Philokalia Ministries

Father David Abernethy
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Philokalia Ministries is the fruit of 30 years spent at the feet of the Fathers of the Church. Led by Father David Abernethy, Philokalia (Philo: Love of the Kalia: Beautiful) Ministries exists to re-form hearts and minds according to the mold of the Desert Fathers through the ascetic life, the example of the early Saints, the way of stillness, prayer, and purity of heart, the practice of the Jesus Prayer, and spiritual reading. Those who are involved in Philokalia Ministries - the podcasts, videos, social media posts, spiritual direction and online groups - are exposed to writings that make up the ancient, shared spiritual heritage of East and West: The Ladder of Divine Ascent, Saint Augustine, the Philokalia, the Conferences of Saint John Cassian, the Ascetical Homilies of Saint Isaac the Syrian, and the Evergetinos. In addition to these, more recent authors and writings, which draw deeply from the well of the desert, are read and discussed: Lorenzo Scupoli, Saint Theophan the Recluse, anonymous writings from Mount Athos, the Cloud of Unknowing, Saint John of the Cross, Thomas a Kempis, and many more. Philokalia Ministries is offered to all, free of charge. However, there are real and immediate needs associated with it. You can support Philokalia Ministries with one-time, or recurring monthly donations, which are most appreciated. Your support truly makes this ministry possible. May Almighty God, who created you and fashioned you in His own Divine Image, restore you through His grace and make of you a true icon of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

  1. Aug 28

    The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XX, Part II

    There is a sentence here from St. Isaac that overturns almost everything we are inclined to think about asceticism: You suppose these things were ordained simply to oblige you to labor. We imagine the vigil primarily as something difficult. Sleep is surrendered. The body is constrained. Psalms are prayed while the world sleeps. Nature protests and the monk remains standing before God. Looked at from the outside, it appears to be an extraordinary act of discipline. But Isaac tells us that if this is all we see, we have not yet understood the vigil. The question is not how much a man can endure for God. The question is what begins to happen within the heart of a man who desires God enough to seek Him in the night. Something is born there. This is why Isaac speaks so fiercely about the following day. The tragedy would not simply be that we failed in some ascetical rule. The tragedy would be that we received something precious and then lived carelessly enough to lose it. Seeking the One Who Has Already Come to Us The night vigil is born from desire. The monk rises because Someone is there. This is what distinguishes Christian asceticism from mere religious exertion. We are not trying to force our way toward an absent God. We are responding to the God who has already drawn near, already called us, already awakened desire within us. The Beloved has come seeking us. And eventually the heart begins seeking Him. There comes a moment in the spiritual life when prayer is no longer adequately described as obligation. The language of duty becomes too small. A man discovers within himself a hunger for silence because silence allows him to hear more clearly. He desires solitude because solitude removes the thousand competing claims upon his attention. He rises in the night because there are hours when the world has become quiet enough for the heart to recognize what it has always desired. Isaac knows this experience. This is why he speaks of Scripture as well. Reading is not merely preparation for prayer or the acquisition of religious knowledge. Scripture “sows” something within the soul. It gathers the scattered mind. It irrigates prayer. It plants the remembrance of God. It makes the understanding subtle enough to perceive things that previously escaped it. Scripture, silence, prayer, vigil—all begin converging upon the one thing necessary. Christ Himself. And once the heart begins to taste this, the whole ordering of life must change. The Day Must Become the Guardian of the Night Here Isaac becomes extraordinarily demanding. What sense is there, he asks, in sowing throughout the night only to scatter the seed during the day? We stand before God in darkness, struggling to gather the mind. Perhaps after a long while the thoughts settle. Something softens. The Name descends more deeply. Scripture opens itself in a way that cannot easily be explained. A stillness appears that we could never manufacture. Then morning comes. And we throw ourselves back into dispersion. Conversation. Curiosity. News. Opinions. Tasks that did not need to be done. Encounters that did not need to occur. Words that did not need to be spoken. The endless grazing of the mind among things. Isaac’s question is devastatingly simple: Why would you do this? Why labor through the night to gather what you willingly scatter during the day? This reveals something essential about the monastic heart. Vigil cannot be isolated from the rest of life. There cannot be one life before God and another life afterward. Isaac says that we must place “no wall of separation” between the night and the day. That phrase is astonishing. The stillness of the night is meant to flow into the day. The remembrance of God cultivated in darkness must become the hidden atmosphere in which we move beneath the light of the sun. The silence of the cell must follow us. The Name must remain near. Our encounters, our speech, our work, even the manner in which we allow ourselves to think must begin to be governed by one question: Will this help me remain with the One whom I have found? This is not narrowness. It is love. Love Makes a Man Careful When something becomes precious to us, we become careful around it. This perhaps explains Isaac’s asceticism better than almost anything else. The Fathers guard the senses because something precious has been entrusted to the heart. They guard speech because words can disturb what silence has gathered. They flee unnecessary encounters because the mind can quickly become populated by images, arguments, memories, anxieties, and judgments. They restrain curiosity because the heart cannot gaze simultaneously in every direction and remain simple before God. From outside, such a life may appear severe. From within, it is tenderness. A man in love does not experience every renunciation as deprivation. Some things simply become less interesting because something infinitely more beautiful has appeared. This is why the ascetical life is so counterintuitive. We ordinarily construct our days around what must be accomplished and then attempt to fit prayer somewhere within them. Isaac reverses the order. Order the day around what must not be lost. What if the most important thing that happened today occurred while the world was sleeping? What if the deepest work was not something we accomplished but the quiet gathering of the heart before God? What if the purpose of tomorrow were, in part, simply not to lose it? Then discernment changes. We begin asking not merely whether something is sinful, permissible, useful, interesting, or productive. We begin asking whether it preserves the heart’s capacity for God. This is a much more demanding question. “You Would Have Embraced Jesus’ Bosom” And then Isaac says something almost unbearably beautiful. Had the monk allowed his daytime life to correspond to the meditation of the night, had he placed no division between them, Isaac says that “in a short time you would have embraced Jesus’ bosom.” Here the entire meaning of vigil is unveiled. Not achievement. Not spiritual heroism. Not mastery over sleep. The bosom of Jesus. Communion. Intimacy. Rest in the Beloved. Everything else exists for this. We constrain ourselves because we desire freedom from everything that prevents love. We become silent because we desire to hear. We remain awake because we desire to see. We read because we desire the mind of Christ. We guard ourselves because we have discovered something worth guarding. Even the night itself becomes sacramental in this sense. The darkness strips things of their urgency. The machinery of the world slows. The identities we carry during the day become less important. There is less to perform and less to defend. There is simply the creature before the Creator. The beloved before the Beloved. And the Name. Lord Jesus Christ. The New Life Begins in the Night Isaac finally speaks of those who desire “knowledge of the new life.” That is what vigil opens before us. A new life. Not merely a more disciplined version of the old one. Perhaps this is why the call to stillness can become stronger rather than weaker as the spiritual life deepens. The field of vision narrows. Things once regarded as indispensable reveal themselves as secondary. Activities that once seemed important begin to feel strangely weightless. Even good works must find their proper place. Not because love has diminished. Because desire has become concentrated. One thing is necessary. The night teaches this with a clarity the day rarely permits. And so perhaps Isaac’s teaching on vigil reaches far beyond the question of how many hours we sleep. He is teaching us how to construct an entire life around the remembrance of God. Receive the night as gift. Read until the mind is gathered. Call upon the Name. Stand before God when nothing seems to be happening. Remain. And when something begins to awaken within you—some tenderness, some compunction, some clarity, some quiet awareness of the One who has been waiting for you—do not rush away from it. Guard it. Carry it into the morning. Let your speech become quieter because of it. Let your choices become simpler. Let unnecessary things fall away. Let the day itself become an extension of the vigil. For the purpose of the vigil was never simply that we should remain awake. It was that we should awaken. And having awakened, that we should refuse to return to sleep. The Fathers went into the night because they had begun to glimpse the astonishing truth hidden beneath all asceticism: God is worth seeking. God is worth waiting for. God is worth arranging an entire life around. And once the heart has begun to discover Him in the silence, wisdom consists largely in learning not to lose during the day what Love has given us in the night. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:21:49 Ambrose Little: It’s supposed to make your head hurt. 😄 00:23:34 Ryan Ngeve: Father could reading itself become a distraction from prayer 00:25:11 Maureen Cunningham: The :ight to mind 00:28:16 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 223, # 5, middle paragraph on page 00:37:28 Ben: Anna: My eldest daughter and I were chatting this morning and she remarked that some babies take longer to talk or walk if their parents are living in a constant state of stress, and it brought me to wondering how much a life of contemplative prayer would help parents to keep their peace in the midst of the trials that inevitably come. 00:41:46 Nypaver Clan: St. Charbel’s mother sang to him as a baby, “May he love fasting, may he love prayer….” 00:44:09 Nancy Pagan: Back then, raising my kids and doing my wifely chores of everyday life, while calling on the Lord constantly all day.  at night by the time I sat alone to Practice, I didn’t have to search too much He was already there. However didn’t happen always. I apologize if this

