Remorse

1. DEFINITION

Remorse is the sadness we feel on realising that we have done something ethically wrong.

In life, only two kinds of people do not feel remorse: saints who are liberated and no longer have faults, and people who are extremely wicked and have no idea what wrongdoing and merit are. Apart from those two kinds, ordinary people who feel no remorse do so because they do not know their faults. If they knew their faults, everyone would feel a hidden remorse in their heart. Looking back at ourselves, we will see that not a few times in our lives we have truly felt sad and remorseful about mistakes we have made.

Depending on how great or small the fault, our remorse will be great or small. Sometimes these are faults from childhood. When we went out with our friends, they egged us on to do something not good (stealing ripe fruit from someone's garden or sneaking off with a chicken to butcher, and so on), and we followed. It all passed into the past. Only when we came to know the Dharma and believe in the law of cause and effect did we understand that what we did as children was wrong. For not only did we commit theft, we also committed killing. Both are serious offences. Once we understand that it was a bad deed, our hearts are tormented with remorse and sorrow, because we know it was wrongdoing and that there will be karmic consequences later.

Remorse in the sense of sorrow is completely different from the regret of failing to achieve some goal in life, especially in unwholesome conduct. In reality, there are people who always seem sorrowful after some unwholesome deed, but it is not sorrow from remorse; it is sorrow at not having achieved their aim. For example, a certain person is greedy and often steals from others. Once, because they failed to steal someone's valuable item, they keep regretting it in their heart. That psychology is called the mind of regret over a loss.

The second case we often meet is regret at having lost an opportunity to gain a benefit for oneself. For example, walking along the road, we suddenly see someone drop a bundle of money, and we hurry over to pick it up, but unexpectedly someone quicker on their feet snatches it. Arriving home, we still regret having missed the chance to get rich. That regret is also not remorse.

So we need to distinguish clearly these three kinds of mental states. Among them, regret arising from a mind that wanted to do an unwholesome thing and could not belongs to a wicked mind. Regret from losing a personal opportunity belongs to a person who does not live at ease and whose mind is still bound. Remorse, torment and sorrow from knowing that one has committed a fault belong to a person of ethics.

2. THE MIND OF REMORSE IS A SIGN OF ETHICS

We are people with many good roots, so as soon as we were old enough we entered the temple to ordain. On that basis, one can judge that as children we did nothing so excessive as to cause great remorse. And for that very reason, we do not see the mind of remorse clearly. But in life, and in the course of our practice from now on, we will have many opportunities to create faults. If we are not careful to guard ourselves, there will be times when we commit great faults and have to feel deeply what remorse is.

The mind of remorse is a sign of ethics. So when we have committed a fault, we must sincerely recognise it so as to feel remorse and correct it. We know that the ability to recognise one's own faults is the foundation of wisdom. A person who knows their own faults must be a person of wisdom. When our practice reaches a high level, we can know many things thanks to wisdom, but what matters is to know our own faults. As soon as the mind stirs even slightly with a wholesome or an unwholesome thought, we must see it at once and assess that thought accurately right away.

In life, people usually share a weakness: when they do something wrong, they tend to justify and defend themselves. Here we do not justify ourselves but must blame ourselves and know our own faults. That is why we say that remorse is a sign of ethics and also the foundation of wisdom.

So one must first admit the fault; only then does remorse come, and only then sadness. That process begins with sincerely admitting the fault, but everything starts from having wisdom. There may be a further chain of very subtle mental states that only we ourselves can notice. For example, when exchanging views with a fellow monastic about the principles of Zen, we feel displeased, so we reject their opinion and insist that ours is right. An outsider sees only an ordinary discussion between two monastics about a Zen question, but looking deep into our hearts, we suddenly realise that we have displayed our knowledge and shown a competitive spirit with our fellow monastic. That boastful, competitive mind is seen by no one; only we ourselves notice it. When we know that we have just committed the fault of boasting and the fault of competitiveness, signs of a decline in ethics, we feel remorse at once.

So we must recognise our own faults rather than wait for outside opinion to judge them. Outsiders may not see our faults, or sometimes may judge excessively and inaccurately. Let us take a very simple example to see this clearly. Once, feeling tired, we go into the kitchen to ask for a glass of lemon water. But no one was in the kitchen at that time, so we made it ourselves. Yet someone noticed and told everyone that we go down to the kitchen to rummage for food every day. We ourselves know that we do not have that fault, but people have exaggerated about us. Here, our only fault is that we did not tell the person in charge so that someone could testify that we had not acted on our own initiative. But in fact, that fault is negligible.

