Here’s a quiz question: What do Goethe’s “Faust,” Mahler’s Symphony No. 8 and an opera by the modern British composer John Tavener all have in common? The answer is given by the name of Tavener’s work — Mary of Egypt, a sixth-century Alexandrian sex worker who became a mystical ascetic. Goethe mentions her by name as one of the holy penitents interceding for Faust’s soul, a scene put to magnificent music by Mahler in his “symphony of a thousand voices.” In Tavener’s opera, she is an iconic figure of redemption, a woman rising from degradation to spiritual enlightenment.
Mary was in fact one of the so-called Desert Mothers — a phrase coined in modern times to refer to the “ammas” (Coptic for “mothers”); female equivalents of the better-known Desert Fathers, Christian ascetics who sought out wild places to live lives devoted to prayer and contemplation. In the heavily patriarchal church tradition, it was male hermits such as Antony of Egypt (who, it was said, would beat off assaults by demons in the guise of vampish women) who won most of the plaudits. But tucked away in the margins of ecclesiastical records appear glimpses of another tradition — that of a number of ammas, the four best-documented being Sarah of Egypt, Syncletica of Alexandria, Theodora of Alexandria and Mary of Egypt. These women, too, by the examples of their lives and their sayings, were an important part of early Christian mysticism.
In our contemporary world, when the push of a button can summon a cappuccino, turn on air conditioning or send messages across oceans, the Desert Fathers and Mothers evoke a time of self-reliance and wholehearted devotion, serving as models of the stripped-down lives that many of us fantasize about. Living in the harshest of conditions, with rocks for pillows and rags for clothes, subsisting on the minimum of food and water, these hardy souls present not only an alternative way of life, but another way of seeing the world — one in which the spirit world was felt to be a tangible reality, and the devil could take the form of aggressive animals or sexually seductive men and women. Even if we might shrink from emulating their lives in a literal way, we can draw inspiration from their courage and endurance and the wisdom they dispensed to those who sought them out. The Desert Fathers have proved enduring role models until now, their sayings and lives still used in retreats. Yet their female counterparts were just as inspirational to those seeking guidance — a fact that is just beginning to be recognized.
Indeed, according to the “Lausiac History” written by the early church historian Palladius (ca 364-420) there were almost 3,000 women living as hermits in the deserts of Egypt during his lifetime, many of whom went on to form communities (sometimes in conjunction with male communities) under the supervision of a leader, with a set of rules for guidance, spending their days in worship, reading, praying and household duties. Though they were as determined as their male confreres to live solitary lives in the most testing of conditions, the characters and lives of the ammas are less well documented, but what we do have gives intriguing glimpses into what it was like for a woman to be a recluse in a milieu dominated by men.
But why, it may be asked, would men and women of the Christian faith, renowned for its communality, flee to the desert in the first place? The answer lies mainly in the fact that the church had gone through a dramatic metamorphosis during the time of the Roman Emperor Constantine I (“the Great”), being transformed from an oft-persecuted “cult,” associated with slaves, outcasts and a few eccentric nobles, into the most favored religion in the empire thanks to Constantine’s conversion. After the emperor’s death in 337, his successors continued to support the church (with the exception of Julian “the Apostate”). While many Christians enjoyed their newfound high social and political status, some yearned to regain the poverty associated with the apostles and trekked to desert places in Egypt and Syria to pursue ascetic lives dedicated to God. In addition, at a time when “red martyrdom” — gruesome deaths at the hands of the imperial authorities — was no longer relevant in the new Christianity-friendly empire, “white martyrdom,” that is to say dying to the world, became the new form of self-sacrifice.
In subsequent centuries, these hermits became iconic archetypes of flesh-denial and spiritual sagacity, a pattern of behavior never far from the Christian mystical tradition. The 14th-century German Dominican mystic Henry Suso, for example, drew on this ascetic tradition with a range of eye-watering practices, including wearing a tailor-made nightshirt fitted with specially sharpened nails. (His gory rituals continued until, one day, he received an angelic message telling him that God did not require them of him anymore.)