  2. Aug 28

    The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter IX, Part IV

    There is something almost frightening about the stories preserved for us in the Evergetinos. They are frightening not because they portray extraordinary wickedness, but because they reveal how quietly the heart can change. The monk described by Palladios is not a beginner. He is a man of profound silence and prayer, one who has surrendered himself so completely to God that even the necessities of his bodily life have been entrusted to Providence. His life has become contemplation. Prayer is his delight. God provides for him in a miraculous manner. He has tasted something of the life of the age to come. And yet the beginning of his fall is almost imperceptible. He sleeps a little longer. His prayer becomes somewhat shorter. His attention wanders. Earthly concerns begin to occupy a little more space within him. Thoughts once immediately rejected are permitted to remain for a moment. Nothing, at first, seems catastrophic. That is precisely the warning. The Fathers understood that the great falls of the spiritual life rarely begin as great falls. They begin with small permissions. Something formerly guarded carefully is treated casually. Something that once troubled the conscience is dismissed as insignificant. A thought is entertained rather than rejected. Prayer is postponed. Vigilance relaxes. A little comfort is allowed to become necessary. The heart whispers that such things hardly matter. But they matter because the heart matters. There is something extraordinarily precious hidden within the human person: the place of communion with God. The Fathers speak of guarding the heart so insistently because they know what has been entrusted to us. Grace has entered there. The Name has been received there. Desire for God has been awakened there. A fire has been kindled that does not originate in ourselves. The spiritual life, therefore, is not primarily the anxious avoidance of infractions. It is the guarding of a treasure. This changes how we understand vigilance. We do not guard ourselves because God is waiting to punish the smallest mistake. We guard ourselves because love is delicate. Communion can be obscured. Desire can cool. The eye of the heart can become clouded. What has become luminous through prayer can gradually become opaque again. The evil one understands this very well. He does not always attempt to tear a person immediately away from God. With someone who has given himself deeply to prayer, such an assault might be too obvious. Instead, he waits. He works through what appears negligible. A little negligence. A little self-confidence. A little relaxation of watchfulness. A thought that seems harmless enough to entertain. The enemy is patient because he knows that a heart need not renounce God explicitly in order gradually to lose sight of Him. Palladios gives us an extraordinary image of this darkening in the bread. At first the monk receives heavenly bread, pure and provided by God. As his interior life becomes disordered, the bread appears grimy and gnawed. Later it is almost entirely spoiled. What is happening visibly to the bread corresponds to what is happening invisibly within the monk. The gift has not ceased to be gift, but his capacity to receive it has become corrupted. The tragedy is not simply that temptation has appeared. Temptation comes to everyone. The decisive moment comes earlier: he notices the diminishment and does not respond to it. He regards the first symptoms as trivial. This is one of the most penetrating insights in the story. The monk does not suddenly decide to abandon his vocation. He fails to take seriously the cooling of his love. The Fathers would have us become sensitive to precisely this. When prayer becomes burdensome, notice. When mercy toward another begins to disappear, notice. When resentment becomes pleasurable, notice. When the imagination begins feeding upon something we would once have rejected, notice. When silence becomes uncomfortable and distraction increasingly necessary, notice. When we begin excusing in ourselves what once brought us immediately to repentance, notice. Not because every movement of weakness is a catastrophe, but because small movements reveal the direction in which the heart is turning. The story attributed to St. Maximos makes the warning still more sobering. The young monk possesses astonishing spiritual authority. Even wild animals obey him. Those around him naturally interpret such gifts as evidence of sanctity. St. Anthony is less impressed. He sees a ship filled with precious cargo and says, in effect: Yes—but will it reach the harbor? Everything is contained in that image. Grace received is not yet grace preserved. Virtue acquired is not yet virtue safely possessed. Spiritual gifts are not guarantees. Years of asceticism are not guarantees. Miracles are not guarantees. The harbor is reached only through perseverance. This is why Maximos interprets the command to “turn away from evil, and do good” as something more than the avoidance of sin. We must fight to diminish the passions; we must labor to acquire the virtues; and then—we must remain awake in order to preserve what has been given. He connects this with Adam’s vocation in Eden: to cultivate and to keep. The heart is a garden. Grace cultivates it with us. Prayer waters it. Tears soften its soil. The remembrance of God makes it fruitful. Virtue slowly becomes something beautiful and living within us. But the garden must also be kept. Perhaps this is why the Fathers can appear severe about things modern people consider insignificant. Their severity is not necessarily born from fear. At its deepest, it arises from wonder. They know what the heart can become. They have seen human beings filled with God. They have seen the mind made luminous through prayer, the passions transfigured, the hardened heart made merciful, and ordinary human beings become bearers of the Holy Spirit. Having seen such things, they cannot regard anything that gradually extinguishes that life as trivial. The treasure is too precious. And yet neither story finally teaches despair. Palladios’ monk awakens. Remarkably, his awakening comes while he is teaching others. He hears himself speaking truths that he has ceased to live, and suddenly sees himself. The contradiction becomes unbearable. He runs back into the desert, casts himself upon the ground, and repents. God receives him. The angel’s words are filled with mercy: “God has accepted your repentance and has had mercy on you.” Something has nevertheless changed. The miraculous bread does not return. His remaining years are marked by mourning. This is not because God refuses forgiveness. Rather, the story preserves the terrible seriousness of freedom. Forgiveness is complete, yet our choices are real. Grace is not magic, and repentance does not make our history unreal. The Fathers hold together what we so often separate: immense mercy and immense seriousness. Never despair. But never presume. Never imagine that a fall places you beyond the mercy of God. But never imagine that what darkens the heart is therefore insignificant. The Christian life is lived between these truths. Perhaps the most important question, then, is not simply, Have I committed some great sin? It may be much quieter: What is happening to my desire for God? Is the flame growing brighter or dimmer? Is prayer becoming more truthful or merely habitual? Is my heart becoming softer or harder? Am I becoming freer to love, or increasingly absorbed in myself? Have I begun calling “small” those things that slowly make me forget the One whom I love? The evil one is willing to wait. He knows that great falls can grow from tiny seeds of forgetfulness. We too must learn to wait—but differently. We remain before God. We keep the heart. We cultivate the garden. We guard the treasure. And when we discover even the smallest cooling of love, we do not panic and we do not despair. We turn again toward Christ. Immediately. Simply. Humbly. For vigilance, rightly understood, is not living in terror that we might lose God. It is living with the knowledge that nothing is more precious than having found Him. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:08:19 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 61 Section C 00:14:06 Jacqulyn Dudasko: I received my books today! Even had a bit of time to start reading! 🙂 00:17:08 James Hickman: This will be my only day for a while: I’ll be working with the parish on Wednesday evenings, but I should be able to keep up on Mondays. 00:18:49 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 61 Section C 00:58:18 James Hickman: The Lord in his strange yet beautiful goodness bestows on this fallen monk the great gift of compunction, bathing him with his tears. Our Father gives us “the revenge of mercy” (Archimandrite Mark Malone of Holy Transfiguration in McLean preached yesterday of this revenge of divine mercy). 01:10:14 Larry: Dont put off confession today 01:10:30 Nancy Pagan: Many concerns 01:11:47 James Hickman: Can we read it in an alternative light? He, if sincere, desired forgiveness. The Lord in mercy reduced his earthly suffering by five days, taking him, perhaps to heaven, a little early. In hope, can we lean on the Lord’s mercy for this young monk? 01:13:03 Larry: We have confession every day except Sunday and always long lines of people waiting. 01:13:06 James Hickman: Certainly for me I don’t want to presume for me. But for others deep hope. 01:13:08 Anna: It's a great suffering when priests aren't willing to be present for confession outside the line that's so minimal weekly. 01:19:15 Nancy Pagan: Christ the King Monastery in Cullman AL  everyday before 8am Mass. 01:23:21 Anna: If we all were radically accessible for souls, wow what graces 01:24:34 Maureen Cunningham: Thank You, Blessing 01:24:39 Janine: Thank you Father! 01:24:51 Nancy Pagan: Thank you Fr

