Deacon Jude Tam Tran

A LADY AT THE RIVER

“The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.” — Mark 2:27
“Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” — Matthew 6:21

Two monks—one older, seasoned by years of silence and sunrise prayers, and one younger, still trying to figure out how holiness is supposed to feel—were walking a long road toward a distant monastery. The path curved through quiet forest, past dripping bamboo, over stone footbridges slick with moss. It was the sort of walk where your mind unclutters itself, and every step becomes its own small prayer.

By noon they reached a river swollen by last night’s rain. The air smelled of wet earth, and the current churned like a living thing. Standing at the river’s edge was a woman, drenched from the mist, stranded and afraid. She looked up as the monks approached and begged, “Please… I need to cross. The river is too strong for me.”

The younger monk hesitated. His training echoed in his mind like a stern master: A monk must not touch a woman. Rules were rules. They weren’t suggestions. He folded his hands, bowed politely, and whispered, “We cannot.”

But the older monk didn’t flinch. He studied the woman’s trembling shoulders, not her gender. He saw fear, not temptation. And in one gentle motion, he crouched down and said, “Come. Hold on.”

He lifted her onto his back, waded through the roaring water, and carried her safely to the other side. She thanked him through tears and hurried down the road.

The younger monk was stunned. He followed silently, his thoughts buzzing like angry bees. Part of him was confused, part offended, part secretly impressed—but mostly, he was conflicted.

They walked for hours in silence, but the longer they walked, the heavier his discomfort grew. The forest became darker, the road narrower, and the weight inside him refused to settle.

Finally, he couldn’t hold it anymore.
“Master,” he blurted out, “Why did you carry that woman? We are forbidden to touch women. You broke the rule. You—”

The old monk stopped walking and turned. He looked neither angry nor defensive. Only... amused. Compassionately amused.

“Brother,” he said softly, “I set her down hours ago. Why are you still carrying her?”

The younger monk froze. The words hit him harder than the river current.

It was never about the woman. It was about the things he carried inside—fear of being wrong, fear of breaking rules, fear of disappointing his own image of holiness.

The older monk wasn’t dismissing the rules. He understood them better than the younger monk ever had. But he also understood something deeper: rules are tools, not chains; guides, not gods. They are meant to help us become more loving—not more rigid.

The younger monk realized he had been more attached to appearances than compassion. He thought holiness lived in perfect rule-keeping. The elder knew holiness lived in perfect love.

We all have a “lady at the river”—moments where compassion and rules collide. Maybe it’s a grudge you rehearsed in your mind a hundred times. Maybe it’s guilt that should’ve been forgiven long ago. Maybe it’s a fear of disappointing people, so powerful that you suffocate your real passions under layers of hesitation.

Humans usually generalize or make rules, spoken and unspoken:

“This is how you’re supposed to act.”
“This is what success looks like.”
“This is what a good person would do.”
“Don’t take risks.”
“Don’t look foolish.”
“Don’t step outside the line.”

But sometimes the rules we cling to become the very thing that keep us from becoming who we truly are. Sometimes the river is right in front of us—a moment of courage, compassion, or inner fire—and we freeze because we’re too busy trying to be “politically correct.”

The younger monk obeyed every rule, yet he missed the point.
The older monk broke one rule, yet fulfilled the heart of all of them.

Jesus confronted this same tension constantly. When the Pharisees criticized Him for healing on the Sabbath, He answered with a sentence that cuts through centuries:

“The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.” — Mark 2:27

In other words, humanity was never meant to be suffocated by rules; rules were meant to liberate our humanity. In another moment He said:

“Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” — Matthew 6:21

Your treasure isn’t your reputation, your perfect record, or your ability to stay within the lines.

Your treasure is whatever stirs your soul—compassion, courage, creativity, truth. When you cling too tightly to rules, you lose sight of your treasure. When you follow love boldly, you find it.

Passion—your true, God-given passion—is never born out of fear. It’s born out of love, purpose, and inner clarity. And when passion is alive, it frees you from the weight of unnecessary rules, expectations, and inner noise.

Rules can guide you. But passion moves you.
Rules can build fences. But passion builds bridges.
Rules can keep you correct. Passion keeps you alive.

The older monk didn’t violate a law—he fulfilled its deepest purpose: compassion, mercy, and presence. He listened not only to the rule but to the heart behind it. That is what real spiritual maturity looks like. True passion lives in a free heart—not a fearful one.