Jonathan Zecher - The Role of Death in The Ladder of Divine Ascent and The Greek Ascetic Tradition

OX F O R D E A R LY C H R I S T IA N ST U D I E S
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Gillian Clarkâ•… Andrew Louth
THE OXFORD EARLY CHRISTIAN STUDIES series includes scholarly volumes on the thought and
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Titles in the series include:

Irenaeus of Lyons and the Theology of the Holy Spirit
Anthony Briggman (2012)
Apophasis and Pseudonymity in Dionysius the Areopagite
“No Longer I”
Charles M. Stang (2012)
Memory in Augustine’s Theological Anthropology
Paige E. Hochschild (2012)
Orosius and the Rhetoric of History
Peter Van Nuffelen (2012)
Drama of the Divine Economy
Creator and Creation in Early Christian Theology and Piety
Paul M. Blowers (2012)
Embodiment and Virtue in Gregory of Nyssa
An Anagogical Approach
Hans Boersma (2013)
The Chronicle of Seert
Christian Historical Imagination in Late Antique Iraq
Philip Wood (2013)
Christ in the Life and Teaching of Gregory of Nazianzus
Andrew Hofer, O.P. (2013)
Ascetic Pneumatology from John Cassian to Gregory the Great
Thomas L. Humphries Jr. (2013)
Contemplation and Classical Christianity
A Study in Augustine
John Peter Kenney (2013)
The Canons of Our Fathers
Monastic Rules of Shenoute
Bentley Layton (2014)
Gregory of Nyssa’s Tabernacle Imagery
In its Jewish and Christian Contexts
Ann Conway-Jones (2014)
John Chrysostom on Divine Pedagogy:
The Coherence of his Theology and Preaching
David Rylaarsdam (2014)
Cyril of Alexandria’s Trinitarian Theology of Scripture
Matthew R. Crawford (2014)
The Practical Christology of Philoxenos of Mabbug
David A. Michelson (2014)
Law and Legality in the Greek East: The Byzantine Canonical Tradition 381–883
David Wagschal (2014)
Debates Over the Resurrection of the Dead:
Constructing Early Christian Identity
Outi Lehtipuu (2015)
The Role of Death in
the Ladder of Divine
Ascent and the Greek
Ascetic Tradition
J O NAT HA N L . Z E C H E R
1
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For Jennifer and Rod, my parents
For Tatiana, my beloved

Preface
I first encountered the literature of Christian monasticism on a train from