So in assessing faults, we do not ignore public opinion, because sometimes people suggest or point out our faults very well, but neither do we take public opinion too seriously. It is best that we know our own faults ourselves, so that we feel remorse and get past them.

Once the sadness of remorse has arisen about a fault we have committed, we will keep in mind and wish that we had not done that wrong thing. We may even wish that time could turn back so that we would not do that wrong thing. This is precisely a good cause that ensures we never repeat the old fault. We cannot turn back time and return to the past to start again, but if the mind still turns toward the past and wishes we had never done that bad thing, that thought becomes a good cause for the future, and we will surely not commit that fault again.

For example, when we were small we once lied to our parents to ask for money to buy books and notebooks but took the money out to play and eat with friends. When we grew up and came to know the Dharma, thinking back, we feel boundless love for our father and mother. From remorse, we wish that at that time we had not lied, that we had studied harder, that we had loved our parents more, and so on. That very thought about the past turns into a cause for the future. In the next life, we will surely become a good child, a filial child.

Some people live a whole life without ever feeling remorse. They are usually wicked people. Why is that? Because only saints and those who are liberated have no faults and so no remorse. All of us living in this world have committed faults. Only those with a wicked mind do not know right from wrong, do not know wrongdoing and merit, and so have never felt remorse.

3. ONLY BY AWAKENING TO THE PRINCIPLE CAN WE FEEL REMORSE FOR OLD FAULTS

The reason we can feel remorse for old faults is that we have awakened to the principle. For example, before, when we did not know wrongdoing and merit, we might have committed the serious offence of killing (readily slaughtering pigs and cattle for weddings, funerals and so on when asked). Once we have learned the principle, we see that all creatures need life and also understand the pain of an animal being killed. So we feel endless remorse.

So it is because we know the principle and know cause and effect that we know remorse. When we understand the principle, we compare the goodness of the principle we have learned with the unwholesome acts we have committed. So each time we learn something good and right, remorse often arises. Not a few of us, when we first came to know the Dharma, kept grieving and regretting having treated others wrongly before: our parents, our brothers and sisters in the family, and so on. After going forth, with each day that passes, as we discover a principle, we look back at the past and feel still more remorse for our old faults. And so, throughout this long life, people have stumbled into countless faults and so must keep feeling remorse.

We remember the case of King Asoka, who, believing in the greatness of the Dharma, knew remorse and created merit. Before, he was a wicked prince. The king, his father, had many princes, but Asoka was the fiercest among them. Thinking that Asoka was fierce and after his death would wreak havoc on his brothers, the king sent the prince to lead an army to guard the border. Obeying his father, Asoka set out. While guarding the border, with his hot temper and wickedness, he wanted to lead his army to invade other countries. But since he did not have his father's order, and moreover the army his father had given him was not strong enough, Asoka did not dare to cause trouble. That too was the king's intention. In sending Asoka to the border, the king had thought through every angle. When he passed away, Asoka would not be able to return in time, and the prince chosen to succeed would be crowned in time. By the time Asoka returned, everything would be settled and he would not dare to make trouble. The king calculated most thoroughly, but did not foresee that Asoka would be quicker than he thought. Hearing the urgent news that his father was dying, he led his army back at once. Arriving at the capital, he savagely killed all his brothers and became king.

A king who came to the throne by such a cruel act certainly could not "govern the country and pacify the world", because the people thought he had become king by killing so many of his own brothers. So, in order to live well, they too had to scramble with this person and kill that one. For this reason, the people rebelled everywhere in the country. In the end, King Asoka awoke and turned to the Dharma. There are two accounts of his awakening.

The first account tells that because he was known for brutal acts, the people in the country rebelled constantly. Here robbery broke out, there fraud and murder occurred. He then built a prison and put it under a wicked jailer who had many subordinates to carry out punishments on prisoners. At that time, society had no justice. Whatever crime a person committed, they were thrown into prison and tortured to death. He gave the jailer the power of life and death. The jailer was also a cruel man, so whoever entered the prison could not hope to come out. Meanwhile, the king was concerned only with leading his army to invade neighbouring countries. He sent his troops to attack one country and annex another, expanding the Indian empire. At that time, the Indian subcontinent became a unified kingdom thanks to King Asoka's military skill and brutality.

