet one's clothes—it made people tremble: "Why is the sky weeping? Who is angry?"

To soothe their fears and fill the gaps in their knowledge, human beings created hypotheses. At first, there was only one supreme deity responsible for everything: the god of heaven created the earth, the god of heaven decided the rain and wind, the god of heaven determined fate. But over time, that simplicity grew dull and lacking in logic for more developed minds. People began assigning separate duties to individual gods: a god of fire, a god of water, a god of thunder and lightning.

The abbot emphasized a bitter but truthful paradox:

"It was human beings who created the gods, and then declared that the gods created human beings. That is the origin of monotheism, and later, polytheism. We believe easily, and because no better answer exists, we accept these hypotheses as truth."

The story of the curious child is not merely the abbot's personal memory; it is a metaphor for the entire spiritual history of humankind. When there was no science, religion served as "science," as the "Way" to teach people how to live and how to relate to a mysterious universe. Ritual offerings and prayers were born from this very urgent need: to find peace of mind amid a world full of change and confusion.

The Meaning of the Story

Religion first took shape from two core elements: the human need to answer questions about life and the universe when knowledge was still limited, and the trusting nature of human beings. Rather than condemning these ancient beliefs as superstition, we need to understand them and feel sympathy for that historical circumstance. For if we had lived in that era, with the same limits of knowledge, we too would have accepted similar explanations in order to find peace in our hearts.

Compiled from a dharma talk by the Venerable Thích Chân Quang.