Bucharest to Suceava in July 2006, while my wife Tatiana and I were traveling
around the monasteries of Romania for the summer. In a very warm second-
class compartment we read together the Sayings of the Desert Fathers in Helen
Waddell’s old and beautiful translation. We reread them many times that sum-
mer, and made them a daily practice while living at Varatec Monastery with
Mother Frosinica and Sister Poemena, who shared with us their monastic daily
rhythms of prayer and work, and the practical wisdom of repentance and
humility, so pithily expressed in the Sayings. It was not until later, though, dur-
ing my doctoral research, that I discovered the particular writer who would
become the focus of this study—a dweller of a different desert, St John Clima-
cus who was abbot of St Catherine’s Monastery in the Sinai during the mid-
seventh century.
Reading St John’s treatise, the Ladder of Divine Ascent, was a revelatory
experÂ�ience, calling me back to that warm summer train. Here was the wit and
wisdom of the Desert Fathers, the psychological insight of Evagrius, Macarius,
and Mark; here was the flowering of spiritual direction worked out by Barsanu-
phius, John, and Dorotheus in their Gazan monasteries. St John not only
quotes, paraphrases, and alludes to numerous ascetics and theologians before
him, but the Ladder embodies all the finest points of a spiritual tradition that
expressed itself in a literary tradition. And yet, for all the Ladder’s traditionality,
here also was something new: a creatively worked-out theology of Christian
asceticism, in which at every moment John mediates his loyalty to the “discern-
ing Fathers” by appealing to his own extensive experience, wit, and insight. St
John’s Ladder thus beautifully connects the world of the Desert Fathers to later
Byzantine monasticism and its great movements in spirituality: it hearkens
after the fading world of late antiquity, but would do much to shape the world
of Byzantium, whose mystics and monks would often look to the Ladder for
authority and insight. The Ladder, like St Maximus the Confessor’s Ambigua or
St John of Damascus’ Exact Exposition, is one of those rare but impressive heir-
looms that can be justly said to represent the “Fathers” (and “Mothers!”) to
their spiritual children and inheritors, both in later Byzantium and in contem-
porary Eastern Orthodox churches.
The first goal of this study is to present the Ladder to a new audience. Though
a masterpiece in its own right, and enormously popular and influential among
later Byzantine and Eastern Orthodox monastics, the Ladder has received very
little scholarly attention. This study seeks to redress that situation. However,
two hermeneutical considerations condition the kind of presentation I shall
viii Preface
make. They are necessitated at once by the Ladder’s position and its character.
First, the Ladder’s traditionality and influence can lead readers to listen more
for the echoes of source material or motifs of Hesychasm than the voice of St
John. To cope with these possible distortions, I will explore the Ladder in its
own integrity and structure while situating it carefully within a genealogical
study of the literary–spiritual tradition within which it fits and without which
it would be incomprehensible. That tradition primarily consists of ascetic writ-
ers whom St John knew: the Desert Fathers, Evagrius, Mark the Monk, Ps-
Macarius, and the Gaza Fathers feature most prominently. These, in turn, were
deeply rooted in the Christian Scriptures and the practices of Greco-Roman
philosophy. To understand the Ladder as both a unique achievement and a
traditional text requires tracing a genealogy of ideas down through the ascetic
literary tradition as it develops in intertextual dialogue over the centuries
before St John.
The second consideration is related, but arises more directly from the style,
structure, and content of the Ladder itself. It is sprawling, organic, often
obscure—features that fuel the meditative practices of monastic readers, but
that must certainly hamper a scholarly account. The Ladder is composed of
thirty chapters (called ‘rungs’) that treat practices, virtues, and vices of which
ascetic readers would need to be cognizant: detachment, obedience, repent-
ance, gluttony, greed, sleepiness, prayer, dispassion, and love, to name a few.
These are arranged very carefully in an order that moves the reader from the
basic requirements of monasticism, through the struggles of the practical life,
to the theological pinnacles of prayer, dispassion, and love. Yet the Ladder can
hardly be called systematic or even linear. Its coherence lies in the organic unity
of its writer’s thought and so, while it is possible to get lost among the topics
treated, it is not possible to choose one that defines the Ladder’s spiritual vision.
Nor is it possible that structural analysis alone will, by laying out the order of
argument and the particular relations among topics, provide a clear under-
standing of the content of St John’s thought. I have, therefore, chosen to focus
on an organizing feature, perhaps the fundamental organizing feature, of that
thought: the engagement with and practice of death. The “memory of death” is
treated explicitly in the sixth rung, itself one of the shortest in the Ladder. But
exhortations to remember, contemplate, imagine, and consider death reverber-
ate throughout St John’s work, focusing, conditioning, and explaining the
demands and ideals of asceticism as he presents them. The engagement with
death provides, then, a key to understanding the Ladder as a unified and coher-
ent text.
The nearness of death in ascetic literature shocked me when I first read the
Desert Fathers, as I think it must shock and dismay others. In the modern West-
ern world, death is taboo—perhaps the last taboo. We hide it away in nursing
homes and funeral parlors, take pains to look and feel “younger,” try any num-
ber of agonizing medical treatments if only to prolong existence for a few
Preface ix
months. In such a death-denying world, reading ascetic literature seriously

means being confronted by a reality we would rather not consider. The “mem-
ory of death” means making that confrontation daily, dwelling in sight of death,
and taking seriously our mortality and its consequences. Indeed, engagement
with death is one of St John’s greatest inheritances from earlier ascetics, for
whom “memory of death” was almost a watchword of ascetic rigor. While it was
of great concern to these authors, like the Ladder, death among ascetics has yet
to receive its scholarly due. A second goal of this study, then, is to explore the
ways in which Greek ascetic writers, and particularly St John, used daily engage-
ments with death to craft and cultivate a Christian identity and lifestyle.
Engagement with death means two things in the literature under considera-
tion. First, there is the “memory of death,” by which ascetic writers generally
mean two types of contemplative practice: meditation on one’s inevitable but
unknowable demise, and contemplation (even figuration) of the divine judg-
ment that follows. Both practices are simultaneously paraenetic and existential:
they bespeak the reality of ascetics’ mortal condition, and urge them away from
vices and toward virtues that divine judgment picks out as particularly salient.
The urgency that death imparts to spiritual practice is matched by the focus it
demands on the present moment, and both are of paramount importance in
Greek ascetic literature. Second, there is the “practice of death,” which, unlike
the “memory of death,” has no specific vocabulary. Rather, it is a term I use to
index a range of practices worked out as interpretations of Pauline and biblical
exhortations and admonitions to “die to oneself ” or to one’s neighbor. Monas-
tic writers often interpret these very strongly and urge their readers to be “like
the dead,” to imitate corpses, to die—full stop. Underlying this strong rhetoric,
we find that actual practices vary a good deal in the literature and can range
from rather extreme forms of fasting and penance, coupled with bold claims
about attaining dispassion, to quieter exercises in meditation, forgiveness, non-
judgment, and that greatest of monastic virtues, humility. There is no one tra-
jectory of thought on death or of the theological claims predicated on its
engagement. Rather, in tracing a genealogy of ideas down to the Ladder, this
study will highlight the wide variety of claims and concerns about death in a
burgeoning literary tradition. Death provides, then, a specific test case for dis-
cerning St John’s location in tradition, his fidelity to it, and his unique voice in
light of it.
In the Ladder, “memory of death” provides the framework within which a
monk interprets every facet of his own past, present, and future. The realities
of death and judgment define his perception of events, conversations, and
even material objects. In turn, the “practice of death” becomes in St John’s
hands a means of harmonizing the monk’s life as an imitation of Christ with
the necessities of failure and repentance. Death becomes a way of cultivating
a Christian identity that takes account of human frailty. It is St John’s great
genius to take up so many ideas of his forebears—ideas that do not sit easily
x Preface
together, that sometimes were worked out in opposition to each other—and

nail them together seamlessly into his Ladder.
The Ladder is a lens through which we can see tradition refracted, and so the
final goal of this study is, by locating the Ladder genealogically in what St John
would have known as his “tradition,” to discern something of the dynamics of
fidelity and creativity operating among Byzantine theologians. We can see how
St John orients himself toward those authors he thinks of as his “fathers.” By
calling them fathers he sets up a subtle analogy between authoritative authors
and the older monks under whom novices train at the monastery. There is, like-
wise, an implicit analogy between the obligations of monastic life worked out
through imitation of and obedience to one’s elders, and the obligations of writ-
ing within a literary-theological tradition. One imitates and follows one’s liter-
ary elders, not only in style or rhetoric, but in doctrinal, psychological, and
practical ideas. Yet one also may become an elder, as St John did, to be followed
and imitated in turn by later generations. St John illustrates this process beauti-
fully and it is my hope that this study will also open up fruitful questions about
the interplay of fidelity to tradition and the obligation of creativity in Byzantine
spirituality, and in the spirituality of the Eastern Orthodox churches that define
themselves in many ways by claiming Byzantium as their own inheritance.
Many people deserve my gratitude for making this book possible. First is my
doctoral supervisor, priest, and friend, Fr. Andrew Louth. Like many before
and after me, I learned from him to love the traditions about which I have writ-
ten, and I owe him as much for that as for his prescient guidance and unstinting
erudition. He has also proven a faithful guide and friend to my family and me
during formative and tumultuous times in our lives, and for that we are grate-
ful. I wish also to thank Lewis Ayres, whose comments and critiques are ever
insightful and whose company is a delight. From Durham, I want to thank
David Nyström, David Wagschal, Evaggelos Bartzis, Charlie Shepherd, Jeremy
Bergstrom, James White, and Krastu Banev. These men have been friends and
traveling companions, partners in conversation intellectual and otherwise, all
of whom I miss dearly and without whom I would never have finished any of
this. To them I owe a profound debt.
Three church communities have been home during the period of my doctor-
ate and since. I owe so much to Holy Trinity Antiochian Orthodox Church in
Santa Fe, New Mexico and to Fr. John Bethancourt—this community was our
first introduction to Eastern Orthodoxy and its traditions, and it supported us
in many ways long after we had left Santa Fe. In Durham, the parish of St Cuth-
bert and St Bede, filled with students and travelers, sustained us for nearly five
years. Here in Houston, Annunciation Greek Orthodox Cathedral has become
our home, and has reminded me regularly of the love of the tradition and spir-
ituality of the Fathers which Fr. John and Fr. Andrew first inspired in me.
Lastly, I want to thank my family, especially my parents Rodney and Jennifer,
who raised me to love intellectual inquiry, and who have sacrificed so much
Preface xi
to make this book possible; Amanda, who has never failed to support a big
brother who could not deserve such a fine sister; and Zoe, my daughter, who
appeared midway through the doctorate and who has enriched all our lives in
so many ways. And most of all I thank Tatiana, bride of my youth, to whom I
owe everything.
Houston, Texas
Sunday of the Ladder, 2014
Contents
Prefaceâ•… vii
Abbreviationsâ•…
xv
Introduction: Approaching the Ladder as a Text in Traditionâ•… 1

