Arkiv, Høytlesning

Desert Fathers 31

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A grand personage came from abroad and brought along a great quantity of gold to Scetis. He asked the priest to give it to the brothers. The priest, however, said: ‘The brothers do not need it.’ But the other man pestered him and placed the basket [full of gold] at the door of the church. The priest said: ‘Let anyone who has need help himself.’ But no one drew close; some monks did not even notice. The priest therefore said to [the rich man]: ‘God has looked kindly on your charity; go now and give it to the poor.’ He left greatly edified. 

We have seen that in the Jerusalem Church distribution from the common fund was made to all ‘as any had need’. That principle obtains in monastic life, too. A monastery may be austere; the monks or nuns may live poorly; but it is never an ideal to deprive someone of what is truly necessary. Provision is made for all manner of dispensations in view of sickness or weakness; failure to be kind in such instances is censured. The point of ascesis is to free a woman or man from superficial, needless cravings, not to strip them of essentials. Here, though, we face subtle distinctions. They can be difficult to make. For what do I, and do I not, strictly speaking need? Do I need to go for a run three times a week outside the monastic enclosure, or is that just something I happen to enjoy? Do I need the particular kind of food or drink I always look for at table, getting cross if it is not there, or am I just nurturing a pet obsession? Most of us can easily customise this sort of questioning to our own circumstances.    

The question of need becomes specially acute when someone offers us money, gold. Gold is always pretty handy. There are always needs, if not present ones, then tomorrow’s. A wise steward must be mindful of these also. A religious community with many mouths to feed, as well as the poor and guests to look after, is always conscious of resources it lacks. Then there is God’s glory to consider. A gift might permit an extraordinary votive offering: a new pair of candlesticks, a splendid icon, a gilded chalice, a pilgrimage. And are not such things, too, needful if God is God and we owe him choice worship? Throughout monastic history long disputes have revolved around such issues, with wise, sincere, and holy people present on all sides.

Gold, though, calls for vigilance. It has a knack for bringing out the very worst in us. It is not easy to be free before gold, even if we fast, say our prayers, and think of ourselves as jolly spiritual. A passage in the Life of Antony is significant in this respect. It occurs at that crucial turning point when, after years of battle against evil in the cemetery, he goes out into the desert in search of the fortress that would become for him a place of great grace. We are so relieved to see our hero restored after his last, decisive run-in with the devil, when he cried out to God, ‘Where were you?’, only to hear him affirm, ‘I was there, Antony, but waited to see you fight’, that we might miss two little details that follow.

As Antony made his cheerful way into the inner wilderness he saw a silver dish lying in the sand. Would it not be sensible to take it along? A pious pilgrim might have lost it and be glad to have it restored to him. Or it could be given away as alms. Antony, though, smelt a rat. He suspected the dish was some devilish delusion planted there to distract him, so made a resolute prayer to this effect: ‘No way, you evil one! You are not going to hinder my purpose. Let this thing go with you to destruction.’ No sooner had he finished his prayer than the plate vanished ‘like smoke from the face of fire’. That is not all. A little further on Antony found a whole lot of gold scattered about, the real stuff, not a mirage. He marvelled at the quantity of it, unsure of where it came from; this time there was no obvious sign of devilish to-do. He did not pause to consider this mystery. Instead he passed through the area ‘as though he was going over fire’, hurrying on at a run — a run! — ‘in order to lose sight of the place’.

It is a noble image of this spiritual athlete. Having stood firm through spectacular temptations that had racked him in spirit, body, and mind, Antony was exposed to one last trial utterly concrete and mundane, that of filling his pockets with wonga. His resistance shows his stature; for how many gurus, ancient and modern, have not fallen headlong into this trap.

The brothers of Scetis are worthy sons of such a father. I love the fact that some of them quite failed to notice the gold stashed at the church door. Their minds were on higher things. May ours be likewise. There is one last thing to consider: the donor. In a sense his gift was spurned. He left edified, we are told, but perhaps humbled, too? I cannot help thinking of a letter Fr John of Valamo wrote in 1955 to a spiritual directee who by post had sent him a watermelon, a luxury in Finland in those post-war years:

I thank you very much for the watermelon, although the package arrived in battered condition, the watermelon damaged, the paper all wet. The postmistress was displeased; other packages got wet. No doubt you sent it with vanity. It always happens that anyone who acts with vanity can expect disgrace.

Stern words from a true monk. Sometimes we need to hear such, to be freed of our pretension.