Make Asceticism Great Again? – The Dispatch

One morning in Egypt, sometime around AD 270, a Christian man quietly departed into the desert. In Egypt, of course, the desert was ever near, relentlessly encroaching with its dry winds threatening the fragile crops around the narrow fertile band of land around the Nile River. This oasis of life had been Rome’s bread basket for centuries, surrounded by thousands of miles of merciless sand. Walking into an abandoned Roman fort on the edge of civilization, the man shut the gates from the inside for the next 20 years, subsisting on a few loaves of bread lowered down to him twice a year. 

So it was that a fort built centuries earlier to protect the edges of Roman territories from unromanized tribes beyond the frontier became the willing prison of this ascetic, Anthony, whose deepest longing was time alone with God, without the company of people or any comforts to distract his mind or flesh from this goal.  

The movement that Anthony set off involves figures we now refer to as Desert Fathers and Desert Mothers. Living for decades alone on pillars, in caves, in hermitages, their stories seem formulaic—repeating many of the elements of Anthony’s life—yet no less spectacular. Reading their biographies, one is struck by their desire to deny their flesh various comforts—food, drink, sleep, clothing, speech, any kind of communion with other people. These ascetic practices did not begin with the desert saints—we could name such famous pagan ascetics as Diogenes the Cynic, a philosopher who lived on the streets of Athens in the late fourth century B.C., sleeping year-round in a large wine jar he had adopted as his home. Still, ascetic practices attained a new purpose and popularity because of the desert saints, who felt that these acts brought them closer to Jesus Christ and allowed them to imitate him. 

With the season of Lent now underway, many Christians of various traditions adopt practices that aspire to the asceticism of ancient saints, but in an obviously milder form. Most of us cannot (and should not) give up our jobs and families for 40 days, which would be both unloving and irresponsible in the extreme. We can, however, make small sacrifices, carefully selected and curated, much as we do with other aspects of life and faith in the 21st century. 

This is why “What are you giving up for Lent this year?” is a common question in the weeks leading up to the beginning of the season. The process becomes the season’s equivalent of the gift lists for Santa and his helpers in the weeks leading up to Christmas, with the notable exception that gift lists involve listing what we’d like to gain, whereas pre-Lenten preparation involves lists of things we would be willing to give up. This latter category often involves foods—like chocolate or coffee or meat or even Anthony’s staple, bread. For those unwilling or unable to give up one of those, other types of fasts are available as well—consider a social media fast, or a fast from movies for this season. I once heard a sermon from a pastor whose wife encouraged him to give up complaining for Lent. He admitted that this was the hardest fast of his life.

In our world of plenty, the idea of giving something—anything—up for the season is remarkably appealing. Indeed, this idea has been appealing to Christians since the second century, although not encompassing 40 days yet. Then the idea of a 40-day Lenten fast came up at the Council of Nicaea in 325, and took off with some differences between Eastern and Western churches. The different churches also had a rough go of figuring out the date of Easter, but at least the idea of Lent was popular with all in some form at an early point. 

This history raises an interesting question: What to make of such ascetic desires (even if mild ones) in our age of plenty? Why are we so fascinated with this idea of giving up something for a season, to the point that even some Christmas-Easter-only Christians observe Lent in this way? Do we think we will hear God’s voice more clearly if there is no sugar or caffeine (or, heavens help me, both!) in our lives for 40 days? I think the answer to this last one is yes. Yet the experiences of ancient desert saints and ascetics give us useful reminders for our own lives in this season, even as the world they inhabited was much more familiar with privations of all sorts. 

St. Anthony, as we know him today, became the unexpected and unintended leader of a movement. Athanasius, his biographer, remarked nearly a century later on the growing popularity of ascetic tourism: “The desert became a city.” People came from all over Egypt and beyond to encamp in the desert right outside Anthony’s tower, waiting for a mere glimpse of the immured saint. What was it like to be one of them? 

I imagine the encampment resembled spiritual retreats and conferences of today: One sojourns to a semi-isolated location (a monastery, a university campus, a forest camp, a beach, a farm) for a few days and practices some monastic or monastic-adjacent activities. You could take the vow of silence for the duration of the visit, abstain from all electronics, and spend the days in prayer or listening to sermons. 

So it was, presumably, with the various visitors who came to see Anthony’s fort during those 20 years. Visiting for a few days, weeks, or perhaps (in some cases) months, they could treat this as a departure from regular responsibilities, even as most of these pilgrims did not intend to embark upon a monastic life for the rest of their lives. While our sources do not mention this detail, surely vendors of food and drink and various amenities arrived at “Camp Anthony” at some point as well, eager to make money providing essential services. 

And then there is the darker side of such experiences. We might not like to think about it, but probably not all who embarked on the pilgrimage to visit Anthony’s fort and spend time encamped outside of it were focused on spiritual goals, first and foremost. Some may even have found opportunities for deep sin, as fallen human beings are wont to do. Indeed, another saint’s biography—that of St. Mary the Egyptian—tells of how before her conversion to Christianity, she paid for her travel from Alexandria to Jerusalem by prostituting herself to pilgrims.

These are good reminders that ascetic practices alone do not bring salvation. Forty days without coffee—or time spent sleeping outside in the desert and eating crickets—will only have spiritual benefits if accompanied by real heart transformation. Asceticism is not a guaranteed magic cure for spiritual ills. Still, the desire for such practices allures. No wonder Anthony’s fort pilgrims kept coming for two decades, curious, wondering just what was going on inside that locked fort. 

It did not help that (as Athanasius reports) visitors “heard as it were crowds within clamouring, dinning, sending forth piteous voices and crying, ‘Go from what is ours. What do you even [do] in the desert? You can not abide our attack.’” These other crowds—of unearthly forces—kept testing the saint in isolation—for it turns out that the locked gates that could keep out people were not so effective against them. Demons tormented Anthony his entire time in the fort by offering him food, wealth, and sometimes appearing to him as beautiful women. So much for getting uninterrupted time alone with God.

At last, those who were patient enough got their miracle—or, rather, they took matters into their own hands and broke into the fort to see what they were sure would be miraculous. 

It was. It turned out that 20 years of isolation, living on scant bread and water, in no way altered the beatific sight of the saint. He walked out looking exactly as he did when he walked inside. 

Anthony’s 20-year Lent, as we could call it, proved a successful experiment for him at least. The strength of his faith and determination against consistent demonic temptations for two decades seem to one-up even the desert temptation of Jesus, which lasted just 40 days—the length of our annual Lenten season. At the same time, his preservation is a miracle, as all who could compare Anthony’s appearance before and after his two decades in the fort recognized. They came to see an old man, weathered by the desert and by suffering. What they found instead was a glowing youth.

If we are honest, we want such miracles in our own lives as well. Creatures of weak flesh, we wish our bodies were stronger—or, ideally, that our spirits were strong enough to overcome any temptations and threats to our flesh. And in this age of diets, one more extreme than another, our obsession with spiritual fasts surely has at least some less spiritual interest as well. Still, we wish to redeem our routines and give them meaning. In this regard, we are not too dissimilar yet again from the ancient believers, whose obsession with Anthony and his ilk created a lasting tradition.

The movement that Anthony unintentionally inaugurated continued after him, as did the burgeoning genre of biographies of desert saints, which became increasingly more extreme in their descriptions of the saints’ privations. When, not long after Anthony’s death in the mid-fourth century, the repentant Desert Mother St. Mary the Egyptian walks away from civilization into the same desert where John the Baptist once lived on a diet of crickets and wild honey, she brings with her the three loaves of bread that will last her a lifetime–close to half a century until her death. Unlike Anthony, no twice-annual refills will be forthcoming. 

But there is one other obvious and important absence from the lives of the desert saints: the local church. It is a convicting reminder that while the stories of saints are beautiful in their intensity, they are not meant to be exact examples to emulate for the rest of us. The struggles of these saints with sins, in fact, continue even when they are alone. We should not aim to abandon our families to pursue God in the desert. And yet, we rightly crave the saints’ deep connection to God. 