Even allowing for exaggeration when Palladius wrote of 3,000 ammas, women were clearly part of this phenomenon. Why, then, did they flee from society to a barren world of sand and solitude? Many, it seems, took refuge in the desert to avoid an unwanted marriage. Others wished to redeem a life of fornication, while others simply had a vocation to serve Christ in material and spiritual poverty. But although their motivations might often have been the same as those of their male counterparts, they had very different experiences. For example, they often dressed in men’s clothing for security (women could easily be attacked by male hermits, who might view them as demons in disguise). Benedicta Ward, a contemporary nun and scholar of early Christianity, has cited an example of this outward adoption of maleness being mirrored by an inward feeling of masculinity, or at least a pretense of the latter, perhaps as a defense against men’s hostility. The fifth-century ascetic Amma Sarah was once visited by two elderly male anchorites intent on making sure she knew her lowly status as a woman. Rather than asserting her sex, Sarah said to them, “According to nature I am a woman, but not according to my thoughts” (emphasis added).
In effect, the Desert Fathers and Mothers were merely trying to put into practice Jesus’ words in Matthew 19:21: “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” Constructing basic shelters in various wildernesses, these hardy, God-focused souls strove to live in rugged landscapes haunted by wild animals and, so they believed, angels and demons. By embracing humble lives (their possessions often amounted to little more than a reed mat for sleeping on, a lamp, a water jug and a sheepskin), they thereby created a model of simple Christian living and hospitality. By the late fourth century, these hermits, men and women, were being sought out by spiritual seekers primed with questions about the religious life. The short, sage answers given in response were remembered and eventually written down to form the “Apophthegmata Patrum” (“Sayings of the Fathers,” though it included sayings of the Desert Mothers), the earliest version of which appears to be from the end of the fourth century, and which became a widely read Christian text, popular to the present day.
To understand the conditions in which the Mothers lived and the psychology of asceticism, it is helpful to look to the example of the more famous and thus better documented Desert Fathers, such as Antony and Simeon Stylites. Arguably the father of the first desert monks (the word “monk” derives from the Greek for “alone”), Antony, according to his “Life” by Athanasius of Alexandria (296-373), lived on a mountain in Egypt, eventually attracting other like-minded souls to the area. In 305, he formed these hermits into a loosely knit group, obedient to a monastic rule but still maintaining hermit-like lives. Antony was a hard ascetic act to follow: According to Athanasius, he “kept vigil to such an extent that he often continued the whole night without sleep; and this not once but often, to the marvel of others. He ate once a day, after sunset, sometimes once in two days, and often even in four. His food was bread and salt, his drink, water only. Of flesh and wine it is superfluous even to speak, since no such thing was found with the other earnest men.”
Antony is important in Christian mysticism not only for his asceticism — the cornerstone of mystical endeavor down the centuries — but also for his reported visions, healings and clairvoyance. Many of his visions involved battles against the devil, who would probe for Antony’s weak spots using ruses such as appearing as a monk and offering him bread during a fast. On another occasion, it was reported, the devil assailed him by mobilizing desert hyenas to attack him. But his visionary experiences were not always hair-raising. Once, when suffering from “accidie” (a sort of sense of spiritual meaninglessness, reported by the sources), he prayed to God and, shortly afterward, a man like himself appeared a few yards away, plaiting a rope. This look-alike stranger then got up from his work to pray, before returning to his work. After a short while, he once again rose to pray. His “double” turned out to be an angel, teaching him an important lesson: The life of prayer must be balanced with a life of work; the one needs the other.