The Place of the Studyâ•… 4
Tradition and the Individual Monkâ•… 18
The Shape of the Present Studyâ•… 24
Conclusion: Locating the Ladder within Traditionâ•… 28
1. John of Sinai and the Quest for Unityâ•… 29
The Ladder’s Author, John of Sinaiâ•… 29
The Quest for Unityâ•… 36
Running toward Deathâ•… 50
2. Biblical and Philosophical Foundationsâ•… 52
The Biblical Vocabulary of Deathâ•… 53
Philosophical Practices: Death and Remembranceâ•… 63
3. The Life of Antony: Embracing Death on the Ascent to Godâ•… 80
A Rule in Narrativeâ•… 81
The New Man and the Old Enemyâ•… 85
The Continuity of Life and Deathâ•… 91
Daily Dyingâ•… 95
4. The Desert Fathers: “Like a body whose soul has departed”â•… 103
Imagining Death and Judgmentâ•… 103
Living Beyond Death: Opposition of the Agesâ•… 111
Living in Deathâ•… 122
Ambivalenceâ•…136
5. The Great Old Men of Gaza: Learning to Die through Obedienceâ•… 143
The Memory of Death as Judgmentâ•… 145
The Mortal Self and the Limit of Deathâ•… 153
Practicing Death in Gazaâ•… 162
Ambiguity and Crucifixionâ•… 175
6. The Ladder of Divine Ascent: Death Makes the Christianâ•… 182
The Temporal and Iconic Framework of the Ascetic Lifeâ•… 183
The Ascetic Life as Death and Resurrectionâ•… 207
Imitating Christ through Deathâ•… 218
xiv Contents
Conclusion: John Climacus’ Achievementâ•… 224

The Parts and the Wholeâ•… 224
The Gift of Traditionâ•… 225
Bibliographyâ•…
229
Indexâ•… 249
Abbreviations
Primary Sources
Full entries for translations can be found in the Bibliography. Page numbers in
editions will be given in the footnotes only when it is a quotation or the particu-
lar wording of the passage is at stake. Page numbers in translations are only
given if those translations have been relied upon. For sources in established
series, only the series abbreviation and volume number is given.
Apophthegmata Patrum
Alphabeticon Referenced as “Name #”. PG 65: 71–440, supplemented by

