Hence it is manifest that he who is possessed by the spirit of pride, or who becomes a blasphemer against God—being, as it were, one who offers insult to Him from whom the gifts of purity are to be hoped—is deprived of the integrity of perfection and does not merit the sanctification of chastity. We read something of this kind in the book of Paralipomenon. For Joash, king of Judah, taken into the kingdom at seven years of age by the priest Jehoiada, was, as long as that priest lived, praised by the testimony of Scripture in all things. Concerning him, hear what Scripture records after Jehoiada's death, and how, lifted up with pride, he was given over to an ignominious passion: 'But after Jehoiada died, the princes of Judah came in and adored the king, who, soothed by their obsequiousness, yielded to them.'
'And they forsook the temple of the Lord, the God of their fathers, and served the groves and the graven images; and wrath came against Judah and Jerusalem for this sin.' And a little later: 'And when the year was come about, the army of Syria went up against him; and it came into Judah and Jerusalem, and slew all the princes of the people, and sent all the spoil to the king at Damascus.' And truly, though a very small number of the Syrians had come, the Lord delivered into their hands an infinite multitude, because they had forsaken the Lord, the God of their fathers; and upon Joash also they executed ignominious judgments, and departing they left him in great diseases. You see with what shameful and sordid passions pride deserves to be given over.
For he who, puffed up with arrogance, suffered himself to be adored as a god, is given over, according to the Apostle, to passions of ignominy and to a reprobate sense, so that he suffers those things which are not fitting.
And because, as Scripture says, everyone that exalteth his heart is unclean before God, this man, who was inflated with a swollen elation of heart, is given over to a most shameful confusion to be mocked; so that, being thus humbled, he might feel himself unclean even through the uncleanness of the flesh and the consciousness of an impure passion—that which through the elation of his mind he had refused to feel; and so that the ignominious contagion of the flesh might disclose the hidden uncleanness of his heart, which he had contracted through the evil of pride; and that, by the manifest pollution of his body, he might be proved impure, who through the elation of his spirit did not feel himself to have become unclean.
By these things it is clearly proved that every soul which has been possessed by the swelling of pride is handed over to the intellectual Syrians—that is, to spiritual wickednesses—and is enwrapped in the passions of the flesh, so that at least, humbled by earthly vices, it may recognize itself carnally unclean, being polluted; whereas, uplifted by the tepidity of its mind, it could not before understand itself to have been made unclean in the sight of God through the elation of heart. Thus indeed, being humbled, one may depart from his former tepidity, and, cast down and confounded by the ignominy of carnal passions, may thereafter hasten to devote himself the more ardently to spiritual fervour. Evidently, therefore, it is demonstrated that no one can attain the goal of perfection and
purity except through true humility, which he must first render to the brethren, and also exhibit to God in the inmost recesses of his heart, believing that without His protection and aid, extended to him at every single moment, he can in no wise obtain the perfection which he desires and toward which he runs with great zeal. Thus far concerning spiritual pride, by which we have said that the perfect are assailed, it will suffice, by God's gift, to have spoken as far as the slenderness of our talent has availed.
This kind of pride is not known nor experienced by many, because not many strive to attain the perfect purity of heart, so as to be able to arrive at these grades of the combat; nor is any purging effected of the preceding vices, whose nature and remedies alike we have set forth in the several little books. Rather, it is wont to assail only those who, having overcome the higher vices, are now placed almost at the very summit of the virtues. And because the most subtle enemy has been unable to overcome them by a carnal fall, he strives to cast them down and supplant them by a spiritual ruin, contending through this to despoil them of all the merits of their former labours, gained with much toil.
But as for us, who are still enwrapped in earthly passions, he does not deign to tempt us in this manner, but supplants us with a grosser, and, so to speak, carnal elation. And therefore concerning this also—by which especially we, or men of our measure, and above all the minds of the younger or of beginners, are wont to be endangered—I think it necessary, according to our promise, to bring forth a few words.
This carnal pride, then, of which we have spoken, when it has settled in the mind of a monk together with a lukewarm and ill-seized beginning of renunciation, not permitting him to descend from his former and worldly swelling to the true humility of Christ, first renders him disobedient and harsh; then it does not suffer him to be gentle and affable; nor does it allow him to become equal to the brethren and to share with them in common; nor does it grant him, according to the commandment of our God and Saviour, to be despoiled of earthly wealth and stripped bare. And whereas renunciation is nothing else than the token of mortification and of the cross, nor can it begin or arise upon other foundations than that a man should know himself not only spiritually slain to the deeds of this world, but should also believe that he must daily die even bodily—on the contrary, it makes him hope for a long life, sets before him prolonged and manifold infirmities, and strikes into him confusion and shame if, having become naked, he should begin to be sustained by others' means and not by his own.
It persuades him also that it is far better that food and clothing be provided for himself from his own substance rather than from another's—according, namely, to that saying which, from the dullness and lukewarmness of a blunted heart, such men will never at any time be able even to understand: 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' Beset, therefore, by such distrust of mind, and recalled by a diabolical unbelief from that spark of faith with which, if they had been kindled at the outset of their conversion, they now begin
to guard more carefully the moneys which before they had begun to scatter, and, as though unable ever to restore them once squandered, they preserve them with a more vehement avarice; or—what is worse—they take up again those things which they had before cast off; or—which is the third and most detestable kind of wickedness—gathering together things which they had not even possessed before, they are proved, having gone forth from the world, to have acquired nothing more than the mere name and appellation of a monk. Upon these beginnings, then, ill and viciously laid, it is inevitable that the whole structure thereafter should rise up the more viciously, nor can anything be set upon such wretched foundations except what will prostrate the miserable soul with a more lamentable ruin.
For a mind hardened by such passions, and beginning from a detestable lukewarmness, must needs go daily from bad to worse, and conclude the rest of its life also with a more misshapen end; and while it delights in its former desires and is overcome, according to the Apostle, by sacrilegious avarice (as he pronounces concerning it: 'and avarice, which is the service of images or of idols,' and again: 'the root of all evils is avarice'), it can never receive into its heart the simple and true humility of Christ, since it glories either in the nobility of its birth, or is puffed up over the dignity of the world—which it has deserted in body, not in mind—or is exalted over the moneys which it retains to its own ruin.
Through these things he is no longer content to bear the yoke of the monastery, nor to be trained by the discipline of any elder; and not only does he deign to keep no rule of subjection or obedience, but he does not even admit to his ears the very doctrine of perfection. And so great a loathing of the spiritual word grows up in his heart that, if perchance such a conference has arisen, his gaze cannot rest in one place, but his stupefied glance is carried about hither and thither, and his eyes are fixed elsewhere and askance, contrary to what is customary.
For instead of wholesome sighs, dry spittings are drawn up from a parched throat; hawkings too are provoked without any hindrance of phlegm; his fingers play and flit about after the manner of one writing, and trace figures; and thus all the members of his body are moved this way and that, so that, while a spiritual conference is being conducted, he believes himself to be sitting either upon swarming worms or upon the sharpest stakes; and whatever the plain conference has brought forth for the edification of the hearers, he reckons to have been uttered for his own reproach.
And throughout the whole time in which the examination of the spiritual life is being sifted, occupied with his own suspicions, he does not catch at what he ought to gather thence for his own advancement, but with anxious mind he searches out the reasons why each thing has been said, or conjectures, with a silent turning-over within his heart, what he could object to them; so that he can in nowise grasp anything of those things which have been most healthfully set forth, nor be in any way amended. And so it comes about that not only does the spiritual conference profit him nothing, but it even proves the more injurious and becomes to him an occasion of greater sin. For while, on account of his own conscience, he suspects that the whole has been uttered against him, he is hardened with a more vehement obstinacy of heart and is the more sharply goaded by the stings of anger.
Then, after these things, a loud voice, a stiff speech, a bitter and turbulent answer, an erect and restless gait, a ready tongue, an insolent manner of speech, never a friend of silence—except when he has conceived in his heart some rancour against a brother; and his silence becomes a token not of any compunction or humility, but of pride and indignation, so that it is not easily discerned which in him is the more detestable: that diffuse and wanton merriment, or this dire and venomous seriousness. For in the one there is unseasonable speech, light and foolish laughter, an unbridled and undisciplined elation of heart; in the other, wrath
and a slow silence, conceived only for this end, that the rancour against a brother, kept by taciturnity, may be prolonged the longer—not that any virtue of humility or of patience may be furnished thereby.
And whereas he himself, being possessed by swelling pride, easily inflicts griefs upon all, and disdains to submit himself to make satisfaction to a brother he has wronged, he even rejects and despises the satisfaction offered to him by that brother; and not only is he neither pricked with compunction nor softened by any satisfaction of his brother, but he is even the more grievously indignant that he has been forestalled by him in humility; and the wholesome humility and satisfaction, which is wont to put an end to diabolical designs, becomes to him an occasion of more vehement burning. I have heard—in this region at least—what it makes me shudder and blush to recount: that a certain younger monk, when he was rebuked by his abbot as to why he had begun to overstep the humility which, on renouncing the world, he had retained for a very short time, and to be puffed up with diabolical pride, answered with the utmost contumacy:
'Did I humble myself for a time in order that I should always be in subjection?' At which so unbridled and wicked an answer of his, the elder was so struck dumb, and all his speech was so cut off—as though he had heard these words uttered by that ancient Lucifer himself, and not received from a man—that he could utterly send forth no word from his mouth against such effrontery, but only groans and sighs from his heart; revolving silently within himself only that which is said of our Lord and Saviour: 'Who, being in the form of God, humbled Himself, becoming obedient'—not, as that man said, possessed by a diabolical spirit and swelling, 'for a time,' but even unto death.