Accidie was a condition that Amma Theodora of Alexandria also warned of, attributing it to the dangers of excessive reclusiveness. Removal from the world and its distractions may enhance a life of prayer and contemplation, but it can also bring the danger of spiritual lethargy, as well as timidity and sinful thoughts. She cites approvingly the example of a monk who guarded against the danger of accidie by making sure he actively used willpower and faith in prayer. Once, when afflicted by fever, he said to himself: “I am ill, and near to death; so now I will get up before I die and pray.” In other words, the lesson is that withdrawal from the world can lead to a passive quietude and even lassitude; it is only the start of the spiritual challenge, not an end in itself; willpower and prayer are safeguards against accidie.
Despite being a demanding ascetic, Antony could strike notes of charity and brotherly love. One of his sayings has special relevance in today’s troubled world, perhaps more so than ever: “Our life and our death is with our neighbor. If we gain our brother, we have gained God, but if we scandalize our brother, we have sinned against Christ.” But if his words strike a chord of life-affirming communal warmth and empathy, it must be admitted that early Christian hermits in Egypt, Palestine and Syria maintained their spiritual authority by publicly displaying their commitment to life-denying austerity, a lynchpin in the fight against the devil and his wiles. At times, their austere practices could seem like competitions in sheer physical endurance, as both Fathers and Mothers deprived themselves of sleep, food or cleanliness.
In Syria, some ascetics went as far as to remove themselves from the world more literally — by living on top of stone columns. The most famous of these was Simeon Stylites (ca 390-459) — his name derives from the Greek “stylos,” meaning “pillar” — a Syrian shepherd who spent about 40 years of his life living in a self-created eyrie. According to his biography, recorded in Syriac soon after his death, Simeon’s first column, topped by a balustraded platform, was a modest 6 feet high; but this was extended over time and eventually towered vertiginously above the ground at a height of about 60 feet. He subsisted on food and water brought to him by his followers, via a ladder, and in return he made himself into a beacon of holiness, spending his days in prayer and contemplation. His dogged attempts to escape the world, however, proved self-defeating: The world came to him instead. His column became a magnet for hundreds of the faithful, who would crowd around it, seeking his blessings.
As Mary of Egypt inspired the imaginations of the likes of Goethe and Tavener, so Simeon Stylites also became a creative touchstone with his gravity-defying feat. Alfred Tennyson’s poem “St. Simeon Stylites” presented the saint’s voice to a Victorian audience and suggested the type of mind that corroborates spiritual progress with physical pain: “O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, / Who may be saved? Who is it may be saved? / Who may be made a saint, if I fail here?”
Simeon also captured the imagination of his contemporaries. During the centuries after his death, more than 100 solitaries took to living atop columns in Syria and Asia Minor. The church historian Diarmaid MacCulloch has commented that these “living ladders to heaven” became influential in Church politics, “shouting down their theological pronouncements from their little elevated balconies to the expectant crowds below.”
Although we have far less historical material to flesh out the lives of the Desert Mothers, there is enough evidence from their extant sayings to indicate that these women, living in caves and shelters in Egypt, Palestine and Syria, and sharing the harsh conditions of their male counterparts, were also shining examples of the ascetic life to their contemporaries, receiving visits from spiritual seekers and dispensing wisdom to them.
Amma Sarah is thought to have lived in northern Egypt, possibly near the Nile, during the fifth century. She lived a solitary, ascetic life and reportedly had to endure the sort of demonic examination that Antony suffered — but, in her case, the demon took the form of a male seducer, who eventually admitted defeat and announced that he had been overcome by her. Sarah retorted that it was not she but Christ who had conquered him. That she wielded authority even in a world of male hermits is shown by the fact that, as reported in the “Sayings of the Desert Fathers,” a delegation of monks from the town of Scetis in northern Egypt came to visit her one day, bringing with them a basket of fruit as an offering. When, on arrival, they inspected their gift, they found some of the fruits had gone rotten and ate these, leaving Sarah with the good ones — an act of courtesy for which she duly commended them. Her few recorded sayings include, “I place my foot on the ladder to climb up it, but I focus on death before my ascent.” This declaration of spiritual urgency and of abandoning one’s attachment to the things of this world became a constant among mystics down the ages. Bernard of Clairvaux, for example, the great 12th-century Cistercian monk, is said to have led a party of monks on a walk past a beautiful lake one day. When, in the evening, the conversation turned to the day’s events and how beautiful the lake and the scenery had been, he interjected: “What lake?”
