Is It Devotion If You're Also Keeping Score?
"When sacred service reveals uncomfortable truths about devotion, labour, and who we're really serving"
Dear fellow travellers,
There’s an image from Myanmar I can’t get out of my head.
Not the golden pagodas. Not the jade Buddha. Not the sunset over Shwedagon.
A Dior scarf. Laid on the ground. Folded into a neat square. For a monk to sit on because the floor might be cold.
I watched a devotee place it there—this designer scarf that probably cost more than I make in a month—and carefully arrange it so the head monk could sit comfortably. And something in me recoiled.
I don’t know exactly why it bothered me so much. Maybe because I’ve spent the last few months watching monks be treated like royalty whilst workers like me are told overtime pay is a “luxury.” Maybe because I’ve been carrying bags up hundreds of stairs whilst devotees in luxury brands pose for photos at sacred sites.
Or maybe because that Dior scarf on the temple floor crystallised a question I’ve been avoiding: Is devotion without sincerity still devotion? Is kindness performed for approval still kindness?
And once I started asking that question, I couldn’t stop seeing the answer everywhere.
What Sacred Service Actually Looked Like
Let me be clear about what I was doing in Myanmar: I was working.
Not on a spiritual retreat. Not on a pilgrimage for my own growth. I was serving the head monk as part of my job at the temple.
What that meant:
Ensuring he was comfortable with food, filling his water cup before it emptied
Carrying his bags everywhere (heavy bags, up pagoda stairs, in the heat)
Anticipating his needs without being told, retrieving items before he asked
Preparing ceremonies, interpreting for monks and laypeople
Making sure every detail was perfect because anything less would reflect poorly on everyone
It was stressful. Exhausting. And I was grateful for the opportunity—genuinely grateful to see Myanmar, to be chosen for this role, to serve.
But gratitude doesn’t erase the other thing I was noticing: the uncomfortable truths about how sacred service actually works.
The Scene That Won’t Leave Me
That Dior scarf.
The devotee who placed it there wasn’t being cruel. She was being devoted. Caring. Making sure the monk was comfortable.
But something about it stuck in my throat like a thorn.
Maybe it was watching monks be treated like princes. Waited on. Catered to. Their every comfort was prioritised whilst the people serving them worked twelve-hour days without overtime pay.
Maybe it was the way devotees competed for the head monk’s attention. Trying to impress. To be noticed. To be seen as more devoted than others.
Maybe it was this question that wouldn’t stop circling: Why are you doing this? Is it for him? For the Dharma? Or is it so he’ll think well of you?
Is kindness performed to gain favour still kindness? Is devotion without sincerity still devotion?
I don’t know. But that Dior scarf on the temple floor—expensive, designer, laid out for someone who’s supposed to embody non-attachment—it felt like the perfect symbol of something I couldn’t articulate.
Devotion that resembles a status display. Service that feels more like performance.
The Patterns I Started Seeing
Once you notice it in one place, you start seeing it everywhere.
The pilgrims on this journey: wearing designer clothes to temples. Luxury brands to sacred sites. Not just nice clothes—recognisable luxury. Labels visible. Status on display.
And the way they interacted with local Myanmar people—with the vendors, the temple workers, the communities we visited—there was something in the tone that made me uncomfortable.
Pity. Condescension. A kind of charitable superiority.
They gave money. They gave items. They were generous, technically. But the way they gave...
It wasn’t eye-to-eye. It was looking down.
There was contempt for local customs. Dismissiveness towards Myanmar culture and habits. A sense that “we’re helping these poor people” rather than “we’re guests in this sacred place.”
And the worst part—the part that made me feel physically ill—was when someone articulated what I’d been sensing:
“We should feel grateful for seeing that we’re better than them.”
Not: “We should feel grateful for what we have.”
“We should feel grateful for seeing we’re better than them.”
As if poverty is meant to make you feel superior. As if the point of charity is to reinforce your own elevated status. As if devotion means performing generosity whilst maintaining your position above those you’re “helping.”
I wanted to say something. But what do you say? How do you challenge that in the middle of a pilgrimage when you’re the staff, not the pilgrim? When your job is to facilitate, not to critique?
So I stayed quiet. And felt complicit. And that feeling hasn’t left.
The Irony That’s Eating Me
Here’s what makes this all so disorienting:
These are people who talk about Buddhist teachings constantly. Karma. Compassion. Interconnection. The twelve links of dependent origination. Non-attachment. Loving-kindness.
