The Teacher Who Preached to Buddhists and the Sandals Left at the Ancestral Hall

Twilight tinted the rows of trees before the temple courtyard purple, and the bell rang out clearly before fading into the stillness. In the main hall, dimly lit after the repentance ceremony, several dozen pairs of sandals remained scattered before the altar of the Three Jewels. The teacher stood watching the Buddhists slowly putting on their coats, about to pick up the sandals, his face showing a trace of sadness while still remaining composed.

"Teacher, why do they always hurry away like this after I finish speaking?" the teacher asked, turning to his young disciple who was fanning the oil lamp to reduce its smoke.

Long ago, when he was still a layman, the teacher had been someone who traveled about, sharing the Dharma wherever he went. After he ordained, an elder teacher advised him, and he thought: teaching is the duty of one who has left home; one cannot hide behind one's root teacher forever.

"Each day, when you do repentance, you must preach to the Buddhists a little—just thirty or forty-five minutes. Don't preach too much, but you must preach."

Following this advice, the teacher took on the responsibility of giving talks during the ceremony sessions. Yet as time passed, he never truly worried about it, believing that preaching simply meant speaking about what he knew, and that the Buddhists would naturally listen.

Two years later, the elder teacher came to visit. Seeing the temple so deserted after the ceremony, he asked about it. The teacher stepped forward, wringing the hem of his robe, his voice hesitant:

"Yes, I followed your advice, and I do preach. But when I preach at the beginning of the repentance, the Buddhists leave their sandals at the ancestral hall. After the repentance before the Buddha, they go down to the ancestral hall to bow to the patriarchs, and then they take their sandals and go home."

The elder teacher raised his eyebrows, waiting to hear more. The teacher sighed, his eyes lowering to the old brick floor:

"Later, when they knew I was preaching, they just left their sandals in the main hall. When the repentance was over, they stepped out, grabbed their sandals, and ran off—no more listening. They gave up entirely!"

Hearing this, the elder teacher froze, then shook his head with a bitter laugh. As for the teacher, his heart tightened, and he wondered endlessly why, no matter how much he spoke, people could bear to walk away.

Only much later, when he met those with far more experience, did the teacher awaken with a start to the truth: not everyone who steps onto the platform can truly preach. His lectures back then were dry and lacked appeal, making listeners feel as though they were being tortured, so they found excuses to leave.

"So I thought it was easy—but making people enjoy listening is the real challenge," the teacher said to himself as he stood before the rows of ownerless sandals.

From the day he understood this, the teacher no longer dared to take the preparation of his lectures lightly. Every evening, he turned page after page of the sutras, noted down stories, and practiced speaking so that his words came alive—warm, like someone chatting with a dear friend.

Later, when he returned to visit the old temple, the teacher saw that after the repentance, the Buddhists stayed seated, listening to him preach with bright, eager eyes. The sandals were no longer abandoned outside the gate; they were neatly arranged, waiting for their owners to finish listening before slipping them on for the journey home.

The Meaning of the Story

A preacher cannot simply assume that people will listen just because he speaks. A lecture must be engaging and beneficial in order to draw in the audience. Without appeal, no matter how much one preaches, people will walk away as if escaping a torment. To teach successfully, one must prepare thoroughly and continually refine the power to persuade.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang