The Conferences — CONFERENCE 19.

BY SAINT JOHN CASSIAN

BY ST. JOHN CASSIAN

CONFERENCE OF ABBOT JOHN: ON THE GOAL OF THE CENOBITE AND HERMIT.

CONFERENCE OF ABBOT JOHN. ON THE AIM OF THE COENOBITE AND HERMIT.

Of the Coenobium of Abbot Paul and the patience of a certain brother.

Of the Cœnobium of Abbot Paul and the patience of a certain brother.

After only a few days we made our way once more with great eagerness, drawn by the desire for further instruction, to the monastery of Abbot Paul. Although more than two hundred brothers lived there, an enormous gathering of monks from other monasteries had also come because of the festival then being held. They were solemnly observing the anniversary of the death of a former abbot who had presided over the same monastery. We have mentioned this assembly so that we may briefly describe the patience of a certain brother, which was remarkable for his unwavering gentleness in the presence of this entire congregation. Although the purpose of this work concerns another person—namely, to record the words of Abbot John, who left the desert and submitted himself to that monastery with the utmost goodness and humility—we think it not at all inappropriate to relate, without unnecessary words, what we consider most instructive to those who are eager for goodness. When the whole body of monks was seated in separate groups of twelve in the large courtyard, one of the brothers had been rather slow in fetching and bringing in a dish. The aforementioned Abbot Paul, who was busily hurrying about among the groups of brothers who were serving, saw this and struck him a blow before everyone on his open palm. The sound of the hand being struck actually reached the ears of those whose backs were turned and who were sitting some distance away. But the young man of remarkable patience received it with such calmness of mind that he not only let no word fall from his mouth or gave the slightest sign of murmuring by the silent movements of his lips, but also did not change color in the slightest degree or lose the modest and peaceful expression on his face. This fact astonished not merely us, who had recently come from a monastery in Syria and had not learned the blessing of this patience through such clear examples, but all those as well who were not without experience of such earnestness. Through this a great lesson was taught even to those who were well advanced, because even though this fatherly correction had not disturbed his patience, neither did the presence of so great a number bring the slightest sign of color to his cheeks.

After only a few days we made our way once more with great alacrity, drawn by the desire for further instruction, to the Cœnobium of Abbot Paul, where though a greater number than two hundred of the brethren dwell there, yet, in honour of the festival which was then being held, an enormous collection of monks from other Cœnobia had come there as well: for the anniversary of the death of a former Abbot who had presided over the same monastery was being solemnly kept. And we have mentioned this assembly for this reason that we may briefly treat of the patience of a certain brother, which was remarkable for immovable gentleness on his part in the presence of all this congregation. For though the object of this work has regard to another person; viz., that we may produce the utterances of Abbot John who left the desert and submitted himself to that Cœnobium with the utmost goodness and humility, yet we think it not at all absurd to relate without any unnecessary verbiage, what we think is most instructive to those who are eager for goodness. And so when the whole body of the monks was seated in separate parties of twelve, in the large open court, when one of the brethren had been rather slow in fetching and bringing in a dish, the aforesaid Abbot Paul, who was busily hurrying about among the troops of brethren who were serving, saw it and struck him such a blow before them all on his open palm that the sound of the hand which was struck actually reached the ears of those whose backs were turned and who were sitting some way off. But the youth of remarkable patience received it with such calmness of mind that not only did he let no word fall from his mouth or give the slightest sign of murmuring by the silent movements of his lips, but actually did not change color in the slightest degree or (lose) the modest and peaceful look about his mouth. And this fact struck with astonishment not merely us, who had lately come from a monastery of Syria and had not learned the blessing of this patience by such clear examples, but all those as well who were not without experience of such earnestness, so that by it a great lesson was taught even to those who were well advanced, because even if this paternal correction had not disturbed his patience, neither did the presence of so great a number bring the slightest sign of color to his cheeks.

Of Abbot John's Humility and Our Question

Of Abbot John's humility and our question.

In this monastery, we met a very old man named John. We believe his words and humility should certainly not be passed over in silence, since in these qualities he surpassed all the saints. We know he was especially strong in this perfection, which, though it is the mother of all virtues and the surest foundation of the entire spiritual structure, is completely foreign to our way of life. No wonder we cannot reach the level of those men, since we cannot endure the discipline of the monastery—I won't say until old age—but we can barely tolerate the yoke of obedience for even two years. We quickly escape to enjoy a dangerous freedom, and even during that short time, we seem to submit to the elder's rule not according to any strict standard, but as our own free will dictates. When we saw this old man in Abbot Paul's monastery, we were struck first by his age and the grace he possessed. With our eyes fixed on the ground, we began to beg him to explain to us why he had abandoned the freedom of the desert and that exalted calling, in which his fame and renown had raised him above others who had adopted the same life, and why he had chosen to place himself under the yoke of the monastery. He said that since he was inadequate for the anchorite's way of life and unworthy of the heights of such perfection, he had returned to the beginner's school, so that he might learn to carry out the lessons taught there, as that life required. When our entreaties were not satisfied and we refused to accept this humble answer, he finally began as follows.

In this Cœnobium then we found a very old man named John, whose words and humility we think ought certainly not to be passed over in silence as in them he excelled all the saints, as we know that he was especially vigorous in this perfection, which though it is the mother of all virtues and the surest foundation of the whole spiritual superstructure, yet is altogether a stranger to our system. Wherefore it is no wonder that we cannot attain to the height of those men, as we cannot stand the training of the Cœnobium I will not say up to old age, but are scarcely content to endure the yoke of subjection for a couple of years, and at once escape to enjoy a dangerous liberty, while even for that short time we seem to be subject to the rule of the Elder not according to any strict rule, but as our free will directs. When then we had seen this old man in Abbot Paul's Cœnobium, we were struck, first by his age and the grace with which the man was endowed, and with looks fixed on the ground began to entreat him to vouchsafe to explain to us why he had forsaken the freedom of the desert and that exalted profession, in which his fame and celebrity had raised him above others who had adopted the same life, and why he had chosen to enter under the yoke of the Cœnobium. He said that as he was unequal to the system of the anchorites and unworthy of the heights of such perfection, he had gone back to the infant school, that he might learn to carry out the lessons taught there, according as the life demanded. And when our entreaties were not satisfied and we refused to take this humble answer, at last he began as follows.

Abbot John's explanation for why he had left the desert.

Abbot John's answer why he had left the desert.

The system of the anchorites, which you are surprised that I left, I neither reject nor refuse. Rather, I embrace it and regard it with the utmost reverence. After spending thirty years living in a coenobium, I rejoice that I also spent twenty more years in this system, so that no one can accuse me of being lazy or half-hearted in my attempt. However, because its purity—which I had experienced to some degree—was sometimes contaminated by worries about physical matters, it seemed better to return to the coenobium. There I could more readily achieve a simpler goal with less danger than by pursuing the higher but more difficult life of the solitary hermit. For it is better to be earnest in pursuing smaller goals than careless in pursuing greater ones. Therefore, if I say anything that sounds somewhat arrogant or perhaps too bold, I ask that you not attribute it to sinful boasting but rather to my desire to build you up. Since I believe that when you ask so earnestly, nothing of the truth should be held back from you, please attribute my words to love rather than to pride. I think I can give you some instruction if I set aside my humility and simply reveal the whole truth about my purpose. I trust that I will not bring upon myself any accusation of vainglory from you because of my frank speech, nor any charge of lying from my conscience because of hiding the truth.

The system of the anchorites, which you are surprised at my leaving, I not only neither reject nor refuse, but rather embrace and regard with the utmost veneration: in which system, and after I had passed thirty years living in a Cœnobium, I rejoice that I have also spent twenty more, so that I can never be accused of sloth among those who tried it in a half-hearted way. But because its purity, of which I had had some slight experience, was sometimes soiled by the presence of anxiety about carnal matters, it seemed better to return to the Cœnobium to secure a readier attainment of an easier aim undertaken, and less danger from venturing on the higher life of the humble solitary. For it is better to seem earnest with smaller promises than careless in larger ones. And therefore if possibly I bring forward anything somewhat arrogantly and indeed somewhat too freely, I beg that you will not think it due to the sin of boasting but rather to my desire for your edification; and that, as I think that, when you ask so earnestly, nothing of the truth should be kept back from you, you will set it down to love rather than to boasting. For I think that some instruction may be given to you if I lay aside my humility, and simply lay bare the whole truth about my aim. For I trust that I shall not incur any reproach of vainglory from you because of the freedom of my words, nor any charge of falsehood from my conscience because of any suppression of the truth.

Concerning the excellence which the aforementioned old man demonstrated in the way of life of the anchorites.

Of the excellence which the aforesaid old man showed in the system of the anchorites.

If anyone else takes delight in the solitude of the desert and wishes to forget all human contact and say with Jeremiah, "I have not desired the day of man: You know" (Jeremiah 17:16), I confess that by the blessing of God's grace, I also obtained this—or at least tried to obtain it. And so, through the Lord's generous gift, I remember that I was often lifted up into such an ecstasy that I forgot I was clothed with the burden of a weak body. My soul suddenly forgot all outward perceptions and completely cut itself off from all material things, so that neither my eyes nor ears performed their usual functions. My soul was so filled with divine meditations and spiritual contemplations that often in the evening I did not know whether I had eaten any food, and the next day I was very uncertain whether I had broken my fast the day before. For this reason, a week's supply of food—that is, seven portions of biscuits—was set aside in a small basket and stored away on Saturday, so that there would be no doubt about when supper had been missed. This method also prevented another mistake caused by forgetfulness, because when the number of biscuits was finished, it showed that the week had ended and that the services of the same day had returned, and that the festival, holy day, and congregational services could not escape the notice of the solitary. But even if that mental ecstasy we have mentioned should interfere with this arrangement, the pattern of daily work would still show the number of days and prevent the mistake. And to pass over in silence the other benefits of the desert (since our purpose is not to discuss their number and extent, but rather the purpose of solitude and the Coenobium), I will instead briefly explain the reasons why I preferred to leave it—which you also wanted to know—and will in a short discussion review all those fruits of solitude that I mentioned and show what greater advantages they should be considered inferior to.

If then anyone else delights in the recesses of the desert and would forget all human intercourse and say with Jeremiah: I have not desired the day of man: You know, Jeremiah 17:16 I confess that by the blessing of God's grace, I also secured or at any rate tried to secure this. And so by the kind gift of the Lord I remember that I was often caught up into such an ecstasy as to forget that I was clothed with the burden of a weak body, and my soul on a sudden forgot all external notions and entirely cut itself off from all material objects, so that neither my eyes nor ears performed their proper functions. And my soul was so filled with divine meditations and spiritual contemplations that often in the evening I did not know whether I had taken any food and on the next day was very doubtful whether I had broken my fast yesterday. For which reason, a supply of food for seven days, i.e., seven sets of biscuits were set apart in a sort of hand-basket, and laid by on Saturday, that there might be no doubt when supper had been omitted; and by this plan another mistake also from forgetfulness was obviated, for when the number of cakes was finished it showed that the course of the week was over, and that the services of the same day had come round, and that the festival and holy day and services of the congregation could not escape the notice of the solitary. But even if that ecstasy of mind of which we have spoken should happen to interfere with this arrangement, yet still the method of the days' work would show the number of the days and check the mistake. And to pass over in silence the other advantages of the desert (for it is not our business to treat of their number and quantity, but rather of the aim of solitude and the Cœnobium) I will the rather briefly explain the reasons why I preferred to leave it, which you also wanted to know, and will in a concise discourse glance at all those fruits of solitude which I mentioned, and show to what greater advantages on the other side they ought to be held inferior.

The Benefits of the Desert

Of the advantages of the desert.

When there were only a few people living in the desert, we enjoyed greater freedom in the vast expanse of the wilderness. In the seclusion of our more spacious retreats, we were lifted up to heavenly ecstasies and were not overwhelmed by large numbers of visitors. This meant we were not overburdened in our thoughts by the distractions of great cares that come from the necessity of showing hospitality. During that time, I pursued with insatiable desire and my whole heart the peaceful retreats of the desert and that life which can only be compared to the bliss of angels. But when, as I mentioned, a larger number of brothers began to seek a dwelling in that desert, they restricted the freedom of the vast wilderness. This not only caused the fire of divine contemplation to grow cold, but also entangled my mind in many ways in the chains of worldly matters. I decided to pursue my goal through this system rather than grow cold in that sublime way of life by providing for physical needs. This way, even if that liberty and those spiritual ecstasies are denied to me, I can still console myself by avoiding all concern for tomorrow and fulfilling the precept of the gospel. What I lose in the heights of contemplation can be made up to me by submission and obedience. For it is a wretched thing for someone to claim to be learning any art or discipline and never to reach perfection in it.

