Asceticism

Outside St. James Church in Shere, England, you will find a metal plaque marking the site of the cell of Christine Carpenter, Anchoress of Shere 1329.

An anchoress was a person who would withdraw from common life to dedicate themselves to God and bind themselves to the church by living the rest of their earthly life within a small cell. Much like many anchorite abodes, Christine’s small cell was attached to the church and installed with a small opening through which she would receive food, and a squint window into the church that allowed her to participate in services.

As noted on the plaque, Christine’s life as an anchoress began in 1329. She explained to the Bishop of Winchester that she wished to be removed from the world’s distractions to lead a more pious life. This request was granted following queries into Christine’s moral qualities and chastity, and she was sealed into the cell in July of the same year. As she began her lifelong vow of seclusion, a burial service was read for she was considered dead to the sinful world, the cell being her symbolic tomb.

Despite her oaths, Christine broke out of the anchorage after almost three years and attempted to rejoin society. Having broken her holy vow, Christine was threatened with ex-communication. It is perhaps this threat that led Christine to return to seclusion and isolation. By October of 1332, she had called on the Pope to pardon her sin on the condition she return to her anchorage. This she did, and there she remained for the rest of her mortal life.

Possible Preaching Angle:

It may sound attractive to seal ourselves away from worldly temptations. However, God calls his people to something much more difficult: Dying to the world while still living in it (Gal. 6:14). We are to be living saints (Phil. 4:21, Eph. 4:12), in the world with all its temptations and trials, so that we become testimonies to God’s grace and salvation.

Susan Mettes, Associate Editor at CT magazine, writes:

I have a clear early memory of first learning to ride a bike. When I had finally found enough balance for a few seconds of forward movement, my beloved brother toddled into my path. There was plenty of room for both of us on the sidewalk, but I mowed the little guy down and we both fell onto the lawn, sobbing.

Now I know that the reason I couldn’t avoid him was something called “target fixation,” which means that we aim for what we’re focusing on—no matter how much we consciously try to avoid it.

Jesus keeps telling us to take our eyes off money. In many places—including in the church today—we see people falling into the trap of requiring more and more of it to feel good. But on the flip side, we too often think that the change we must make is from lusting after money to avoiding money. However, thrift can also become a target we fixate on, disorienting us, and leading us to crash right back into Mammon.

Jesus’ words to his followers showed his disapproval of hoarding money, making wealth the capstone of a life, and believing that money will make us safe. But we sometimes miss another aspect of Jesus’ teachings: the importance of where we focus our attention.

As Christians around the world live through a period of discomfort in their household budgets, even thrift can bring them dangerously close to the errors often attributed to greed. Thrift can make austerity seem like a virtue for all times.

One story of the early church says that a fourth-century monk, Macarius, got a bunch of grapes and sent them to another monk, who sent them to another, and so on. Each craved the grapes, but none ate them. They eventually returned to Macarius, who still didn’t eat them. The monks had proved their ability to deny themselves.

Such denial can be a response to a belief that possessions are hot potatoes, things to be divested of before they ruin us. But far from solving an obsession with money and possessions, this form of living on as little as possible can result in miserliness.

Author Lucinda Kinsinger says, “If you’re focusing on thrift for the sake of being thrifty, you’ll just end up being a tightwad. If our focus is being a good steward, then we’re in a good place.”

For the last 20 years sociologist Peter Simi has spent time with and studied white supremacist groups and individuals. Many groups, such as the White Aryan Resistance, Nazi Lowriders, and Public Enemy No. 1, have allowed him as an observer into their private meetings. Simi explains how difficult it is for those leaving the groups, giving a specific example.

A young woman named Bonnie and her husband were fully indoctrinated and committed to white supremacist beliefs. In a domestic dispute unrelated to their white-power group, a relative shot their daughter. At the hospital two black doctors saved her life. This changed Bonnie and her husband, who then “tried to retrain their minds, free themselves of racist views.” They even went so far as to move to a nearby Southern California area with numerous black and Latino families.

Things became undone one day when Bonnie realized she had received the wrong order after going through a local drive-thru restaurant. The clerk refused to correct the order when she went inside. All the workers were Mexican and didn’t speak good English. Bonnie became enraged, swore at the clerk, told her to get out of her country, exclaimed “white power” and left displaying the Nazi salute.

After that eruption, Bonnie collapsed in her car outside of the restaurant, crying, asking herself why she did that. Why had she reverted to a state of hate that she had been trying to push away? It was clear to Simi that she felt shame about how she had reacted. Simi believes that for many, being part of white-power groups becomes like an addiction. Those who try to quit hating usually will relapse, because racism burrows deep into the psyche, and merely leaving the group cannot expunge it. Simi calls this ‘the hangover effect.’ He has tried to get mental health services for some white supremacists who are on the fence about leaving, or have already left, their hate groups. But few counselors will agree to take them on. Simi says their response is: ‘We’re not qualified.’

Author and Pastor Matt Woodley writes in a blog post titled "The Happy Homeless Man”:

A little while ago I wandered into the wrong hospital room at Stony Brook University Hospital (New York). A middle-aged man with only a few teeth and a wide smile told me that he had shattered his foot after falling off a ladder. When I asked him where he lived, he told me the following story:

I used to live in a tent deep in the woods near Selden. Then some vigilantes came and burnt my little tent to the ground. I used to own a bicycle, until a rich lady in her huge SUV ran into my bike, dragging me and my bike for over a hundred feet. She never apologized or offered to buy a new bike. Actually, while we waited for the police to come, she chatted merrily on her cell phone. I guess I was just a worthless homeless guy in rags. So that's my life so far. I guess after I get out of here, I'll get back to the woods. But, you know, everything will be all right. I have faith in the Lord, buddy.

He told me these stories without bitterness or anxiety. My new friend owns almost nothing, and yet he seems so happy. I'm the guy with the cars and the home and the master's degree, but he has more contentment than I do. Why? I'll have to ponder that question a little more, but maybe he has trust and simplicity of heart, and I don't. Maybe Jesus was right after all: our achievements and our stuff and our money can't buy happiness. From birth to death it's all a ludicrous, radical, unmerited gift.

Some day I'd like to have as much trust and simplicity of heart as my homeless friend.

Among his many virtues, [St. Francis of Assisi] is known for his passionate embrace of poverty. Not only did he forbid his emerging Order to own property, he added this discipline for each of the brothers: "Let none of the brothers … wherever he may be or go, carry, receive, or have received in any way coin or money, whether for clothing, books, or payment for work."

There were few exceptions. If a brother was sick or if someone needed medical attention, the brothers could beg for money to pay for a doctor or medicine. But other than that, they were never to touch money. In fact, they were forbidden from even being seen with a beggar who asked for money.

Francis was passionate about this rule, jealous for obedience to it: "If by chance, God forbid, it happens that some brother is collecting or holding coin or money," he wrote in his earlier rule, "let all the brothers consider him a deceptive brother, an apostate, a thief, a robber."

It was a passion without patience. According to an early collection of Francis stories, a layman entered the headquarters of the Order, Saint Mary of the Portiuncula, to pray. He also left an offering, laying some coins near the cross. Later that day, a brother saw the coins and unthinkingly picked them up and placed them on a window ledge.

Later, the brother realized what he had done. He also heard that Francis had found out. He was horrified, so he immediately rushed to Francis and implored forgiveness. He told Francis to whip him for penance.

Francis was not so easily placated. Instead, after rebuking the brother, he told him to go to the windowsill, pick up a coin with his mouth, and carry it outside. Then, with the coin still in his mouth, he was to deposit it in a heap of ass's dung. The brother obeyed gladly.

This is extreme discipleship, to say the least. But Francis knew that money was like a drug, as addictive and destructive to the soul as cocaine is to the body. Francis did not believe money could be used moderately or "recreationally" without it eventually enslaving. He believed Jesus literally: one cannot serve God and mammon (see Matt. 6:24).

In short, he was so jealous for God, so passionate about a fully realized relationship with him, that he acted in ways we consider "over the top."

Pachomius was an Egyptian soldier won to Christ by the kindness of Christians in Thebes. After his release from the military around A.D. 315, he was baptized. Serious about his new faith and determined to grow, Pachomius became a disciple of Palamon, an ascetic who taught him the self-denial and solitary life of a religious hermit.

In early Christianity, the model of devotion was the recluse dedicated to resisting the corruption of society. These hermits wandered the desert alone—fasting, praying, and having visions. Many went to extremes: eating nothing but grass, living in trees, or refusing to wash.

Such was the popular image of holiness: solitude, silence, and severity. And such was Pachomius's early spiritual training. But he began to question the methods and lifestyle of his mentors.

How can you learn to love if no one else is around?

How can you learn humility living alone?

How can you learn kindness or gentleness or goodness in isolation?

How can you learn patience unless someone puts yours to the test?

In short, he concluded, developing spiritual fruit requires being around people—ordinary, ornery people. "To save souls," he said, "you must bring them together."

Spiritual muscle isn't even learned among friends we have chosen. God's kind of love is best learned where we can't be selective about our associates. Perhaps this is why the two institutions established by God—the family and the church—are not joined by invitation only. We have no choice about who our parents or brothers or sisters will be; yet we are expected to love them. Neither can we choose who will or will not be in the family of God; any who confess Jesus as Lord must be welcomed. We learn agape love most effectively in our involuntary associations, away from the temptation of choosing to love only the attractive.

So Pachomius began an ascetic koinonia, where holiness was developed not in isolation but in community. Instead of each person seeking God in his own way, with the dangers of idleness and eccentricity, Pachomius established a common life based on worship, work, and discipline.

In community with flawed, demanding, sometimes disagreeable people, followers of Pachomius learned to take hurt rather than give it. They discovered that disagreements and opposition provide the opportunity to redeem life situations and experience God's grace. Thus began genuine monastic life.

Pachomius, while largely forgotten in church history, points out to us that as attractive as solitary sanctification may seem, it is life amid people, busyness, and interruptions that develop many of the qualities God requires.

America is swimming in a sea of Prozac, Zoloft, and Paxil! Prescriptions of antidepressants rose by 5.1% in 2021/2022, the sixth consecutive annual increase.

The latest increase means that the number of antidepressant items prescribed over the past six years has increased by 34.8%, from 61.9 million items in 2015/2016 to 83.4 million items in 2021/2022.

Figures published by NHS Business Services Authority (BSA) also showed an increase in the number of people prescribed antidepressants from 7.87 million people in 2020/2021 to 8.32 million people in 2021/2022.

To add to the burden, the side effects of antidepressants can sometimes be negative.

Researchers at Britain's Essex University have found a much cheaper alternative with few side effects: nature. Seventy-one percent of those suffering from depression said a 30-minute walk outdoors "made them feel better about themselves." Of the 108 patients who took part in conservation projects, went cycling, or hiked, 94 percent said the activities brought about greater mental health. Researchers are calling the new treatment ecotherapy.

Editor’s Note: The original illustration has been updated to the latest statistics (10/23)

Throughout his life, Pablo Picasso is estimated to have produced about 13,500 paintings or designs, 100,000 prints or engravings, 34,000 book illustrations, and 300 sculptures or ceramics. Thanks to casino magnate Steve Wynn, however, one oil painting will enjoy a greater level of infamy than all of these works.

The painting is titled The Dream, and Picasso completed it in 1932. In 1997, at an art auction at Christie's in New York City, Steve Wynn purchased the painting for 47 million dollars. His purchase actually turned out to be quite an investment. In less than a decade, Wynn completed a deal to sell the painting for $139 million—tripling its value! This transaction would have set a record for the sale of a piece of art. It would have.

Just after completing the deal, Wynn, who was standing close to the painting, turned and inadvertently clobbered the Picasso with his elbow, placing a six-inch hole in the middle of the masterpiece. While no one is certain what this does to the value of the painting itself, the effect on the sale price was immediate. Even more quickly than it had come, the record-breaking $139 million sale evaporated.

Peggy Noonan describes an encounter with an American CEO:

I am talking with the head of a mighty American corporation. We're in his window-lined office, high in midtown Manhattan. The view—silver sky-scrapers stacked one against another, dense, fine-lined, sparkling in the sun—is so perfect, so theatrical, it's like a scrim, like a fake backdrop for a 1930s movie about people in tuxes and tails. Edward Everett Horton could shake his cocktail shaker here; Fred and Ginger could banter on the phone.

The CEO tells me it is "annual report time" and he is looking forward to reading the reports of his competitors.

Why? I asked. I wondered what he looks for specifically when he reads the reports of the competition.

He said he always flipped to the back to see what the other CEOs got as part of their deal—corporate jets, private helicopters, whatever. "We all do that," he said. "We all want to see who has what."

He was a talented and exceptional man, and I thought afterward that he might, in an odd way, be telling me this about himself so I wouldn't be unduly impressed by him. But what I thought was, It must be hard for him to keep some simple things in mind each day as he works. Such as this: A job creates a livelihood, a livelihood creates a family, a family creates a civilization. Ultimately, he was in the civilization-producing business. Did he know it? Did it give him joy? Did he understand that that was probably why he was there?

I thought: This man creates the jobs that create the world in which we live. And yet he can't help it, his mind is on the jet.

British style writer Neil Boorman has decided to burn every branded thing in his possession. "I am addicted to brands," he confessed in a magazine article:

From an early age, I have been taught that to be accepted, to be loveable, to be cool, one must have the right stuff. At junior school, I tried to make friends with the popular kids, only to be ridiculed for the lack of stripes on my trainers. Once I had nagged my parents to the point of buying me the shoes, I was duly accepted at school, and I became much happier as a result. As long as my parents continued to buy me the brands, life was more fun. Now, at the age of 31, I still behave according to playground law.

Boorman finally realized that the happiness found in his possessions is hollow and short-lived, leaving him with a "continual, dull ache." So he's taking drastic action and turning to a life of simplicity. He summarizes:

The manner in which we spend our money defines who we are.… In this secular society of ours, where family and church once gave us a sense of belonging, identity, and meaning, there is now Apple, Mercedes, and Coke.… So, this is why I am burning all my stuff. To find real happiness, to find the real me.

There's a wonderful story by Isak Dinesen called Babette's Feast, about a strict, dour, fundamentalist community in Denmark. Babette works as a cook for two elderly sisters who have no idea that she once was a chef to nobility back in her native France. Babette's dream is to return to her beloved home city of Paris, so every year she buys a lottery ticket in hopes of winning enough money to return. And every night her austere employers demand that she cook the same dreary meal: boiled fish and potatoes, because, they say, Jesus commanded, "Take no thought of food and drink."

One day the unbelievable happens: Babette wins the lottery! The prize is 10,000 francs, a small fortune. And because the anniversary of the founding of the community is approaching, Babette asks if she might prepare a French dinner with all the trimmings for the entire village.

At first the townspeople refuse: "No, it would be sin to indulge in such rich food." But Babette begs them, and finally they relent, "As a favor to you, we will allow you to serve us this French dinner." But the people secretly vow not to enjoy the feast and instead to occupy their minds with spiritual things, believing God will not blame them for eating this sinful meal as long as they do not enjoy it.

Babette begins her preparations. Caravans of exotic food arrive in the village, along with cages of quail and barrels of fine wine.

Finally the big day comes, and the village gathers. The first course is an exquisite turtle soup. The diners force it down without enjoyment. But although they usually eat in silence, conversation begins to take off. Then comes the wine: Veuve Cliquot 1860, the finest vintage in France. And the atmosphere changes. Someone smiles. Someone else giggles. An arm comes up and drapes over a shoulder. Someone is heard to say, "After all, did not the Lord Jesus say, love one another?" By the time the main entrée of quail arrives, those austere, pleasure-fearing people are giggling and laughing and slurping and guffawing and praising God for their many years together. This pack of Pharisees is transformed into a loving community through the gift of a meal. One of the two sisters goes into the kitchen to thank Babette, saying, "Oh, how we will miss you when you return to Paris!" And Babette replies, "I will not be returning to Paris, because I have no money. I spent it all on the feast."

Can you think of anyone else who gave his all to make us a loving community through the gift of a meal?

Comfort is dangerous, and we should constantly be re-examining our lifestyle. The New Testament is beautifully balanced on this. Paul avoids both extremes, not least in 1 Timothy 4 and 6. Asceticism is a rejection of the good gifts of the good Creator. Its opposite is materialism—not just possessing material things, but becoming preoccupied with them. In between asceticism and materialism is simplicity, contentment, and generosity, and these three virtues should mark all of us.

It's not a question of rules and regulations about our income, and how many rooms or cars we have. It's these principles of simplicity, contentment, and generosity over against covetousness, materialism, and asceticism that we have to apply to our living all the time. We need to give away what we are not using, because if we don't use it, we don't need it.

At my house, the TV is off. It will be until Easter. The first time this happened, it was unintentional.

Some years ago, a few weeks before Easter, a burglar took some odd pieces of jewelry, a shirt my cousin gave me for Christmas, and my VCR. Worse, he took the adapter for the cable box. The antenna reception on the TV was bad, so I turned it off until I could get a new adapter. I was busy with seminary and all the stuff of Easter anyway.

Holy Week was quiet that year. I'm from a tradition that doesn't give up things for Lent. In fact, we often pick up the vices others lay down (barbecues on Friday). So when I told my wife I would watch no TV for six weeks, she laughed. She knows I love TV. I worked in TV. I programmed TV. I eagerly tack onto the busiest workday a full night's channel surfing. My wife long ago surrendered the remote to me. But, good sport that she is, she was now willing to give up TV altogether, for my sake.

I must confess nagging doubts in the days before our first intentional media blackout. I would miss March Madness. Voyager might reach home without me. Everybody loves Raymond—except me.

Nevertheless, after the late news on Mardi Gras night, we closed the doors on the TV cabinet and entered Lent in silence.

St. John of the Cross uses the phrase "my house being now all stilled." He refers to the stillness of his spiritual house in which the soul lives without words. In my case, the stillness must come first in a literal sense. My den is stilled before my soul is stilled. In this stilling, we go to sleep a little earlier, we read more carefully, we talk more deeply—when we choose to talk.

By Holy Week, we are ready for Christ to break our silence however he chooses.… If we make room by our silence, the Word will resound.

What the law tried to do by a restraining power from without, the gospel does by an inspiring power from within.

Unfortunately, man cannot for long endure the common sense of God. Side by side with Christianity, and often mistaken for it, there has always existed a dark Eastern religion of despair. Perhaps it first came out of exhausted and overpopulated India, where the Lord Buddha decided long ago that life was a mess.

The religion of despair often achieves a stoical and ascetic nobility, very impressive to those who are impressed by dramatic gestures. Yet it is the very opposite of the true gospel. The Christian gives up his own desires for the love of others; the Eastern ascetic renounces the world because he thinks himself too good for it. Pride aping love--it is the devil's best trick.