I
saw others among these wonderful fathers who had the white hair of
angels, the deepest innocence, and a wise simplicity that was
spontaneous and yet directed by God Himself. The fact is that just as an
evil person is two-faced, one thing in public and another in private,
so a simple person is not twofold, but something whole. There is no one
among them who is silly and foolish in the way that some
old men in the world are, as they say, senile. No indeed. They are
openly gentle, kindly, radiant, genuine, without hypocrisy, affectation,
or falsity or either speech or disposition - something not found in
many. Spiritually, they are like children, with God and the superior as
their very breath, and with the mind's eye on strict lookout for demons
and the passions.
Holy Father and Brothers in God, a lifetime
would not be enough to allow me to describe the virtue of those blessed
men, or the heavenly life they lead. Still, in their great struggles
rather than my meager suggestions should adorn this treatise and should
rouse you to be zealous in the love of God. After all, the lowly is
adorned by the excellent, and I would only ask you to refrain from
thinking that what I write is something made up, for a suspicion of this
kind would only take away from its value.
So, then, let us resume.
In this monastery to which I have been referring, there was a man named
Isidore, from Alexandria, who having belonged to the ruling class had
become a monk. I met him there. The most holy shepherd, after having let
him join, discovered that he was a trouble maker, cruel, sly, and
haughty, but he shrewdly managed to outwit the cunning of the devils in
him. "If you have decided to accept the yoke of Christ," he told
Isidore, "I want you first of all to learn obedience."
"Most holy Father, I submit to you like iron to the blacksmith," Isidore replied.
The superior, availing of this metaphor, immediately gave exercise to
the iron Isidore and said to him: "Brother, this is what I want you to
do. You are to stand at the gate of the monastery, and before everyone
passing in or out you are to bend the knee and say, "Pray for me,
Father, because I am an epileptic.'" And Isidore obeyed, like an angel
obeying the Lord.
He spent seven years at the gate, and achieved deep humility and compunction.
After the statutory seven years, and after the wonderful steadfastness
of the man, the superior deemed him fully worthy to be admitted to the
ranks of the brethren and wanted to ordain him. Through others and also
through my feeble intercession, Isidore begged the superior many times
to let him finish his course. He hinted that his death, his call, was
near, which in fact proved to be so. The superior allowed him to stay at
his place, and ten days later, humbly, gloriously, he passed on to the
Lord. A week after his death the porter of the monastery was also taken,
for the blessed Isidore had said to him, "If I hve found favor in the
sight of the Lord, you too will be inseparably joined to me within a
short time." That is exactly what happened, in testimony to his
unashamed obedience and his marvelous humility.
While he was
still alive, I asked this great Isidore how he had occupied his mind
while he was at the gate, and this memorable man did not conceal
anything from me, for he wished to be of help. "At first I judged that I
had been sold into slavery for my sins," he said. "So I did penance
with bitterness, great effort, and blood. After a year my heart was no
longer full of grief, and I began to think of a reward for my obedience
from God Himself. Another year passed and the depths of my heart I began
to see how unworthy I was to live in a monastery, to encounter the
fathers, to share in the divine Mysteries. I lost the courage to look
anyone in the face, but lowering my eyes and lowering my thoughts even
further, I asked with true sincerity for the prayers of those going in
and out."
Once when I was sitting in the refectory with the
superior, he asked me in a whisper if I would like to see holy prudence
in someone very old. When I said I wished that very much, he summoned
from the second table a man called Lawrence who had been about
forty-eight years in the monastery and was second priest in the
monastery.
He came, genuflected before the abbot and received
his blessing. When he stood up the abbot said nothing at all to him but
left him standing beside the table and not eating. It was just the start
of the midday meal so that he was left standing there a full hour,
probably two. I was embarrassed to look this hard-working man in the
face, for he was completely white-haired and all of eighty years. He
stayed there until we had finished eating, and when we got up, the holy
man sent him off to the great Isidore to recite to him the beginning of
the thirty-ninth Psalm.
Being myself a bad character, I did not
let slip the chance to teas the old man, so I asked him what he had
been thinking about as he stood by the table. "I thought of the shepherd
as the image of Christ," he said. "I thought of the command as coming
not from him but from God. And so, Father John, I stood praying as if I
were in front of the altar of God rather than the table of men; and
because I trust and love my shepherd, I had no malevolent thoughts
concerning him. It is said that love does not reckon up injury. But be
sure of this much, Father, that anyone who freely chooses to be simple
and guileless provides the devil with neither the time nor the place for
an attack."
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