Archive, Readings
Desert Fathers 30
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The elders said about a certain gardener that he used to toil away and spend all his labour on alms, keeping nothing but the necessary minimum for himself. But then a thought spoke to him: ‘Put a little money aside for yourself just in case, should you, on account of old age or illness, incur expenses.’ Putting money aside, he soon filled a jar. Then he happened to fall ill. He got a septic foot. He spent his money on doctors, but it did him no good. Later an experienced doctor came to him and said: ‘If you don’t let that foot of yours be amputated, your whole body will go septic.’ He decided to let his foot be cut off. That night, though, he came to himself. Repenting of what he had done, he said with groaning: ‘Remember, Lord, my works when I used to labour to help the brethren.’ Once he had said this, an angel of the Lord turned up and told him: ‘Where is the money you saved up? And where is the hope you have been hoarding?’ Considering this, he said: ‘Lord, I have sinned! Forgive me! From now on I will not act like this.’ Then the angel touched his foot. It was healed straight away. And when he got up in the morning, he went out into the field to work. The doctor turned up as arranged, with all his equipment ready to lop off the man’s foot. But they said to him: ‘At the crack of dawn he went off into the field to work.’ Dumbstruck, the doctor went out into the field where he was working. Seeing him digging the ground he gave glory to God who had given him health.
This is a story about several things: work ethics, discernment, and the nature of trust. The initial scenario presents a man who works according to the logic of the call entrusted to Adam on the sixth day of creation, when the Lord God ‘took man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it’. This particular man, a gardener like our forefather, is at one with his work; his toil is connatural. It provides him with a livelihood. More essentially it lets him foster fellowship with others. For this man, work itself, even when performed in solitude, is a communal activity. By means of work, the strength of one contributes to sustain the fragility of others. The setting is one of balance and harmony. There is a joyful ring to it, and that ring is sweet.
A thought then occurs to the man. A ‘thought’ in the vocabulary of the Desert Fathers is a complex thing. It can mean just what it means to us in common speech: an impulse of the mind, an articulate reflection. It can also indicate a suggestion whispered in our ear from without. In the case of such extraneous thoughts it matters to establish their provenance. Are they words of an angelic messenger, an interpreter of God’s providence? Or are they demonic, intended by the Father of Lies to lure us off track and reduce our best efforts to sterility? The thought we hear of in the story should have prompted the gardener to caution, for it bears the mark of the diabolos, that wretched sower of division who breaks up what is whole. Under a veneer of prudence, sugar-coating added for palatability’s sake, the thought is avaricious. It militates against charity, saying: ‘Why should these other fellows, good for nothing, enjoy the fruit of your labour? Keep it for yourself! You deserve it! It’s only fair.’
Heeding the thought, the gardener gets used to hoarding. Soon he has filled a whole jar with coins. It is in the nature of avarice to be unable to say, ‘Enough’. The gangrenous foot at first seems to justify this course of action. Was this not exactly why he had accumulated capital, that he might pay for care in times of need? It takes a worsening of his condition, and the fearful prospect of amputation, to make him see that his reading of the situation was really skewed. During the night, we are told, ‘he came to himself’.
That turn of phrase will make any Bible reader shudder with instant recognition. It is what is said, too, of the Prodigal Son in the Gospel. Exiled in a foreign land sought out for purposes of self-realisation, the young man in the parable suddenly sees how far he is from happiness, from the blessings of his father’s house. He resolves to return. Something similar happens to the monk awaiting surgery. To him the father’s house is the state of life he had long enjoyed, when he lived on trust in providence and throve on fraternal charity. He turns to God in prayer, groaning. A rather sarcastic angel appears: now and again God enlightens us by helping us see how absurd we have become. The angel says more or less, ‘Oh, aren’t you the fellow who had placed his hope in a pot of gold, fancying the end of the rainbow to be under his bed?’
We are told that the monk considered this statement, letting the needle pierce his bubble of self-centred illusion. He made his confession: ‘I have sinned! Heal me!’ Alleluia! This is all God needs to work wonders. The end of the story is wonderful. It shows us paradise restored, with the man once again contentedly at work, his heart reoriented soundly. The scene resounds with praise.
‘Your heart’, says the Lord, ‘is where your treasure is.’ It can be mortifying to discover that our treasure, and so our heart, is no longer where we thought it was. Yet if such insight lets us come to ourselves, showing us a way out of estrangement, it is blessed, and we should give thanks. Lord, if our sureties consume us, eating away at our spiritual or bodily health, cutting us off from others, may your angel come and reveal to us how things truly stand, be there sharpness in his tongue.
Amputation by Thomas Rowlandson, published by T. Smith on 20