  3. Aug 28

    The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XX

    There are passages in St. Isaac that can sound almost impossible to modern ears. His words on vigil are among them. “Do not imagine,” he tells us, “that among all the works of monastics there is any practice greater than night vigil.” We hear such words and immediately think of sleep deprivation, bodily exhaustion, long hours of psalmody, standing in darkness while the rest of the world sleeps. We wonder whether such a practice belongs to another age, another kind of human being, perhaps even another understanding of the spiritual life. But this is precisely where we can misunderstand Isaac. Vigil becomes incomprehensible when it is separated from desire. If we begin with asceticism, vigil appears severe. If we begin with love, it begins to make sense. The lover understands the night. There are moments when we do not want an evening to end because we are with someone we love. There are conversations in which we cease looking at the clock. A mother remains awake beside a sick child without calculating the sacrifice. Someone awaiting the return of the beloved listens for every sound in the night. Love changes our experience of time. And so it is with the saints. They did not remain awake because they despised sleep. They remained awake because they had discovered Someone for whom it was worth losing sleep. This is the secret of vigil. “That I May Be With You” The Fathers understood the spiritual life far less as the fulfillment of religious obligations than as the awakening of desire. Beneath fasting, silence, solitude, tears, prostrations, psalmody, and vigil lies a single movement of the heart: I want God. Not merely His gifts. Not consolation. Not religious experiences. Not even virtue considered as a possession. God Himself. This is why St. Isaac describes the mind of the one who keeps vigil as becoming light and buoyant, taking flight “as it were on wings.” The ascetic is not merely staying awake. Something within him is being released. During the day the mind is scattered among a thousand things. We speak. We answer. We plan. We remember. We anticipate. We defend ourselves. We attend to necessities. Even when these things are good, the heart becomes divided among them. Then comes the night. The voices diminish. The demands cease. The world grows quiet. And the soul discovers again the One whom it has been seeking beneath everything else. This is why vigil was so precious to the Desert Fathers and remains so in the teaching of the great modern elders. It creates a space in which the heart can become undivided. The night says: There is nowhere else I need to go. There is nothing I need to accomplish. There is no one before whom I need to justify myself. There is only God. And I am here. The Recovery of Wonder Yet there is something even deeper in Isaac’s teaching. Vigil is not merely about attention. It is about wonder. Isaac tells us that the one who perseveres in vigil begins to “gaze upon” heavenly realities. His language is deliberately extravagant: the soul comes to possess “the eyes of Cherubim.” What does this mean? It means that purification changes how we see. The tragedy of fallen existence is not simply that we commit sins. It is that we gradually cease to be astonished by God. We become accustomed to everything. Accustomed to the Gospel. Accustomed to the Eucharist. Accustomed to the name of Jesus. Accustomed to the Cross. Accustomed even to the astonishing claim that the Creator of heaven and earth desires communion with us. And when wonder disappears, desire soon weakens with it. The Fathers knew that the heart must be awakened again. This is one reason vigil has such power. In the silence of the night, familiar words can suddenly become new. “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God…” We may have spoken those words ten thousand times. Yet in the stillness something can happen. Jesus. The Name becomes luminous. God is here. God sees me. God desires me. God has called me into existence that I might share His life. And suddenly prayer is no longer something we are performing. It is encounter. Wonder gives birth to desire, and desire gives birth to greater attention. Then the soul begins to understand why the saints stayed awake. The Vigil of the Lover This is why we must be careful not to turn Isaac’s teaching into another spiritual program. Stay awake longer. Say more psalms. Sleep less. Accumulate hours. Isaac himself warns against precisely this distortion. A person may endure “prolonged psalmody,” weariness of the tongue, and “night-long standing,” and yet receive little fruit because the mind is elsewhere. The body is standing before God while the heart is wandering through the world. Isaac asks, with characteristic directness: Why sow so much seed if we continually prevent it from bearing fruit? Vigil without attention becomes habit. Vigil without desire becomes endurance. Vigil without love becomes religious achievement. And religious achievement can quietly feed the very ego that asceticism is meant to dismantle. The true vigil begins somewhere deeper. Stay with Me. This is the invitation hidden within the night. Christ in Gethsemane asked His disciples, “Could you not watch with me one hour?” Perhaps every vigil is, in some mysterious way, our answer to that question. Yes, Lord. I will stay. Not because I am strong. Not because I am an ascetic. Not because I want to imagine myself among the saints. I stay because You are here. Why Vigil Requires the Day This also explains something that Isaac emphasizes strongly and that can easily be overlooked. The vigil cannot be separated from the way we live during the day. If we spend the day deliberately filling the mind with noise, agitation, curiosity, argument, distraction, and endless encounters, we should not be surprised if those same things accompany us into prayer at night. Isaac therefore insists that the monk who desires the fruit of vigil must guard himself from unnecessary disturbance during the day. This is not contempt for the world. It is custody of the heart. The Fathers understood something about human consciousness that our age desperately needs to rediscover: what we give ourselves to leaves traces within us. Everything enters the heart. Images. Conversations. Arguments. News. Resentments. Fantasies. Fears. The opinions of others. The desire to be seen. The need to respond. The mind carries these things into silence. Thus vigil actually begins long before nightfall. It begins with how we guard the heart throughout the day. The School of Freedom This is one reason the disappearance of vigil from much contemporary Christian life is significant. We have not merely lost an ascetical practice. We have lost one of the great schools of desire, attention, and freedom. The modern world teaches us to flee silence. It places a device in our hand capable of filling every empty moment. It trains the eyes to seek novelty and the mind to expect constant stimulation. The Fathers move in precisely the opposite direction. Be still. Remain. Watch. Wait. Listen. Do not flee the emptiness. Because eventually you may discover that it was never empty. Someone was waiting for you there. The purpose of vigil is not to prove that we can conquer the body. It is to become free enough to recognize the presence of the Beloved. “I Sleep, but My Heart Is Awake” The goal, then, is ultimately something greater than remaining physically awake. The goal is wakefulness of heart. “I sleep, but my heart is awake,” says the Bride in the Song of Songs. There is the mystery. The deepest vigil eventually becomes a state of the soul. A person begins to live before God. The Jesus Prayer continues beneath thought. The remembrance of God becomes increasingly continuous. The heart waits for Him. Looks toward Him. Listens for Him. Desires Him. This is the angelic quality Isaac sees in vigil. The angels do not merely “stay awake.” They exist in ceaseless attention to God. Their life is beholding. And Isaac dares to say that through vigil the human person begins to participate in this same movement. The eyes of the heart open. Wonder returns. Desire intensifies. Prayer deepens. The mind grows light. And gradually the soul discovers that the ascetical life is not fundamentally a life of deprivation. It is a life of fascination. The Night Is Not Empty Perhaps this is what we most need to recover from Isaac. We will never understand the asceticism of the Fathers if we begin with what they gave up. We must begin with what they saw. They saw a Beauty before which the beauties of the world grew pale. They tasted a sweetness that made lesser consolations seem small. They discovered a Love so immense that solitude became communion, silence became fullness, fasting became hunger for God, and vigil became the refusal to leave the presence of the Beloved. This is why the teaching on vigil belongs so naturally beside the language of desire and wonder. The ascetic does not remain awake merely because a rule commands it. He has glimpsed something. And because he has glimpsed it, he wants to see more. Wonder awakens desire. Desire gathers the scattered heart. The gathered heart becomes attentive. Attention becomes prayer. And prayer becomes communion. Then something remarkable happens. What once appeared burdensome becomes precious. The night that once seemed long becomes too short. Silence that once frightened us becomes the place we long to enter. And the prayer that once seemed an obligation becomes something from which we are reluctant to depart. The saints kept vigil because they discovered that the night was not empty. The Beloved was there. And once the heart knows this, the deepest question is no longer: Why would anyone remain awake to pray? It becomes: How could

  4. Aug 28

    The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter IX, Part III

    There is something almost relentless about the teaching of the Fathers on watchfulness. They will not allow us to imagine that there comes a point in the spiritual life when vigilance is no longer necessary. Age does not free us from it. Knowledge does not free us from it. Years of prayer do not free us from it. Even great spiritual gifts do not free us from it. “As long as you are in the body, do not leave your heart unguarded.” Until the last breath. At first this can sound severe. The image given by Abba Isaiah is striking: he is like a sparrow tied by the foot. It may fly upward and imagine itself free, but the cord remains. A single tug can bring it back to the earth. Likewise, the Fathers tell us that the enemy waits at the crossroads, lays traps along the path, makes use of small thoughts and seemingly insignificant compromises, and patiently seeks an opening into the heart. Yet if we read these sayings merely as a catalogue of demonic strategies, we have misunderstood their purpose. The Evergetinos is not trying to make us fascinated with evil. Nor are the Fathers trying to produce souls that are perpetually looking over their shoulders, anxiously examining every movement of the heart. They are teaching us watchfulness because they desire something infinitely greater for us. They want us to discover how precious the heart is to God. Indeed, hidden within these rather frightening descriptions is one of the most beautiful statements in the entire passage. The enemy himself is forced to confess concerning the monks: “You and your fellow-servants have a good Master, Who speaks to you gently and watches over you as His own children.” A good Master. One who speaks gently. One who watches over us as His own children. This is the heart of the teaching. We guard the heart because God guards the heart. Our vigilance is meant to become a participation in His vigilance over us. The commandments, prayer, repentance, the remembrance of God, the cutting off of thoughts—all of these are expressions of a divine solicitude that surrounds the human person. God desires to protect within us that which He has created for Himself. He desires that nothing should enter the heart that diminishes its freedom, darkens its vision, wounds its capacity for love, or turns its desire away from Him. The Fathers therefore teach us to recognize temptations, but recognition is not the end. We do not study the passions in order to become experts in the passions. We learn their movements so that we might become free to love. This distinction is everything. One can become extraordinarily knowledgeable about the spiritual life and still remain outside of its mystery. Abba Isaiah goes so far as to say that a man might possess knowledge, perform miracles, endure hardships, and yet still find himself vulnerable. None of these things constitutes the final security of the soul. Only love does. And so the passage unexpectedly opens into the words of the Apostle: “Love never faileth… but beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.” Here the teaching reaches its true center. The Fathers are not leading us toward an ever more sophisticated fear of temptation. They are leading us toward perfect love. Watchfulness exists for love. Asceticism exists for love. The guarding of the heart exists for love. Repentance exists for love. Even the fear of God, rightly understood, is gradually drawing the soul toward that love in which fear itself is transformed. This is why the smallest thoughts matter. Not because God is fastidious or because the Christian life consists in anxiously avoiding infractions. The smallest things matter because love notices what interferes with communion. When one loves another deeply, one becomes sensitive to anything that introduces distance. So too with God. The vigilant heart begins to recognize thoughts of resentment, vainglory, judgment, self-pity, lust, anger, curiosity, or self-will not simply as violations of a rule but as movements that draw the heart away from the One whom it loves. The Fathers repeatedly tell us that great falls ordinarily begin very quietly. A thought is entertained. Then revisited. Then befriended. What first appeared insignificant gradually acquires familiarity, and familiarity acquires power. “The Devil disdains small sins; yet without them, he cannot lead man into greater sins.” But precisely the opposite is also true. Small acts of fidelity gather strength. A thought rejected for Christ. A moment of irritation surrendered. A judgment withheld. A temptation met immediately with the Jesus Prayer. A movement of vainglory quietly ignored. A moment of fear answered by trust. A suffering borne without abandoning God. These things too form habits of the heart. Grace upon grace. Fidelity upon fidelity. Love answering Love. This is why the teaching about vigilance should never leave us preoccupied with the enemy. Abba Makarios does not continue his journey thinking about the devil. He gives thanks to God and goes on his way rejoicing. That detail is extraordinarily important. The fruit of true watchfulness is not anxiety. It is thanksgiving. It is the growing realization that we are being kept. The Elder who asked to see the demons surrounding men discovered something similar. He saw them “like bees,” gnashing their teeth. Yet among them stood the Angel of the Lord rebuking them. The revelation was not given so that the Elder might become terrified by the number of demons. It revealed something far greater: the mercy of God was already there. Before we perceive the danger, God sees it. Before we understand the temptation, God knows it. Before we cry out, He has already drawn near. This is why the proper response to our weakness is not self-reliance but the prayer Abba Isaiah places continually upon our lips: Help me. Have mercy upon me. Perhaps this is one of the deepest lessons the desert has to teach us. Watchfulness eventually reveals not how strong we are but how utterly dependent we are upon God. The vigilant man discovers more and more clearly that he cannot preserve himself. And strangely, this discovery becomes peace. St. Isaac the Syrian understood this profoundly. The knowledge of one’s weakness is itself a doorway into the knowledge of divine mercy. When a man begins to understand how fragile he is, he ceases trusting in himself and casts himself upon God. Then prayer becomes less an accomplishment and more a cry of the heart. Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me. Not because God is reluctant to give mercy. Because mercy is already rushing toward us. This also changes the meaning of constancy. We remain vigilant until death not because God stands waiting for us to make one final mistake. We remain vigilant because love desires to remain with the Beloved until the end. The question becomes less, How do I avoid falling? And more: How do I remain with Him? This is the deeper meaning of guarding the heart. To remain. To abide. To keep the inner door turned toward Christ. To allow nothing to become more compelling than His presence. There will always be thoughts. There will always be temptations. There will always be some cord around the foot of the sparrow as long as we remain in this present life. The Fathers are remarkably sober about this. There is no moment when we may say, “Now I am beyond danger.” But neither is there a moment when we are beyond mercy. And perhaps that is what gives watchfulness its tenderness. We do not stand guard alone. The One who tells us to watch is Himself watching over us. The One who tells us to guard the heart has already claimed that heart as His dwelling. The One who warns us against the snares of the enemy does so because He desires our freedom infinitely more than we do. He does not expose the traps in order to frighten His children. He exposes them because He loves His children. And gradually the spiritual life becomes less and less a struggle to defend ourselves and more an abandonment to this love. We discover that the safest place for the heart is not in its own vigilance, strength, knowledge, or experience. It is in Him. So until the last breath we watch. Until the last breath we repent. Until the last breath we cry out. Until the last breath we refuse the thought that would carry us away. But beneath all of this there is something deeper and quieter: we allow ourselves to be drawn. Drawn by mercy. Drawn by beauty. Drawn by the gentleness of the good Master. Drawn by the One who has watched over us as His children from the beginning. And perhaps, in the end, perfect watchfulness is simply this: to love Him so deeply that the heart no longer wishes to go anywhere else. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:24:33 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 59, first paragraph on page, above #9 00:27:52 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 59, #10 00:31:33 James Hickman: The tug doesn’t seem to be with the most tremendous force either, for the feeling or illusion of freedom or thinking in pride that we have overcome our vices, we get a tiny jerk on the rope and get caught off guard, falling hard. I see in my own life, I think a certain sin is behind me and then seemingly out of nowhere a tiny tug sends me hurling down, crashing and burning. 00:32:26 Forrest: Reacted to "The tug doesn’t seem to be with the most tremendous force either, for the feeling or illusion of freedom or thinking in pride that we have overcome our vices, we get a tiny jerk on the rope and get caught off guard, falling hard. I see in my own life, I think a certain sin is behind me and then seemingly out of nowhere a tiny tug sends me hurling down, crashing and burning." with 👍 00:32:54 Nancy Pagan: Even beautiful thoughts? And  “ wonderful” new ideas…right?  When trying to pra 00:33:10 Nancy Pagan: Practice 00:41:59 Danny Moulton: Putting on Christ see

