How Korean Temple Food Reflects Buddhist Values

A Philosophy Served on a Plate

In the quiet courtyards of Korean Buddhist temples, meals are not simply eaten—they are practiced. Known as “sachal eumsik (사찰 음식)”, Korean temple food reflects more than culinary tradition. It is an edible expression of Buddhist values: compassion, mindfulness, humility, and non-violence.

 

To the casual eye, temple food may appear simple: vegetables, fermented pastes, no meat, no garlic or onions. But behind these ingredients lies a profound spiritual discipline. Each meal is prepared with intention, served in silence, and consumed with deep awareness of its origins and impact.

 

Because Buddhism in Korea emphasizes respect for all sentient beings, temple cuisine follows strict vegetarian (or vegan) principles, avoiding not only animal flesh but also pungent vegetables believed to inflame desire or aggression. The food is meant to calm the mind, purify the body, and reinforce a life of non-attachment.

 

Historically, temple food also functioned as a tool for inner training. Monks and nuns viewed cooking not as labor, but as part of their practice—a way to embody wisdom and compassion through daily action. Even leftovers are handled with care, and water used to rinse bowls is mindfully consumed, so that nothing is wasted.

 

Korean temple food is not just about what is eaten—it is about how and why. It invites the eater to reflect, to feel gratitude, and to recognize their place in a vast, interconnected web of life.

 

Ahimsa on the Table: Non-Violence Through Plant-Based Eating 

One of the core tenets of Buddhism is Ahimsa (아힘사)—non-violence toward all living beings. In Korean temple food, this value is expressed not through doctrine, but through ingredients. No meat, no seafood, no eggs. Even ingredients like garlic, chives, green onions, and leeks are excluded because they are considered stimulating and aggressive, interfering with spiritual calm.

 

Because every living creature is seen as part of the same life force, monks and temple cooks choose ingredients that can be harvested without killing. Leaves, roots, grains, and fruits are collected with gratitude, never wastefully.

 

Seasonal vegetables like fernbrake (고사리), perilla leaves (깻잎), and wild greens (나물) are foraged in a way that allows plants to regrow. Mushrooms are picked selectively, not en masse. Even insects are carefully avoided when washing vegetables.

 

This isn’t about dietary restriction—it’s about spiritual responsibility. When one eats without killing, one reduces karmic burden and nurtures the inner seed of compassion.

 

In temple life, mealtime becomes a chance to reaffirm one's vow to do no harm, not only in speech and action but in what is consumed.

 

Korean temple cuisine becomes an everyday meditation on life’s sanctity, a delicious form of ethical practice.

 

The Art of Simplicity: Restraint as a Culinary Virtue

To modern tastes accustomed to spice, sugar, and visual extravagance, Korean temple food might seem bland or too plain. But in Buddhism, simplicity is not deprivation—it is a path to liberation.

 

Because desire (탐욕, tam-yok) is considered a major cause of suffering, temple meals are intentionally restrained in flavor, color, and portion. No artificial additives. No overstimulation. Just the essence of the ingredient, carefully preserved.

 

A dish of lightly pickled mu (무, radish), a bowl of fermented bean paste soup, and a plate of steamed zucchini with perilla oil may appear modest. But each one reflects hours of mindful preparation: hand-cutting, fermenting, drying, soaking—all done without haste or ego.

 

Even the act of plating is a form of practice. Food is arranged with balance and harmony, often using odd numbers and diagonal placement to reflect natural asymmetry.

 

In a temple, meals are eaten in complete silence, a practice known as 묵언공양 (muk-eon gong-yang). Monastics bow before and after each meal. Each bite is chewed slowly, with full attention, transforming the act of eating into a form of meditation.

 

This simplicity creates space—not only in the body but also in the mind. By choosing not to overindulge, one creates the condition to observe more clearly, feel more deeply, and suffer less.

 

Temple food shows that flavor doesn't have to shout to be profound—when prepared and consumed with intention, even the humblest radish can become an offering to the soul.

 

Seasons and Soil: Eating in Harmony With Nature

Another key principle in Korean temple food is 순환 (sunhwan)—the idea of cyclical life and natural flow. Monks don’t eat what they want; they eat what the season gives.

 

Because Buddhist practice emphasizes interdependence and humility before nature, temples do not stockpile exotic or imported ingredients. Instead, they rely on what the mountain, forest, or field offers at that moment.