Amma Theodora lived in Alexandria toward the end of the fourth century and is remembered only for a few pronouncements and stories. As recorded in the “Sayings of the Desert Fathers,” Theodora cited the example of how a certain hermit, after scaring away demons, learned from them what it was that gave him the power to vanquish them:
“Is it fasting?” he said.
“We do not eat or drink,” the demons replied.
“Is it vigils?”
“No, we do not sleep.”
“Is it the fact that I live away from the world?”
“No, we too live in deserts.”
“So what power can banish you?”
“Nothing except humility.”
Theodora’s wisdom also included the ageless advice that we should not shirk from but embrace challenges and use them to grow spiritually: “Just as the trees, if they have not stood before the winter’s storms, cannot bear fruit, so it is with us; this present age is a storm and it is only through many trials and temptations that we can obtain an inheritance in the kingdom of heaven.”
Another Alexandrian to embrace the life of the ascetic was Syncletica, a well-to-do woman who lived from the mid-fourth to mid-fifth centuries. Her pronouncements are recorded in the “Sayings of the Desert Fathers,” and her “Life” was written by Pseudo-Athanasius (an anonymous member of the clergy claiming to be Athanasius), in the middle of the fifth century. According to her “Life,” she was born into a wealthy family and, from an early age, committed herself to a life of virtue and chastity, resisting pressure to take a husband. After her parents’ death, she made a decisive break from the world. Taking her blind sister with her, she withdrew to the site of a tomb beyond the city, cut off her hair, gave her possessions away and began her life as a recluse. Residing at her tomb and removed from everyday society, Syncletica practiced poverty and prayer. News of her renunciation spread around the city and she soon began to attract dedicated followers, to whom she would give spiritual guidance, encouraging her visitors by declaring that the path to God was a struggle, but that she herself could testify to its “ineffable joy.” She compared the spiritual journey to the business of lighting a fire: At first, we are choked by the smoke and our eyes stream, but when the fire erupts, we obtain our end. In the same way, we must also kindle the divine fire in ourselves through tears and hard work. Syncletica lived until her mid-80s and died from a painful, heroically endured illness, as recorded in her “Life.” It is said that her last afflictions were caused by assaults by the devil, who took away her voice in order to prevent her “divine words” from reaching her companions, who were nevertheless strengthened in their faith by witnessing her patient suffering.
If Syncletica came to the ascetic life from a relatively prosperous background, Mary of Egypt (ca 560-638) provides a rather different example. Mary embraced holy asceticism after a career selling sex on the streets of Alexandria. Her story is recounted in her “Life,” the authorship of which is ascribed to Sophronius (560-638), patriarch of Jerusalem. Mary’s years in the desert, living naked and subsisting mainly on a “diet of herbs,” were as challenging as those of any of the Desert Fathers. Her journey from degradation to spiritual grace occurred at a time when she decided to leave her seedy quarters in Alexandria to travel to Jerusalem on a pilgrim boat — not for the sake of piety, however, but to ply her trade with the sailors. Even being in the holiest city of Christendom did nothing to deter her from continuing her profession: When she tried to enter the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, she found herself mysteriously repelled by an invisible force. While other pilgrims poured into the church, she somehow could not gain access, as if, she said, a group of soldiers were standing there, barring her entry. After repeating her attempts three or four times in vain, she at last retired to the church’s porch. It was there that she suddenly felt profound remorse for her past life and, in crisis, prayed to the Virgin Mary to be allowed to worship inside the church, adding that she would promise to give up her sensual life if her prayer were granted. The Virgin, the reports say, relented and Mary was able to enter the church — and subsequently fulfilled her part of the bargain. Shortly after her conversion, she heard a mysterious voice telling her that her salvation lay on the other side of the Jordan River. Mary crossed the river straightaway and made her home in the desert, spending the next five decades living there.