So long then as owing to the fewness of those who were then living in the desert, a greater freedom was afforded to us in a wider expanse of the wilderness, so long as in the seclusion of larger retreats we were caught up to those celestial ecstasies, and were not overwhelmed by a great quantity of brethren to visit us, and thus owing to the necessity of showing hospitality overburdened in our thoughts by the distractions of great cares, I frequented with insatiable desire and all my heart the peaceful retreats of the desert and that life which can only be compared to the bliss of the angels. But when, as I said, a larger number of the brethren began to seek a dwelling in that desert, and by cramping the freedom of the vast wilderness, not only caused that fire of divine contemplation to grow cold, but also entangled the mind in many ways in the chains of carnal matters, I determined to carry out my purpose in this system rather than to grow cold in that sublime mode of life, by providing for carnal wants; so that, if that liberty and those spiritual ecstasies are denied me, yet as all care for the morrow is avoided, I may console myself by fulfilling the precept of the gospel, and what I lose in sublimity of contemplation, may be made up to me by submission and obedience. For it is a wretched thing for a man to profess to learn any art or pursuit, and never to arrive at perfection in it.

Concerning the conveniences of the Coenobium.

Of the conveniences of the Cœnobium.

Therefore I will briefly explain what advantages I now enjoy in this way of life. You should consider my words and judge whether those advantages of the desert outweigh these comforts, and by this you will also be able to test whether I chose to be confined within the narrow limits of the monastery from dislike or from desire of that purity of the solitary life. In this life then there is no planning for the day's work, no distractions of buying and selling, no unavoidable concern for the year's food, no anxiety about physical things, by which one has to prepare what is necessary not only for one's own needs but also for those of any number of visitors, and finally no pride from the praise of men, which is worse than all these things and sometimes in God's sight cancels out the good of even great efforts in the desert. But, to pass over those waves of spiritual pride and the deadly danger of vainglory in the life of the hermit, let us return to this general burden which affects everybody, that is, the ordinary anxiety in providing food, which has so far exceeded I say not the measure of that ancient strictness which did entirely without oil, but is beginning not to be satisfied even with the relaxation of our own time according to which the requirements of all the food supply for a year were met by the preparation of a single pint of oil and a modius of lentils prepared for the use of visitors; but now the necessary food supply is scarcely met by two or three times that amount. And to such an extent has the force of this dangerous relaxation grown among some that, when they mix vinegar and sauce, they do not add that single drop of oil which our predecessors who followed the rules of the desert with greater powers of self-denial were accustomed to pour in simply for the sake of avoiding vainglory, but they break an Egyptian cheese for luxury and pour over it more oil than is required, and so take, under a single pleasant dish, two sorts of food which differ in their special flavor, each of which ought separately to be a pleasant refreshment at different times for a monk. To such a degree however has this hylikē ktēsis (acquisition of material things) grown, that actually under pretense of hospitality and welcoming guests hermits have begun to keep a blanket in their cells—a thing which I cannot mention without shame—to omit those things by which the mind that is awed by and intent on spiritual meditation is more especially hindered; namely, the gathering of brothers, the duties of receiving the coming and speeding the parting, visits to each other and the endless worry of various conversations and occupations, the expectation of which owing to the continuous character of these customary interruptions keeps the mind on edge even during the time when these bothers seem to cease. And so the result is that the freedom of the hermit's life is so hindered by these ties that it can never rise to that ineffable keenness of heart, and thus loses the fruits of its hermit life. And if this is now denied to me while I am living in the congregation and among others, at least there is no lack of peace of mind and tranquility of heart that is freed from all business. And unless this is ready at hand for those also who live in the desert, they will indeed have to undergo the labors of the hermit's life, but will lose its fruits which can only be gained in peaceful stability of mind. Finally even if there is any diminution of my purity of heart while I am living in the monastery, I shall be satisfied by keeping in exchange that one precept of the Gospel, which certainly cannot be less esteemed than all those fruits of the desert; I mean that I should take no thought for tomorrow, and submitting myself completely to the Abbot seem in some degree to emulate

Wherefore I will briefly explain what advantages I now enjoy in this manner of life. You must consider my words and judge whether those advantages of the desert outweigh these comforts, and by this you will also be able to prove whether I chose to be cramped within the narrow limits of the Cœnobium from dislike or from desire of that purity of the solitary life. In this life then there is no providing for the day's work, no distractions of buying and selling, no unavoidable care for the year's food, no anxiety about bodily things, by which one has to get ready what is necessary not only for one's own wants but also for those of any number of visitors, finally no conceit from the praise of men, which is worse than all these things and sometimes in the sight of God does away with the good of even great efforts in the desert. But, to pass over those waves of spiritual pride and the deadly peril of vainglory in the life of the anchorite, let us return to this general burden which affects everybody, i.e., the ordinary anxiety in providing food, which has so far exceeded I say not the measure of that ancient strictness which altogether did without oil, but is beginning not to be content even with the relaxation of our own time according to which the requirements of all the supply of food for a year were satisfied by the preparation of a single pint of oil and a modius of lentils prepared for the use of visitors; but now the needful supply of food is scarcely met by two or three times that amount. And to such an extent has the force of this dangerous relaxation grown among some that, when they mix vinegar and sauce, they do not add that single drop of oil, which our predecessors who followed the rules of the desert with greater powers of abstinence, were accustomed to pour in simply for the sake of avoiding vainglory, but they break an Egyptian cheese for luxury and pour over it more oil than is required, and so take, under a single pleasant relish, two sorts of food which differ in their special flavour, each of which ought singly to be a pleasant refreshment at different times for a monk. To such a pitch however has this ὑλικὴ κτῆσις, i.e., acquisition of material things grown, that actually under pretence of hospitality and welcoming guests anchorites have begun to keep a blanket in their cells — a thing which I cannot mention without shame — to omit those things by which the mind that is awed by and intent on spiritual meditation is more especially hampered; viz., the concourse of brethren, the duties of receiving the coming and speeding the parting, visits to each other and the endless worry of various confabulations and occupations, the expectation of which owing to the continuous character of these customary interruptions keeps the mind on the stretch even during the time when these bothers seem to cease. And so the result is that the freedom of the anchorite's life is so hindered by these ties that it can never rise to that ineffable keenness of heart, and thus loses the fruits of its hermit life. And if this is now denied to me while I am living in the congregation and among others, at least there is no lack of peace of mind and tranquillity of heart that is freed from all business. And unless this is ready at hand for those also who live in the desert, they will indeed have to undergo the labours of the anchorite's life, but will lose its fruits which can only be gained in peaceful stability of mind. Finally even if there is any diminution of my purity of heart while I am living in the Cœnobium, I shall be satisfied by keeping in exchange that one precept of the Gospel, which certainly cannot be less esteemed than all those fruits of the desert; I mean that I should take no thought for the morrow, and submitting myself completely to the Abbot seem in some degree to emulate

Him of whom it is said: He humbled Himself, and became obedient unto death—so that we may be able to humbly use His words: For I came not to do my own will, but the will of the Father who sent me.

Him of whom it is said: He humbled Himself, and became obedient unto death; and so be able humbly to make use of His words: For I came not to do my own will, but the will of the Father which sent me.

A question about the benefits of the coenobium (communal monastery) and the desert.

A question on the fruits of the Cœnobium and the desert.

Germanus: Since it is clear that you have not, like so many others, merely touched the surface of each way of life, but have reached the very heights, we would like to know what the goal of the Coenobite's life is and what the goal of the hermit's is. For no one can doubt that no man can speak more fully or faithfully on these subjects than one who, taught by long practice and experience, has followed both, and so can show us their value and purpose through truthful teaching.

Germanus: Since it is evident that you have not, like so many, just touched the mere outskirts of each mode of life, but have ascended to the very heights, we should like to know what is the end of the Cœnobite's life and what the end of the hermit's. For no one can doubt that no man can discourse with greater fullness or fidelity on these subjects than one who, taught by long use and experience, has followed them both, and so can by veracious teaching show us their value and aim.

The answer to the question that was asked.

The answer to the question proposed.

I would absolutely maintain that one and the same man could not achieve perfection in both lives, except that I am prevented from saying so by the example of a very few individuals. And since it is no small matter to find someone who is perfect in even one of them, it is clear how much harder—and I had almost said impossible—it is for someone to be thoroughly proficient in both. And if this has ever happened, it cannot fall under any general rule. For a general rule must be based not on exceptional cases—that is, on the experience of very few people—but on what is within the reach of the many, or rather of all. But what is achieved here and there by only one or two people, and is beyond the capacity of ordinary goodness, must be excluded from general rules as something permitted outside the condition and nature of human weakness, and should be presented as a miracle rather than as an example. Therefore, I will, as my limited ability permits, briefly explain what you want to know. The goal of the coenobite is indeed to mortify and crucify all his desires and, according to that salutary command of evangelical perfection, to take no thought for tomorrow. And it is perfectly clear that this perfection cannot be attained by anyone except a coenobite, the kind of person whom the prophet Isaiah describes and blesses and praises as follows: "If you turn away your foot from the Sabbath, from doing your own will on my holy day, and glorify Him, while you do not follow your own ways, and your own will is not found to speak a word: then you shall be delighted in the Lord, and I will lift you up above the high places of the earth, and will feed you with the inheritance of Jacob your father. For the mouth of the Lord has spoken it." But the perfection for a hermit is to have his mind freed from all earthly things and to unite it, as far as human frailty allows, with Christ. Such a person the prophet Jeremiah describes when he says: "Blessed is the man who has borne the yoke from his youth. He shall sit solitary and hold his peace, because he has taken it upon himself." The Psalmist also says: "I have become like a pelican in the desert. I watched and became as a sparrow alone upon the housetop." Unless each of them attains this goal which we have described for each life, the one adopts the system of the coenobium in vain, and the other adopts that of the hermitage in vain, for neither of them will obtain the benefit of his way of life.

John: I should absolutely maintain that one and the same man could not attain perfection in both lives unless I was hindered by the example of some few. And since it is no small matter to find a man who is perfect in either of them, it is clear how much harder and I had almost said impossible it is for a man to be thoroughly efficient in both. And if this has ever happened, it cannot come under any general rule. For a general rule must be based not on exceptional instances, i.e., on the experience of a very few, but on what is within the power of the many or rather of all. But what is attained to here and there by but one or two, and is beyond the capacity of ordinary goodness, must be kept out of general rules as something permitted outside the condition and nature of human weakness, and should be brought forward as a miracle rather than as an example. Wherefore I will, as my slender ability allows, briefly intimate what you want to know. The aim indeed of the Cœnobite is to mortify and crucify all his desires and, according to that salutary command of evangelic perfection, to take no thought for the morrow. And it is perfectly clear that this perfection cannot be attained by any except a Cœnobite, such a man as the prophet Isaiah describes and blesses and praises as follows: If you turn away your foot from the Sabbath, from doing your own will in my holy day, and glorify Him, while thou dost not your own ways, and your own will is not found to speak a word: then shall you be delighted in the Lord, and I will lift you up above the high places of the earth, and will feed you with the inheritance of Jacob your father. For the mouth of the Lord has spoken it. Isaiah 58:13-14 But the perfection for a hermit is to have his mind freed from all earthly things, and to unite it, as far as human frailty allows, with Christ: and such a man the prophet Jeremiah describes when he says: Blessed is the man who has borne the yoke from his youth. He shall sit solitary and hold his peace, because he has taken it upon himself; the Psalmist also: I have become like a pelican in the desert. I watched and became as a sparrow alone upon the housetop. To this aim then, which we have described as that of either life, unless each of them attains, in vain does the one adopt the system of the Cœnobium, and the other of the hermitage: for neither of them will get the good of his method of life.

On True and Complete Perfection

Perfection is truly complete when the soul is not only free from sin but also filled with every virtue. It is not enough to simply avoid evil; one must also actively pursue and possess what is good. True perfection consists not merely in cutting off vices but in obtaining virtues. For just as no one can be called healthy simply because they have no disease if they also lack strength and vitality, so too no one achieves complete perfection solely by avoiding sins unless they also possess the fullness of spiritual goods. Therefore, we must not only flee from evil but must also diligently seek after good. We must not be content with removing vices unless we also acquire virtues in their place. For the soul that is emptied of evil affections but not filled with good ones easily falls back into its former state, or even into something worse, as the Lord himself teaches in the Gospel when he speaks of the unclean spirit that returns with seven others more wicked than itself.

