“It is not the one who criticizes himself who reveals his humility (for does not everyone have to put up with himself?), rather it is the man who continues to love the person who criticizes him."—Abba John of the Ladder
Few of us, like the Australian monk depicted in the video to the right of this page, literally follow the Lord Jesus into the desert. During Lent we spend forty days imitating His desert pilgrimage, but our desert wanderings take place in the wilderness of air-conditioned living rooms. We’re not imperiled by scorpions and salamanders but computer crashes.
The challenges and temptations that face us today may take different shapes than those demons swirling in the desert sandstorms of Egypt and Syria, but they are temptations no less real or less challenging. Our world of instantaneous communication and information overload, of immediate physical gratification of any desire or need, of easy fact and shallow knowledge, these perils draw us as far from God as any fleshpot of Egypt.
The battleground of the spirit remains the same now as then. It’s us. Temptations remain the same, though they dress differently; virtues then and now are identical. Humility was the sword used against self-centered pride by Abba Anthony; today our weapons must be as deadly, because the enemy we fight against is the same.
We’ve spent two days considering the central place of humility in the Christian's arsenal. How do we use it?
Abba John’s words push us towards the answer. The person who tells you they’re imperfect doesn’t reveal their humility. It’s not words, but deeds, that are the proof of the pudding. I’ll criticize myself and do so openly enough—it reveals my psychological maturity and a level of self-knowledge. The test comes, not when I criticize myself, but when you criticize me. How do I respond to that?
Abba Anthony tells us we should respond joyfully when we’re poorly thought of; Abba John says criticism, which we normally respond to by various ploys of self-defense, is best answered by a robust love for the person who looks to take us down a peg or two.
In church, especially during this Lenten season, Christians seem to be forever confessing and acknowledging our manifold sins and trespasses. Would I be so heartfelt in my contrition if I heard a person in the pew in front of me criticizing me to someone else? I don’t think my first reaction would be to thank the Lord that someone else sees my sins and they’re willing to talk about them openly.
Yet there is the story of Abba Copres, who while traveling with his disciple to a monastery one day met a group of monks headed to the same place. The two groups came together for the journey. When Abba Copres asked of what they spoke, one of the band said, “Abba Copres lives in the caves of those nearby mountains. While he has a great reputation as a man of fasting, I’m told he eats secretly of all sorts of delicacies.” Abba answered, “I know the man. What you say would not surprise me.” “Further, it is said he prays long hours, rarely allowing himself to sleep, but many suggest that when he is alone in his cell, he sleeps both night and day.” Abba said again, “That Copres would love to do such is quite in keeping with his character.” Finally the monk said, “It is also said that when Copres goes into Alexandria, he frequents taverns and brothels.” Abba Copres replied, “This, too, does not surprise me to hear.” Later Abba Copres’ disciple asked why he spoke thus. Abba said, “I prayed God to grant me humility. As He has kindly answered my prayer, can I now tell Him I dislike its taste?”
Humility, given to most of us in that dose, would probably not go down well. But as with any combat of the spirit, the Lord will give us a taste of humility if we ask Him for it. We may not relish its taste, but alcohol burns as it cleans our wounds.
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