  5. Aug 17

    The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XIX, Part II

    There is a danger in reading passages such as this one from St. Isaac and hearing primarily a warning: Do not become negligent. Do not allow yourself to grow lax. Guard your solitude. Avoid unnecessary conversation. Do not permit the mind to become scattered. Certainly Isaac is warning us. His language is deliberately severe because he knows how fragile the beginnings of prayer can be. A heart newly awakened to God is like the tender blossom of a fruit tree. It possesses within itself the promise of fruit, but it can still be injured by a sudden frost. The mind that has begun to discover stillness can quickly become dispersed again. The heart that has tasted the sweetness of prayer can become strangely cold. But if we hear only the warning, we may miss something much more beautiful in Isaac’s words. The great concern of Homily 19 is not simply that we avoid negligence. It is that we recognize what has been given to us and take hold of it. Isaac is speaking to men and women who have tasted something. They have tasted God. “If fiery thoughts arise in you,” he writes, “through the consuming flame of divine things,” and you “enjoy a taste of God,” then guard what has been given to you. That changes everything. The ascetical life is not primarily the anxious preservation of spiritual discipline. It is the response of the heart to a gift. We guard prayer because we have discovered Someone in prayer. We seek stillness because within stillness we have begun to hear the voice of the Beloved. We withdraw from unnecessary occupations not because created things are evil, but because something infinitely more precious has begun to draw the heart. This is why Isaac can speak so dramatically about the loss of fervor. “Only the man who drinks deeply of this wine, and afterward is deprived of it, only he knows to what misery he has been abandoned.” One cannot miss the language of desire here. The tragedy is not simply that the monk has broken his rule. The tragedy is that he has allowed himself to become separated from something he has tasted and loved. He knows the wine. He remembers its sweetness. And now he thirsts. This is the deeper meaning of vigilance. Negligence Is Forgetfulness Negligence in the spiritual life is rarely simply laziness. At its deepest level it is forgetfulness. The heart forgets what it desires. Isaac tells us that through excessive conversation, unnecessary occupations, sensory dispersion, and involvement in countless affairs, “the object of her desire is blotted out from her mind.” That sentence may be the key to the entire passage. The object of her desire is blotted out. The danger of distraction is not merely that it wastes time. It obscures desire. We begin to forget why we are alive. We may continue doing many good things. We may remain religious. We may fulfill responsibilities. We may even continue praying. Yet somewhere beneath all this activity, the memory of God can grow faint. And once that memory fades, lesser desires begin to fill the empty space. The Fathers understood this with extraordinary psychological depth. The heart cannot remain without desire. If it ceases to be gathered toward God, it will inevitably become scattered among countless lesser things. This is why Isaac says: “Do not multiply your occupations, and you will not find turmoil in your mind, or in your prayer.” He is not preaching inactivity. He is teaching simplicity of heart. The question becomes: What possesses my attention because it possesses my desire? Take Hold of Grace There is another danger, however, subtler than negligence. We may imagine that because everything depends upon grace, we need only wait passively for God to act. Isaac knows nothing of such passivity. When grace visits the heart, take hold of it. When prayer becomes warm, remain there. When tears come, do not hurry away from them. When desire for God awakens, feed it. When silence begins to gather the mind, protect that silence. When the Name of Jesus descends even slightly from the lips toward the heart, treasure it. Not because grace can be possessed or controlled, but because love asks for a response. There is a holy cooperation between divine grace and human freedom. God awakens the heart, and the heart turns toward Him. God gives the thirst, and we begin to drink. God lights the flame, and we cease throwing cold water upon it through negligence. This is why the Fathers can sound simultaneously so uncompromising about asceticism and so utterly dependent upon grace. There is no contradiction. Asceticism is what love looks like when freedom responds to grace. The Stronger Attraction And here we reach something even deeper. Isaac does not ultimately believe that the Christian life is sustained by fear of distraction. It is sustained by attraction. The lesser things of life pull upon us. Conversation pulls upon us. Curiosity pulls upon us. Responsibilities pull upon us. Memories, anxieties, pleasures, opinions, news, recognition, work—all of these exert a gravitational force upon the heart. But there is another gravity. Divine love. And it is stronger. The spiritual life matures when we discover that holiness is not primarily a heroic attempt to tear ourselves away from the world. It is allowing ourselves to be drawn increasingly by the beauty of God. The Psalmist does not cry: My soul has disciplined itself for Thee. He cries: “My soul thirsted for Thee.” Thirst is attraction. Desire is attraction. Love is attraction. The heart has glimpsed the Face for which it was created, and suddenly everything else begins to reveal its proper measure. This is why the saints sometimes appear almost incomprehensible to us. Their detachment can look severe from the outside. But from within, something very different is happening. They are being drawn. Christ has become more beautiful than everything they have relinquished. The Memory of the Wine Perhaps this is why God sometimes permits us to experience the loss Isaac describes. We have known moments when prayer was alive. Moments when the Name of Jesus seemed to contain everything. Moments when silence was not empty but filled with Presence. Moments when tears came without effort. Moments when we knew—not merely intellectually, but existentially—that God was near. And then the heart became cold. We became distracted. We multiplied our occupations. We returned to noise. The temptation is to despair over this. Isaac gives us another way. Remember the wine. The memory of grace itself can become a summons. Not nostalgia for a spiritual experience, but remembrance of the One who gave Himself within it. The coldness reveals the thirst. The absence reveals the desire. And the heart begins again: Where are You? Why have I wandered so far from what my soul desires? When shall I come and appear before Your face? Even our sorrow over having lost the sweetness of prayer can become prayer. “If You Will” There is something here that echoes the great saying of Abba Joseph: “If you will, you can become all flame.” Not because we manufacture the fire. The fire is God. The desire is awakened by God. The grace is given by God. The attraction originates in God. But the human will must consent to being consumed. This is the dignity and trembling mystery of our freedom. Grace comes and says: Remain. And we must choose whether to remain. Love draws and says: Come. And we must choose whether to follow. The flame rises and says: Give yourself. And we must decide whether we will continue protecting the thousand little things that keep us divided, or allow ourselves finally to belong to the One who desires the whole heart. Isaac’s severity therefore conceals extraordinary tenderness. He is not telling us merely: Be careful what you lose. He is telling us: Look at what you have found. You have tasted something more precious than everything that distracts you. You have discovered the hidden wine. You have felt the beginnings of the fire. You have heard within yourself the ancient cry: “My soul thirsted for Thee, the mighty, the living God.” Do not be afraid merely of negligence. Be afraid of forgetting what your heart has discovered. And then turn again. Take hold of the grace that has taken hold of you. For beneath all our seeking is a greater seeking. Beneath our thirst is a deeper thirst. Beneath our desire for God is the immeasurably greater desire of God for us. In the end, it is not our weak attraction toward Him that will carry us home. It is the stronger pull of His love. Our task is to cease resisting it. To remain. To consent. And, if we will, to become all flame. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:03:04 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 219, paragraph 2 00:10:34 Janine: Oh great Miles is back! 00:12:04 James Hickman: I came across this today. It’s from April 10, so the group might already be familiar. Professor Matthew Minerd a Ruthenian Catholic scholar offers positive reasons for following the approach of The Evergetinos and the Apophthegmata among others as great models of theology for the dialectics and holy anecdotes. https://www.athomist.com/articles/monastic-stories-casuistry 00:12:16 Alan Henderson: Which work is Myles discussing 00:12:40 James Hickman: “Monastic Stories as a Method of Ascetical Casuistry” 00:13:25 Myles Davidson: Reacted to "Oh great Miles is ba..." with ❤️ 00:13:37 Janine: Oh that looks great! Thx James 00:13:38 Myles Davidson: Replying to "Which work is Myles ..." The Brothers Karamazov 00:14:46 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 219, paragraph 2 00:29:41 James Hickman: Driving is stillness lol 00:29:45 Sr Barbara Jean Mihalchick: Matthew Kelly's new book is THE CONTENT DIET 00:30:04 Sr Barbara