The last year of her life was marked by a chance encounter with a priest and monk named Zosima, who had gone to the desert for Lent. When he came across Mary, she fled from him, ashamed of her naked body. Only when he had given her his cloak to wear did she consent to talk to him. He was deeply impressed by her spiritual insight and the way she knew his name and profession as a priest without having met him before. He also discovered she could quote from the Scriptures, even though she had apparently never read them or met anyone who might have taught them to her. Mary told Zosima the story of her life and made him promise to return the following year on Holy Thursday and to give her the sacrament. He duly turned up, as arranged, and granted her request. She then asked him to meet her again at a certain date at the same place where they had originally met. This, again, he did, but when he reached the rendezvous he found her dead body lying on the ground, her face turned toward the rising sun and her arms crossed. Beside her was a written message asking him to bury her and indicating that she had in fact died on the very night she had received the sacrament from him. Zosima duly buried her and returned to his monastery, and kept alive the memory of their encounters and conversations, which formed the basis of her “Life.” Whatever her past had been, and despite the reputation of women as temptresses, it would seem that Zosima, and by extension his community, held Mary in hugely high regard.
Desert Mothers such as Sarah, Syncletica, Theodora and Mary were pioneer hermit women, setting a standard of piety and religiosity that served as a model for later ascetics and mystics. Not only did they dispense wisdom and set an example of righteous living to their contemporaries, but they also served as rebuffs to the misogynistic strain in the church, which reached back to early times. This was rooted in the view that women were “daughters of Eve,” the fallible first woman who had been, according to Genesis, the prime agent in the fall of man. In addition, women were widely regarded by religious men as sirens, ready to lure them onto the rocks of lust. The mastery of appetites and the practice of chastity had become important in the church from the second century onward; celibacy and virginity were associated with spiritual potency and, for Christian men, as the scholar Monica Furlong has written, “prolonged or lifelong abstinence … made women seem strange, lurid, dangerous.”
Fear of the effect of women on the male soul can be seen in the story of the third-century St. Martinian of Palestine, who exiled himself on a rock in the sea to escape the female sex. As the scholar Margot King relates: “Through the wiles of the devil who wished to tempt him, a woman, Photina by name, managed to survive a shipwreck and was reluctantly saved from drowning by the recluse. However, so appalled was he by the thought of sharing his rock with a woman that he immediately threw himself into the sea. Rescued by two dolphins, he continued his flight from women and travelled through 164 towns before mercifully being released from the female scourge by death.” (His commitment to purging himself of all temptation inspired a prostitute, who would become St. Zoe, to similarly retreat from the world, to a convent in Bethlehem, where, it was reported, she was granted the gift of miracles.)
This male wariness toward women was to continue down the centuries; the historian Richard Southern wrote that, for Bernard of Clairvaux, “every woman was a threat to his chastity.” But the Desert Mothers were a threat to nobody’s chastity, and their hardy, self-sacrificing lives, forged and burnished in wildernesses, still shine out as examples of truly committed Christian devotion. For centuries, it has been the male desert hermits, such as Antony and Simeon, who have hogged the spiritual limelight, but increasing attention is now being paid to the ammas, with a plethora of recent books exploring their lives, sayings, reflections and challenges, affirming the fact that these women, too, played a significant early role in the Christian mystical tradition.
After 2,000 years of evolving Christianity, the distractions of the world and urban life that were one of the impulses to send early Christians to the wilderness have become more, rather than less, intrusive for the devout, especially in the West. Perhaps this explains the current fascination with these men and women of the deserts, who fought the devil through self-denial, humility and prayer. In essence, they present us with a template of holy living, which, although it may not be literally practicable, can be imitated in the retreat centers, meditation groups, prayer meetings and vigils that increasingly offer the solace of aloneness.
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