Of true and complete perfection.

But this is merike, that is, no thorough and altogether complete perfection, but only a partial one. Perfection then is very rare and granted by God's gift to but a very few. For he is truly and not partially perfect who with equal calm can put up with the harshness of the wilderness in the desert, as well as the weaknesses of the brothers in the community. And so it is hard to find one who is perfect in both ways of life, because the hermit cannot thoroughly acquire aktemosyne, that is, a disregard for and stripping oneself of material things, nor can the community monk achieve purity in contemplation, although we know that Abbot Moses and Paphnutius and the two Macarii were masters of both in perfection. And so they were perfect in either way of life, and while they withdrew further than all the dwellers in the desert and delighted themselves unceasingly in the solitude of the wilderness, and as far as they were able never sought contact with other people, yet they put up with the presence and the weaknesses of those who came to them so that when a large number of the brothers came to them for the sake of seeing them and benefiting from it, they endured this almost continuous trouble of receiving them with unshakable patience, and people imagined that all the days of their life they had neither learned nor practiced anything but how to show common courtesy to those who came, so that it was a puzzle to everyone to say in which way of life their zeal was mainly shown, that is, whether their greatness adapted itself more remarkably to the purity of the hermitage or to the common life.

But this is μερική, i.e., no thorough and altogether complete perfection, but only a partial one. Perfection then is very rare and granted by God's gift to but a very few. For he is truly and not partially perfect who with equal imperturbability can put up with the squalor of the wilderness in the desert, as well as the infirmities of the brethren in the Cœnobium. And so it is hard to find one who is perfect in both lives, because the anchorite cannot thoroughly acquire ἀκτημοσύνη, i.e., a disregard for and stripping oneself of material things, nor the Cœnobite purity in contemplation, although we know that Abbot Moses and Paphnutius and the two Macarii were masters of both in perfection. And so they were perfect in either life, and while they withdrew further than all the dwellers in the desert and delighted themselves unceasingly in the retirement of the wilderness, and as far as in them lay never sought intercourse with other men, yet they put up with the presence and the infirmities of those who came to them so that when a large number of the brethren came to them for the sake of seeing them and profiting by it, they endured this almost continuous trouble of receiving them with imperturbable patience, and men fancied that all the days of their life they had neither learned nor practised anything but how to show common civility to those who came, so that it was a puzzle to all to say in which life their zeal was mainly shown, i.e., whether their greatness adapted itself more remarkably to the purity of the hermitage or to the common life.

Concerning those who, while still imperfect, withdraw into the desert.

Of those who while still imperfect retire into the desert.

But some are sometimes so captivated by the silence of the desert that lasts all day long that they come to dread interaction with other people entirely. When they have even briefly interrupted their habit of seclusion because of a visit from some of the brothers, they respond with obvious mental irritation and show clear signs of annoyance. This especially happens with those who have entered the solitary life without a well-developed purpose and without being thoroughly trained in the community monastery, since these men are always spiritually immature and easily unsettled, swaying to one side or the other as the winds of difficulty may push them. For just as they respond impatiently and irritably to interaction or conversation with the brothers, so while they are living in solitude they cannot endure the vast silence that they themselves have sought, precisely because they do not even understand the reason why solitude ought to be desired and pursued. Instead, they imagine that the value and essential point of this way of life consists simply in avoiding interaction with the brothers and in shunning and detesting the very sight of another person.

But some are sometimes so tantalized by the silence of the desert lasting all through the day that they altogether dread intercourse with men, and, when they have even for a little while broken through their habit of retirement owing to the accident of a visit from some of the brethren, boil over with marked vexation of mind, and show clear signs of annoyance. And this especially happens in the case of those who have betaken themselves to the solitary life without a well-matured purpose and without being thoroughly trained in the Cœnobium, as these men are always imperfect and easily upset, and incline to one side or the other, as the gales of trouble may drive them. For as they boil over impatiently at intercourse or conversation with the brethren, so while they are living in solitude they cannot stand the vastness of that silence which they themselves have courted, inasmuch as they themselves do not even know the reason why solitude ought to be wanted and sought for, but imagine that the value and the main part of this life consist in this; viz., in avoiding intercourse with the brethren and simply shunning and loathing the sight of a man.

A question about how to restore those who have hastily left the community of the Coenobium.

A question how to cure those who have hastily left the congregation of the Cœnobium.

Germanus: What treatment can help us or others who are this weak and only at this level—we who had received very little instruction in the system of the Coenobium when we began to aspire to live in solitude before we had gotten rid of our faults? By what means can we acquire the stability of an unshakable mind and the immovable steadfastness of patience? We gave up the common life in the Coenobium far too soon and abandoned the schools and training ground for these exercises, where our principles should first have been thoroughly trained and perfected. How then can we now, while living alone, gain perfection in long-suffering and patience? How can conscience, which searches out inward motives, discover whether these virtues exist in us or are lacking? Since we are cut off from interaction with people and not provoked by any of their irritations, how can we avoid being deceived by false ideas and imagining that we have gained that unshakable peace of mind?

Germanus: By what treatment can any help be given to us or to others who are thus weak and only up to this; who had received but little instruction in the system of the Cœnobium when we began to aspire to dwell in solitude before we had got rid of our faults; or by what means shall we be able to acquire the constancy of an imperturbable mind, and immovable steadfastness of patience; we who all too soon gave up the common life in the Cœnobium, and forsook the schools and training ground for these exercises, in which our principles ought first to have been thoroughly schooled and perfected? How then can we now while we are living alone gain perfection in long-suffering and patience; or how can conscience, that searcher out of inward motives, discover whether these virtues exist in us or are wanting, so that because we are severed from intercourse with men, and not irritated by any of their provocations, we may not be deceived by false notions, and fancy that we have gained that imperturbable peace of mind?

The answer explaining how a solitary person can discover his faults.

The answer telling how a solitary can discover his faults.