Once, a Śramaṇa, a Buddhist monk, somehow walked straight into the prison. The jailer thought he was a new prisoner sent in from outside to be punished. But when questioned, the monk was bewildered and did not know how to answer. The jailer became irritated and threw him into a cauldron of boiling oil. In the cauldron of oil, the monk went on washing, bathing and scrubbing himself comfortably. The jailer stood staring in amazement. He saw the monk from time to time rise into the air and then plunge back to continue bathing. The jailer ran in to tell King Asoka of the strange event and invited the king to come and see. King Asoka hurried over and was astonished to see the bhikkhu solemnly rising into mid-air. At that moment his mind was suddenly shaken. Until then he had not believed that there were such divine matters in this life, and so had treated people brutally. His first brutal act was killing his brothers to seize the throne, and afterwards he led armies to invade everywhere and slaughtered people brutally to seize land. Today, witnessing this strange event, he believed that life does contain divine things, and he felt his heart stir. At that moment, the bhikkhu preached the Dharma to him. The king woke up, saw his faults and knelt to ask for forgiveness and repent. The bhikkhu advised the king to rule the people by ethics and not to use such harsh and brutal punishments. The king invited the bhikkhu to the palace and gradually ordered the laws to be revised to be more lenient.

When the jailer saw the king and the bhikkhu leaving the prison, he held the bhikkhu back and said:

• Your Majesty, you have a law that whoever enters here cannot leave.

King Asoka said:

• "That is right. And you must be that person."

Having said this, he seized the jailer by the arm and threw him into the cauldron of oil. That was his last cruel act as he began to meet the Dharma. Afterwards, he invited the bhikkhu to the palace to learn the Dharma. This was also a fortunate affinity for Buddhism, because Asoka spread the Dharma vigorously after he had used violence to conquer other countries and build a unified nation. So the whole Indian subcontinent at that time followed the Buddha. It can be said that violence came first and the Dharma followed. Relying on the king's power, Buddhism spread across India, and Buddhists rejoiced at his invasions and at his military victories. And the karmic consequence also came. In the thirteenth century, Muslim armies entered and killed all Buddhists in India. Monks were killed and temples were destroyed, so Buddhism disappeared. Only neighbouring countries such as Tibet and Sri Lanka, which Islam could not reach, kept the Dharma alive. That too was cause and effect, because people had spread Buddhism by violence and Buddhists had rejoiced in it.

The second account speaks of Kalinga. After a terrible battle, with corpses covering the fields and women and children lying dead along the roads, a troop of horsemen suddenly arrived to tell the king that the queen at home had given birth to a prince. Hearing the news, he was overjoyed beyond measure. The love of a father rose up and awakened other feelings in him. Looking at the children dead on the battlefield together with their mothers, and then at the old people lying dead everywhere in the war, he felt remorse and led his army back. On the way back, he met a bhikkhu. The bhikkhu preached the Dharma and taught him. From then on, he turned back to the Dharma. This account is not very convincing, but it also tells us that at that time there was a saint, a bhikkhu who had realised the Way, with enough power to transform a king who had won a hundred battles like King Asoka and bring him back to Buddhism.

So only when we believe in the greatness of the Dharma do we know remorse. If we do not bow our heads before the greatness of the Dharma, we will not see the faults we have committed before.

Rereading a story in Gathering Sand and Stones, we see where remorse also comes from. The story goes that a Zen master was reciting a sutra when a robber burst in. He put a knife to the Zen master's neck and told him to hand over his money. The Zen master calmly went on reciting the sutra, did not move at all, and merely told the robber that the money was in the cabinet. Then he continued reciting. When the robber had taken the money and turned to go, the Zen master stopped reciting and said: "When you receive money, you should say thank you." The man said, "Thank you," and went straight out. The Zen master went on reciting as though nothing had happened. After robbing the Zen master, the robber went on to rob elsewhere and was arrested by the police. He too felt remorse and honestly confessed the robberies he had committed, including the robbery of the Zen master's money. The police brought him to the temple and asked the master: "Venerable, is this the man who came in here, pointed a knife at your neck and took your money?" The Zen master answered: "No. I gave it to him, and he thanked me." Because of those words, the robber's sentence was reduced, since people thought he had not sunk so far as to have no conscience at all in daring to rob a temple. When he was released from prison, he went to the temple to ask to be ordained and become a disciple of that Zen master.

In this case, what made the robber feel remorse? It was the compassion and nobility of the Zen master. In life, there are people who do evil because they have never met anything noble or elevated, have never met love. They see that around them there are always wicked things, that people only know how to scramble against each other to live, that the strong and the scheming and cunning will beat the weak and the gentle. They do not believe in cause and effect. They live this way until they meet love and nobility from another person, feel happiness and suddenly realise that this world is not all wickedness and that around them there is still plenty of love. Living in people's love, they feel remorse and want to bathe in that love for ever.