And that we may more briefly summarize what has been said of this kind of pride, gathering as far as we can certain signs of it, so that for those who thirst to be instructed concerning perfection we may in some measure express its marks from the movements of the outward man, I think it necessary to repeat the same in few words; that we may the more compendiously recognize by what tokens we may be able to discern and detect it, so that, being laid bare and brought to the surface, the roots of this passion, both perceived by the eye and pernicious, may either be more easily plucked up or avoided. For then can the pestilential disease be turned aside to the full, when against its very perniciousness
surging tides and hurtful assaults there is set, not a late observation—when it is already taken in at home—but when, recognizing beforehand its outlines, so to speak, we outrun it with a provident and sagacious discernment. For, as we have said before, from the movement of the outward man the state of the inner is recognized. By these tokens, therefore, is that carnal pride which we have mentioned declared. There is present, first, in his speech a shout; in his silence, bitterness; in gladness, a lofty and dissolute laughter; in seriousness, an irrational sadness; in his answer, rancour; in his talk, glibness; words bursting forth at random without any gravity of heart.
He is devoid of patience, a stranger to charity, bold in inflicting insults, faint-hearted in enduring them, difficult to obey except where his own desire and will have anticipated it, implacable toward receiving exhortation, weak in cutting off his own wishes, most obstinate in yielding to those of others, always striving to establish his own decisions, yet by no means acquiescing in giving way to another's; and so it comes about that, having become even incapable of wholesome counsel, in all things he trusts his own judgment rather than that of his elders.
By such steps of decline, he whom it once possesses, being rolled downward, now shudders at the very discipline of the community; and, that he may be drawn back from perfection by the fellowship of the brethren, and be called away from the good of patience and humility by the vice and hindrance of others, he desires the dwelling of a solitary cell; or else, as though about to gain many others, he hastens to build a monastery and to gather those whom he ought to teach and instruct—from a wicked disciple becoming a still more detestable master. For when, through such elation of heart, he has fallen into a most pernicious and hurtful lukewarmness, and has become neither a true monk nor a man of the world—which is worse—he even promises himself perfection out of this very wretched state and manner of life.
Wherefore, if we wish the perfect summits of our building to rise up pleasing to God, let us hasten to lay its foundations not according to the will of our own desire, but according to the discipline of the strictness of the Gospel. And these can be none other than the fear of God and humility, which descends from meekness and simplicity of heart. But humility can in no way be attained apart from nakedness; and while that is absent, neither the good of obedience, nor the strength of patience, nor the tranquillity of meekness, nor the consummation of charity can be grasped—without which our heart can in no wise be the dwelling-place of the Holy Spirit; the Lord thus declaring through the prophet:
'Upon whom shall My Spirit rest, save upon him that is quiet and humble and that trembleth at My words?' Or, according to the copies which express the Hebrew truth: 'But to whom shall I look, save to the poor little one, and him that is contrite in spirit, and that trembleth at My words?' Wherefore let the athlete of Christ, who, lawfully striving in the spiritual contest, desires to be crowned by the Lord, hasten by every means to extinguish this most ferocious beast also, as the devourer of all the virtues; being sure that, while it abides in his breast, not only can he not be free from vices of every kind, but even, if he should seem to have any virtue, he perishes by the poison of this one.
For in no way can the structure of the virtues rise up in our soul, unless first the foundations of true humility are laid in our heart, which, being most firmly settled, may be able to sustain the summit of perfection and of charity; so that, namely, as we have said, we first exhibit true humility to our brethren with the inmost affection of the heart, by no means acquiescing to sadden or to injure them.
This we can in no way fulfil, unless true renunciation—which consists in the stripping off of all possessions and in nakedness—has been founded in us in the love of Christ; and then the yoke of obedience and subjection has been undertaken with a simple heart and without any pretence, so that, apart from the abbot's command, no will whatever should live in us. And this cannot otherwise be observed, unless a man judges himself not only dead to this world, but also senseless and foolish, performing without any discussion all things that are commanded him by his elders, believing them to be sacrosanct and divinely promulgated.
For those who stand fast in this quality, there will without doubt follow that state of humility, truly tranquil and immovable, so that, judging ourselves inferior to all, we may most patiently endure whatever is inflicted upon us—even if it be injurious or grievous or hurtful—as though brought upon us by our superiors.
These things indeed will not only be most easily endured by us, but will even be judged small and as nothing, if we continually revolve in mind the passions either of our Lord or of all the saints, considering that we are assailed by injuries lighter in proportion as we are further removed from their merits and manner of life; likewise reflecting that in a little while we shall depart from this world, and that we shall soon, by the swift ending of this life, become their companions. For this contemplation is decisive not only against pride, but also generally against all vices. Then, after these things, let us most firmly retain this same humility toward God.
This will be fulfilled by us in such wise, that we recognize we can accomplish nothing whatever of ourselves—so far as pertains to the consummation of the virtues—apart from His aid and grace; and that we truly believe this very thing, that we have been counted worthy to understand it, to be of His gift.