John: For those who truly seek relief, healing remedies from the true Physician of souls will certainly be available. They will be given especially to those who do not ignore their sick condition—whether from despair, indifference, or by hiding the danger of their wound—nor in their reckless heart reject the remedy of repentance, but with a humble yet attentive heart flee to the heavenly Physician for the diseases they have contracted through ignorance, error, or necessity. We should understand that if we withdraw to solitude or private places without first curing our faults, their activity is only suppressed, while the capacity to feel them is not eliminated. The root of all sins has not been pulled out but still lies hidden within us, or rather continues growing, and we can tell it is still alive by these signs. For example, if while living in solitude we receive visiting brothers, or they stay slightly longer than expected, with any anxiety or irritability, we should recognize that a tendency toward hasty impatience still exists in us. If we are expecting a brother to come and he is delayed for some reason, and our silent mental irritation blames his slowness while annoyance at this inconvenient waiting disturbs our mind, examining our conscience will show that the sin of anger and frustration clearly remains in us. Again, if a brother asks to borrow our book to read or some other item to use, and his request annoys us or our refusal upsets him, there can be no doubt that we are still trapped in the snares of avarice or covetousness. If a sudden thought or a passage of Holy Scripture brings up the memory of a woman and we feel at all attracted to her, we should know that the fire of fornication is not yet extinguished in us. If comparing our own strictness with another's laxity causes even the slightest pride to tempt our mind, it is clear that we are afflicted with the dreadful plague of pride. When we detect these signs of faults in our heart, we should clearly recognize that we lack only the opportunity for sin, not the passion itself. These passions, if we were to mix in ordinary life with people, would immediately emerge from their hiding places in our thoughts and prove that they did not suddenly come into existence when they broke out, but that they were finally revealed because they had long been lying hidden. Therefore, even a solitary can detect by reliable signs that the roots of each fault are still planted in him, if he tries not to display his purity to people but to maintain it inviolate before the sight of Him from whom no secrets of the heart can be hidden.

John: To those who are really seeking relief, healing remedies from the true Physician of souls will certainly not be wanting; and to those above all will they be given who do not disregard their ill-condition (either because they despair of it, or because they do not care about it), nor hide the danger they are in from their wound, nor in their wanton heart reject the remedy of penitence, but with an humble and yet careful heart flee to the heavenly Physician for the diseases they have contracted from ignorance or error or necessity. And so we ought to know that if we retire to solitude or secret places, without our faults being first cured, their operation is but repressed, while the power of feeling them is not extinguished. For the root of all sins not having been eradicated is still lying hid in us, or rather creeping up, and that it is still alive we can tell by these signs. For instance, if, when we are living in solitude we receive the approach of some brethren, or any very slight tarrying on their part, with any anxiety or fretfulness of mind, we should recognize that an incentive to the most hasty impatience is still existing in us. But if when we are hoping for the coming of a brother, and from some cause he perhaps delays a little, our mental indignation either silently blames his slowness, and annoyance at this inconvenient waiting disturbs our mind, the examination of our conscience will show that the sin of anger and vexation is plainly still remaining in us. Again, if when a brother asks for our book to read, or for some other article to use, his request annoys us, or a refusal on our part disgusts him, there can be no doubt that we are still entangled in the meshes of avarice or covetousness. But if a sudden thought or a passage of Holy Scripture brings up the recollection of a woman and we feel that we are at all attracted towards her, we should know that the fire of fornication is not yet extinguished in us. But if on a comparison of our own strictness with the laxity of another even the slightest conceit tries our mind, it is clear that we are affected with the dreadful plague of pride. When then we detect these signs of faults in our heart, we should clearly recognize that it is only the opportunity and not the passion of sin of which we are deprived. And certainly these passions, if at any time we were to mingle in the ordinary life of men, would at once start up from their lurking places in our thoughts and prove that they did not then for the first time come into existence when they broke out, but that they were then at last made public, because they had been long lying hid. And so even a solitary can detect by sure signs that the roots of each fault are still implanted in him, if he tries not to show his purity to men, but to maintain it inviolate in His sight, from whom no secrets of the heart can be hid.

A question about how a person can be healed who has entered into solitude without having his faults eradicated.

A question how a man can be cured who has entered on solitude without having his faults eradicated.

Germanus: We very clearly and plainly see the evidence by which the signs of our spiritual illnesses are identified and the method of recognizing these diseases—that is, how the faults hidden within us can be detected. Our everyday experience and the daily movements of our thoughts show us all these things just as they have been described. What remains, then, is that since the evidence and causes of our diseases have been exposed to us so clearly, their remedies and cures should also be shown. For no one can doubt that someone who has first discovered the origins and beginnings of these ailments, with the confirming witness of the conscience of those who suffer from them, is best able to speak about their remedies. And so, although your holiness's teaching has revealed the secrets of our wounds—which gives us some hope for a remedy, because such a clear diagnosis of the disease promises hope of a cure—yet because, as you say, the first foundations of salvation are obtained in the community, and men cannot be spiritually healthy in solitude unless they have first been healed by the medicine of the community, we have fallen again into a dangerous state of despair. We left the community in an imperfect state, and now that we are in the desert, we fear we may not succeed in becoming perfect.

Germanus: We very clearly and plainly see the proofs by which the signs of infirmities are inferred, and the method of discerning diseases, i.e., how the faults which are concealed in us can be detected: for our every day experience and the daily motions of our thoughts show us all these as they have been stated. It remains then that as the proofs and causes of our maladies have been exposed to us in a most clear way so their remedies and cures may also be shown. For no one can doubt that one who has first discovered the grounds and beginnings of ailments, with the approving witness of the conscience of those affected, can best discourse on their remedies. And so though the teaching of your holiness has laid bare the secrets of our wounds whereby we venture to have some hope of a remedy, because so clear a diagnosis of the disease gives promise of the hope of a cure, yet because, as you say, the first elements of salvation are acquired in the Cœnobium, and men cannot be in a sound condition in solitude, unless they have first been healed by the medicine of the Cœnobium, we have fallen again into a dangerous state of despair lest as we left the Cœnobium in an imperfect condition we may not now that we are in the desert succeed in becoming perfect.

The answer concerning their remedies.

The answer on their remedies.

