The Delicious Cake and a Young Monk's First Experience of Remorse

Late in the afternoon, the fading golden sunlight slanted through the gap in the window of the monks' quarters, leaving long warm streaks on the cool brick floor. The scent of old wood drifted through the quiet air, broken only by the rustling of leaves in the temple courtyard and the distant sound of bells and wooden fish. A young monk sat alone on his mat, and before him lay a package of cakes that a lay devotee had offered that morning — cakes so fragrant, with a crisp crust and a rich sweet filling, unlike anything the temple kitchen had ever seen.

This monk was by nature open-hearted; whenever there were sweets or cakes, he always shared them with his brothers so all could enjoy them together. But this time, because the cakes were so special, so unusually delicious, he hid the package in the corner of a small cabinet in his room. All afternoon he ate alone, each bite melting sweetly in his mouth, yet he invited no one. It was a small habit accumulated from a hidden greed, one that no one had ever noticed.

When night fell, and the oil lamp flickered low, the young monk suddenly remembered his teacher's words about sharing and contentment. He looked at the crumbs scattered on the floor, and his heart tightened. A quiet voice arose in his mind: "How could I eat alone while my brothers are still going hungry?" He stepped out onto the corridor, met a brother passing by, and asked: "Did you see me hide that package of cakes this morning?" The brother shook his head: "No, but why didn't you share them with us?" The monk bowed his head, his hands trembling as they clutched the hem of his robe: "I was too greedy. Because they were delicious, I hid them and ate alone."

The next morning, after finishing the last of the cakes, he truly recognized his mistake. He sought out the brother from the day before, his voice choked: "Yesterday I hid the cakes and did not share them. Now I feel deep remorse." The brother comforted him: "It's all right. Knowing your fault is already good." But the monk shook his head, tears streaming down: "No, my heart feels heavy and sorrowful, because I did something wrong." The brother asked: "Then what will you do?" He answered: "If only the cakes had not been so delicious, I would have shared them with everyone." Then he added: "From now on, I will never hide food and eat alone again."

It was precisely this thought of "if only" — the wish that the past had not been that way — that pierced through like a ray of light breaking the clouds. The turning point came when he knelt before the altar and confessed to his own heart: "I have wronged my brothers, and I accept my fault." His sorrow and remorse transformed into wholesome karma, no longer tinged with the salt of selfishness.

From that day on, whenever food was received, the young monk brought it out to the middle of the assembly of monks. He lived in harmony with all, hiding nothing anymore. The next time he was offered cakes, he smiled as he broke them piece by piece to share with his brothers, his heart feeling light and free.

As the years passed, this habit of sharing took root, and he became a son of the Sangha beloved and respected by all. The remorse of those early days had washed away his old fault, helping him advance along the path of practice.

The Meaning of the Story

True remorse is the sorrow that arises when we recognize a moral fault, accompanied by the heartfelt wish that we had not acted that way in the past. It is a sign of moral integrity, and it creates wholesome causes so that in the future we will not repeat the mistake.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang