The Third Guest

That afternoon, the monastery was quiet, save for the rustling of dry leaves in the courtyard. The old master sat on a hammock beneath an ancient bodhi tree, gently fanning himself with a worn bamboo fan. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, casting dappled spots on the ground like scattered gold coins.

A young novice ran in from the gate, breathless. "Master, we have guests!" The master kept his eyes closed and nodded slightly. After more than thirty years as abbot, he knew every type of visitor who came to the temple gates. Some came out of curiosity, some for fame and profit, some seeking a little peace, and others because they had deeply tasted the flavor of the Dharma.

The novice asked again, "Master, how should I receive them?"

The master opened his eyes, gazing into the distance. His voice was warm and deep, like a temple bell echoing from the past. "There are three kinds of people, my child. For one kind, I go all the way to the gate to welcome them. For another, I wait in the guest hall. And for the third..." He paused, swaying gently in the hammock. "I lie in my hammock while speaking with them."

The novice looked puzzled. "Master, which kind is the closest? Which is the most distant?"

The master smiled, a gentle smile that held a hidden light, making the novice feel as if a door had just cracked open within his mind. "Look closely, child. People often think that those whom I welcome at the gate are the closest. But the truth is quite the opposite."

The novice’s eyes widened. "I do not understand."

"The person I welcome at the gate," the master said slowly, "is someone visiting the temple for the first time. Their hearts are still full of hesitation, and their faith is fragile. I must be attentive and hospitable so they can feel the warmth of the temple doors. This gives them confidence to continue walking the path. They are the ones who need support."

"And the one I wait for in the guest hall?" the novice asked.

"That is the person who has visited temples for many years and understands the Dharma to some degree. I treat them normally, neither too warmly nor too coldly. They are steady enough to walk on their own."

"Then... the one you receive while lying in your hammock?" The novice swallowed hard, waiting anxiously for the answer.

"That person," the master’s eyes suddenly brightened, "is truly the closest kin. These are those who have deeply absorbed the taste of the Dharma. They have transcended attachment to merit and blessings. They come to me not to receive, but to give. They understand that what is precious is not praise or courtesy, but the truth. With them, I need no pretense or formalities. I treat them as I treat myself. I might even ask them to cook rice in the kitchen or assign them tasks without expecting a word of thanks."

The novice seemed to grasp something, yet remained doubtful. "Master, isn't that... too impolite?"

The master shook his head gently. "My child, that apparent rudeness is true love. Because I know that person is mature, strong, and wise enough not to be hurt by external forms. They come to me with a pure mind, desiring nothing. So, I respond with a pure mind, adding nothing and subtracting nothing."

The novice nodded, then asked, "Master, what about the story of Emperor Wu of Liang meeting Bodhidharma? Why did the Patriarch say there was 'no merit' when the Emperor boasted about building temples, printing sutras, and ordaining monks? Was the Emperor considered a distant stranger?"

The master laughed, a clear sound like a stream flowing through an old forest. "Do you think so? No, it was not so. Precisely because the Patriarch regarded the Emperor as close kin, he spoke that 'no.' It is like this: if I meet a Buddhist visiting the temple for the first time, trembling as they offer ten million, I will thank them warmly, invite them for water and food, and see them off to their car. But if a Buddhist who has practiced for twenty years offers the same amount, I might simply say, 'Give that to the other brother,' turn away, or ask them to help in the kitchen, without a single word of thanks."

"Why such a difference?" the novice asked.

"Because the newcomer is still heavy with the sense of 'I' and 'mine.' They need confirmation and praise to strengthen their faith. If I were cold to them, they would be hurt, discouraged, and might never return. But the long-time practitioner understands that merit does not lie in the amount of money or words of praise. If I remain overly courteous to them, I inadvertently nurture their attachment to merit. They might think, 'I gave much, so the teacher respects me,' and their desire for blessings and fame grows stronger. Out of compassion, wanting them to progress further, I treat them as if nothing happened, so they can let go of that attachment."

The novice exclaimed, "I understand! The 'no' of Bodhidharma was a 'no' filled with love, a 'no' meant to lift the Emperor higher!"

"Precisely," the master nodded. "But sadly, Emperor Wu did not understand. He was confused because he was still attached to the concept of 'having' merit. If the Patriarch had said, 'You have great merit,' the Emperor would have stopped there forever, never progressing further. That 'no' was an opportunity for him to look inward and transcend. Even if he did not understand immediately, the seed was planted. Perhaps five or ten years later, thanks to that 'no,' he might attain enlightenment."

The afternoon sun had set, and darkness began to cover the monastery. The master rose from his hammock and looked at the novice with eyes full of affection. "Remember this, child. When you meet a teacher who seems overly attentive, ask yourself: 'Is my faith still too weak?' But when you find a teacher who seems cold, assigning you all sorts of tasks, rejoice. For perhaps that teacher already considers you close kin."

The Meaning of the Story

This tale of three types of guests and the Zen master’s treatment of them, along with the encounter between Bodhidharma and Emperor Wu, teaches us that true merit does not lie in external actions or recognition from others. It lies in a mind of letting go, free from attachment. If you perform good deeds while seeing yourself as having merit, or seeking blessings, those blessings will be consumed when the karmic results ripen. But if you perform good deeds while seeing them as empty, without seeking or clinging, then the merit becomes boundless, leading to liberation. The seemingly harsh treatment by the Zen master or Bodhidharma is actually profound compassion, aiming to uplift others to a higher spiritual level.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang