John of Egypt and a Calling to Sainthood
Hi friends,
I made it through February, the coldest and dreariest month of the year here in NYC. If you’re reading this, you made it through February too. Good job, I’m proud of you. Truly. Yesterday I went for a walk with my sons and we saw forsythia blooming in Central Park. Forsythia! What a gift. Things are not green yet but they will be green soon. I’m holding onto that and I hope you hold onto it too.
I had a hard time deciding which March saint to write about for this newsletter. There are so many good ones: Saint Thomas Aquinas, Saint Patrick, Saints Perpetua and Felicity. As I was flipping through my trusty Butler's Lives of the Saints, I came across Saint John of Egypt, whose feast day is on March 27th. I liked his little story, and so I’m going to tell it to you.
John of Egypt lived in the 4th century. Until he was 25 years old, he worked as a carpenter for his father. One day, he felt a call from God, and he answered it. He went into the desert to live as a holy hermit. When John first went into the desert, another hermit guided him in a sort of initiation, and he did so by trying him with absurd tasks. At the command of his master, John rolled giant rocks around and tended dead trees. Eventually, he withdrew to a cliff. On this cliff, he carved three small cells for himself: one for sleeping, one for work, and one for prayer. Then he walled himself up inside and spent the rest of his life there. People came from all over to see him, because he had been blessed with the gift of prophecy. When he died, he was discovered in his little cave of prayer on his knees.
I had never heard of John of Egypt until I came across his story in Butler’s a few days ago. This happens all the time. I’m constantly coming across new-to-me saints, people who lived lives of absurd and unthinkable holiness. Every time this happens, I think back to my Catholic childhood. I think about how I was told, by catechism teachers and by priests and by the theology I read, with what was almost nonchalance, that my aim in life was to become a saint. Not to be nice. Not to make money. Not to be “successful.” Not even to be happy. I was supposed to become a saint. They never specifically told me how to get there, though, and I used to hate this. I wanted someone to tell me how I myself was supposed to become like the saints I read about in books. It felt like an impossible task, this holiness. It also felt like a task I wasn’t brave enough to take on. When I was fifteen, I would have read about the life of John of Egypt and felt angry. How am I supposed to do that? I would read stories of other saints--Joan of Arc, Faustina Kowalska--and feel inspired by them, but removed from them too. Because I could never go into the desert and become a monk. I could never lead France to sacred victory. I certainly wasn’t having mystical visions of Christ. The only kind of sainthood I knew was too high-reaching a fruit for an ordinary, nervous girl from nowhere at all.
I am older now, thank God, and my ideas about sainthood have changed. In truth, holiness is rarely dramatic. In truth, most of the saints in heaven have names we will not know in this life. In truth, my everyday tasks of motherhood have led me closer to the humility of sainthood than anything else ever has. Some days even that kind of hidden sainthood feels impossible, but the impossibility of sainthood isn’t as frustrating for me as it used to be. It feels like a challenge. It feels like the best kind of dare. I am called to sainthood, and so are you. My own small life is important enough to be called to that kind of drama. I’d rather the aim of my life be something impossible to reach than something too easy to grasp. I want to be a part of a tradition that demands something from me than being nice or being happy, that pushes me further than I would push myself on my own. Maybe this is just me. I love a struggle, and I’ve tried to believe in a God who demands nothing of me and it led me straight into an existential crisis. I would like an impossible task, please! Tell me to climb a goddamn spiritual mountain! I dare you! Nothing makes me feel more alive!
There’s a story from the desert fathers that I love. It goes like this: “Abba Lot went to Abba Joseph and said to him, ‘Abba, as far as I can I say my little office, I fast a little, I pray and meditate, I live in peace as far as I can, I purify my thoughts. What else can I do?’ Then the old man stood up and stretched his hands toward heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire and he said to him, ‘If you will, you can become all flame.’”
I think John of Egypt became all flame. That’s what I thought about when I read his story. I think Joan of Arc and Faustina Kowalska became all flame too. I think that’s what it means to be a saint. It’s what I think about every time I read about a saint’s life that seems too holy for me to emulate. I think we’re all called to this holy flame inasmuch as we’re all called to sainthood--to something beyond the little office and the little fast and the little prayer and the little peace--and few of us get there because it is a near-impossible task to wade against the current of comfort and ease. But if you will, you can become all flame. I don’t know if I’ll ever get there, but God, I’d love to die knowing that I tried.