From the Thebaid of Egypt, to the caves and cells of Mount Athos,
and even beyond to the vast forests of northern Russia … these are the Chronicles of the Desert.
One day, a villager known as the Faster — for he received much praise for his
fasting — journeyed into the desert and visited Abba Zeno in his cell.
As they sat, Abba Zeno worked and prayed in silence while the villager unsuccessfully tried to
engage him in conversation. After some time, the villager became bored and asked if he could leave.
“Why,” asked Abba Zeno.
“Because,” replied the villager, “My heart is on fire and I do not know why. For truly,
when I was in the village, I fasted until the evening and nothing like this happened to me.”
“That is because,” replied Abba Zeno, “in the village you fed yourself through your ears.
But go away and from now on eat in the afternoon and whatever you do, do it secretly.”
While most of us, like the villager, live among
others and struggle with the passions more often by way of encountering our neighbor,
there is much we can learn from the desert fathers and mothers who dwelt in solitude and
silence even while knowing that such a calling may not be our own. For it wasn’t just that the
villager sought praise, it was that he, like many in our modern age, lived outside himself.
When it comes to solitude and silence, none pursued each more than Abba Arsenius.
But not before he lived as a well-known scholar during the fourth century.
He was fluent in Latin and Greek, well-versed in literature and philosophy, and was often praised
for his knowledge and wisdom while he served as a tutor to the two sons of Emperor Theodosius.
Yet, as he lived amidst the opulence of the court in Constantinople and smelled the sweet perfumes,
wore luxurious robes, and gained many honors, he realized that all these were but fading and empty.
And so, he cried out from the depths of his heart and said in prayer:
“O Lord, lead me in the way of salvation.”
To which he heard, “Arsenius, flee from men and you will be saved.”
Soon after, Arsenius secretly boarded a ship to Alexandria where, upon arriving, he sought counsel
from Abba Macarius the Great and was tested by Abba John the Short. Soon after, he once again
asked about how to rightly live in the wilderness, and heard again from the Lord in prayer:
“Arsenius, flee, be silent, pray always, for these are the sources of sinlessness.”
Heeding the call of the Lord, Arsenius settled in a solitary cell near the fathers at Scetis.
By night, he prayed and slept very little. By day,
he worked and prayed in silence and shed so many tears that a hollow was channeled into his chest.
One day, several monks passed by Arsenius’ cell and heard loud noises.
“What could that be,” asked the first monk.
“He is alone in there,” replied the other. “I think he is being harassed by demons.”
Just then, Arsenius cried out, “O Lord, do not leave me. I have done nothing in your sight,
but according to your goodness, let me now make a beginning of good.”
It was said that he retained such a disposition even up until his final breath.
One day, a young monk witnessed Arsenius speaking to an old Egyptian monk.
“Arsenius,” said the young monk, “how is it that you with such good Latin and Greek education,
ask this peasant about your thoughts?”
To which Arsenius replied, “I have indeed been taught Latin and Greek,
but I do not know even the alphabet of this simple peasant.”
For their words of counsel, born of prayerful solitude and silence, were brief
but grace filled and beneficial to the one who listened. For whereas the one
who speaks many words reveals his own doubt and proclivity to vainglory, the friend of silence,
according to Saint John of the Ladder, draws near to God in faith and, by secretly conversing with
Him, is enlightened. This seeking of silence begins first by restraining the tongue.
“I have often repented of having spoken,” Arsenius once said. “But never of having been silent.”
After many years, the name of Arsenius once again became known
due to the grace of God now abounding from him. And yet, he would often refuse to meet others
both to ward off vainglory and to preserve humility and stillness.
Such as the day when Archbishop Theophilus,
accompanied by a magistrate, came to see Arsenius and said, “Abba, give us a word.”
To which Arsenius replied, “Will you put into practice what I say to you?”
“Indeed, Abba,” they replied.
“If you hear Arsenius is anywhere,” he replied, “do not go there.”
Soon after, Abba Mark asked, “Why do you avoid us?”
Arsenius replied, “God knows that I love you, but I cannot live with God
and with people. The thousands and myriads in the heavens have but one will,
while people have many. So, I cannot forsake God to be with people.”
And yet, being led by the Spirit, he did meet with some people, while others he sent away. To each,
he gave counsel appropriate to what they needed. But even for those he turned away, he prayed
fervently, knowing that the grace of God would be of more help than any words he could speak.
One day, an official from the capital came to see Arsenius,
and brought him the will of a senator who was also a relative of Arsenius.
“Abba, he has left you an exceedingly large inheritance.”
Abba Arsenius refused the inheritance, only saying,
“I was dead long before this senator who has just died.”
For Arsenius, by this time, had crucified his flesh with its passions and desires and sought
only that inheritance which is unfading and imperishable. And through this dying to himself,
he became fully alive, able to say along with St. Paul, “It is not I, but Christ who lives in me.”
One day, a young monk visited the Abba’s cell. Not wanting to disturb the old man, he waited
outside for a while. Finally, the young man peeked through a window to see if the Abba was even home.
Just then, he saw Arsenius standing in prayer, entirely like a flame of fire.
Astounded, the brother waited for some time before knocking.
Soon after, Arsenius came out and noticed the brother marveling.
“Have you been knocking long,” asked Arsenius. “Did you see anything?”
“No, Abba,” replied the astonished monk. And so,
Arsenius spoke with him briefly and then sent him away.
Much of the fruit of such prayer remained hidden,
save for the many lives who unknowingly benefited from them
and for the few, simple words that Arsenius offered his disciples from his own experience.
“If we seek God, He will show Himself to us, and if we keep Him, He will remain close to us.”
When Abba Arsenius was at the point of
death, he told his disciples to not give his remains to anyone.
“What shall we do, Abba? For we do not know how to bury anyone.”
The old man replied, “Tie a rope to my feet and drag me to the mountains.”
When death drew near, the disciples saw Arsenius weeping and asked, “Abba, are you afraid?”
“Indeed,” he replied, “the fear which is mine at this hour
has been with me ever since I became a monk.”
Upon these words, he fell asleep.
"Silence is a mystery of the age to come," writes St. Isaac the Syrian,
"but words are an instrument of this world." While most cannot take flight in so radical
a manner as did Arsenius, we too can flee from the passions and the many distractions around us
by drawing closer to God through prayer and silence on a regular basis. We can
start by limiting our words, by being watchful over what we hear and say.
This can in turn lead to a more inward silence which, as St. John of the Ladder says,
gives birth to prayer, preserves the fire within, and is a companion to the stillness
which enables us to truly listen to God, to hear His voice, and to commune with Him."