They can quote sutras. They attend ceremonies. They make offerings. They’re devoted.
But somehow, the people who speak most about Buddhist principles seemed to have less peace, less ease, less actual compassion than people who’ve never heard of the Dharma.
The people who talk about non-attachment are the most attached to status.
The people who speak about interconnection treat others as fundamentally separate—better or worse, worthy or pitiable.
The people who emphasise compassion practice a kind of charity that feels more like power display.
And I don’t say this from a place of superiority. I say this as someone who sees my own face in their flaws.
Because I do this too. I judge. I perform. I measure my worth by comparison. I want to be seen as good, as devoted, as better than.
When I look at their faults, I see my own patterns. And I feel ashamed. And I try to do better. And I fail. And the cycle continues.
The System That Makes It Possible
But this isn’t just about individuals. It’s about the system that makes this kind of devotion not just possible but expected.
Here’s what working at a temple has taught me about how sacred institutions actually function:
We talk about precepts and respect. But at work? There are no boundaries. No lines that can’t be crossed.
Contracted working hours? Ignored. We work until the work is done, however long that takes.
Overtime pay? That’s a luxury. A “nice to have.” Not a right.
Proper handover of responsibilities? Doesn’t exist. You’re just supposed to figure it out. And if you can’t, if you ask questions, you’re not trying hard enough.
The monks who don’t understand the practical work make decisions anyway. And we can’t push back. We can’t say “that won’t work” or “that’s unreasonable.” We say “Yes, Sunim” and then break ourselves trying to make it happen.
The people who’ve worked at temples for years—they think this is normal. The monks think this is normal. The exploitation isn’t intentional cruelty; it’s just how it’s always been done.
There’s a Korean saying: “절이 싫으면 중이 떠난다” (If you don’t like the temple, the monk leaves).
It’s an expression about how temples never change. The institution stays. If you can’t handle it, you’re the one who leaves. The temple remains exactly as it is.
And the people who stay—who work in this closed, insular environment—they start to seem a bit... off. Unscrewed. Like something vital has been worn down by the system until they accept the unacceptable as normal.
And I’m terrified I’m becoming one of them.
When You Stay Too Long, Your View Narrows
Here’s what frightens me most: when you stay in one place too long, your field of vision shrinks.
You start thinking the way things are done here is the way things are done everywhere. The abnormal becomes normal. The exploitative becomes “just how it is.”
You stop questioning. You stop seeing clearly. You adapt to survive, and adaptation means accepting.
I see this in the long-term temple workers. I see this in the monks who’ve never left. I see this in devotees who’ve spent decades in this ecosystem.
And I’m starting to see it in myself.
When I first arrived, I noticed everything. The lack of boundaries. The unpaid labour. The way devotion gets performed rather than embodied.
Now? Now I catch myself thinking: “Well, that’s just how temples work.”
That’s how you know you’re being absorbed. When you stop being shocked. When you start making excuses. When the narrow view feels normal and you forget there’s a wider world outside these walls.
Going to Myanmar pulled me out of that narrowing vision just long enough to see clearly again. And what I saw disturbed me.
The Complexity I Can’t Escape
Here’s the part that makes this hardest to write:
My relationships on this trip were good. Really good.
The head monk was kind to me. The devotees were friendly. The prayer monk was wonderful to work with. We laughed together. Shared meals. Had genuine moments of connection.
I’m not trying to condemn people. I’m trying to understand a system—and my own complicity within it.
Because I’m part of this too. I carried those bags. I served with a smile. I didn’t challenge the Dior scarf moment or the “better than them” comment.
I participated in the system even whilst feeling uncomfortable with it. I performed my role. And that performance makes me complicit.
So when I critique the devotion-as-performance, I’m also critiquing myself. When I question sincere service, I’m questioning my own motivations.
Why do I want to do this work well? To serve the Dharma? Or to be seen as competent, valuable, worthy of keeping around?
Is my service sincere? Or am I also performing, just in a different way?
I don’t have clean answers. Just uncomfortable questions that keep me up at night.