  6. Aug 11

    The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter IX, Part II

    There is a great mercy hidden within these unsettling sayings from the Evergetinos. The Desert Fathers do not speak to us about spiritual warfare in order to make us preoccupied with the devil. They speak about it so that we might become sober, humble, and utterly dependent upon Christ. This is one of the great blessings the Desert Fathers continue to offer the Church. They expose what ordinarily remains hidden. Modern man tends to imagine temptation almost exclusively in terms of dramatic moral choices. We think of sin as something obvious placed before the will: Will I do this or will I not? But the Fathers understood the human heart far more subtly. Long before the temptation becomes an obvious choice, something has often already begun moving within us: a thought entertained, an irritation indulged, a desire awakened, an image cherished, a conversation replayed, praise secretly enjoyed, an injury remembered, a judgment formed, prayer postponed. The enemy rarely begins by asking us to renounce God. He asks only that we become slightly inattentive. And so Abba Simon gives us one of the most important sentences in tonight’s reading: “Keep watch inside your cell, and keep watch outside it.” The brother cannot understand why he leaves his cell, becomes caught up in the distraction of others, laughs when they laugh, talks when they talk, and then discovers upon returning that the peace he formerly possessed has disappeared. He wants to move between recollection and distraction without consequence. Abba Simon tells him gently but firmly: That is impossible. The heart carries within itself what it consents to. This is why nepsis—watchfulness—is so central to the spirituality of the desert. The Fathers discovered that the cell is not merely a physical room. Ultimately, the cell is the heart. We must learn to inhabit it wherever we are. Solitude without vigilance will not save us, nor will activity necessarily destroy us. What matters is whether the heart remains awake before God. The modern elders say the same. St. Porphyrios continually warned against becoming fascinated with darkness. We do not overcome darkness by staring at it. We turn toward Christ. St. Paisios likewise spoke with great realism about the suggestions of the enemy, yet his emphasis was always upon humility and trust in God. St. Silouan and St. Sophrony understood perhaps most deeply that spiritual warfare is finally a battle over where the heart will abide: in itself or in Christ. This is precisely why these passages must never be read merely intellectually. We can study the taxonomy of temptation and still remain utterly blind to ourselves. Indeed, that may itself become another temptation. The moment I read these sayings and begin identifying the passions of other people, I have already missed their purpose. The proper response is much simpler: There but for the grace of God go I. “Satan Is Not Dead” Perhaps the most sobering saying tonight is the Elder’s response to the man who declares, “I am dead to the world.” “You may say that you are dead, but Satan is not dead.” What extraordinary spiritual realism. The Fathers distrust premature declarations about ourselves. I have conquered this passion. I am beyond that temptation. This no longer affects me. I have reached dispassion. I understand myself now. No. The desert teaches us never to presume upon yesterday’s victory. This is not because the Fathers are pessimistic about grace. Quite the opposite. They are so convinced of the power of grace that they refuse to confuse grace with human self-confidence. A man who knows his weakness can be extraordinarily strong because he clings to Christ. A man convinced of his strength is already standing dangerously alone. This is why the account of the dying monk is so striking. Satan says, “You have eluded me,” and even then the Elder replies: “I do not yet know whether I have eluded you.” There is no spiritual swagger here. No confidence in accomplishments. No inventory of virtues. Only vigilance until the final breath. The Trembling of Agathon Then comes Abba Agathon. He has spent his life seeking God. Yet as death approaches and the brothers ask whether he is confident that his deeds have been pleasing to God, he answers: “God’s judgment is one thing, man’s another.” This is not neurotic scrupulosity. It is humility purified of illusion. Agathon knows something we continually forget: we cannot finally stand outside ourselves and judge our own souls. Even our virtues may contain admixtures we cannot perceive. Generosity may conceal a hunger to be needed. Zeal may conceal anger. Orthodoxy may conceal pride. Asceticism may conceal self-reliance. Service may conceal the desire for recognition. Even repentance itself can become subtly self-absorbed. Therefore Agathon places himself entirely before God. And notice how the story ends. He dies in joy. This is crucial. The humility of the Desert Fathers does not lead to despair. It leads to freedom. Agathon has nothing left to defend. Nothing to prove. Nothing to claim for himself. He places everything into the hands of God and ascends “as one who greets his friends and loved ones.” True humility ends in joy because it has surrendered the impossible burden of saving itself. The Vessels of the Enemy The extraordinary vision of Abba Makarios brings all of this together. The devil appears covered with vessels containing different means of temptation. One attacks prayer with drowsiness. Another Scripture with physical discomfort. Another obedience. Another chastity. Another speech. Another appetite. Another humility through pride. Another virtue through vainglory. Another remembrance of eternity through forgetfulness. The image may seem strange to us, but its psychological and spiritual insight is profound. The enemy studies where we are vulnerable. He does not tempt everyone identically. And more importantly, he frequently attacks us precisely where we are seeking God. When we pray, suddenly we become tired. When we seek silence, a hundred apparently urgent thoughts arise. When we begin fasting, food occupies our imagination. When we perform some good work, we begin wondering whether anyone noticed. When God gives us spiritual insight, we subtly begin thinking ourselves spiritually insightful. When we experience grace, we may begin secretly believing that the grace belongs to us. Even virtue can become the material of temptation. This is why Makarios sees vessels around the devil’s neck filled with pride and human glory. The enemy does not care whether he captures us through obvious vice or apparent virtue. He cares only that the gaze of the heart moves away from Christ and returns to itself. And perhaps the most frightening vessel is the one containing forgetfulness. The enemy makes “the memory of these things disappear.” Forgetfulness is not simply poor memory. In the language of the Fathers, it is an existential forgetfulness of God. We forget who we are. We forget whose we are. We forget death. We forget judgment. We forget mercy. We forget the Kingdom. We forget the presence of Christ. And once remembrance disappears, almost anything can enter. This is why the Jesus Prayer is so powerful. “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.” It is remembrance restored. The Name gathers the scattered heart. The Name interrupts the conversation with the logismoi. The Name returns us to Presence. Sitting With the Fathers This is why we need to journey with the Desert Fathers rather than merely read them. Their sayings are not curiosities from an exotic period of Christian history. They are maps of the human heart. We should read them slowly enough that they begin reading us. Where am I inattentive? Where have I become confident in myself? What thought do I repeatedly entertain? Where do I seek human approval? What happens to my heart after certain conversations? What destroys my recollection? What makes prayer difficult? Where has forgetfulness entered? And above all: Where am I relying upon myself rather than Christ? These questions should not produce anxiety. They should produce humility. The Desert Fathers were not obsessed with demons. They were captivated by God. Precisely because they desired God so intensely, they learned to recognize everything that sought to draw the heart away from Him. And they knew they did not fight alone. We live within the communion of the Church. The angels surround us. The saints intercede for us. The Mother of God shelters us. The prayers of the Church carry us. Our guardian angel accompanies us. And the Name of Jesus is placed upon our lips. The evil one may indeed be relentless. But he is not sovereign. Christ is. Makarios can interrogate the devil precisely because Christ has already conquered him. The powers of darkness are exposed because the Light has come into the world. And so vigilance is not fearfully watching for Satan behind every movement of life. Vigilance is keeping the heart turned toward Christ. The safest person spiritually is therefore not the one who thinks, I would never fall into that. It is the one who whispers: Lord, without You I could fall into anything. Keep me. Guard my heart. Give me remembrance of You. Send Your holy angels to protect me. Through the prayers of Your saints, preserve me from deception. And then we understand why we must keep returning to the desert. The Fathers know the terrain. They have watched thoughts arise and disappear. They have suffered temptation. They have fallen and risen. They have learned the terrible danger of self-confidence and the astonishing strength hidden in humility. They take us by the hand and teach us to watch. Inside the cell. Outside the cell. Until our final breath. Not because we are terrified of the darkness, but because we have discovered some

  7. Aug 7

    The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XVIII, Part II & XIX, Part I

