Good afternoon, everyone. Today, we gathered for the Japanese Obon, a Buddhist memorial service called “追悼法要” (Cerimônia de Lembrança / Memorial Service).

While memorial services of various kinds are held all over the world, today I would like to talk about the deeper meaning of this practice in Buddhism.

To describe the world we live in, we often use the word “宇宙” (Uchuu / Universe). The second character, “宙” (chuu), is frequently associated with the wide expanse of space, often read as “sora” (sky).

However, in a Chinese text from the Han dynasty nearly two thousand years ago, the “Huainanzi,” it is written: “The infinite past and present represent Chuu (time); the four directions, above, and below represent U (space).” In other words, it was originally “U” that represented space and the sky. Interestingly, over time, people began to misunderstand “Chuu” as representing physical space. While common language shifts and accepts new meanings over time, understanding the precise, original meaning remains important.

Today, when we think of the “universe,” we primarily envision the vast physical space containing stars and galaxies. Yet, in ancient times, human beings perceived the world as a unified integration of time and space. They did not view their existence solely from the perspective of the immediate “now”—isolated between the past and the future—but rather saw themselves as a passing point in a grand continuum. Because of this, they deeply valued their ancestors as their starting point, and cherished “family” as the bridge to future generations. Although our individual lives are finite and eventually end, a family lineage continues through generations as a single, enduring entity. In this sense, a memorial service is not just about the living mourning the deceased; it is a profound act of paying respect to the nature of our world as active participants in history.

Now, let us trace back to the origin of Obon, which many of you may already know.

Among the disciples of Shakyamuni Buddha was Mokuren (Maudgalyayana). He possessed supernatural powers that allowed him to see beyond time and space, yet he turned to the Buddhist path because he could not perceive the ultimate truth (Enlightenment) on his own.

One day, when searching for his deceased mother, he saw her suffering in the realm of hungry ghosts—a state of constant torment driven by insatiable greed and desire, where no satisfaction could ever be found.

Grieved by this sight, Mokuren asked the Buddha why his mother was in such a state and how he could save her. The Buddha explained that she fell into the realm of hungry ghosts because, during her lifetime, she was so obsessively worried about providing for you, her child, that she relentlessly hoarded food. In times of scarcity, hoarding food meant monopolizing resources that belonged to others, which severely disrupted the natural harmony of sharing equally.

To save her, the Buddha instructed Mokuren to make food offerings to others, demonstrating the act of letting go of material attachments and sharing with the community. It is said that through this meritorious act, his mother was liberated and attained Nirvana.

Although this story was originally meant to warn against greed and hoarding, the child’s deep love and remembrance for the deceased mother eventually evolved into the traditional custom of honoring and memorializing the deceased.

In Japanese, the word “追悼” (tsuito / remembrance) generally means to grieve someone’s passing while reflecting on their life. The core of this feeling is often characterized by a strong sense of pity or sorrow for the deceased. However, is it not somewhat presumptuous to draw a rigid line between the living and the dead, and unilaterally pity those who have passed away?

Certainly, for those of us who are alive, nothing is more precious than life itself, and being alive is indeed a vital reality. But can we say that simply being alive guarantees happiness? That is a difficult question. At last month’s Young Buddhist Association conference, the dialogue between the guest minister and the young participants centered heavily on “what we can gain from Buddhism to live a better life.”

This is a natural question for young people with promising futures. Yet, even in living, we carry many worries and sufferings. There are times in life when the burden feels so heavy that some even wish to end it, and unfortunately, suicide remains a significant cause of death.

It is difficult to separate our act of remembrance from the feeling of pity. However, we must sincerely confront the true nature of this pity.

The true target of our pity is not actually the life that was lost. Rather, it is the profound sense of loneliness that we, the living, feel because we have lost someone dear to us.

In other words, the one who is truly pitiable is “myself,” the one experiencing the grief and sadness.

The depth of our sorrow is a direct reflection of the immense happiness and love we received from them. Thus, our remembrance naturally transforms into a profound sense of gratitude. Memorializing the deceased is not just about pitying and reaching out to them; it is about finding comfort and healing within ourselves as we recall their warm presence in our hearts. As we see in Mokuren’s story, remembering his mother ultimately brought him healing. In Buddhism, we call those who continue to heal others even after their death “Buddhas.”

Obon is a day to receive the healing light of Buddha within ourselves. Living with a heart full of deep gratitude for every encounter and for existence itself means walking alongside Buddha. It serves as our guiding light toward a truly fulfilling life.