For those who are anxious for the cure of their ailments, a saving remedy is sure not to be lacking, and therefore remedies should be sought by the same means that the signs of each fault are discovered. For just as we have said that the faults of ordinary life are not absent from solitaries, so we do not deny that all zeal for virtue and all the means of healing are available to all those who are cut off from ordinary life. When anyone discovers by those signs we described above that he is attacked by outbreaks of impatience or anger, he should always practice himself in the opposite and contrary things. By placing before himself all sorts of injuries and wrongs, as if offered to him by someone else, he should accustom his mind to submit with perfect humility to everything that wickedness can bring upon him. And by frequently representing to himself all kinds of harsh and intolerable things, he should continually consider with complete sorrow of heart what gentleness he ought to meet them with. And by looking at the sufferings of all the saints, or indeed at those of the Lord Himself, he will admit that the various reproaches as well as punishments are less than he deserves, and prepare himself to endure all kinds of griefs. And when occasionally he has been called by some invitation to the assembly of the brethren—a thing which cannot help but happen every now and then even to the strictest inhabitants of the desert—if he finds that his mind is silently disturbed even over trifles, he should act like some stern judge of his secret emotions and charge himself with all those various harsh wrongs, to the perfect endurance of which he was training himself by his daily meditations. Blaming and scolding himself as follows, he should say: My good man, are you the fellow who while training yourself in the practice ground of solitude, ventured most boldly to think that you would overcome all bad qualities, and who just now, when you were imagining to yourself not only all sorts of bitter reproaches but also intolerable punishments, fancied that you were quite strong and able to stand against all storms? How is it that that unconquered patience of yours is upset by the first trial even of a light word? How is it that even a gentle breeze has shaken that house of yours which you imagined was built so strongly on the solid rock? Where is that which you declared when during a time of peace you were in your foolish confidence longing for war? I am ready, and am not troubled; and this which you used often to say with the prophet: Prove me, O Lord, and try me: search out my reins and my heart; and: prove me, O Lord, and know my heart: question me and know my paths; and see if there be any way of wickedness in me. How has a tiny ghost of an enemy frightened your grand preparations for war? With such reproaches and remorse a man should condemn himself and not allow the sudden temptation which has upset him to go unpunished. But by disciplining his flesh with a more severe penalty of fasting and vigils, and by punishing his sin of mental lightness through continual pains of self-restraint, he should while living in solitude burn away in this fire of practice what he ought to have thoroughly driven out in the life of the coenobium. This at any rate we must firmly and resolutely hold to in order to secure a lasting and unbroken patience: namely, that for us, to whom by the Divine law not merely vengeance for, but even the remembrance of injuries is forbidden, it is not permissible to be stirred to anger because of some loss or annoyance. For what greater injury can happen to the soul than for it, owing to some sudden blindness from rage, to lose the brightness of the true and eternal light and to fail of the sight of Him Who is meek and lowly of heart? What, I ask, could be more dangerous or awkward than for a man to lose his power of judging goodness, and his standard and rule of true discernment, and for one in his sober senses to do what not even a drunken man or a fool would be pardoned for doing? One who carefully considers these and other injuries of the same kind will readily endure and disregard not only all kinds of losses, but also whatever wrongs and punishments can be inflicted by the cruelest of men, as he will hold that there is nothing more damaging than anger, nor more valuable than peace of mind and unbroken purity of heart. For the sake of this we should think nothing of the advantages not merely of carnal matters but also of those things which appear to be spiritual, if they cannot be gained or done without some disturbance of this tranquility.

John: For those who are anxious for the cure of their ailments a saving remedy is sure not to be wanting, and therefore remedies should be sought by the same means that the signs of each fault are discovered. For as we have said that the faults of men's ordinary life are not wanting to solitaries, so we do not deny that all zeal for virtue, and all the means of healing are at the disposal of all those who are cut off from men's ordinary life. When then anyone discovers by those signs which we described above, that he is attacked by outbreaks of impatience or anger, he should always practise himself in the opposite and contrary things, and by setting before himself all sorts of injuries and wrongs, as if offered to him by somebody else, accustom his mind to submit with perfect humility to everything that wickedness can bring upon him; and by often representing to himself all kinds of rough and intolerable things, continually consider with all sorrow of heart with what gentleness he ought to meet them. And, by thus looking at the sufferings of all the saints, or indeed at those of the Lord Himself, he will admit that the various reproaches as well as punishments are less than he deserves, and prepare himself to endure all kinds of griefs. And when occasionally he has been recalled by some invitation to the assembly of the brethren — a thing which cannot but happen every now and then even to the strictest inmates of the desert — if he finds that his mind is silently disturbed even for trifles, he should like some stern censor of his secret emotions charge himself with all those various hard wrongs, to the perfect endurance of which he was training himself by his daily meditations, and blaming and chiding himself as follows, say My good man, are you the fellow who while training yourself in the practising ground of solitude, ventured most determinedly to think that you would get the better of all bad qualities, and who just now, when you were representing to yourself not only all sorts of bitter reproaches, but also intolerable punishments, fancied that you were pretty strong and able to stand against all storms? How is it that that unconquered patience of yours is upset by the first trial even of a light word? How is it that even a gentle breeze has shaken that house of yours which you fancied was built so strongly on the solid rock? Where is that which you announced when during a time of peace you were in your foolish confidence longing for war? I am ready, and am not troubled; and this which you used often to say with the prophet: Prove me, O Lord, and try me: search out my reins and my heart; and: prove me, O Lord, and know my heart: question me and know my paths; and see if there be any way of wickedness in me. How has a tiny ghost of an enemy frightened your grand preparations for war? With such reproaches and remorse a man should condemn himself and not allow the sudden temptation which has upset him to go unpunished, but by chastising his flesh with a severer penalty of fasting and vigils; and, by punishing his sin of lightness of mind by continual pains of self-restraint, he should while living in solitude consume in this fire of practice what he ought to have thoroughly driven out in the life of the Cœnobium. This at any rate we must firmly and resolutely hold to in order to secure a lasting and unbroken patience; viz., that for us, to whom by the Divine law not merely vengeance for, but even the recollection of injuries is forbidden, it is not permissible to be roused to anger because of some loss or annoyance. For what greater injury can happen to the soul than for it, owing to some sudden blindness from rage, to lose the brightness of the true and eternal light and to fail of the sight of Him Who is meek and lowly of heart? Matthew 11:29 What I ask could be more dangerous or awkward than for a man to lose his power of judging of goodness, and his standard and rule of true discernment, and for one in his sober senses to do what even a drunken man, and a fool would not be pardoned for doing? One then who carefully considers these and other injuries of the same kind, will readily endure and disregard not only all kinds of losses, but also whatever wrongs and punishments can be inflicted by the cruellest of men, as he will hold that there is nothing more damaging than anger, nor more valuable than peace of mind and unbroken purity of heart, for the sake of which we should think nothing of the advantages not merely of carnal matters but also of those things which appear to be spiritual, if they cannot be gained or done without some disturbance of this tranquillity.