    There is a temptation in every generation to believe that the spiritual life consists primarily in learning new methods, acquiring hidden knowledge, or discovering techniques that promise quick access to God. St. Isaac the Syrian gently dismantles this illusion. When he speaks of the deeper forms of prayer, he deliberately refuses to satisfy our curiosity. It is a remarkable act of humility. He knows that the mysteries of prayer cannot be communicated as information because they are received only as a gift. They belong not to those who seek extraordinary experiences but to those who have quietly consented to be transformed through long obedience. This restraint reveals something profoundly important. The deepest prayer is never mastered. It is given. One does not arrive there through spiritual cleverness but by allowing grace to accomplish its hidden work over time. “Sit in your cell,” the ancient saying declares, “and your cell will teach you everything.” The cell becomes the place where the restless search for novelty dies, where the heart gradually ceases to seek explanations and begins instead to seek only Christ Himself. For Isaac, stillness is therefore not an escape from the world but the creation of an interior space where the face of Christ can finally be seen without distortion. This is why he speaks so forcefully about abstention from many concerns. The problem is not simply that busyness consumes our time. Far more dangerously, it fragments our attention. It scatters the heart among a thousand anxieties until it loses the capacity to remain before the Lord with loving simplicity. How striking that Isaac does not first speak about outward activity but about the inability to remain “directly before the face of God.” The Christian life begins here. Before there is ministry, teaching, writing, service, or even ascetic labor, there is the gaze of love. The Father turns His face toward us in His Son, and little by little we learn to return that gaze. Prayer is not first our speaking to God but our remaining before Him long enough for His presence to heal what has been wounded within us. This changes the whole character of spiritual struggle. We often imagine that holiness is achieved by greater effort, tighter control, or stricter discipline. Certainly there is ascetic labor, and Isaac never minimizes it. Yet its purpose is not self-perfection. It is to remove whatever prevents us from remaining peacefully before Christ. The battle is not ultimately against activity itself but against everything that steals our attention from the One who alone can heal the heart. Only in such stillness do we begin to notice the subtle movements of the soul. Isaac says that the monk learns to distinguish “what enters into and what comes out” of him. Here we discover the extraordinary psychological and spiritual depth of the desert tradition. Before modern psychology attempted to map the interior world, the Desert Fathers had already entered its hidden landscape. They understood that thoughts, desires, fears, fantasies, and memories continually seek entrance into the heart. Unless one lives before the face of Christ, these movements remain confused and unexamined. But in the light of His countenance they become discernible. His gaze exposes nothing in order to condemn; it reveals everything in order to heal. This is why the entire ascetical life must remain Christ-centered. Stillness divorced from Christ easily becomes isolation. Silence without Christ becomes emptiness. Solitude without Christ can become merely another form of self-absorption. But when every moment of silence is filled with the awareness of His presence, stillness becomes communion. The heart is no longer occupied with itself but quietly captivated by the beauty of the Lord. Here, I believe, we begin to understand what I have called throughout these writings desire and wonder. As the heart becomes less driven by endless concerns, it does not become emotionally barren. Quite the opposite. It awakens. Desire is purified because it is no longer dispersed among countless lesser loves but gathered into a single longing for Christ. Wonder returns because His presence is never exhausted. Every moment before Him becomes fresh. Every prayer becomes an invitation into a mystery that can never be possessed, only received. Perhaps this is the hidden fruit of Isaac’s refusal to explain the higher forms of prayer. He wishes to protect us from seeking experiences rather than seeking Christ. For if we truly stand before His face day after day, if we patiently guard the heart, if we willingly relinquish the tyranny of unnecessary concerns, then prayer itself will teach us. Not because we have become experts, but because Love Himself has become our teacher. In the end, the goal is beautifully simple. To become men and women whose hearts are no longer scattered but wholly gathered before the Face that has always been turned toward us. And in that Face we discover that every true desire finds its fulfillment, every fear loses its power, and wonder becomes the atmosphere in which the soul learns to live. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:04:23 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 218 mid paragraph 4 00:07:02 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/the-name-above-every-name 00:07:22 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 218 mid paragraph 4 00:10:21 Linda Frasier: may I share the link with a friend? 00:10:31 Janine: Father…whatever happened to the gentleman from New Zealand who used to join? 00:10:35 Linda Frasier: thx 00:11:03 Janine: His dad wasn’t well 00:11:12 Janine: Yes I was wondering 00:11:53 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/the-name-above-every-name 00:12:39 Linda Frasier: already ordered Monastic Heart—arriving Monday!! 00:14:14 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/the-name-above-every-name 00:15:37 Janine: The baby has joined! 00:27:32 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 218, paragraph 5, bottom of page 00:37:26 Kate: Footnote 1 on page 219 is quite convicting! 00:40:13 Adam Paige: Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be, And when we find ourselves in the place just right, 'Twill be in the valley of love and delight. When true simplicity is gained, To bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed, To turn, turn will be our delight, Till by turning, turning we come 'round right. 00:58:25 Bob Čihák, AZ: Re: story of Martha and Mary taking the “better path”: Christ doesn’t specify what that better path might be. Many, including St. Augustine, say that it’s the path of contemplation. I think it could be that “the better path” is the path for that person fulfilling the will of God, in that place, at that time. We all have different immediate paths to take, at different times. Obviously, Martha earned Christ’s gentle rebuke which to me suggests that she should consider that her role at that time and place might be providing hospitality. 01:06:19 Nancy Pagan: Why if we can learn by ourselves some desert fathers insist in having a staret?I I really believe we can but I should not trust myself that way? 01:06:27 Nancy Pagan: Sorry 01:07:22 Lee Graham: “Without  distractions the devil has no means of entering the soul” the footnote #1 01:13:29 Art: I gain a lot of peace of heart and mind from the Benedictine motto “to work is to pray”.  I’ve also seen “Prayer is my work”. Work is my prayer”.  It helps me accept whatever it is I need to do 01:13:42 David Swiderski: In loving one another's God is us is made flesh. Simple not complicates but I have this written on my bedroom door because I forget and it has guided me for years. I rise and remember to be simple and the goal clear in the day. I think less words help the most as my grandfather left with me as a high school education tut taught me more than Aquinas or any spiritual father. As my mother said love few and profoundly. As I age I find all the answers where at my hands but I got lost at some times in my life. 01:13:53 James Hickman: Father, is there any distinction between unadulterated entertainment vs perhaps a cultural experience by watching a series or movie not too different from sitting down to read a novel or go to a play performed live? It might be an opportunity for leisure. I think of PBS Masterpiece where I can watch a high quality production of Les Miserables or The Count of Monte Cristo and ponder mysteries of forgiveness or the vices in my life. Certainly I’m not saying this is of greater value than spending two hours in stillness. I’m maybe admitting my weakness here, but I do wonder: is there a place for this in my life? Are there any good distractions? In moderation? 01:17:58 David Swiderski: Amen seeking beauty and what is good shapes our lives and our goals. 01:18:47 James Hickman: I breathe a sigh of relief 😀 01:20:53 Nancy Pagan: Does St Isaac, or another give a plan to live this  interior life? I guess it is different for each, but is there a minimum? My experience was a radical unknown calling. Can that be ok and possible maybe even necessary ? 01:26:22 David Swiderski: You feel the presence when someone loves you unconditionally. There is something in their eyes a feeling in your heart that never goes away. At least in my life only two priest or religious have had that impact. Life wave of the ocean what is true returns over and over. 01:26:46 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/the-name-above-every-name 01:26:53 Jesssica Imanaka: I ordered it today! 01:28:19 Aaron: Thank you Father 01:28:21 David Swiderski: Thank you Father may God bless you your mother, Ren and her husband and everyone in this group you are very much appreciated and loved. 01:28:22 Nancy Pagan: 🙏 01:28:23 Jesssica Imanaka: God bless you, Father Charbel, and your mother. Thank you

  8. Aug 4

    The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter VIII, Part II & IX, Part I