 

In spring, fresh wild greens like dureup (두릅) and ssuk (쑥).
In summer, cucumbers, squash, and beans.
Autumn brings mushrooms, chestnuts, and sesame seeds.
Winter leans on fermented staples—doenjang, kimchi, and dried vegetables.

 

This seasonal eating is not only sustainable—it’s spiritually attuned. Eating what grows naturally means less harm to the Earth, fewer resources spent, and greater awareness of one's place within the whole.

 

Even cooking methods reflect this ethic. Roasting, steaming, and fermenting are preferred over frying. Wood or charcoal fires are used when possible, and metal tools are minimized in favor of wooden bowls and bamboo utensils.

 

Some temples maintain zero-waste kitchens, where peels become broth, leftover grains become pancakes, and even dish-rinsing water is drunk to avoid waste (공양수, gongyang-su).

 

Every meal becomes a reflection of seasonal awareness and ecological mindfulness. Temple food teaches that to eat in tune with the Earth is to live in tune with impermanence, gratitude, and balance.

 

Fermentation as Patience: Spiritual Time in a Jar

If there is one technique that defines Korean temple cuisine, it is fermentation. Soybean pastes (된장, doenjang), soy sauce (간장, ganjang), and chili pastes (고추장, gochujang, rarely used in temples) are the cornerstones of nearly every dish.

 

Because Buddhist practice emphasizes patience, impermanence, and deep time, fermentation becomes more than a cooking method—it is a spiritual exercise.

 

Temple cooks prepare large meju (메주) blocks in the cold of winter, letting them dry and ferment naturally over months. These are then submerged in large onggi (옹기) jars, where they ripen with the seasons—exposed to sun, wind, and prayer.

 

Fermentation requires no rushing, no artificial additives, and no control over outcomes. The microorganisms take over. The cook can only wait, observe, and care. This mirrors the Buddhist approach to life: let go of attachment, trust the process, and nourish with presence.

 

When that doenjang is finally served—sometimes years later—it carries with it the memory of time, the energy of patience, and the depth of intention.

 

Fermentation in temple food isn’t just about flavor. It’s about creating a relationship with time—a reminder that transformation comes through stillness, not force.

 

Mindful Eating: Silence, Gratitude, and Ritual

Eating in a temple is not just a physical act—it is a ritual. Meals are eaten in silence, often following the balwoogongyang (발우공양) method, a formal monastic eating practice using four nested bowls.

 

Before eating, monks recite verses to express gratitude—to the farmers, to the cooks, to the Earth, and even to the insects spared by their plant-based meals. After eating, every grain of rice is consumed, and the final rinse water (공양수) is drunk to honor the life energy in every drop.

 

This ritual instills a deep sense of humility and awareness. There is no distraction—no conversation, no noise, no phone. The act of eating becomes a mirror: What am I putting into my body? Where did it come from? Who was affected by it?

 

Such mindfulness fosters respect for all life, but also for oneself. By eating slowly, intentionally, and with awareness, practitioners cultivate mental clarity and emotional balance—key goals of Buddhist discipline.

 

Eating in a temple is not just nourishment. It’s training in presence, ethics, and gratitude—a practice in becoming more human.

Modern Legacy: Temple Food as Global Wellness and Cultural Heritage

Today, Korean temple food is receiving global attention—not only for its taste but for its ethics, ecology, and emotional intelligence.

 

Chefs like Jeong Kwan, a Buddhist nun from Baekyangsa temple, have brought temple cuisine to the world stage, showing that spiritual food can also be culinary art. Her episode on Chef’s Table (Netflix) captivated viewers with the depth of meaning behind each leaf, each bowl.

 

Restaurants in Seoul now offer temple-inspired tasting menus, and wellness retreats in temples include cooking classes that double as mindfulness practice. The government has even designated temple cuisine as an intangible cultural heritage, supporting efforts to preserve it.

 

Because people today are overwhelmed, overstimulated, and disconnected, temple food offers a calm counterpoint—a way to eat with purpose, to reconnect with nature, and to heal the body through intention, not indulgence.

 

And for Koreans, especially younger generations, temple cuisine provides a bridge to ancestral wisdom, a reminder that food was once sacred, slow, and silent.

 

Korean temple food is no longer confined to mountains or monasteries. It is becoming a philosophy of everyday life, served one quiet, grateful bowl at a time.