Archive, Readings
Desert Fathers 39
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Abba Cassian said that a brother once came to Abba Serapion, and that the elder had invited him, as was his custom, to make a prayer. The other fellow, though, professing himself a sinner and declaring himself unworthy of the monastic habit, would not hear of it. [Abba Serapion] then wished to wash his feet, but he did not consent, saying the same sort of thing. When [the elder] let him have some food, he began, while they were eating, to exhort him in charity saying: ‘My child, if you want to profit, remain in your cell. Mind yourself and your manual labour. Being out and about does you no good; it is much more beneficial to stay put.’ When [the brother] heard this, he was irritated. His expression changed so much he could not keep it hidden from the elder. Then Abba Serapion said to him: ‘Up until now you have been saying: “I am a sinner!” You have been declaring yourself unworthy of life itself. But then, when with love I admonished you a little, you got very cross! If, then, you truly wish to become humble, learn to bear bravely what others say to you, and do not be full of empty talk.’ Having heard these things, the brother prostrated himself before the elder and retired, greatly profited.
To speak of high ideals is delightful. It is easy to assume that by talking of virtues I acquire them, rather the way we might think that by purchasing a book we have read it.
The profile of the recent convert who holds forth endlessly on subjects of ascesis and theology after picking up a few bits here and there from sermons and books (or, these days, YouTube videos), is a type we can recognise; we may even see in it a previous version of ourselves, and blush a little.
The man who came to see Serapion was not necessarily a hypocrite. Serapion was a giant among the Fathers. A friend of Antony’s, he was mentioned in his will: when Antony lay dying he bequeathed a sheepskin to Athanasius, another to Serapion, likewise a bishop, entrusted with the Church of Thmuis in lower Egypt. Jerome says of Serapion that ‘on account of his cultivated genius he was found worthy of the surname Scholasticus’; in addition, that he wrote several excellent books and was renowned as a confessor of the faith.
Any young monk would have felt overwhelmed in this august presence, thinking it unseemly to adopt a posture of prominence by presiding at prayers. We can imagine why such a one would wholeheartedly protest when the old man proposed to bow down and, like a servant, wash his sand-encrusted feet. As Queen Gertrude in Hamlet might have said, though, the monk ‘doth protest too much, methinks’. There is too much self, and a certain satisfaction, evident in all this professed selflessness.
Serapion picks this up. He resolves to use the occasion to help his visitor grow up a little. Amiably, at table, in a dynamic of fellowship, he suggests that what this man needs is to focus on essentials, practising stability and perseverance in his cell. Why run around collecting the signatures of famous people when the one thing needful is to learn quietness, gainful work, and the art of holding one’s tongue?
On hearing this, the visitor’s face underwent visible change. Like Cain on seeing his sacrifice rejected, ‘his countenance fell’. He felt angry and hurt. Clearly he had expected commendation on account of his humility, congratulations on his effort to seek out a holy man. Instead he was asked: ‘Why aren’t you at home plaiting ropes?’ He ‘could not keep [his displeasure] hidden from the elder’, try as he might. We know how useless it is to stop ourselves blushing in public when something upsets or embarrasses us. An inward conflict is revealed at Serapion’s table. What it shows up is this: pride has a deep hold on this visitor who professed himself so humble.
Serapion’s rebuke is courteous but firm. He is concerned to let the other man see he lacks integrity. His words are not in concert with who he is. He is caught in a web of pretence. This is a trap into which people who profess faith in public may readily fall. Think of the reaction of those who heard Jesus proclaiming the Sermon on the Mount. When he finished, having evoked the fearful fall of a house not founded on rock, they were astonished at his doctrine: ‘For he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.’
The Greek word for ‘authority’ is exousia. The preposition ‘ex’ means ‘out of’; ‘ousia’ is the word for ‘being’ — it comes from the same root that yields ‘ontology’. What impressed people in Jesus was the fact that his words came from what he was, an outwardly compelling, credible expression of inward truth. He was of a piece, so dependable. There is pathos in the remark, ‘not as the scribes’, a caste of religious professionals who had made the spouting of religious certainties their livelihood. Let us think twice before we look upon them with scorn. They have much in common with devout people of every age.
This story challenges us to weigh our words before we speak them. It recalls a counsel St Benedict gives in the fourth chapter of the Rule: ‘Not to wish to be called holy before one is, but to be so first, whereby one would be so called the more truly.’ It is also a story that brings me to smile wistfully. When I think back over my experience as a religious superior, I ascertain that no letters I received were more predictably obnoxious and out of touch than the ones signed, ‘Yours humbly’.
Eugène Delacroix, Hamlet and His Mother. Metropolitan Museum of Art.