In life, we may meet many bad people. From this story we understand that they may still be able to give rise to remorse, and we try to use love to transform them. We must always keep a loving mind. Only a loving mind, free of jealousy and envy, free of competitiveness and arrogance, can transform bad people. It is our love that will give them faith in life and in people and enable them to feel remorse and return to the path of goodness. To do that, we must cultivate the compassionate mind very deeply. Beyond words, there must truly be love in our minds. We must understand that giving others faith in what is noble, faith in goodness, and faith in love so that they know remorse is a great merit.

Another very good thing is that remorse can wash away wrongdoing. A monk told how, when he was young and did not yet know the Dharma, he read the books of Krishnamurti, the Indian who travelled to teach all over the West, and did not understand any of it, so he showed dislike. That lack of understanding was partly due to the author and partly due to the translator, whose rendering did not suit Vietnamese prose, so the sentences were obscure. Later, at university, learning translation theory, he understood this. That is, the translator must translate meaning, not words. For example, "I go to school" (translated word for word as "Tôi đi tới trường") means "Tôi đi học". A sentence in the original can sometimes be long and complicated, and the translator must find the meaning and then convey it in Vietnamese so that it is easy to understand. That was also why he did not understand and did not like Krishnamurti. When discussing the Way with people, he had denounced him. Only when he met the Dharma and learned meditation did he suddenly realise that he had wrongly denounced a saint. Krishnamurti truly was an awakened teacher. When he understood this, the monk was tormented with remorse. After about six months, one night in a dream he saw Krishnamurti appear, his face bright as the full moon, look at him with a forgiving smile and then vanish. When he woke up, the remorse that had tormented him for the past six months had vanished. He understood that his remorse had been proven genuine and that he had washed away the unwholesome mind of the past.

So remorse is an extremely precious state of mind. If we live without knowing remorse, we can never wash away the unwholesome deeds we have committed in the past.

Not long ago, in a text teaching Theravada Buddhism, a Theravada monk held that the mind of remorse is an unwholesome mind. And he told a story to prove it. In the Buddha's time, a bhikkhu who admired the Dharma went forth. This bhikkhu was an only son from a wealthy family, was married but had no child. When he met the Buddha, he followed him to practise. One day, when he returned to visit his family, his parents told him that the family's property was very large. He was an only son; if he went forth without leaving a child, the family line would be extinct. Under Indian law at that time, when his parents died, the family's property would be confiscated for the public treasury if he left no heir. His parents wanted him to leave a child. Out of love for his parents, and too persuaded, the bhikkhu yielded, stayed with his wife until she had a child, and then left.

At that time, the Buddha had not yet established precepts; only a person who had gone forth knew that as a śramaṇa he must keep pure conduct. A practitioner must live by his own conscience. So when he left a child, the bhikkhu did not see himself as having broken a rule. But deep in his conscience, he knew he had made a mistake, and felt tremendous remorse. That sorrow gnawed at him when he returned to the Sangha. Afterwards, he fell very seriously ill. Hearing that he was ill, the Buddha came to visit and asked about the matter (in fact, he already knew everything). The bhikkhu honestly explained what had happened and repented. Then the Buddha preached a Dharma talk so that the bhikkhu could understand his fault, and praised a life of pure conduct. Afterwards the Buddha also laid down the precept. Thanks to the Buddha's preaching and comfort, the bhikkhu's remorse vanished. He returned to progress in his practice and later also realised the Way.

By telling this story, the Theravada monk wanted to conclude: the mind of remorse is an unwholesome mind. We know that Theravada Buddhism has a conservative tradition: what the predecessors said, the successors repeat, and anyone who says otherwise is criticised as a non-Buddhist. For this reason, original Theravada regards Mahayana monks as followers of Brahmanism, not Buddhism, even though they still worship the Buddha. So the conclusion that the mind of remorse is an unwholesome mind may not be that monk's own but that of an earlier monk. This monk heard his predecessor say so and repeated it. That is, it has been passed down for several thousand years. What is surprising is that this mistaken conclusion has been preserved to this day.