Recherches sur la tradition grecque des Apophthegmata Patrum,
Subisidia Hagiographica 36 (Brussels: Société des bollandistes),â•›
19–36.
Anonyma Referenced as “N #”. Wortley, John (ed. and trans.), 2013, The
Anonymous Sayings of the Desert Fathers: A Select Edition and
Complete English Translation (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press).
Systematica SC 387, 474, 498.
Athanasius of Alexandria
gent. Contra gentes, Thompson, Robert (ed. and trans.), 1972, Con-
tra Gentes and De Incarnatione, OECT (Oxford: Clarendon
Press), 2–133.
inc. De incarnatione, SC 199.
v. Anton. Vita Antonii, SC 400.
Basil of Caesarea
reg. br. Asceticon Magnum: regulae brevius tractatae, PG 31:

1052–1305.
reg. fus. Asceticon Magnum: regulae fusius tractatae [cum Praefatio],
PG 31: 889–1052.
xvi Abbreviations
Clement of Alexandria
q.d.s. Quis dives salvetur? GCS 17.

str. Stromateis, GCS 15.
Evagrius of Pontus
cap. prac. Tractatus practicus vel monachus SC 170–71.

Eulog. Tractatus ad Eulogium, PG 79:1094D–1140A.
inst. Institutio sive Paraenesis ad monachos (recensio brevior), PG
79: 1235–40.
mal. cog. De diversis malignis cogitationibus, Recensio brevius, PG 79:
1200D–1234A; Recensio fusius, SC 438.
or. Tractatus de oratione, PG 79: 1166A–1200D.
rer. mon. De rerum monachalium rationes, PG 40: 1252D–64C.
sent. mon. Sententiae ad Monachos, TU 39.4: 115–35.
spir. mal. De octo spiritibus malitiae, Recensio A, PG 79: 1146A–64D.
vit. De vitiis quae oppositae sunt virtutibus, PG 79: 1140B–44D.
John Climacus
ep. Epistulae, PG 88: 623A–28C.

Ladder Scala Paradisi, PG 88: 632–1164.
past. Ad pastorem, PG 88: 1165–1207.
Mark the Monk
De lege De lege spirituali, SC 445, 74–128.

Ad Nicolaum ad Nicolaum praecepta animae salutaria, SC 455, 106–54.
Operibus De his qui putant se ex operibus justificari, SC 445, 130–200.
Ps-Macarius
Collectio B Sermones (collectio B), GCS 55–56.

Collectio H Sermones (collectio H), PTS 4.
Seneca
cons. Marc. Ad Marciam de consolatione, LCL 254.

cons. Polyb. Ad Polybium de consolatione, LCL 254.
Abbreviations xvii
ep. Ad Lucilium epistulae morales, in L. D. Reynolds (ed.), Ad

Lucilium epistulae morales, 2 vols., Oxford Classical Texts
(Oxford: OUP, 1965); trans. Fantham 2010.
Other Ancient Texts
h. Laus. Palladius of Helenopolis, Historia Lausiaca, Bartelink, G.J.M.

(ed.), 1974, Palladio. La storia Lausiaca (Verona: Fondazione
Lorenzo Valla).
h. mon. Historia Monachorum in Aegypto, ed. A.-J. Festugiere, 1961,
Subsidia Hagiographica Graeca 34 (Brussels).
perf. Diadochus of Photice, Capita centum de perfectione spirituali,
Rutherford, Janet E., 2000, One hundred practical texts of per-
ception and spiritual discernment from Diadochos of Photike,
Belfast Byzantine Texts and Translations 8 (Belfast: Institute of
Byzantine Studies).
Philokalia Macarius of Corinth and Nicodemus of Athos (eds.), 1982,
ΦΙΚΟΚΑΛΙΑ ΤΩΝ ΙΕΡΩΝ ΝΗΠΤΙΚΩΝ ΠΑΤΕΡΩΝ (Ven-
ice, 1782; reprinted in 5 vols.; Athens: Aster).
prat. John Moschus, Pratum Spirituale, PG 87.3: 2851–3116; sup-
plemented by Mioni, Elpido, “Il Pratum Spirituale di giovanni
Mosco: Gli episodi inediti del Cod. Marciano Greco II, 21,”
OCP 17 (1951), 61–94; and Nissen, Th., “Unbekannte
Erzählungen aus dem Pratum Spirituale,” Byzantinische
Zeitschrift 38 (1938), 251–76.
resp. Barsanuphius and John of Gaza, Quaestiones et Responsiones,
SC 426–27, 450–51, 468.
SVF Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta, ed. H. von Arnim, 4 vols.
1923–38 (Leipzig: Teubner).
Tusc. Cicero, Tusculanae disputationes, LCL 141.
v. Jo. Clim. Daniel of Raithou, Vita Joanni cognomento Scholastici, vulgo
Climaci, PG 88:596–608, with miracle accounts (PG 88:
608–609) and the Menological entries (PG 88: 609–12).
Other Abbreviations
CCSG Corpus Christianorum Series Graeca.

