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“Even to Old Age and Gray Hairs” (Psalm 71)

There are mornings when prayer feels like standing before ruins. The ruins are not someone else’s, not the world’s; they are mine. The years stretch behind me like a long road, and when I turn to look back, I see both light and ash. God has been good, so unfathomably good, but that goodness has often passed through fire. The older I grow, the clearer it becomes that life itself is a battleground, and that I have often walked through it blind, unaware of the warfare raging over the soul.

Psalm 71 gives voice to something that stirs in the bones of the weary: “Do not cast me off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength fails.” I feel that plea rising like a cry from my own chest. My body weakens, my mind wanders, and the familiar demons find cracks in the walls I once thought were secure. They whisper despair, self-pity, and bitterness. They mock faith, suggesting that surrender is a kind of death. Yet it is this very death, this naked surrender, that God seems now to be asking of me.

There is a reckoning that comes with age, not only with mortality but with the truth of how I have lived. I repent, not as a gesture but as a groan. I see how I clung to illusions of strength, how I sought comfort in my own sufficiency, how often I mistook distraction for peace. The warfare was always there, subtle and relentless. I thought I was untouched; I was only asleep.

Now illness and frailty tear away the veil. Every ache in the body becomes an icon of the deeper ache, the longing for God unfiltered by pride or performance. The Psalmist’s words become my own breath: “You have taught me from my youth, O God, and to this day I proclaim your wondrous deeds. So even to old age and gray hairs, O God, do not forsake me.” It is not the cry of fear, but of trust born through battle.

To live this surrender is to face the darkness without flinching, to stand unarmed before the enemy and still whisper the Name of Jesus. It is to let God be God, even when His ways undo every certainty. The Psalm reminds me that the story is not finished, not while breath remains. The same God who carried me through youth and ignorance will carry me through the unraveling of age.

The warfare continues, but so does grace. And perhaps this is what it means to grow old in faith: not to have fewer battles, but to learn to stand still in them, hands open, heart bare, waiting for the mercy that has never failed.

“When the Battle Begins Within”

Synopsis of Tonight’s Group on The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian Homily 5 paragraphs 4-7

St. Isaac speaks with a stark honesty that strips away every illusion about the spiritual life. To choose the good is to summon the battle. Every true beginning draws the adversary’s attention. God allows this not to crush the soul but to test its resolve and to purify its love. Without that fire, virtue remains unproven and fragile.

The one who doubts that God is his helper collapses under his own shadow. Fear itself becomes the enemy. Such a person starves amid plenty and drowns in calm waters, undone not by external trials but by the absence of trust. St. Isaac’s words expose this inner poverty: faith without endurance is only sentiment. The steadfast heart, confident in God, is revealed in trial and shines before friend and foe alike.

The commandments are not burdens but treasures. They conceal the presence of the Lord Himself. The one who carries them within finds God as chamberlain, waking and sleeping. Fear of sin becomes illumination, and even darkness turns transparent. The soul that trembles at evil walks with light before and within, guided by mercy that steadies every faltering step.

St. Isaac ends with a fierce precision. There is no substitution in repentance. What is lost must be restored by the same means through which it was forfeited. God will not take a pearl for a penny, nor alms in place of purity. Greed is uprooted only by mercy, not by any other virtue. He will not be deceived by offerings that leave corruption untouched.

This is the hard edge of Isaac’s wisdom: grace demands truth. The path to God is not through sentiment or display but through the narrow way where every false comfort is stripped away, and only the tested heart endures.

Filling the Void: Directionless Modern Spiritualities

Discussions about the spiritual life in modern times rarely seem to give attention to purity of mind and heart.  We expose ourselves indiscriminately to a plethora of distractions - each strengthen the grip of the passions upon us.  And even when attention is given to the subject it is typically amorphous - lacking the clarity and structure of the Fathers' thought.  Yet without such attention given to the interior life men and women are left to wander aimlessly - seeking to fill the void with various popular spiritual practices but never coming to know the healing needed and desired.  

St. Isaac the Syrian in the following brief summary captures the essence of the struggle: If the mind is made pure through guarding the senses through ascetical practices like fasting, vigils and the study of scriptures, one can begin to know a surface level purity - the mind is cleansed of former thoughts and the imagination and memory are gradually made whole.  Such purity, he warns, may be short lived if due diligence is not maintained.  The mind will be quickly soiled again.  As the author of Proverbs writes: "As a dog returns to his vomit, so the sinner returns to his sin."

The purification of the heart, Isaac goes on to explain, only comes through affliction - where attraction to the things of the world is lost and one becomes, as it were, dead to all thing or as St. Paul wrote: "It is no longer I who live I, but Christ who lives within me."  One puts on the mind of Christ.  Few are willing to walk this narrow and difficult path or have the stomach to endure the dreadful conflicts and trials that produce such freedom.  When one clings only to God and his will, the assaults of the world endanger but a little.  

The path put forward seems so simple but it is avoided and ignored but those ruled by their passions and desires for the things of the world.  May God give us the eyes to see and the ears to hear. . .  .  


Purity of mind is one thing, and purity of heart is another, just as a limb differs from the whole body.  Now the mind is one of the senses of the soul, but the heart is what contains and holds the inner senses: it is the sense of senses, that is, their root; but if the root is holy, then the branches are holy.  It is evident, therefore, that if the heart is purified, all the senses are made pure.  Now if the mind, on the one hand, is a little diligent in reading the divine scriptures and toils a little in fasting, vigil, and stillness, it will forget its former activity and will become pure, as long as it abstains from alien concerns.  Even so its purity will not be permanent, for just as it is quickly cleansed, so too it is quickly soiled.

But the heart, on the other hand, is only made pure by many affliction, deprivations, separation from all fellowship with the world, and deadness to all things.  Once it is purified, however, its purity is not soiled by little things, nor is it dismayed by great and open conflicts (I mean dreadful ones), inasmuch as it has acquired, as it were, a strong stomach capable of quickly digesting all the food that is indigestible to those who are weak.  For so it is said among the physicians, that all meats difficult to digest, but it produces great strength in healthy bodies when a strong stomach takes it.

Even so, any purity that comes quickly, with little time and slight labor, is also quickly lost and defiled.  But the purity that comes through many afflictions and is acquired over a long period of time in the soul's superior part is not endangered by any moderate assault.

Be Angry, but Do Not Sin: Hesychios on Spiritual Warfare and the Incensive Power of the Soul

Along with the humility, perfect attentiveness, and prayer, Hesychios discusses the importance of the “power of rebuttal” in spiritual warfare.  In a previous post, I began to touch upon the importance of hatred of sin or one’s sinful thoughts for progress in spiritual life and as an essential aspect of a true and abiding love of God.  Love of God and for that which is holy will lead us to hate sin or sinful thoughts and seek to set them aside as soon as they become evident to us.  

This view, it may be helpful to know, arises out of a specific anthropology; an understanding of the powers of the human soul (the appetitive, intelligent, and incensive powers) based upon the tripartite division formulated by Plato in Book IV of his “Republic” and accepted by the Greek Christian Fathers.  According to the glossary of the English translation of the Philokalia, the Appetitive aspect (epithymikon) is the soul’s desiring power, the Intelligent aspect or power (logistikon) is the ruling aspect of the intellect or its operative faculty and the Incensive power (thymikon), which often manifests itself as wrath or anger, but which can be more generally defined as the force provoking vehement feelings. The three aspects can be used positively, that is, in accordance with nature and as created by God, or negatively, that is, in a way contrary to nature and leading to sin. For instance, the Incensive Power can be used positively to repel demonic attacks or to intensify desire for God; but it can also, when not controlled, lead to self-indulgent, disruptive thought and action..." (Vol I, p. 358).  

It is the incensive power of the soul that experiences extreme emotions.  Thus, it can be positive or negative. The positive use of the incensive power is to repel evil thoughts or rebuke demonic attacks; that is, the power of rebuttal.  To put it another way, we use the incensive power correctly when – and only when – we are angry at the things that anger God.  However, having said this, the writers of the Philokalia are clear and consistent in stating that the incensive power was given to us as a defense against sin. 

