Two Monks Approach a River…
I first read the following parable in a Mark Epstein book—I can’t figure out which one, it’s not in my notes (anybody know out there?)—and was so happy to find it again in Cynthia Bourgeault’s The Wisdom Jesus. And here it goes:
Two monks are traveling together, both of them sworn to a strict celibacy that proscribes any interaction whatsoever with the opposite sex. They come to a deep river and see a woman standing beside it, obviously desperate to get across but unable to swim. One of the monks simply slings her up on his back and swims her across. When they reach the other side, the woman goes on her way and the monks continue on theirs. Two hours later the first monk notices that his brother is silently fuming. “How could you have done that?” The second finally explodes. “You are under vows never to touch a woman. Do your vows mean nothing to you? Don’t you care that you have contaminated yourself?” “My brother,” replies the first,“I picked her up and put her down. You’re still carrying her.”
I love this parable, and not for what it says about celibacy. I love this parable for what it says about attachment, rumination, and most pointedly, judgment.
Bourgeault is careful to tease apart themes of attachment throughout her work, along with the ways that celibacy has been distorted throughout Millenia and retroactively enforced as a value or fact, that Jesus came to be fully human. She distinguishes celibacy from chastity, arguing that “with categorical certainty…Jesus practiced a path of chastity, of full singleness and purity of heart. He embraced everyone and everything but took nothing to himself for his own profit. People were not manipulated; they did not become fodder for his spiritual ambitions or his animal instincts. And when it was time to let go, he did so with the same equanimity and freedom he had shown in the original embrace.” Aside from questions around Jesus’s sexuality, quite simply, Bourgeault’s point is that he did not possess—he gave and received freely and with reciprocity. He did not hold the energy of “getting his,” of owning, of taking, of dominating. Simply holding—as illustrated by the monk above—without attachment. I’m sure you’ve all seen this demonstration: Place an object in your palm and turn your hand down to face the ground. You must grasp and clutch the item to keep it from falling. Then, turn your hand to face the sky and the object rests easily in your palm, held lightly and loosely.
Then there’s the rumination, from which I greatly suffer. I have a hard time letting things go—moments when I said or did the wrong thing; opportunities to do something kind for someone that I missed, or rushed past, or ignored; and then, of course, times when I felt slighted, maligned, victimized. Sometimes I ruminate when I’m trying to fall asleep at night, sometimes while I’m mindlessly driving around town, or when I’m walking through my neighborhood. It’s really hard to let go. But as the monk who carried the woman across the river reminds us, we can learn how to let things go—even things that theoretically tarnish our moral code—and move on. It is more harmful to carry these things with us. It’s time to put burdens down, rather than strapping them to our backs in perpetuity.
And finally, I love this parable for its subtle script on judgment. What is it to this second brother that the first picked up a woman and carried her across a river? Why does he feel like his own field of honor was pierced? He’s chosen to persecute himself by presuming he can and should patrol and control his brother’s behavior. This is how so many of us live, particularly in this country: Restricting women’s bodily autonomy, determining who is allowed to love whom. But as the parable reveals, we only injure ourselves when we involve ourselves in each other’s business. To believe you know what’s right for someone else is the ultimate fallacy: When they fail to abide by your expectations, you are only wounding yourself—or more pointedly, taking on their perceived shortcoming as your own. No thanks!