The Master Who Returned to Lay Life and the Lesson of Compassion

On a breezy hill, in a familiar temple, the evening bell had just faded as several monks sat together around a pot of hot tea. The serene atmosphere of the day’s end made it easy for hearts to open. I sat there, looking out at the red brick courtyard weathered by sun and rain, suddenly remembering an old friend far away—a monk who had once lived near me, practiced with me, and shared many memories. I gently asked the monks sitting nearby:

“Have you heard that this monk is seeking to return to lay life?”

A young monk beside me replied calmly:

“Yes, teacher. He has already returned to lay life; he is no longer merely asking.”

His answer felt like a knife cutting across my heart. I was filled with sorrow, my chest tightening. I clearly understood the cause and effect (karmic law) regarding my friend—the seeds planted previously were not strong enough to sustain the blessings from merit required to remain a monk. Hearing this bad news, I could only fall silent, feeling the pain penetrate deep into every fiber of my being.

Yet, while I was immersed in this compassion, the other monks began to criticize. They spoke about the monk who had left the order with harsh tones, claiming he had done many unworthy things and brought upon himself various scandals. I sat there, remaining silent, saying not a word. Only when the conversation shifted to the topic of practice did I gently advise:

“You should cultivate compassion.”

One of the other monks immediately replied with confidence:

“I am very compassionate, teacher.”

I instantly understood his meaning. He thought that giving generously, not keeping money for oneself but giving it all away, was what compassion meant. But I shook my head and said:

“No. Sometimes we do good deeds, but those good deeds are not yet true compassion. Because they are good deeds driven by reason. We know this thing is right, that thing is wrong, so we choose the right one and avoid the wrong one. Doing what is right because we know we should—this is not yet compassion. Compassion is natural love. When we see others suffering, our heart is naturally moved.”

I paused for a moment, then continued, lowering my voice:

“Like the story of the monk who recently returned to lay life. We should not speak with harshness, but rather feel sorrow. Practitioners of the Buddha's teachings (Dharma) are not always correct to be indifferent. When injustice or adversity comes to us, being indifferent—that is correct. But seeing others suffer and remaining indifferent—that is immediately contrary to the Buddha's teachings (Dharma). Do not think that Buddhism means having an unmoving mind in all circumstances, that being unmoved at all times is Buddhism. That is not so.”

The monks sat in silence, perhaps reflecting on the teaching. I knew that compassion is not something that can be fully cultivated in just one or two years. It needs to be nurtured continuously. It takes two or three years for it to begin taking root in the heart, and even practicing throughout one’s entire life may still not be complete.

I looked out at the temple courtyard, where yellow leaves fell gently in the evening breeze, and silently contemplated the great lesson I had just shared. Compassion is not doing good deeds through reason, but a heart that trembles before the suffering of others. This is truly the foundation of the perfection of morality, of a life of enlightenment.

The Meaning of the Story

Compassion is not doing good deeds through reason, but the natural trembling of the heart before the suffering of sentient beings. Seeing others suffer and remaining indifferent is contrary to the Buddha's teachings (Dharma). Practitioners need to nurture a compassionate mind, so that they not only avoid evil but also know how to feel sorrow, love, and wish for everyone to have peace and happiness.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang