Don't Worry, Be Grumpy
“Put the whole lot on number 23! Put the whole lot on number 23!” urged the divine voice again, and that seemed to be the answer.
He took pause. Winning this throw would be astronomical. He’d never have to work again. He’d be set for life. Amid the mayhem, he searched in his heart for the answer. The crowd looked on.
After a few moments, he took a deep breath and went all in.
“That’s it! Go for it, son!” yelled one of the punters, breaking the silence, and with whistles and claps the crowd urged on.
The croupier, now wide-eyed, swung the ball in . . . and round and round it twirled, as if forever. Our friend could hardly breathe. The crowd now demanded silence, and a hush fell. No one spoke a word. The wheel spun and spun, and then began slowing to a stop . . . It landed in number 23!
A few members of the crowd shouted out in amazement, but others stood frozen, holding on to each other in tension, for they could see what our friend saw.
The ball was bouncing around in slot 23, teetering on the edge as the wheel spun round. The ball was poised on the edge, the wheel spinning in slow motion. It finally tumbled, and before our friend could shout for joy, it bounced out, and into number 24.
The crowd was stunned. Our friend had lost everything.
In the deathly silence, he heard the supernatural voice once more, “Oh shit! Sorry! Oh shit!”
Even supernatural voices make mistakes, so don’t trust them. Believe in your common sense instead.
People gamble because they stupidly think that by listening to divine voices, by praying at churches or temples, or by making promises such as “I will give up smoking if you will let me win,” then they can beat the system. You are no different than anyone else. You cannot beat the system. The system will beat you!
It is just the same as a soccer fan watching an important match on TV at home who shouts out “Pass the ball! Shoot! Come on!” They actually think that they can influence the game by all their screaming and hollering. Consider this rationally, you are shouting at a television set. The players are hundreds of miles away and cannot hear you! You are impotent, so sit down, watch the game, and shut up.
It is just like the gambler who shouts at the slot machine, “Come on! Come on!” Slot machines do not have ears. They cannot hear your prayers. You have no power to beat the odds. When you let go of your conceit that you are different from everybody else, when you understand that no one can beat the odds, then you will give up gambling.
75. Monks and Nuns Beating the Odds
I don’t know why it is, but Buddhist monks and nuns seem to be able to beat the odds, which may be why we are not permitted to gamble.
A well-known Buddhist nun had just finished teaching a meditation retreat in the UK and had stopped for lunch on her way to Heathrow airport. The restaurant that they chose was attached to an English pub, and they had to pass through the bar to enter the dining room. After their lunch, the driver decided to get rid of a small number of English coins in the jackpot (pokie) machine in the bar. She had just inserted a two-pound coin when the Buddhist nun walked past.
“You have all the good karma, Sister. You pull the handle,” said the driver.
In a moment’s lapse of mindfulness, the Buddhist nun pulled that handle. The wheels went round before stopping one by one.
Jackpot! The bells rang and lights flashed as thousands of pounds poured out of the machine onto the nun’s simple patchwork robe.
Patrons in the pub fell silent and stared. The barman picked up a small bell and began ringing it. Then he announced to the stunned nun that, according to long-standing tradition, whoever wins the jackpot must buy a round of drinks for everyone in the bar!
Thus it was that for the first time in 2,500 years since the Buddha meditated on this earth, a Buddhist nun bought whiskeys, gin and tonics, and beer for dozens of happy customers in a bar.
As for my own gambling story, a few years ago a disciple asked me to bless his friend’s new shop. My mistake was not asking what type of shop it was.
When I arrived in the shopping mall early one morning for the ceremony, I discovered that it was a stall selling only one product, lottery tickets! It was too late for me to get out of performing the ceremony, so I blessed the lotto stall with as much gusto as I would bless a doctor’s clinic.
A couple of years later, I was reading the weekend newspaper when I saw a feature article on that same lottery stall that was entitled “The Luckiest Lottery Shop in Australia.” And where is that shop? I am not telling. Also, I am not blessing any more lottery shops!
76. The Miracle
As someone trained in theoretical physics at Cambridge University, I’m not that open to the occurrence of miracles. But there was one event I witnessed that has no other explanation.
It was the thirtieth anniversary of our Buddhist Society of Western Australia. We had come such a long way from the most humble of beginnings, and it was time to celebrate our success and show that Buddhism had arrived in Western Australia. We hired the most central open-air location in Perth, the Supreme Court Gardens, which to our amazement was free that day. We ordered a huge new golden Buddha statue from Thailand for the occasion. No expense was spared for the stage, tents, food, and entertainment. We managed to persuade the premier of Western Australia, the Honorable Dr. Geoff Gallop, to attend, as well as ambassadors and other dignitaries. The event was to occur on a Sunday evening on the full moon of May, which is the holiest night in the Buddhist calendar. It was such immense hard work, but gradually everything was coming together.
On the morning of the event, I woke up to heavy rain. The forecast said it was to get much worse. A storm warning had been issued for Perth, with the main part of the storm expected to hit Perth at 7:00 p.m., precisely when the ceremony was to begin.
As we set things up throughout the day, we all got soaked to the skin in continual heavy rain. Three times, the premier’s office called me to ask, “Are you cancelling? The storm is forecast to get worse!” Three times I replied, “No way!” A good friend, who had spent his whole working life as a merchant seaman, pointed at the falling barometric pressure and explained that a lifetime of experience at sea told him that a bad storm was certainly coming. Even one of my monks took me aside and advised me to stop making a fool of myself and cancel. I refused again.
Fifteen minutes before the first VIP arrived, a worker came into the tent where I was making some final adjustments, sobbing, “Come out! Come out!” My thought was that something had gone terribly wrong, but all she did was point upward to the sky. The clouds had parted for the first time that day to reveal the splendid full moon.
The rain had stopped.
Soon the premier arrived with all the other dignitaries. A film crew was following me repeating again and again, “This is weird! This is weird!” We conducted the ceremony in dry weather under the radiant full moon.
Once the ceremony was completed, the clouds closed in and the rain poured down all night. The following morning, the event site was under two inches of water, and the nearby freeway was also flooded. Many people who were invited never came, because in the surrounding suburbs the rain lashed down without stopping and many trees were uprooted. They couldn’t believe that we held the ceremony in dry conditions. The company that hired out the stage and tents wrote an email saying, “We don’t know who this Ajahn Brahm is, but we would like to ask him who is going to win at the racetrack today.”
This was not a mere shower that had cleared but a massive storm, and only over the site for our ceremony.
There is no other explanation—it was a miracle.
77. Divine Intervention
A young American had just finished his work for the Peace Corps in Thailand when he decided to extend his stay and try out the lifestyle of a Buddhist monk. He was staying in a hotel in Bangkok and, not knowing where to go to become a monk, asked the hotel concierge for advice. It was not the usual request made of the concierge in a Bangkok hotel, so it was not surpri
sing that the advice he was given was not that accurate.
The young American was told to go to a monastery called Wat Bovornives in central Bangkok, where some Western monks sometimes reside. He was advised to take along some food to offer to the monks on their early-morning almsround and then to ask one of those monks for ordination.
He followed the advice and arrived outside the locked monastery around 4:00 in the morning. As he walked up and down the deserted street wondering what to do, an elderly Thai gentleman approached him and asked in perfect English if he could be of any help. When the American explained his purpose, the Thai man answered that the monastery gates would not open until 5:30 but, as he had the key, he would show him around until the monks came out.
The Thai gentleman opened an iron gate that led to the main ordination hall, turned on the lights, opened the beautiful carved doors, and led the young man inside. For the next hour, the Thai gentleman gave a detailed and fascinating description of the traditional Thai paintings on the building’s walls, including who sponsored the works and why. Some were donated to make merit for a deceased parent or to restore to health a sickly child. The hour flew by and, after completing the description of the final mural, the Thai man told the American to go wait outside, as a senior Thai monk would be coming out soon. He was to put the food in the monk’s bowl and then ask for ordination. Meanwhile, the Thai gentleman would lock up.
The American did as he was advised and was later led into the monastery by the senior monk to begin the basic training before he would be given ordination as a Buddhist monk.
However, there was a problem. The American could not understand the English of the Thai monk assigned to train him. “Can I have another monk to teach me?” he asked.
“This is the best English speaker in the whole monastery,” he was told.
“What about that elderly Thai man who met me on that first day? The one who opened the iron gate and led me inside the ordination hall. He spoke perfect English,” replied the American.
The monks immediately took the young man to the elderly abbot in his office. As he told the story, the abbot stopped him and called in his secretary to write this all down.
You see, there was no layman who had the key to that gate. Indeed, that gate is called the Royal Gate, and only the kings and princes of Thailand are allowed to use that entrance. This was the monastery where the kings of Thailand are ordained for temporary periods. The lights cannot be switched on at the place the American described. No layman has the keys to the most sacred building in the whole monastery. And not even the old abbot knew so much about the temple’s murals.
Then the abbot asked the American to describe this elderly Thai gentleman. All the American could say, at first, was that he was wearing traditional Thai dress, not normally seen these days. Then, when pressed for more detail, the young American looked up and stared in amazement. On the wall of the abbot’s office was a portrait of that elderly Thai gentleman.
“It was him!” exclaimed the American. “That’s the man who met me.”
That was a portrait of His Majesty King Rama the Fifth, otherwise known as King Chulalongkorn. He died on October 23, 1910. Now his entry through the Royal Gate made sense, and he knew all the details of the murals because his family members were the main sponsors. A former Thai king, now certainly a heavenly being, had helped a young man pursue his goal of becoming a Buddhist monk.
78. The Know-It-All
The former kings of Thailand used to surround themselves with the cleverest people in the land. One such courtier was as sharp as a razor and just as cutting. His fellow courtiers planned to seek his comeuppance by embarrassing him in front of His Majesty.