In fact, Buddhism has many schools. Each school considers itself to be the truth and the true Buddhism. This is something we must soberly reconsider. Whichever school we follow (Theravada, Northern Mahayana, Khất Sĩ and so on), we must never believe blindly. For example, although Northern Mahayana does not use the book Chân Lý (Truth) of Venerable Minh Đăng Quang of the Khất Sĩ school because it has many points that do not agree with the Tripitaka, we must still admit that Venerable Minh Đăng Quang's practice was wonderful and that Chân Lý also has many good points. At that time he did not have the chance to consult the whole Tripitaka, so there were things he taught by guesswork from his own thinking that did not fit the Tripitaka. Moreover, at that time Buddhism had not yet been revived, so there were not many books, and everyone explained things as they understood them, so sometimes they did not accord with the scriptures. That is also easy to understand.

Here we regard sadness as a consequence, and the sadness of remorse is a sadness of great nobility. If sadness arising from selfishness is an ordinary disturbance, then sadness over a fault is a sadness that can purify, brighten our mind and wash away wrongdoing. We must understand that human beings naturally have many emotions. If emotions are used in the right place, they increase wholesome states and help us move gradually toward liberation. Conversely, emotions placed in the wrong place carry us gradually toward bondage.

For example, the heart's ache belongs by nature to the state of movement. When we see someone suffering and an ache arises in us, that ache is called compassion, pity before another's suffering. This is a moving emotion, yet that compassion shows that wholesome states are growing in us, that our hearts are becoming nobler and moving gradually toward liberation. In this case, if we kept the mind still, we would fall into selfishness. But aching for ourselves (like lamenting our lot and blaming our fate) is a moving emotion that carries us toward the bondage of the cycle of rebirth, because it is the movement of selfishness.

Or love too is a "moving" emotion. If we get entangled in romantic love, we will be bound, troubled and carried toward the cycle of birth and death. But if that same love is poured out across the world, loving all beings, we will move toward liberation. So if used in the right place, emotions help the mind to be uplifted and become nobler. We should not fear that those emotions disturb our minds. It is not the case that keeping the mind always flat and still like sand or stone means we are practising well. Seeing others suffer without feeling an ache, seeing beings without giving rise to love: that is not a follower of Buddhism. We dare to affirm this with certainty.

Similarly, a practitioner must live gently and never be fierce, but fierceness, if used in the right place, is also a good thing. If we have the opportunity, we will study this word "fierce" and what it means to be "fierce" in the right place in the Dharma.

When we compare the lofty principle with our own wrong deeds, remorse arises. Every day that we find something new, we feel more remorse that before we did not know this and behaved wrongly. When we feel remorse, besides the thought that wishes we had not done that in the past, another state of mind arises in us: the wish to create merit. Remorse for old faults can help us create new merit as a kind of atonement.

Speaking of this, we cannot fail to mention the story of the swordsman who dug a tunnel in Gathering Sand and Stones. For it is a representative story of the wish to create merit to atone for faults after remorse. The story is about a swordsman following the Japanese spirit of bushido. Having fallen in love with the wife of an official, he killed the official and took the wife away. Living near her, he discovered that the woman he had loved so long, for whom he had committed that crime, was an ordinary, greedy and selfish woman. He abandoned her and left in endless remorse. To atone for his crime, he resolved to cut a tunnel through the mountain so that the local people could pass without losing their lives on the mountain pass.

The official's son, after some time studying swordsmanship, came to find him to take revenge. At last the young man found him as he sat chiselling stone in the mountain cave. The official's son said: "Turn around and take up your sword and fight me; I do not want to kill my enemy from behind." Those who study swordsmanship are usually noble like that. They do not want to do anything base. The old man went on chiselling and, without turning around, answered: "Wait until I finish this tunnel, and I will offer my life to you." The young man did not know what to do, because to kill someone from behind is not the act of a noble person. Moreover, the man's work of cutting this tunnel for everyone to use was also a good thing and should not be obstructed. Sword in hand, he sat waiting for the old man to finish the tunnel. By day the old man went out to beg for food, and in the evening he came back to chisel. The young man trailed behind with his sword. As time passed, feeling that sitting waiting for the old man to cut the road was dull, the young man began to help him. The two lived together like that for so many years. When the tunnel was completed, the old swordsman took his sword, handed it to the young man and said: "Here is my head; cut it off!" The other knelt down: "How could I cut off my Master's head?" The story ended in a very moving way.

So thanks to the mind of remorse, through so many years of doing good works, he washed away all his wrongdoing, washed away all his unwholesome mind of the past, so that the man who had once regarded him as an enemy accepted him as his Master.

We know that wrongdoing has two elements: on the outside, the harm done to beings; on the inside, the unwholesome mind. The excellence of the mind of remorse is that it removes both the unwholesomeness in the mind and the outer part of the wrongdoing. The old swordsman in this story is a representative example. After so many years of remorse, and having created merit, the unwholesomeness in his mind was wiped away entirely, and the outer wrongdoing, the killing of the official long ago, was also largely erased. That the official's son did not kill him in revenge proves it. In a later life he may have to repay the karmic result, but surely he will repay it lightly.

Believing in cause and effect also helps us to feel remorse, especially when we meet unfortunate karmic results. Because we believe in cause and effect, when we sow a cause we can reason out the result and so know remorse and recognise our faults. So throughout our life of working for the Way, we try to convey to others a faith in cause and effect. That is also a way of making ethics grow in this life and bringing benefit to everyone.

When we receive a karmic result, we reason back to the cause we sowed and remorse also arises. For example, a person unfortunately has an accident and loses an arm. Sitting and reasoning about cause and effect, they think that in a previous life they must have done something wicked to others and so now meet such a result. Because they believe in cause and effect, they now feel remorse and will surely not dare do evil again for the rest of their life.

4. WAYS OF ATONING FOR FAULTS

Ordinarily, people have three ways of atoning for faults:

First is atoning to the person we have wronged. For example, when we have carelessly said harsh words to someone, we go to see them to apologise. Or once, unable to restrain our greed, we carelessly stole something from someone, and in remorse we go to them to apologise. In this way we have atoned to the person we wronged. When we atone to them, the fault in our mind ends.

In life there are many situations in which we commit faults. In some cases the person we have wronged is no longer there to apologise to. Then we can also atone by confessing before the assembly. This is a very good ritual in Buddhism. When we have a fault, we come before the assembly and state it, and the unwholesome mind about that fault will be gone. Confessing before the assembly is a sign of great courage in the person who has committed the fault.

The third way is atoning by paying homage to the Buddha. There are faults that we cannot conveniently tell the person we have wronged, nor do we have the chance to confess before the assembly; we can only earnestly state the fault and repent to the supreme one, the Buddha. For example, when we discover that greed still exists in us, we do not know to whom to confide and repent. Those very subtle thoughts we can only repent of by kneeling and prostrating before the Buddha. For the Buddha is absolutely perfect in merit, wisdom, compassion and so on. Our reverence for the Buddha and the merit of prostrating to him make our merit grow and our wrongdoing lessen a great deal. When we pay homage to the Buddha, we always turn toward our wrongdoing, and the fault is wiped away very quickly. But what matters is that we must know the fault exactly, have the intention aimed exactly at the fault and feel remorse turned toward that fault. Only in this way can we get past the fault.

In addition, Buddhism has a ritual of periodic repentance, repenting twice a month. This too is a very meaningful ritual. For no one lives without faults. With each passing day we may commit faults. If we can repent once every half month, our minds will become at ease. But the question is how to use the repentance ritual. At present, there are many repentance rituals: the Hồng Danh (Great Names) repentance, the Emperor Liang repentance, the Water repentance and so on. In some temples, senior monks have also composed other repentance rituals.

Generally, repentance rituals have two meanings: telling the faults and prostrating to the Buddha. These two acts are very right for repentance, so most of the Patriarchs who composed repentance texts based them on these two meanings. Among them, the recitation of the Emperor Liang repentance is very good. When reciting it, the person repenting must recount their wrongdoing in minute detail. In this way, they look at their faults more carefully. For example, around the matter of stealing, we must see clearly: stealing is a wrongdoing, inciting others to steal is also a wrongdoing, seeing others steal and rejoicing in it is also a wrongdoing, and so on. In our minds we must see each such fault in order to repent and prostrate to the Buddha many times.

The common ritual in use today only repents faults in general and then prostrates to the Buddha. (In the Hồng Danh repentance, the person repenting must prostrate 89 times, and the part recounting wrongdoing and faults is small.) Moreover, the text of that repentance is in classical Chinese, so it is very hard to understand. This repentance ritual became widespread because it is not as long as other repentance texts and takes just enough time for lay Buddhists to recite. In the book of recitations published by Phật Quang Temple, a short repentance text is included so that lay Buddhists have time to recite it. First, the text praises the Buddha. Each section praises one quality of the Buddha in six lines (such as wisdom, compassion and purity). After each section of praise, the reciter prostrates once. In this way, when the praise of the Buddha is done, we compare our own faults against it, recount our faults and continue prostrating. For example,

From attachment to self at the start

It became a selfish mind

Thinking only of my own gain

And forgetting everyone else.

Now I feel remorse

And vow to give up my former faults.