What I’m Learning to See
When I look at the devotees placing designer scarves on temple floors, I see:
People trying to show devotion the only way they know how
People shaped by a culture where status and display matter
People who genuinely love the monks and want to care for them
And people who’ve been taught that worth comes from being “better than”
When I look at the monks accepting this treatment, I see:
People trapped in roles they didn’t necessarily choose
People shaped by a system that elevates them whether they want it or not
People who might be uncomfortable with the reverence but don’t know how to refuse it
And people who’ve come to expect this treatment as normal and deserved
When I look at myself, I see:
Someone trying to navigate this system without being consumed by it
Someone who judges others whilst doing the same things differently
Someone who wants to believe her service is sincere whilst knowing it’s also strategic
And someone whose vision is narrowing every day she stays
None of us are villains. We’re just people shaped by systems that were broken before we arrived. And trying to be good within those systems is more complicated than it looks from outside.
The Questions That Won’t Leave
Is devotion without sincerity still devotion?
Is service performed for approval still service?
Is compassion that maintains superiority still compassion?
Can you work within an exploitative system without becoming complicit?
Can you judge the system whilst participating in it? Or does participation disqualify your critique?
How do you know if your own service is sincere? How do you know you’re not just performing too, just with different props?
When does adaptation become absorption? When does surviving the system become accepting it?
I don’t have answers. Just a Dior scarf on a temple floor that I can’t stop seeing. And questions that won’t leave me alone.
What Myanmar Taught Me (That I Didn’t Want to Learn)
Sacred spaces are full of very human problems.
Devotion can coexist with performance. Generosity can coexist with superiority. Service can coexist with exploitation.
The people who speak most about spiritual principles aren’t necessarily the ones embodying them. And pointing that out doesn’t make you exempt—you’re probably failing in your own ways too.
Systems that appear sacred still run on labour, hierarchy, and unexamined assumptions. And if you stay long enough, you stop seeing the problems. You become part of the architecture.
And sometimes the most devoted gesture—a designer scarf laid carefully on the ground for a monk’s comfort—can reveal more about power, performance, and unexamined privilege than any amount of chanting ever could.
For Anyone Else Serving in Sacred Spaces
If you’re reading this because you also work in religious institutions, spiritual communities, or “sacred service” roles:
You’re allowed to feel conflicted.
You can be grateful for the opportunity and disturbed by the system. You can respect the individuals and critique the structure. You can serve sincerely whilst questioning whether your service is truly sincere.
The discomfort isn’t a sign you don’t belong. It might be a sign you’re still seeing clearly.
When everyone around you says “this is just how it is,” that’s when you need to hold onto your questions most tightly. Because adaptation is easy. Staying awake is hard.
You don’t have to have answers. You don’t have to fix the system single-handedly. You just have to keep asking: Is this right? Is this sincere? Is this service or is this something else?
And when the questions get uncomfortable, when you start seeing your own face in others’ flaws—that’s not failure. That’s the beginning of something more honest.
The View From Here
I’m back at my temple in Korea now. Back to the routine. The structure. The work.
And I’m trying to hold onto what I saw in Myanmar. The clarity that comes from distance. The questions that arise when you step outside the narrowing field of vision.
That Dior scarf is still there in my mind. Perfectly folded. Laid on the temple floor with such care.
And I still don’t know if what I witnessed was genuine devotion or performance. Sincere service or status display.
Maybe it was both. Maybe all devotion is complicated. Maybe we’re all performing and sincere simultaneously, and the question isn’t which one is real—it’s whether we’re honest enough to notice both.
I’m grateful I went to Myanmar. I don’t regret it. The relationships were good. The temples were beautiful. The experience was valuable.
But I came back with questions I can’t answer. Discomfort I can’t shake. And a designer scarf on a temple floor that’s become the symbol of everything I’m still trying to understand about sacred service, sincere devotion, and who we’re really serving when we serve.
Maybe that’s the real pilgrimage. Not finding answers. But learning to sit with the questions. And hoping that sitting with them makes you just a little more honest. A little less complicit. A little more awake.
Even when staying awake is uncomfortable. Especially then.
These letters from the temple are how I’m learning that sacred spaces don’t exempt us from human problems—and sometimes the most devoted gestures reveal the most uncomfortable truths.
Next week: Still figuring out what needs to be written
Still questioning, still serving, still uncomfortable,
Suinny
For anyone navigating service in religious institutions:
You’re allowed to critique the system whilst working within it. Participation doesn’t disqualify your questions. Discomfort isn’t disloyalty. Sometimes seeing clearly means staying uncomfortable. That’s not failure. That’s integrity.
Resources for religious workers experiencing burnout or exploitation:
Religious Workers’ Rights organisations
Therapy specialising in religious trauma
Communities for people deconstructing whilst still practising
The questions are valid. The discomfort is data. Your observations matter. Keep asking. Keep seeing. Keep staying awake.