The Parable of the Three Lamps
The Parable of the Three Lamps
In a city built of stone and law, there stood a Hall of Judgment with three lamps hanging from its ceiling.
One lamp burned above the accused.
One lamp burned above the wounded.
One lamp burned above the seat of judgment.
The people believed these lamps burned with different fires.
They said:
“The first burns with guilt. The second with innocence. The third with truth.”
But an old mendicant monk, passing through the city, stood at the doorway and smiled.
The Broken Night
One night, a man stole bread and struck another in his hunger.
The injured cried out.
The guards seized the thief.
The Judge took his seat beneath the third lamp.
The Hall filled with noise—anger, fear, certainty.
The Judge spoke:
“Justice must be done.”
The victim spoke:
“I want my pain answered.”
The perpetrator spoke nothing, for his mouth was full of shame.
And the three lamps flickered.
The Monk’s Question
The monk stepped forward and bowed.
“May I ask a question before judgment is passed?”
The Judge frowned, but nodded.
The monk asked the victim:
“Why does your heart tremble so fiercely?”
The victim replied:
“Because I fear the world is unsafe. Because hatred burns in me. Because I crave my suffering to be seen.”
The monk asked the perpetrator:
“Why did your hands do harm?”
The perpetrator wept:
“Because hunger ruled me. Because desire blinded me. Because I did not see clearly.”
The monk then turned to the Judge.
“And why does your voice shake beneath the robes of law?”
The Judge stiffened, then answered quietly:
“Because I fear chaos. Because I cling to order. Because I believe I must be untouched by this suffering.”
At this, the lamps flickered harder.
The Revelation of the Lamps
The monk lifted his staff and touched each lamp in turn.
From every lamp, the same smoke rose.
Greed curled upward like a serpent.
Hatred hissed like sparks in dry grass.
Delusion clouded the air.
Craving pulled the flame restless and thin.
The monk said:
“Behold.
The fire is the same.
Only the wicks differ.”
The Hall grew silent.
Three Medicines
The monk spoke gently, as one speaks to the sick.
“To the one who harmed,” he said,
“Your healing is learning to see, to eat without stealing, to desire without destroying. You must be held accountable, not crushed, lest blindness deepen.”
“To the one who was harmed,” he said,
“Your healing is safety, meaning, and release from the prison of fear. Your pain must be honored, not turned into endless fire.”
“To the one who judges,” he said,
“Your healing is the hardest. You must abandon the delusion of purity. You must see your own fear and craving for control. A system that believes itself clean spreads sickness in secret.”
The Judge trembled.
The Extinguishing
Then the monk did something unexpected.
He did not extinguish the lamps.
He trimmed the wicks.
He steadied the flames.
The fire softened.
The smoke cleared.
Light remained.
“Fire is not the enemy,” the monk said.
“Unseen fire is.”
The City Changed
From that day on, the Hall of Judgment was no longer called a court.
It was called The House of Healing.
Punishment was no longer the first question.
Nor forgiveness the last.
The first question became:
“What suffering gave rise to this?”
And the final vow was always the same:
May none leave this place more broken than when they entered.
The lamps still burned.
But now they illuminated faces—not roles.
And the city learned, slowly, painfully, beautifully:
Justice is not the absence of suffering.
It is the wisdom to meet suffering without multiplying it.
A Clarifying Reflection on the Three
In any act of harm, three figures appear.
There is the one who commits the act.
There is the one who receives the wound.
And there is the one—or the system—that stands between them in judgment.
From an ordinary view, their roles seem clear.
The perpetrator is punished.
The victim is helped.
The judge is expected to be neutral, fair, and untouched.
From a deeper and more awakened view, something subtler is seen.
All three are caught in suffering.
Each is shaped by the same underlying poisons—
greed and attachment (lobha),
hatred, aversion, and fear (dosa),
delusion and ignorance (moha),
and craving or thirst (tṛṣṇā).
They do not hold these poisons in the same way.
They do not express them through the same actions.
But none are free of them.
The perpetrator’s suffering distorts action and choice.
The victim’s suffering fractures safety, meaning, and trust.
The judge’s suffering hardens into certainty, control, and the illusion of moral distance.
To see this is not to erase responsibility.
It is to understand causation.
An enlightened perspective knows that healing must be precise.
The one who causes harm is healed through accountability that restores clarity and agency, not through destruction of the self.
The one who is harmed is healed through safety, recognition, and the gradual release of fear and hatred.
The one who judges—or the system that judges—is healed through humility, self-awareness, and freedom from the delusion of purity.
Each requires a different medicine, because each carries the same sickness in a different form.
A justice system that treats only the crime and not the suffering will reproduce what it seeks to end.
A compassion that ignores harm will drift into injustice.
True wisdom holds both.
Seen this way, justice is no longer a weapon aimed outward.
It becomes a form of care directed inward and outward at once.
Not to excuse.
Not to condemn.
But to end the cycle of suffering at its roots.
This is not leniency.
It is depth.
This is not weakness.
It is clarity.
And this is not the absence of justice,
but its fulfillment.
Comments
Post a Comment