Namo Original Teacher Shakyamuni Buddha (1 prostration)

So over the course of the text, we prostrate about fifteen times. The repentance text is both concise and easy to understand, easy to recite and brings merit.

In short, there are many ways to atone for faults. But applying the monthly ritual of confession to each person would be more effective. For when the assembly gathers and each person with a fault comes forward to confess and repent, they have the chance to look straight at their fault.

5. THE MIND OF REMORSE CREATES MERIT

Among us, no one is both remorseful and conceited. For remorse arises only when we have committed a fault. So the mind of remorse helps us give rise to a humble mind. Besides erasing faults, remorse also creates an ethical foundation for the humble mind. This is a great benefit of the mind of remorse.

For example, a talented person easily gives rise to conceit. The inevitable result of conceit is defilement. Because the mind is defiled, we create faults. Once we have committed faults and seen them, we feel remorse. Once we know remorse, a humble mind appears in us. That is the inevitable process. But for a talented person to learn humility from conceit takes a process of nearly a whole lifetime. Throughout that process, we sometimes pay with suffering and ruin, paying very high prices in order to learn humility. Sometimes, seeing a talented person who is conceited, the buddhas and bodhisattvas push them into faults so that they learn the virtue of humility. This is very frightening. So from the very beginning we must be careful to monitor our minds and not let conceit arise. That is also why, in studying the psychology of ethics, we began with the lesson on humility.

Conceited people are later often made to commit faults. Because of the faults, they know remorse, and because of remorse, they learn the virtue of humility. That is precious. The fault may be serious and may make us suffer and be tormented, but what matters is that in the end we have learned the virtue of humility from that fault. We know that for a person, the result achieved after enduring so much bitterness and accepting so many losses is the most precious thing. So sometimes we should also "thank our faults".

When we have not yet committed a great fault, we must know how to repent of small faults in order to prevent them gradually. A small fault that is not noticed, not regretted and not repented will lead us to a great fault. So the best way to avoid great faults is to be careful to repent of each small fault.

6. FREEDOM FROM REMORSE

Freedom from remorse means no longer feeling remorse. When we practise meditative concentration, about to enter the first absorption, having broken through the five hindrances (craving, hatred, sloth and torpor, restlessness and remorse, doubt), we are no longer tormented by remorse because at this time the mind is pure. So the mind free of remorse comes from meditative concentration. On the other hand, a person without faults also no longer feels remorse. So meditative concentration leads to freedom from remorse, and having no faults also leads to freedom from remorse. Here we must understand that meditative concentration means no longer having faults. A person who wants to attain meditative concentration must be a person of very exemplary ethics, without faults. It is a life as pure as ice and snow that helps us attain meditative concentration. For a long time, many people have wrongly assumed that praising a certain method and practising it will attain meditative concentration. In fact, to attain meditative concentration, we must begin with ethics.

Meditative concentration leads to freedom from remorse. The Buddha himself said this. Breaking through the five hindrances to enter the first absorption, we will attain freedom from remorse. When we commit a fault, we know it at once and do not repeat it, but there is no remorse in the mind. For now, before we have realised an inner mind that is still and quiet, we must strive to wash away our faults. In washing away faults, one important thing is that we must live a life of the utmost altruism, not for ourselves.

In life, no one has truly exhausted their faults, except liberated saints. So we should skilfully hold on to the mind of remorse in order to preserve ethics. That may seem absurd at first hearing, but it is true. For remorse is a sadness, but a very beautiful and noble sadness. Let us not think that because we study the Way and live in an environment of the Way, we have no faults. Look deeply into our own minds and we will see all the ignorance in them. That is precisely fault. When we understand that our faults are not yet exhausted, we must try to hold on to the mind of remorse in order to preserve ethics. Holding on to the mind of remorse is like holding on to a method of meditative concentration: holding on to a phrase of reciting the Buddha's name, holding on to a method of regulating the breath, and so on. At all times we examine our faults in order to feel remorse. As soon as one fault dissolves, we look for another to keep feeling remorse. In this way, until the wrongdoing dissolves and dissolves, we will attain the freedom from remorse of meditative concentration. So remorse too can be regarded as a method by which we can enter concentration.

With great faults, the mind of remorse is easy to see. But with subtle faults, the mind of remorse is harder to see. Nevertheless, we strive to hold on to the mind of remorse because greed, hatred, delusion and conceit have never truly been uprooted. Among us, no one dares to assert that they have ended greed, hatred and delusion. When we believe that we still have greed, hatred, delusion and conceit, we always feel remorse about these four in order to gradually wash them away. We know that a fault goes on existing and growing only when we do not feel remorse about it. Once we know the fault and feel remorse, the fault can no longer grow. That too is a way to erase wrongdoing.

