Deacon Paul Nghia Pham

THE MONK WHO WANTED TO CHANGE THE WORLD

“Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own?” — (Matthew 7:3)
“The kingdom of God is within you.” — (Luke 17:21)

They say he began with fire in his bones, but if you asked the old monk himself, he’d probably shrug and say, “More like sparks. Very loud sparks.”

In his younger days—when his knees worked and his beard had ambition—he used to sit beneath the monastery archway, where the stone stayed cool and the echoes made everything sound more important than it really was. The younger brothers would gather there, pretending to sweep or pray, but mostly listening. They loved his stories. Especially the ones where he laughed at himself.

“Oh, I was sure of it,” he’d say, waving a hand as if brushing dust off a memory. “Absolutely certain. The world was a mess, and I—miraculously—had arrived.”

Back then, he believed God was just waiting for him to show up with a plan.

And to be fair, the monk had plans. Big ones. Bold ones. Ridiculously oversized ones. He prayed the kind of prayers that echoed dramatically off stone walls. Prayers about kings, corrupt systems, injustice stacked on injustice. Prayers that sounded like they should come with background music.

He imagined himself as a holy hammer in God’s hand—thunderous, unstoppable, making cracks in the foundations of evil everywhere he went.

Somewhere above, God listened patiently.

“He’s very enthusiastic,” God said, looking down, amused. “No idea how heavy that hammer really is, but I admire the confidence.”

The monk prayed loudly because, well, loud prayers felt more effective. Surely God could hear quiet ones too, but this felt… professional. Official. Like submitting a formal complaint to heaven.

And then—nothing happened.

The kings stayed kings. The unjust remained impressively unjust. The world continued spinning as if it hadn’t received his memo.

This confused him.

So, he doubled down.

God watched him pace, scribble notes, pray harder, pray louder, pray longer.
“He thinks volume equals authority,” God said with a smile. “That’s adorable.”

Years passed. Not dramatically. Just quietly, like water wearing down stone. The monk noticed his prayers changing—not because he meant them to, but because disappointment has a way of editing your sentences.

Eventually, he came to a logical conclusion: perhaps the problem wasn’t the world. Perhaps the problem was… scale.

“If I cannot change the world,” he reasoned, sitting alone one evening, “then surely I can change my nation.”

This felt more realistic. Nations were still big, but at least they had borders.

So, he prayed for his nation. Less thunder now, more strategy. Still passionate, just… toned down. God listened again.

“He’s learning math,” God said. “Progress.”

But the nation didn’t budge either.

The monk frowned.
“Well then,” he muttered, “perhaps the town.”

That seemed doable. Towns were manageable. People knew each other. Surely this was where change would happen. He prayed for neighbors, markets, leaders with names instead of titles.

Nothing.

He sighed.
“Alright. The family.”

Surely if he couldn’t change strangers, he could change people he loved. This prayer came quieter, heavier. He prayed with clenched hands and furrowed brows.

Still nothing.

God leaned closer. “Now he’s getting warm.”

Finally—almost reluctantly—the monk came to the last, smallest circle. Himself.

This prayer didn’t echo. It barely left his lips.
“God,” he whispered, “maybe… maybe start here.”

And for the first time, something moved.

Not the sky. Not the politics. Not the crowds.

Just him.

The monk began to notice his impatience. His pride. His need to be right, to be seen, to be the hero of his own story. He noticed how easily he blamed the world for things he refused to confront in himself.

It was uncomfortable. Annoying, even.

“Ah,” God said gently, watching. “There it is.”

The monk remembered a verse he’d once quoted confidently but never really sat with: “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own?” (Matthew 7:3). Back then, it sounded like advice for other people.

Now it felt personal. Rude, even. But true.

Slowly, quietly, the monk changed. He listened more. Spoke less. Loved better. He stopped trying to fix everyone and started noticing them instead. He became kinder, not because it was strategic, but because it was necessary.

And something strange happened.

As he changed, others did too.

Not dramatically. No headlines. No applause.

But a brother forgave another. A visitor felt peace. A harsh word went unspoken. A small light flickered in places no one was trying to impress.

God smiled.

“He finally understands,” God said. “The kingdom doesn’t arrive by force. It grows.”

Another verse returned to the monk’s mind, softer this time: “The kingdom of God is within you.” (Luke 17:21). He’d always imagined that meant something mystical. Now he realized it was deeply practical.

Years later, sitting beneath the archway, the monk finished his story and chuckled.

“I wanted to change the world,” he told the young brothers. “Turns out, God wanted to change me. And once that happened… well, the world didn’t need me to save it anymore.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling.

“Just love it.”

And above them all, God nodded, still amused, still patient—still working quietly, one willing heart at a time.