So what might this pursuit of the spiritual practices of relentless prayer and fasting look like when integrated into regular church life, practiced in community with normal people—like us? Lent offers us the opportunity to find out. But the answer is not one-size-fits-all.

I was raised in a secular Jewish household in Russia and Israel and became a Christian in 2011. This year’s Lenten season is my 14th since. Yet I have never observed Lent, despite being aware of it: None of the three Protestant church traditions of which I have been a part since my conversion observes Lent in any systematic way. Still, we talk about it: The season leading up to Easter is different, more somber and filled with reflection, even if we do not go into ascetic mode.

But the desert and its saints have held a strong allure for me personally over the years, Lent or no. I am an ideas-loving introvert who lives life surrounded by very loud image-bearers of God–a powerful concept that harkens back to God’s creation of all human beings “in his own image.” I feel sensory overstimulation in the depths of my bones. Wouldn’t it be nice to escape it all and dwell in a tower, alone with God and my thoughts? And yet I ask myself: Would I truly grow closer to God if I were to copy Anthony’s model? I think the honest answer for most of us is no. 

For most of us, asceticism and isolation from community is a sure path to spiritual weakness rather than strength. Few are the saints whose desert moments could lead to true spiritual growth in a world where we are more apt to turn every “desert moment” into a self care delight. For most of us, rather, it is the local church, community, and of course, our homes filled with loud and disruptive image-bearers where both service and growth happen. This is no coincidence. True sacrifice of the self lies in giving something up in service to others, rather than the act of giving up something in the abstract. While giving up sleep to train my flesh sounds like a self-improvement project, giving up sleep to take care of my children really does point my sleep-loving heart to God.

Every night, parents of small children engage in foot washing—and much more besides—as they bathe those who cannot take care of their needs entirely on their own. It is a simple and mundane task, yet it is also an echo of sorts to Christ’s humility in washing his disciples’ feet in the final days before his crucifixion. And every week in many churches, Christians lovingly prepare meals and deliver them to shut-ins or others. It is in these works of tenderness and care and mercy, often done while our own bodies and minds are weary, that we too can most closely live out the virtues of self-sacrifice that Jesus modeled throughout his time here on earth. 

If we look closely, we will see that we do not need to chase ascetic practices after all, because reasons to sacrifice our comfort and desires—even if just a little bit—are all around us already. Lent offers a chance for such service—whether you give something up or not. 

Recently released data from the Pew Research Center may not show big upward swings in the number of Americans who consider themselves Christians, but spikes in Bible sales last year very well may indicate something’s afoot. Enter religious scholar Bruce Gordon’s The Bible: A Global History, released last year, which Daniel N. Gullotta praises in a review for the website today.

Through vibrant storytelling and carefully selected images, Gordon traces how this “book of books” has evolved through translation, interpretation, and adaptation, not only shaping the world but being shaped by it in turn. Gordon brings to life the dedication of monks in Northumbria, nuns in Gaul, and Jesuit missionaries in China, illustrating the profound reverence that has historically defined the creation of Scripture. He underscores the Bible’s enduring dual role as both a sacred text and a masterpiece of artistic expression, reflecting the devotion, creativity, and cultural diversity of those who brought it to life across the centuries.

As he illustrates, there is scarcely a people who have not been touched by the Bible, nor a people who have failed to leave their own distinctive imprint upon it.

Gordon’s account includes both the sweeping history of how the Bible we know today came to be, but also some of the human drama along the way.

One of the most captivating stories Gordon recounts reads like an Indiana Jones adventure: the discovery of the fourth-century Codex Sinaiticus (one of the earliest complete copies of the New Testament and significant portions of the Old Testament) by Constantin von Tischendorf at St. Catherine’s Monastery in the Sinai Desert. This tale, steeped in colonial intrigue, involves Tischendorf’s controversial claim that monks were burning ancient manuscripts for heat (a narrative later disputed as a misrepresentation of their practices). Under the pretense of preservation, Tischendorf smuggled fragments to Leipzig and later arranged, under disputed circumstances, the codex’s transfer to Russia. The monks denied knowingly relinquishing it, and its 1933 sale to the British Museum adds to its saga of contested ownership.

