The oddity of this genre is immediately apparent. What is this work for? How was it used in ancient Christianity? There is no clear scholarly consensus on this question, but clearly it was used to encourage others to similar forms of life, whether fellow monks in the desert or those reading in more “worldly” places, like Alexandria, who would pursue a milder sort of asceticism within a more ordinary life in Roman north Africa. As we shall see, visitors from the city would often pursue monks of great reputation for spiritual advice, though with limited success. At least that trope in the Sayings suggests the authors’ intent was to reach those beyond the desert.
Even a quick reading reveals that the Sayings do not easily fall into separate categories under these chapter headings. “Pursuit in Perfection” could apply to any number of sayings not in this chapter, just as many other sayings could fit well into this one. The work’s loose organization is also clear from its breakdown into distinct, easily separable “sayings” that could be repeated in quite different contexts without loss. The Sayings work fine as signatures appended to e-mails today because one need not know the broader context of the whole work to read them with profit—as opposed to a quote from, say, Augustine’s Confessions. And yet, these originally had distinct historical settings-in-life, with particular monks and their stories.2 As a Christian minister, I can say they seem to me perfectly suited for the task that Catholics think of as “confession.” That is, for the spiritual advisor’s task of discerning the state of one with whom she is speaking and providing precisely the sort of good word needed at the moment. The Sayings suit those who would enact the sort of request often described there: the seeking of a spiritual word from a master by a novice.
We can quickly see both the appealing nature of the Sayings and their worrisome dark side in this first chapter. The unappealing first: there seems to be a kind of body-denying ethic at work here, as though it would be easy to be Christian if we were disembodied. The “tongue” and the “belly” are problems to be bridled. We are told to give up “self-will,” to embrace “suffering,” while a monk who lives “as though buried in a tomb” is praised. We are to “avoid the company” of other people, and in the crescendo of the chapter, we are warned not to “make friends with a woman, or a boy, or a heretic.” Christianity’s nature as an incarnational faith, in which God is not mere spirit but takes on flesh to share our lot, seems to be under threat here. Death is loved, other people are shunned, and anyone who differs (especially women and those judged outside the faith) is cast aside.
And yet the Sayings do present a side to themselves that is immediately appealing. For those whose faith is so rigorous that they give up family, progeny, and wealth to pursue it are given surprisingly few demands to meet on the way to salvation. “Wherever you go, keep God in mind; whatever you do, follow the example of holy Scripture; wherever you are, stay there and do not move away in a hurry. If you keep to these guide-lines, you will be saved” (I.1). Really? That’s all? Think about God, follow scripture, and don’t move around: the first two seem appropriately “religious,” the last, not so much. In fact, it is hard to imagine in our highly mobile culture. And yet it is striking that we are not told to memorize the creed, avoid all sin, exercise heroic virtue— just to meditate on God and stay put.
Yet the very next saying seems to suggest salvation by another route altogether: “Do not trust in your own righteousness. Do not go on sorrowing over a deed that is past. Keep your tongue and your belly under control” (I.2). Again, the first two seem sufficiently religious, the last one not so much. Yet we live in an age that shows maniacal obsession with the tongue and the belly, and very little concern over whose righteousness we trust, or over what deeds we remember.3 If anything, our cult of thinness is far more severe than the desert fathers here. Further, the severity of the desert stands in contrast to a rather minor plea—to foreswear thought of one’s own righteousness, and not to remember past deeds with sadness. That’s all? The contrast with the previous saying is striking. For Rowan Williams, the Sayings’ divergence from one another is precisely their genius. Such diversity suggests there is no one monolithic approach to Christian faith, but rather that the church must wisely direct those in her care in accordance with their present spiritual state, on the way to increasing growth.4 In one instance, one believer may need this word about the belly; in another, the previous about staying put. The presumably “irreligious” nature of those claims is also an important sign for us. “Religion” is a modern concept, if by it we mean a distinct set of feelings and desires that are private and unrelated to politics or art or friendship. In the ancient world, “religion” was not so neatly sequestered from the things that matter in life. Faith more obviously determined where one lived, what one ate. So ought our faith, the desert fathers suggest, affect the nitty-gritty reality of our ordinary lives.5
At their worst the monks can seem simply neurotic and world-denying. At their best they live a fulsome Christian life that witnesses to the rest of the church in their time and ours. Section I.6 suggests an emphasis on the monks at their best: “As far as I can tell, abba, I think anyone who controls himself and makes himself content with just what he needs and no more, is indeed a monk.”6 This theme recurs throughout the Sayings: simply living in the desert is nothing special; simply living in the world is nothing unholy. One can renounce one’s own desires and live fully toward God and others in both places. To say otherwise would tempt a monk to the sin of pride—which was far more worrisome in their day than ours. A later saying suggests this view of “vocation,” that is, the search for God’s call on our lives: “‘Surely all works please God equally? Scripture says, Abraham was hospitable and God was with him; Elijah loved quiet and God was with him; David was humble and God was with him.’ So whatever you find you are drawn to in following God’s will, do it and let your heart be at peace” (I.11). For those who reject the world and who seek to surpass their fellow Christians in pursuit of radical holiness, this sounds like an extraordinary affirmation of quite ordinary spiritual practice. Our desires, when properly ordered, are good and God-given and lead us naturally to doing that which God calls us to do. Of course, ironing out our desires so they reach toward God may be a more difficult task than this presentation suggests.
These Sayings can help with that task however. Note how many of these restrictions and commendations are strongly communal in nature. What we eat, what we want, whether we are hospitable, the sort of quiet we seek—all these have profoundly to do with how we interact with others. Williams sees the heart of the Sayings as the effort to become Christ to the other—that is, to point one’s sister or brother toward God and others in every moment.7 This is both a difficult task and a high calling, the attainment of which would indeed be “perfection.” The great abba Pambo said as much at the moment of his death: “I go to the Lord as one who has not yet made a beginning in the service of God” (I.16).
Questions
1. What has your experience of the desert been, whether in actually visiting or in imagining it?
2. Many of these Sayings take the form of a younger monk approaching an older and wiser one for an edifying word. To whom do you go for such wisdom? Can we approach the Sayings literature itself that way? As though it might present us with a saving “word”?
3. Do these first few sayings suggest rejection of oneself, others, and the world—or acceptance? Or some middle ground between?
4. How do these Sayings envision the Christian life? How does that compare with your own experience of Christianity?
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