We have heard the verse: "The nature of wrongdoing is originally not made by the mind; if the mind is extinguished, wrongdoing is purely cleansed; when the wrongdoing in the mind is extinguished it too is empty; only this is true repentance." The verse has many points to discuss. First, saying that "the nature of wrongdoing is not made by the mind" can also be accepted. In fact, the wrongdoing done outside is not real, but because an unwholesome mind arises, wrongdoing is created outside. But the claim that "if the mind is extinguished, wrongdoing is purely cleansed", that once the unwholesomeness inside is extinguished the wrongdoing outside disappears, needs to be reconsidered. Sometimes the unwholesome mind has been washed away, yet the harm done to others remains entirely intact. The person who committed the wrongdoing still has to repay the karmic result. We must understand that outer wrongdoing and the unwholesome mind are different. A pure mind means the unwholesomeness inside is no longer there, but the wrongdoing we have done to beings outside is still there and the karmic result is still waiting. So the statement "if the mind is extinguished, wrongdoing is purely cleansed" is not accurate. The author of this line wanted to seek true repentance by keeping the mind at ease. Fearing that remorse is "movement" and does not suit the Way, they offered a verse to help students seek an easeful mind and not seek the mind of remorse. In fact, seeking an easeful mind too early and bypassing remorse and sorrow is harmful. Without remorse, our wrongdoing will never end. Only when the karmic result has been repaid does the wrongdoing that harmed beings outside end. So there is no path that ends the unwholesome mind other than the path of remorse. We must see the fault and feel remorse that we caused that fault; then the unwholesomeness will be gone.

So never be complacent and believe that everything we have learned is right. We must be wary of what that verse says and not hurry to seek ease when the unwholesome mind has not truly ended. In our life of practice, let us boldly go and seek the sorrow of remorse. For it is a very beautiful sadness, a sadness that makes our character shine and our minds nobler. Thanks to it we will be liberated. Many methods teach us to hurry to seek ease and bypass the cleansing of the unwholesome mind. That is dangerous. We must remember one thing: the wrongdoing of the mind is considered ended when remorse is deliberately kept up until it dissolves of itself. But the karmic result still has to be repaid.

For example, when we have carelessly slapped a fellow monastic, we know we were angry and feel remorse day after day. The remorse torments us without letting go for a moment. Then one day, we try to hold on but can no longer hold it. That is when the remorse has dissolved of itself, and also when our wrongdoing has ended. The unwholesomeness has dissolved, and the wrongdoing toward our fellow monastic outside is also erased by half. The mind of remorse is very good. So when we have a fault, we try to hold on carefully to the mind of remorse, not letting go and not forgetting it. When we can no longer hold on to it, it means the wrongdoing has dissolved and we have succeeded.

7. WHEN POINTING OUT OTHERS' FAULTS

Later, as we grow older, we will have junior monastics or disciples. When we see them commit faults, we must instruct them. Only when we see that the person at fault genuinely feels remorse do we believe they have admitted the fault. To recognise this, we must rely on experience. When pointing out and analysing a fault for a disciple, if we see on their face the sorrow of remorse appear, we know at once that they have recognised the fault. Conversely, when we analyse the fault for a disciple and they merely say yes and join their palms respectfully, but their face remains calm, with no look of sorrow or emotion, we know they have not recognised the fault and are only pretending to let it pass.

When we have analysed the fault very thoroughly and skilfully and the person at fault still does not recognise it and feels no remorse, we must reflect. One reason is that the person's good roots are too few. If they have great good roots, they will admit fault very quickly. Conversely, if their good roots are few, it is hard for them to recognise their own faults. The second is our way of pointing out faults, or our own virtue and wisdom. If we have great virtue, we will help people recognise their faults more quickly. If our virtue and wisdom are poor, our pointing out of faults not only fails to persuade the person at fault but even causes them discouragement and resentment.

So when pointing out faults to someone brings no result, we must review these two causes in order to remedy them. If our own virtue and wisdom are still poor, we must cultivate the compassionate mind further and prostrate to the Buddha a great deal to increase our virtue. If we feel we already have those qualities but the person at fault still will not feel remorse, we know their good roots are too low and practice is hard for them. For such people, we are slow to allow them to ordain and keep them practising as laypeople a while longer. In short, transformation depends on the wholesome mind of the person at fault and the virtue of the person pointing out the fault.