This week Nadya Williams joined me to discuss her Dispatch Faith essay on asceticism, Lent, and the Desert fathers and mothers. We also discussed her scholarly research on early cultural Christians, and how modern conversations around motherhood, children, and birth rates mirror ancient dehumanization of mothers and children. These weekly conversations with Dispatch Faith contributors are available on our members-only podcast feed, The Skiff.

Last Easter, more than 1,300 people joined the Catholic Church in Washington, D.C.—many of them young conservatives. With Catholicism gaining influence in right-wing politics and leaders such as Vice President J.D. Vance embracing the faith, is Catholicism becoming the backbone of the conservative movement? Victoria Holmes dives into the trend in a new documentary—Why Are Young Conservatives Converting to Catholicism?—uncovering why so many young politicos are turning to Rome.

Click here to watch the documentary.

• From the perspective of this newsletter editor, it’s nice to be able to point readers toward some of the good work we’re doing at The Dispatch in the world of religion and faith. For example, Nic Rowan reviewed the book For I Have Sinned by James O’Toole, which examines the decline in confession among American Catholics beginning in the 1970s. “O’Toole offers several theories for why. The first is speed: Priests heard confessions throughout the week, but the highest traffic times were Saturday afternoons, when they could be confined to the box for as long as six hours. During those long hours, in which they often heard more than 100 confessions, priests rarely got a break. Many of them came to regard those who held up the line by chatting or enumerating every little venial sin ‘an annoyance,’” Rowan writes. “Another theory is the relative severity of Catholicism prior to the Second Vatican Council in the 1960s. Until that point, the church placed a much greater emphasis on sin, especially mortal sin (defined in the Baltimore Catechism—the primary teaching text of the time— as ‘a grievous offense against the law of God’). Catholics were encouraged to consider most of their wrong actions mortal sins, under the supposition that where damnation is concerned, better safe than sorry. And in the confessional, priests were taught to ask penitents questions—basically, to interrogate them—to determine if their offenses were grievous. It was an uncomfortable routine for all involved.”
• Another such piece we published this weekend is Alastair Roberts’ review of the new book The Sin of Empathy by Joe Rigney, which has been a point of controversy among evangelical Christians. “Rigney’s book addresses some of the contemporary inclarity surrounding our emotional language and identifies some of the ways this compromises our judgment and disorders our societies. The powerful role played by free-floating sensitivity to the feelings of others in contemporary society and politics should be a matter of concern and attention: Rigney has definitely chosen a worthy topic,” Roberts says. “He seeks to introduce various distinctions and categories that will enable his readers to interpret and order their emotions more thoughtfully, and to resist some of the ways that emotions detached from virtue can be exploited. But his analysis swings too clumsily and wildly. By developing his positive account overmuch against the narrow foil of more left- and female-coded abuses of empathy, he is unable to give emotional connection its due—proper use is seldom best framed by accounts that focus upon abuse.”

Late last month, the Vatican announced that José Gregogrio Hernández would become Venezuela’s first saint. Hernández, an early 20th-century physician, was known for his work with the poor. Edgar Beltrán profiled the “doctor, tailor, dancer, monk” for The Pillar. “He became famous for not charging a specific fee for medical appointments — instead, he had a bag outside of his office that he called ‘the bag of the poor,’ into which patients could either leave some money if they could afford their treatment or could take the money if they needed it, so they did not have to go to the streets and beg. In a letter to one of his aunts, José Gregorio told her ‘most of these people don’t have money; I won’t deny them an appointment and make them feel ashamed by telling me they have no money. God shall help.’” Hernández did his part too. “His landlady would bring his meals to his room on a tray. The tray always came back empty, so his landlady, assuming he had a good appetite, began to serve him larger meals. However, she later noticed him leaving the property with a package and followed him. She saw José Gregorio go to a nearby street where many homeless people gathered and give them his food while apologizing for arriving late. The landlady grabbed him by the arm and led him back home to feed him once again, but he declined, saying, ‘you already served me my meal, and you today served the Lord, because you fed my poor brothers.’”