CCSL Corpus Christianorum Series Latina.
CS Cistercian Studies.
CSCO Corpus Scriptorum Christianum Orientalium.
CSEL Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum.
CWS Classics of Western Spirituality.
xviii Abbreviations
DOP Dumbarton Oaks Papers.

DS Dictionnaire du Spiritualité, 20 vols., M. Viller et al. (eds.),
1937–95 (Paris: Beauchesne).
ECW Early Christian Writers.
ET English Translation.
GCS Die griechischen Christlichen Schriftsteller.
GNO Gregorii Nysseni opera, 10 vols., W. Jaeger et al. (eds.),
2008–09 (repr. Leiden: Brill).
JECS Journal of Early Christian Studies.
JTS Journal of Theological Studies.
Lampe Lampe, G. W. H. (ed.), 1961, A Patristic Greek Lexicon
(Oxford: Clarendon Press).
LCL Loeb Classical Library.
LSJ Liddell, H. G., Scott, R., Jones, H. S., and McKenzie, R. (eds.),
1996 (9th ed.), A Greek–English Lexicon with a Revised Supple-
ment (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
OCP Orientalia Christiana Periodica.
OECS Oxford Early Christian Studies.
OECT Oxford Early Christian Texts.
PG Migne, J.-P. (ed.), Patrologiae cursus completus series Graeca.
PL Migne, J.-P. (ed.), Patrologiae cursus completus series Latina.
PO Patrologia Orientalis.
PTS Patristische Texte und Studien.
SC Sources Chrétiennes.
SP Studia Patristica.
SVTQ Saint Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Quarterly.
TDNT Kittel, Gerhardt and Bromiley, Geoffrey W. (eds.), 1964–76,
Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, trans. Geoffrey
W. Bromiley (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans).
TU Texte und Untersuchungen.
VC Vigiliae Christianae.
Ἀθάνατοι θνητοί, θνητοὶ ἀθάνατοι,
ζῶντες τὸν ἐκείνων θάνατον,
τὸν δὲ ἐκείνων βίον τεθνεῶτες.
Heraclitus of Ephesus, frag. 62
For this corruptible must put on incorruption,

