From Criticism to Respect

The music began, and a familiar melody flowed through the room. Listeners around him enjoyed it deeply, some humming along softly. Yet the young practitioner sat in silence, his brow slightly furrowed. Since childhood, whenever he heard this kind of popular music with its repetitive rhythms, he had wondered why so many people were captivated by it.

He preferred melodies that he considered refined, elegant, and profound. However, everywhere he went, he encountered this same simple music. Often, as soon as someone picked up an instrument, those familiar tunes would ring out. The more he listened, the more puzzled he became. This difference in musical taste inadvertently built a small wall within his heart: on one side lay what he cherished, and on the other, what he deemed too simple.

One day, hearing others speak passionately about this genre, he could not hide his curiosity. He asked, "Why do people keep liking melodies that are so similar?"

The person opposite replied, "Because they feel close to us, are easy to remember, and suit our hearts."

He shook his head gently. "But there is much deeper music available."

The other person only smiled. "What suits you may not necessarily suit us."

That simple answer did not immediately change his mind. He still perceived a clear gap between different forms of art. But over the years, as he observed more people, he realized that artistic preference cannot be forced. It relates to habits, karma, life experiences, levels of perception, and the unique structure of each soul.

He thought of prahok, a fermented fish paste common in Cambodia. Some Vietnamese find it difficult to enjoy because they are unaccustomed to it, but for Cambodians, it is a flavor tied to their daily life and culture. If we use our own palate as the sole standard and criticize others, we easily turn differences into contempt.

He asked himself, "If they love a flavor rooted in their lives, can we force them to instantly like something else?"

A companion nearby said, "We cannot force it. Just as we cannot make everyone like the same type of music."

He nodded slowly. "Then perhaps what needs correcting first is not their preferences, but our attitude toward things that differ from ours."

From then on, he observed more carefully. He noticed that few people can appreciate high-level classical music, while popular music appeals to the masses. Society naturally has various levels of perception. People at a certain level will naturally seek what fits that level. To help them change, we cannot use criticism or coercion; only when understanding and capacity for appreciation rise can tastes transform naturally.

This insight touched something deeper in his spiritual practice. When he first entered Buddhism, he loved meditation intensely. For him, meditation was a difficult yet lucid battle with oneself. A meditator must look into the mind, recognize every error, follow each breath, maintain mindfulness, and listen to subtle inner movements.

As he practiced, he became increasingly drawn to the depth and subtlety of a true meditator. Therefore, when he met people who solely recited the Buddha’s name, he felt confused. They repeated the mantra with faith that after death, they would be reborn in a good realm. In the eyes of the young practitioner then, this method seemed far too simple.

He asked a person chanting the Buddha’s name, "Why don’t you study more deeply and practice meditation?"

The person replied, "I keep my mind steady with the Buddha’s name. This way suits me."

"But isn’t just chanting too simple?"

The person clasped their hands and spoke gently, "I have not yet been able to follow the path you are walking. Thanks to this chant, my mind is less scattered, and I still remember the Buddha."

Those words stayed with him. Yet, it took many more years of experience and observation for him to truly understand their meaning. Like music, a person’s practice depends on their wisdom, capacity, and level of heart. Some fit meditation, while others fit reciting the Buddha’s name. We cannot take the path that suits us and impose it as the only mold for everyone.

The turning point came when he looked back at two seemingly unrelated events: a person loving popular music and a Buddhist devoted to reciting the Buddha’s name. Both were seeking what suited their souls. If he harbored disdain simply because he loved a different choice, he allowed difference to become a reason for separation.

He fell silent before this realization. The subtlety of meditation is precious, but if loving meditation made him despise those who recite the Buddha’s name, his practice lacked tolerance. A profound method must never become an excuse for pride to grow. What matters is not only which path we walk, but whether we know how to care for those walking different paths.

He told himself, "They still remember the Buddha, still strive to keep their minds from chaos. That alone is cause for joy."

Someone asked, "Do you still blame those who only recite the Buddha’s name?"

He smiled. "No. If that method helps them practice, we must value it. Different practices do not give us the right to hate one another."

From then on, his attitude changed. When hearing someone enjoy popular music, he no longer felt immediate irritation or used his own taste as a measuring stick. He understood that person was enjoying what fit their current emotions and level. Given opportunity, they might gradually encounter other values, but such growth must happen naturally, not through criticism.

With those reciting the Buddha’s name, he viewed them with comfort and affection. As long as their hearts turned toward the Buddha and they used the chant to guard against distraction, he found joy. He did not abandon his beloved path of meditation, nor did he deny the differences among methods. He simply stopped using those differences to build barriers between fellow seekers of goodness.

Years grayed the hair of that once-young practitioner, but they also widened his vision. He understood that tolerance does not demand everyone be identical. The world will always have those who like one melody and others who love another; some fit meditation, while others rely on the Buddha’s name. What is necessary is for each person to restrain their ego, not rushing to turn what they love into a standard for judging all.

Amid these differences, he found a simple principle: even if we are not alike, we must refuse to hate one another. Not only should we avoid hatred, but if others are striving for goodness through a path suitable for them, we should respect and love them even more. This shift helped him see life more lightly, view those different from him with calm eyes, and keep the Sangha united despite differing methods of practice.

The Meaning of the Story

Each person’s preferences and practices depend on their capacity, level, and circumstances. We may hold fast to the path we trust, but we must not scorn others. Even though we differ, we must respect and love one another.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang