Soulful Sundays: No Kings

“For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.” -St. Francis of Assisi

The tale of the Fisher King and the young knight Parzival lies at the heart of the Arthurian Grail myth. According to legend, the guardian of the Holy Grail — known as the Fisher King — becomes mysteriously wounded. Maimed and unable to heal himself, he loses the will to live but cannot die either. His kingdom falls into chaos, and his lands wither. As part of the quest for the Grail, knights pure of spirit must pass the King’s final test to access the treasure. No knight had ever succeeded — until Parzival.

The first time Parzival met the Fisher King, he was young and proud. Upon seeing the man’s festering wound, he kept silent, not wishing to break decorum by asking questions. His silence cost him what he desired, and the King — along with the Grail — disappeared. For the next few years, Parzival wandered the world, fighting for fortune and fame, yet all the while filled with regret. After much suffering, he learned that what he had been lacking was not knowledge — it was compassion.

When the next opportunity to attain the Grail came, Parzival was ready. Matured and humbled, he was now able to ask the right question: “Whom does the Grail serve?” In doing so, he healed the wounded patriarch and restored the land to its former glory.

There is no limit to human selfishness — but neither is there a limit to human kindness. There is much debate over whether or not we are capable of the kind of compassion espoused in our myths. Who would sacrifice themselves for the freedom of all? Who among us can love others as Jesus loved us? Who can selflessly serve without some ego identity driving it forward? The tales of the exalted ones — Christ, Buddha, Parzival — can be viewed both metaphorically and literally. They represent the ideals of human striving, but they also represent humanity itself. We are creatures of both flesh and spirit, and the striving toward an ideal describes at least one half of our existence.

Clinical psychologists who study depression and anxiety — the two most pervasive afflictions in the modern West — have found an extraordinary concurrent phenomenon. Using functional MRI, scientists have scanned people experiencing depressive or anxious thoughts to see which regions of the brain are most active. They then compared those areas to the regions that light up when we think about ourselves — our ego. The results are identical. The body does not distinguish between self-centered thoughts and depressive or anxious ones. Luckily, there is a way out of this vicious cycle of self-preservation and self-flagellation: caring for others.

It is no coincidence that every major religious and philosophical tradition has, at its core, the service of others. Religion would disintegrate if it did not provide for its followers. Philosophies would die if they were not of use to their pupils. The very fabric of human flourishing depends on the many hands willing to weave it. No person is truly selfless, but in recognizing that part of ourselves, we become capable of working to transcend it. This is the polarity of dark and light — the tension that gives shape and meaning to reality.

When we are so motivated that we are compelled to protest, or so entrenched that we choose to remain silent, we have the perfect opportunity to pause — to ask ourselves which part of the equation is showing up. Is it the side obsessed with our position, our pride, our future, or our past? Or is it the part capable of asking, “Whom does the Grail serve?”  Only then do we discover that there are no kings — only servants.