At the Threshold of My Fortieth Year: A Brief Reflection on Monastic Vocation
Here on the threshold of my fortieth year, I’ve been contemplating my time in commitment to the monastic path: not only as a Christian monastic, but also my early years in vows as a Theravādin Buddhist monk (which was nearly twenty years ago now).
This evening I watched a reflection given by a Western Theravādin monk on the twentieth anniversary of his vows. It was fascinating to listen to something about his journey as a solitary, a renunciate, as I’ve been reflecting so much on my own unique journey in the same essential vocation, though obviously Buddhism was for me not ultimately the context in which I was called to live out that vocation. In his reflection, he told an old Indian parable I’d never heard before, which really struck me (re-written here in my own words):
Long ago, two men had heard that an army was passing by, through some of the nearby villages. And they knew that when armies pass through they often leave spoils and items of value. So they decided to follow the army to see if they might pick up some treasures or other things to support themselves and their kin. The first village was a cotton farming community, and they found there several large bundles of raw cotton. They said, ‘These are quite valuable; let us take them with us.’ So they picked up the heavy bundles of raw cotton and continued on to the next village. When they came to the next village, they saw that it was a community of weavers, and found there several bolts of beautifully woven fabric. So one of the men laid down the raw cotton he was carrying and picked up a bolt of fabric instead, thinking it superior to the unwoven cotton. The other man, however, said, ‘I’ve carried these bundles of cotton so far, and I’ve put so much sweat and effort into the task, I’m not going to put them down now,’ so he went onward with the raw cotton on his back, while the other man carried the bolt of fabric. Coming to the next village, which was a village of silversmiths, they discovered a clay jar filled with unworked pieces of precious silver. The man with the bolt of fabric laid it down, and took up instead the silver, while the other man, still carrying the raw cotton, was torn and thought, ‘I have now come twice as far with these bundles. How could I put them down now?’ So on they went, the one with the silver and the other with the bundles of raw cotton. Finally, they came to the last village in the region where they knew the army had passed, and found that it was a community of goldsmiths. And there they came upon a pale of beautifully crafted gold coins. The man with the silver laid down the jar and took up the pale of gold. He then said to the other man, ‘For God’s sake, put down that cotton and take up the silver, then we’ll both return home as wealthy men, and we can buy fine clothes and food for ourselves and for all the village, until the day we die.’ But the man with the cotton said, ‘I have come this far with these heavy burdens. How could I live with myself if I carried them all this way, only to abandon them now at the end of the journey?’ And so they returned home, one with the pale of gold, and the other still bearing the bundles of cotton. The first was able to clothe the whole village in fine garments, and his nobility was celebrated, while the latter was shamed and conflicted within himself, and mocked by all his kin when they heard the tale of how he had forsaken the silver to carry back the raw cotton instead.
Ajahn Sona, the monk who gave the aforementioned reflection, and who told this parable, then continued: ‘You can’t carry the past and move on to some different future. And if you don’t drop it, all you’ll have in the end is this very large, crude burden. It will be worth something, but in order for more refined things, for higher values to occur, renunciation has to occur….For me, each stage of this path has involved putting things down. But you pick something up in its place, and that thing you pick up in its place should be superior. And some of the things we’re staggering along with through our lives, the weights we’re staggering under: really one should consider whether one should be clinging to this or not, or whether to set it down—and it’s the fear, of course, [that comes with] the setting down, [wondering] what will come up in its place.’
Letting go. Releasing. This has marked my own journey thus far in its entirety. Whereas most people accrue, deepen into attachments and perceived obligations as they age, I have worked very hard to stay clear of them, to always shed more than I took up, and to always let go of those dimensions of self, identity, attachment, agenda, or ‘mission’ that I knew weren’t serving me because they weren’t going to get me closer to illumination or deepen my wisdom, my vision, my clarity or presence of heart. And when I’ve had a hard time letting go in this way, which I certainly have with certain things at various times over the years, I have prayed to be released, one way or another (‘hell or high water’), and doubled down on my conviction, stirred my courage of heart.
As a monastic with quite a few years of vowed religious life (in various expressions) under my belt, this is where I stand—here at the start of my fortieth year of this particular incarnate sojourn: in deeper surrender and commitment (and a deeper sense of freedom) than I've thus far known. It has by no means been a ‘flawless’ or perfectly ‘clean’ journey (whatever that might look like)—it’s involved much difficulty, much experimentation, much striving, much grief, and much sacrifice—but I’ve somehow, perhaps by grace, managed to stay authentic to who I am at the deepest level, and to the core pursuit of my vocation, to not get pulled into the whirlpool of worldly concerns and attachments. To be ‘in the world but not of it’ is no small challenge, particularly in the present time and place. That much I can say for certain. But it is possible. With great effort, if one is thusly called, it can in fact be done.
My ordained monastic name as a Buddhist was Sumuttānanda, which in Pāli means, ‘the joy of having released all things well’, or, ‘the bliss of supreme freedom’. As I think back now over the last twenty years or so, this resonates, and makes a great deal of sense. Sometimes we are given names that, by some unknown intuitive or spiritual force, or alignment of forces, speak deeply and authentically to the real identity of our souls. My Christian ordained monastic name, Brendan, equally resonant in its own way, points to an ancestral namesake best known for his bold and far ranging journey across the turbulent seas, his commitment to the unprecedented, to the wildness of real pilgrimage, to the ‘green martyrdom’ expressed by the solitaries of our people, growing out of our ancient adoption of Christian wisdom as an addition to—not a replacement for—our own native wisdoms.
Another thing I know for certain about the spiritual life (or at least feel I can say now with real confidence):
One must always be prepared, and have the necessary courage of heart, to lay down those things that are not serving one’s ultimate aims. And if our ultimate aim is illumination—real spiritual growth, deepening in wisdom, transmutation, or theosis (‘deification’), as we’d say in Catholic Christian theological tradition—then all that’s really meaningful in the end is our ability to explore widely and seriously enough to first locate, and then passionately take up, the necessary tools: the ones that are optimal for our individual souls and our particular vocations.
What makes a monk? What sets one apart—deeply, internally—for the consecrated life is, it seems to me, nothing more or less than the enduring passion, the conviction, and the courage to ultimately cast aside all that is not totally effectual in leading us to the one truly foundational aim of the incarnate human journey we’re on—of what Christ in the Gospels calls ‘the one needful thing’—which is to say: illumination, awakening to true wisdom, attainment of theosis. That's the path I've been on since adolescence, and will continue to walk at least as long as I draw breath in this form. May all who are thusly called find the strength, support, and conviction they need to do likewise, each in their own unique way. +
