Following the Desert Fathers

Friday, Jun. 05, 2015

I just spent a month with the monks who lived in the Egyptian desert in the third century, and while my admiration for them increased as I made my way through The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection, translated by Benedicta Ward, my romantic idea of following in their footsteps evaporated in the heat of their daunting life. 

Rather than an idyllic existence living in communion with God and nature, away from all the distractions and frustrations of work and family, they practiced an extreme asceticism: embracing poverty, eating only bread and salt, and shunning sleep. 

The collection is full of sayings that are worth reflection. Here’s one, chosen at random: “A brother who had sinned was turned out of the church by the priest; Abba Bessarion got up and went with him, saying, ‘I, too, am a sinner.’”

Reading this, I identified with the sinner, and was thankful that our priests now rarely intentionally and publicly send people out the door. Upon further reflection, I acknowledged with chagrin that I could also be the priest in this saying: I far too often cast people out – not from church but from my life – because I don’t like what they’ve done. 

Unfortunately, as much as I would like to be able to join Abba Bessarion in walking out with the sinner, I don‘t think I would. Although in all likelihood I would have felt much sympathy for the brother, I can‘t see myself willfully shaming myself in such a public way. 

Not all of the sayings were as edifying. Here’s one that left me scratching my head: “It was said of Abba Sisoes that when he was sitting in the cell he would always close the door.”

Umm. OK. So he shut the door. And? (After thinking about this on and off for a week or two, the best I could come up for a meaning was that it’s a variant of “pray in secret,” but I don’t think that can be correct because it was no secret that a monk prayed in his cell; after all, that’s what they did.)

There is much wisdom to glean from the book, but I have to wonder about the monks’ sanity. None of the sayings indicate that any of the monks felt a touch of holiness; in fact, more than a few echo the sentiment of Abba Xanthias: “A dog is better than I am, for he has love and he does not judge.” So I just have to ask: Why did they put themselves through all of that suffering if they had nothing to show for it? (Although I do wonder how God rewarded those monks when they got to heaven – but I’ll never know on this side of the veil.)

While I was contemplating all this, my daily reflection on May 22 from An Ignatian Book of Days, was: “Every Jesuit should be able to live like a monk in the middle of the noise of the city. That means that our hearts are our monasteries and at the bottom of every activity, every reflection, every decision, there is silence, the kind of silence that one shares only with God.” (Adolfo Nicolas, S.J., Superior General’s Summary 2012)

I no longer consider this sort of thing coincidence but rather as a whisper from God. I suspect he may be telling me that I don’t need a desert cave to develop a contemplative life. I can search for him right here and now; what is required is to be willing to be still and know that he is God.