    The Fathers never speak of the spiritual life as though it were merely the acquisition of virtues or the mastery of disciplines. At its heart, it is the slow awakening of a human being who learns once again to see. The battlefield is not first the world around us but the hidden kingdom within us. It is there, in the silence of the heart, that every thought seeks entrance, every desire asks for consent, and every movement of the soul quietly bends either toward God or away from Him. It is therefore no accident that this section of the Evergetinos begins with the conscience. The Fathers do not present conscience as a private opinion, nor as a passing feeling of guilt or innocence. They speak of it as “nature’s book,” a living text written by the Creator Himself within the human heart. Before there were libraries, before there were theological treatises, before there were even spiritual fathers to guide us, God had already inscribed His law upon the depths of our being. The conscience remains that quiet witness which never ceases to speak, even when every other voice has fallen silent. St. Maximos therefore urges us not to despise it. Every time we ignore that gentle movement toward truth, every time we silence its warnings because they are inconvenient or uncomfortable, we do not simply reject an inner feeling. We reject a gift through which God Himself seeks to lead us. Yet the Fathers also understand that conscience is not formed automatically. Like every faculty of the soul, it can become clouded through neglect, distorted through the passions, or nearly inaudible beneath the constant noise of our own thoughts. Thus prayer and conscience belong together. A purified conscience gives birth to pure prayer, while genuine prayer steadily purifies the conscience. Each heals and strengthens the other until the heart gradually becomes transparent before God. This is why the Fathers place such extraordinary emphasis upon vigilance. The ascetic life is not one of anxious self-analysis but of loving attentiveness. One learns to ask, “From where has this thought arisen? Toward whom does it lead me? Does it draw me toward Christ, toward humility, toward peace, toward love, or does it leave me agitated, suspicious, self-absorbed, fearful, or filled with hidden resentment?” Such questions are not psychological exercises. They are acts of spiritual discernment. How beautiful that the Evergetinos allows us here to hear the voice of St. Synkletike. Her presence reminds us that the wisdom of the desert is not confined to the fathers alone. The mothers stand beside them as equal witnesses to the Gospel lived with radical seriousness. Their lives reveal dimensions of spiritual perception that enrich the whole Church. To hear Synkletike is to hear a mother whose authority has been forged in prayer, suffering, and long experience of the hidden warfare of the heart. Her image of the ship is unforgettable. Storms from without may batter the vessel, yet the greater danger often lies beneath the surface, where unnoticed water slowly fills the hold while everyone sleeps. So too the Christian is often preoccupied with visible temptations, external conflicts, and the sins of the world, while paying little attention to the quiet accumulation of interior movements that slowly weigh down the soul. A single grievance carefully preserved, a subtle spirit of self-importance, an unnoticed judgment against another, a conversation endlessly replayed within the imagination—these may appear insignificant, yet left unattended they become the hidden water that eventually sinks the ship. The modern elders speak with precisely the same realism. St. Sophrony taught that every thought should first be brought before Christ before it is welcomed into the heart. Elder Aimilianos describes the spiritual life as learning to stand watch over the entrance of the heart with peaceful sobriety. Elder Thaddeus reminds us that “our thoughts determine our lives,” not because thoughts possess magical power, but because every thought eventually shapes the disposition of the heart from which all our actions flow. The enemy rarely begins by demanding great sins. He is content to suggest one small thought that is entertained rather than examined, one interior conversation that slowly becomes an identity, one fear that quietly replaces trust in God. The Desert Fathers therefore become extraordinary physicians of attention. They teach us that the first victory is often not found in dramatic acts of asceticism but in recognizing a thought before it becomes a passion. The battle is won while the spark is still small, before it has become a consuming fire. Yet all of this vigilance must be understood correctly. It is never a turning inward born of fear. The goal is not endless introspection. The Fathers are not asking us to become preoccupied with ourselves but to become increasingly available to Christ. We guard the heart because it has become His dwelling place. We examine our thoughts because we desire that His voice, rather than every competing voice, might become the one we recognize most readily. Perhaps this is why Abba Bessarion’s final words were that the monk should become “all eyes.” He was not describing suspicion but wakefulness. He envisioned a heart so illumined by grace that nothing enters unnoticed and nothing is judged apart from the light of Christ. In our own age, this teaching may be more urgent than ever. Never has the human heart been so relentlessly surrounded by competing voices, endless images, constant information, and unceasing commentary. Discernment has become one of the greatest ascetical tasks of our generation. We must learn once again to distinguish between the voice of conscience and the voice of shame, between the prompting of the Holy Spirit and the agitation of fear, between divine conviction and the endless accusations of the evil one. Only a heart that has grown quiet through prayer can make such distinctions. And perhaps that is where the Evergetinos gently leaves us. Not with fear of the battle, but with hope. God has not abandoned us to navigate these waters alone. He has placed within us the witness of conscience. He has given us the wisdom of the Fathers and Mothers. He has surrounded us with the prayers of the saints. Above all, He has given us His own Spirit, who patiently teaches us to recognize His voice amid every other voice. The vigilant heart is not merely watchful. It is a heart that has learned whom it is listening for. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:01:11 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 52 saying 5 00:07:28 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/coming-soon-the-name-above-every-name 00:08:08 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 52 saying 5 00:12:59 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/coming-soon-the-name-above-every-name 00:15:22 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 52 saying 5 00:16:17 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/coming-soon-the-name-above-every-name 00:28:30 Una: Can you give an example? 00:28:44 Una: Of acting with conscience in a difficult situation. 00:32:01 Janine: 🤚 00:37:59 James Hickman: Rachel Fulton Brown, professor at U Chicago, wrote on the medieval person being fully immersed through the Lady’s Office (as an example) — not merely reading, but by hitting both intellect and passions and other aspects of the person. She wrote on how it worked for the medieval person and decided to listen to her own research and begin praying the liturgy the same way, deeply immersing herself. She loves the change it’s had on her life — not it, but the change God has had on her life through immersion in the liturgy. She teaches classes that include deep dives into Tolkien’s poetry. Her description of this change reminds me of the effect of praying The Jesus Prayer — a real encounter, but it involves the intellect and passions. Not just academic and not just a “fun” experience of spiritual matters. https://history.uchicago.edu/directory/rachel-fulton-brown 01:03:21 James Hickman: To whom much is given much will be demanded 01:10:20 Maureen Cunningham: Alma's 01:14:40 Maureen Cunningham: Is it on your web page ,so we can bless you 01:15:20 Chukwurah Edmund: Good day everyone 01:15:26 Joan Chakonas: Father would you ever consider creating a group with your writings- you reading your book? 01:17:21 Joan Chakonas: Avoid social media like the plague 01:17:54 Joan Chakonas: Reacted to "Father would you ever consider creating a group with your writings- you reading your book?" with 😭 01:18:15 Una: My budgie likes your voice. She sings along 01:18:25 Joan Chakonas: Reacted to "My budgie likes your voice. She sings along" with 😍 01:18:37 Sheila Applegate: Reacted to My budgie likes your... with "❤️" 01:19:29 Rebecca Thérèse: Thank you☺️

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About

Philokalia Ministries is the fruit of 30 years spent at the feet of the Fathers of the Church. Led by Father David Abernethy, Philokalia (Philo: Love of the Kalia: Beautiful) Ministries exists to re-form hearts and minds according to the mold of the Desert Fathers through the ascetic life, the example of the early Saints, the way of stillness, prayer, and purity of heart, the practice of the Jesus Prayer, and spiritual reading. Those who are involved in Philokalia Ministries - the podcasts, videos, social media posts, spiritual direction and online groups - are exposed to writings that make up the ancient, shared spiritual heritage of East and West: The Ladder of Divine Ascent, Saint Augustine, the Philokalia, the Conferences of Saint John Cassian, the Ascetical Homilies of Saint Isaac the Syrian, and the Evergetinos. In addition to these, more recent authors and writings, which draw deeply from the well of the desert, are read and discussed: Lorenzo Scupoli, Saint Theophan the Recluse, anonymous writings from Mount Athos, the Cloud of Unknowing, Saint John of the Cross, Thomas a Kempis, and many more. Philokalia Ministries is offered to all, free of charge. However, there are real and immediate needs associated with it. You can support Philokalia Ministries with one-time, or recurring monthly donations, which are most appreciated. Your support truly makes this ministry possible. May Almighty God, who created you and fashioned you in His own Divine Image, restore you through His grace and make of you a true icon of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Information

  • Creator
    Father David Abernethy
  • Years Active
    2013 - 2026
  • Episodes
    893
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Copyright 2013 Fr. David Abernethy. All rights reserved.
  • Show Website
    Philokalia Ministries

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