Here are two very good examples: Using the example of temptations to unchastity, Evagrios writes, “Our incensive power is also a good defence against this demon. When it is directed against evil thoughts of this kind, such power fills the demon with fear and destroys his designs. And this is the meaning of the statement: ‘Be angry, and do not sin’ (Ps. 4:4)” (On Discrimination, section 15, p. 47).  To “be angry and not sin” is to be angry at sin, beginning within oneself. This is why St. Isaiah the Solitary could write, “Without anger a man cannot attain purity: he has to feel angry with all that is sown in him by the enemy.” (On Guarding the Intellect, section 1, p. 22)

The Fathers understand St. Paul well who wrote: "We wrestle not with flesh and blood..."  The enemies whom we are to hate are not our fellow men, but the demonic and unnatural thoughts which attack our day-to-day lives.  To these, the Fathers often applied the words of psalm 137: “O Daughter of Babylon, doomed to destruction, happy is he who repays you for what you have done to us-he who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks.”  The "children of Babylon" are the actions born of hatred, of cowardice, of greed and lust, and all the ugly and unnatural thoughts one might have. We are to guard (nepsis) the heart and mind and with the sword of the incensive power drive our unnatural thoughts and temptations away.  

Often we enter into the battle unarmed and Hesychios tells us that without prayer “we have no weapon to fight with.  By this prayer I mean the prayer which is ever active in the inner shrine of the soul, and which by invoking Christ scourges and sears our secret enemy.”  We must not be timid or passive in our response.  Again, Hesychios writes: “The glance of your intellect should be quick and keen, able to perceive the invading demons.  When you perceive one, you should at once rebut it, crushing it like the head of a serpent.  At the same time, call imploringly to Christ, and you will experience God’s unseen help” (Philokalia, Vol. 1, p 165).

Trusting in Christ, humble, prayerful, and having silenced our hearts, we must ever be on the watch for the enemy.  Hesychios provides the following image: “If you wish to engage in spiritual warfare, let that little animal, the spider, always be your example of stillness of heart; otherwise you will not be as still inn your intellect as you should be.  The spider hunts small flies; but you will continually slay ‘the children of Babylon’ if during your struggle you are as still in your soul as is the spider; and in the course of this slaughter you will be blessed by the Holy Spirit” (166).

However, as noted above, while the writers of the Philokalia and Hesychios urge us on in the battle and encourage us to be zealous, they present us with one very important caveat.  Although the incensive aspect of our soul is God-given in order to repel demonic attacks and to intensify our desire for God and His will, if not controlled and transformed by grace and ascetic practices, it can easily lead to self-indulgent and destructive thoughts and actions.  And so, Hesychios tells us: “The incensive power by nature is prone to be destructive.  If it is turned against demonic thoughts it destroys them; but if it is roused against people it then destroys good thoughts that are in us.  In other words, the incensive power, although given as a weapon or a bow against evil thoughts, can be turned the other way and used to destroy good thoughts as well, for it destroys whatever it is directed against” (167).  

We are to be “incensed”  - enraged and infuriated toward all within us that is contrary to love and goodness and fearlessly and swiftly wield the sword against all unholy thoughts.  But in the process we must avoid the temptation to raise this sword against another - the fruit of which is only malice and violence.  Hesychios describes the danger with utmost clarity: “I have seen a spirited dog destroying equally both wolves and sheep” (167).  

"In the Deserts of the Heart, Let the Healing Fountain Start": From the Desert Sands of Egypt to the Desert Within

In one of the comments on a previous post, a reader asks: “How do you think those of us living in this world with our many and various responsibilities can access/simulate the experience of the hermits?”  Certainly, the question can be approached in a number of ways and I tried to address it in some measure in my initial response to the comment.  But I have continued to think about this question throughout the past few days and in my own studies I came across what I think is a good starting point for further discussion on the matter.  I am currently reading John Chryssavgis’ book “In the Heart of the Desert”.  The question he asks is “Why the desert?”  Why did the elders choose to go there in the first place and what significance does it have in its own right and for those of us who live in the city?

Please forgive the long series of quotes, but in them Chryssavgis captures so beautifully how the desert suggests something both deeply spiritual and personal.  Each paragraph is worthy of our reflection as we begin our approach to the Fathers.  Chryssavgis writes: 

“‘Desert’ (eremos) literally means ‘abandonment’; it is the term from which we derive ‘hermit’.  The areas of desertedness were where the demons bred. . .There is no water in the desert, and in the mind of the Jews that was the ultimate curse.  No water also meant no life.  The desert signified death; nothing grows in the desert.  Your very existence is, therefore, threatened.  In the desert you will find no one and no thing.  In the desert you can only face up to yourself and to every aspect of your self, to your temptations, and to your reality.  You confront your own heart, and your heart’s deepest desires, without any scapegoat, without any hiding place.”

“Yet the desert was also endowed with sacred significance for Jews and Christians alike.  The Israelites had wandered in the desert for forty years.  It was there that Moses saw God.  It was there that John the Baptist preached the coming of the Messiah.  Indeed, it was in the desert that Jesus Himself began His ministry; it was in the wilderness that He was first tempted by the demons. . .  .”  

“So the desert, while accursed, was never seen as an empty region.  It was a place that was full of action.  It was a space that provided an opportunity, and even a calling, for divine vision.  In the desert, you were invited to shake off all forms of idolatry, all kinds of earthly limitations, in order to behold - or rather, to be held before - an image of the heavenly God.  There, you were confronted with another reality, with the presence of a boundless God, whose grace was without any limits at all.”

“The desert is an attraction beyond oneself; it is an invitation to transfiguration.  It was neither a better way, nor an easier way.  The desert elders were not out to prove a point; they were there to prove themselves. . . Nothing should be held back in this surrender.  It is all or nothing.  The abandonment to God is absolute.”  

“The desert is a place of spiritual revolution, not of personal retreat.  It is a place of inner protest, not outward peace.  It is a place of deep encounter, not of superficial escape.  It is a place of repentance, not recuperation.  Living in the desert does not mean living without people; it means living for God.  Anthony and the other desert dwellers never forgot this.  They never sought to cut off their connections to other people instantly.  They rather sought to refine these relationships increasingly.”  

However, Chrssavgis is quick to point out that the meaning of the desert extends far beyond the sands of Egypt.  It speaks of a personal way applicable to each of our lives.  It is a “spiritual way that was present everywhere, including the large and busy cities.  ‘It was revealed to Abba Anthony in his desert that there was someone who was his equal in the city.  He was a doctor by profession.  Whatever he had beyond his needs, he would give to the poor; and every day he sang hymns with the angels.’ 

“It is the clear understanding of these elders that one does not have to move to the geographical location of the wilderness in order to find God.  Yet, if you do not have to go to the desert, you do have to go through the desert. . . Everyone does go through the desert in one shape or another.  it may be in the form of suffering or emptiness, or breakdown or any other kind of trauma that occurs in our life.  Dressing this desert up through our addictions or attachments . . . will delay the utter loneliness and inner fearfulness of the desert experience.  If we go through this experience involuntarily, then it can be both overwhelming and crushing.  If, however, we accept to undergo this experience voluntarily, then it can prove both constructive and liberating.  The physical setting of the desert is a symbol, a powerful reminder of a spiritual space that is within us all.”

The deserts of Egypt and the experiences of the elders may seem far removed from those who live many centuries later, but in reality they speak of that which is closest to us - to the desert within the human heart, the place where we too must make the ultimate surrender to God and abandon ourselves to Him, the place where we must fight the good fight of faith, struggle with our own inner demons and wait for God in the silence of prayer.

****All quotes taken from “In the Heart of the Desert” by John Chryssavgis, World Wisdom, Inc. 2003,  pp. 33-36