Their plan was to praise his many abilities before the king, puffing up his ego so much that he would rashly admit to having the ability to read the minds of others. Then they would challenge him to reveal what they were thinking. Even if that smart aleck guessed what they were actually thinking, they would firmly say that he was wrong. Because who can prove what someone is thinking?
Thus, one morning at court, minister after minister praised the great wisdom and abilities of this courtier in the presence of the king. When they thought that his pride had got the better of his prudence, one minister exclaimed, “This man is so gifted, he can probably read the thoughts of others. Is that true?”
“Of course I can,” said the courtier with pride.
The others smiled at each other. He had fallen into their crafty trap.
“Okay. So please tell His Majesty what we are all thinking now.”
They had caught him. There was no escape for that know-it-all.
“Your Majesty,” replied the courtier, “I will tell you what all your ministers are thinking right now. They are all thinking kind and devoted thoughts toward their king.”
The ministers considered for a few seconds and agreed, “Yes, Your Majesty, we are all thinking such thoughts!”
That is omniscience.
79. A Tale of Two Mango Trees
The Buddha told the story of a powerful king who was returning to the palace after supervising a training exercise for his army. He passed two mango trees, one of which was dripping with fragrant, ripe mangoes, while the other bore no fruit at all. He spurned the tree without fruit while resolving to return later to the fertile tree, after having changed out of his military uniform, to enjoy a mango feast.
When the king returned, he found that the tree with so many ripe mangoes had been violently stripped of all its fruit. His soldiers had not waited to get changed before gorging themselves. Worse, that tree now had so many broken branches and fallen leaves that it appeared deformed and sickly. The mango tree that had no fruit, on the other hand, was untouched by the army and looked healthy and strong.
The wise king abdicated the next day and went forth as a monk. Being a wealthy king was like being that tree with much fruit. Scheming ministers and princes, and even neighboring nations, coveted his wealth. It was only a matter of time before they would attack and he would be injured or killed, just like that once fruitful tree had been badly disfigured. Better having few possessions, like a monk; then he could live like that tree without mangoes—healthy, strong, and always ready to give cool shade to others.
80. How to Catch a Mango
In my first few months at Wat Pah Pong monastery with my teacher, Ajahn Chah, he would repeat the following story again and again. It was such nonsense that I dismissed it as some cultural anomaly. Yet somehow I remembered it. Later in my life as a monk, I recognized the metaphor as the perfect description of how enlightenment happens, offered by the most brilliant master I ever met.
Wat Pah Pong is a mango orchard, whose trees were planted by the Buddha. The trees are now mature, with thousands of ripe mangoes ready to be eaten. Because of the great wisdom and compassion of the Buddha, monks and nuns today, and lay followers too, don’t need to climb the tree to get a mango. Nor do they need to throw sticks up, or shake the tree, to get a mango to fall.
All one needs to do is to sit perfectly still under the mango tree, open a hand, and a mango will fall into it.
Such is the wisdom and compassion of the Buddha.
I knew mango trees. If you just sat underneath a mango tree, you would have to wait many days for a mango to fall. The birds would probably eat them all first. Moreover, if one did actually fall, it would more likely drop on my bald head, knowing my luck, than into my hand. This was a stupid simile!
Now I realize that it was I who was stupid. Nothing is gained in the spiritual life when you go “shaking the tree” or “throwing up sticks” or “climbing the tree” to make things happen. When you learn to be perfectly still, without a desire in the world, and open up your heart with unconditional love, only then do the mangoes of enlightenment fall softly into your hand.
81. Forbidden Fruit
A poor farmer had a lot of moldy hay. Instead of wasting it, he tried to feed it to his cows, but the cows would rather go hungry than e
at the bad-tasting grass.
So the farmer mixed the moldy hay with some fresh hay and gave it to his cows. The cows simply separated the good hay from the bad and ate the good stuff. Still the moldy hay remained.
Then the farmer noticed something strange. Even though there was plenty of grass in the paddock, the cows would often be seen pushing their heads between the wires of the fence to eat the grass just outside the paddock. So the farmer left the moldy hay just outside of the fence, close enough for a cow to reach with a stretch. The moldy hay was all eaten in a couple of days.
Forbidden hay, even when moldy, tastes sweet.
I used this simile to help a good friend who had a problem with her husband. He was a good man but never saw the point in religion, not even in meditation. She told me that he would surely benefit from the practical Buddhist teachings if he would take the time to hear them, but he just wasn’t interested. So she asked for my help.
“Easy,” I said, “just buy one of my books. Take it home and, when you see your husband, tell him to keep his hands off your book. Firmly forbid him from reading it.”
This she did.
Of course, one day soon after, when she was out shopping and her husband was at home alone, her husband thought something like: “What does she mean by forbidding me from reading her book!”
Then he picked up the forbidden book, read the first story, and did not put it down until he had completed the last tale. Now he comes to my temple every week.
82. The Bully
Wherever there are hierarchies, there will be those who deliberately try to intimidate or persecute those who are weaker. There are bullies in the schoolyard, bullies in the workplace, and even bullies in a monastery, as the following anecdote describes.