A question whether chastity ought to be determined in the same way as the other passions.

A question whether chastity ought to be ascertained just as the other feelings.

Germanus: Since the cure for other ailments—namely anger, vexation, and impatience—has been shown to consist in opposing them with their contraries, we would also like to learn what kind of treatment we ought to use against the spirit of fornication. I mean, can the fire of lust be quenched by representing to ourselves greater inducements and things that excite it, as in those other cases? We believe that not merely increasing the incentives to lust within us, but even touching them with a passing thought, is utterly fatal to chastity.

Germanus: As the cure for other ailments, viz., anger, vexation, and impatience, has been shown to consist in opposing to them their contraries, so also we should like to learn what sort of treatment we ought to use against the spirit of fornication: I mean, whether the fire of lust can be quenched by the representation, as in those other cases, of greater inducements and things to excite it: because not merely to increase the incentives to lust within us, but even to touch them with a passing look of the mind, we believe to be utterly fatal to chastity.

The answer that provides the proofs by which it can be identified.

The answer giving the proofs by which it can be recognized.

John: Your shrewd question has anticipated the subject, which would have come up in our discussion even if you had said nothing. Therefore I have no doubt that your minds will grasp it effectively, since your sharp wits have already outrun our instruction. For the puzzle of any question is easily removed when the inquiry anticipates the answer and is the first to travel along the road it is to follow. And so for treating those faults we have spoken of above, interaction with other people is not merely no hindrance but a considerable help. For the more often the outbursts of their impatience are exposed, the more thorough is the sorrow and compunction they bring on those who have failed, and the speedier is the recovery of health they confer on those who struggle against them. Therefore, even when we are living in solitude, though the incentive to irritation and matter for it cannot arise from other people, we ought deliberately to meditate on incitements to it, so that as we fight against it with a continual struggle in our thoughts, a speedier cure for it may be found for us. But against the spirit of fornication the approach is different and the method is altered. For just as we must deprive the body of opportunities for lust and contact with flesh, so we must deprive the mind of the recollection of it. For it is sufficiently dangerous for hearts that are still weak and infirm even to tolerate the slightest recollection of this passion, in such a way that sometimes at the remembrance of holy women, or in reading a story in Holy Scripture, a stimulus of dangerous excitement is aroused. For this reason our elders used deliberately to omit passages of this kind when any of the younger monks were present. However, for those who are perfect and established in the feelings of chastity, there can be no lack of tests by which they may examine themselves and establish their perfect uprightness of heart by the uncorrupted judgment of their own conscience. There will then be for the man who is thoroughly established a similar test even in regard to this passion, so that one who is sure that he has altogether exterminated the roots of this evil may, for the sake of ascertaining his chastity, call up some picture as with a lustful mind. But it is by no means proper for such a test to be attempted by those who are still weak (for to them it will be dangerous rather than useful), that they should imagine in their heart sexual union with a woman and something like tender and very soft caresses. When therefore someone established in perfect virtue detects in himself no mental consent and no stirring of the flesh aroused by the enticement of the most seductive touches he has imagined, he will have a very sure proof of his purity, so that training himself to this steadfast purity he will not only possess the blessing of chastity and freedom from defilement in his heart, but even if he is obliged to touch the body of a woman, he will be horrified at it.

John: Your shrewd question has anticipated the subject, which even if you had said nothing must have arisen from our discourse, and therefore I do not doubt that it will be effectually grasped by your minds, since indeed your sharp wits have outstripped our instruction. For the puzzle of any question is easily removed, when the inquiry anticipates the answer, and is the first to travel along the road which it is to follow. And so to the treatment of those faults of which we have spoken above, intercourse with other men is not merely no hindrance, but a considerable help, for the more often that the outbursts of their impatience are exposed, the more thorough is the sorrow and compunction which they bring on those who have failed, and the speedier is the recovery of health which they confer on those who struggle against them. Wherefore even when we are living in solitude, though the incentive to irritation and matter for it cannot arise from men, yet we ought of set purpose to meditate on incitements to it, that as we are fighting against it with a continual struggle in our thoughts a speedier cure for it may be found for us. But against the spirit of fornication the system is different, and the method an altered one. For as we must deprive the body of opportunities of lust, and contact with flesh, so we must deprive the mind of the recollection of it. For it is sufficiently dangerous for bosoms that are still weak and infirm even to tolerate the slightest recollection of this passion, in such a way that sometimes at the remembrance of holy women, or in reading a story in Holy Scripture a stimulus of dangerous excitement is aroused. For which reason our Elders used deliberately to omit passages of this kind when any of the juniors were present. However for those who are perfect and established in the feelings of chastity there can be no lack of proofs by which they may examine themselves, and establish their perfect uprightness of heart by the uncorrupted judgment of their own conscience. There will then be for the man who is thoroughly established a similar test even in regard to this passion, so that one who is sure that he has altogether exterminated the roots of this evil may for the sake of ascertaining his chastity, call up some picture as with a lascivious mind. But it is by no means proper for such a test to be attempted by those who are still weak (for to them it will be dangerous rather than useful), ut conjunctionem femineam et palpationem quodammodo teneram atque mollissimam corde pertractent. Cum ergo perfecta quis virtute fundatus ad illecebram blandissimorum tactuum, quos cogitando confinxerit, nullum mentis assensum, nullam commotionem carnis in se deprehenderit exagitatam, he will have a very sure proof of his purity, so that training himself to this steadfast purity he will not only possess the blessing of chastity and freedom from defilement in his heart, but even if he is obliged to touch the body of a woman, he will be horrified at it.

With this, Abbot John brought his Conference to an end, as he saw that it was just time for the refreshment of the ninth hour.

With this Abbot John brought his Conference to an end, as he saw that it was just time for the refreshment of the ninth hour.