and this mortal must put on immortality.
So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption,
and this mortal shall have put on immortality,
then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written,
Death is swallowed up in victory.
1 Corinthians 15.53–54, King James Version
Introduction: Approaching the Ladder
as a Text in Tradition
One might say that Christianity rendered the souls of the living and those
of the dead continuous in a new way, as if the living soul were in some
sense already dead, while the dead soul, in that very same sense, were still
alive.
Robert Pogue Harrison, The Dominion of the Dead
No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His signifi-
cance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets
and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for contrast and
comparison, among the dead.
T. S. Eliot, “Tradition and the Individual Talent”
John Climacus, abbot of the Vatos Monastery at the base of Gebel Musa on the
Sinaite peninsula, penned the following words, probably in the mid-seventh
century:
A monk is: achievement of the order and state of the bodiless beings in a material
and defiled body.
A monk is: one who holds only God’s edicts and words in every time, place, and
act.
A monk is: ceaseless struggle against nature and unfailing prison of senses.
A monk is: chastened body and purified mouth and enlightened mind.
A monk is: afflicted—a soul trained by ceaseless memory of death, whether asleep
or awake.1
These definitions of a monk form a significant portion of the opening chapter
of his magnum opus, the Ladder of Divine Ascent (Κλίμαξ τοῦ Παραδείσου, Scala
Paradisi), a work that would exercise unparalleled influence on later Byzantine
1
â•‡ Scala Paradisi, §1 (633B–C); see “Abbreviations” in this volume for editions and ETs. All
translations are my own unless otherwise noted.
2 The Role of Death in the Ladder of Divine Ascent
and Eastern Christian spiritual traditions. I have italicized the last definition
because, as this study will demonstrate, engagement with death is fundamental
to the development of the monk and, for John, thanatological vocabulary
underpins and informs all the preceding definitions. The monk’s home is his
“tomb before the tomb . . . For no one leaves the tomb until the general resur-
rection. But if some depart, know that they have already died.”2 The monk lives
as though dead on the earth yet, as this passage indicates, differently from those
who have “died” through premature departure from the monastery—for whom
death seems to be a final and damnatory state. As this book will show, by defin-
ing the monk as dead and then using death to distinguish the saved from the
damned, Climacus, building on traditional ascetic ideas, makes of death a sym-
bolic framework within which to cultivate and communicate the contours of
Christian ascetic identity—like the wall of the monastery, it divides by its
equivocality those within (the blessed dead) from those without (those perish-
ing). The Ladder highlights the profound importance of understanding prac-
tices such as the “memory of death” and metaphorical deployment of “death”
for interpreting the ideals and tools of Christian asceticism.
Climacus was hardly the first to speak of the “memory of death” or to draw on
death as a metaphor for practices aimed at cultivating a markedly Christian ascet-
ic identity. A peculiar attitude to death as constitutive of life is stitched through the
whole fabric of the early Christian theological tradition. Paul reminded believers
in Rome that in baptism they had “died” and “been buried” with Christ, and so
they ought to live accordingly, expecting resurrection and glory with him as well
(Rom 6.1–12). Jesus in the various Gospel accounts cautioned his disciples that in
order to live they must first die. Matthew’s way of the cross (Mat 16.24) and John’s
fallen grain of wheat, trampled into the dirt only to spring up once more (John
12.24–25), are haunting enough images of this. To see how later generations of
Christians would heed Jesus’ words, one need only remember the veneration of
martyrs who chose death, as Apollonius put it, out of their love of eternal life.3
Death was also integral to the ascetic movement’s rapid growth in the fourth
century and it is on this movement that this study will focus. In Athanasius’ biog-
raphy of him, Antony the Great used the thought of death and Christ’s eschato-
logical judgment to repel the Devil’s advances. Basil of Caesarea imagined death
as the limit and extent of obedience. Evagrius described the memorialization of
death at some length, Ps-Macarius praised the qualities of the corpse, while in the
Apophthegmata Patrum we hear refrains of “dying to oneself,” of “keeping death
before one’s eyes,” and of the virtues that went with these practices. Among Gazan
writers, death in imitation of Jesus would define the “cutting off of one’s will” as
well as endurance in the ascetic life. John Climacus would take his stand self-
consciously within this long line of ascetic theologians, whom he would refer to
as the “discerning Fathers” and profess to follow wholeheartedly. To understand
2
â•‡ Scala Paradisi, §4 (716B). â•‡ Acta et Martyrium Apollonii 30 (Musurillo, 1972, 99).
3
Introduction: Approaching the Ladder as a Text in Tradition 3
Climacus and his contribution to Christian ascetic spirituality, we must also

appreciate and understand those who would influence, inspire, and provide him
with the raw material from which he would craft his own ladder to Paradise. To
understand those before him, we must examine their attitude toward death.
This book, then, comprises a study of Climacus, certainly, and the Ladder, but
also a broad survey of the use of death and the theme of tradition. It will, there-
fore, examine a range of Greek Christian ascetic literature of the centuries lead-
ing up to Climacus’ own lifetime in either the late sixth or mid-seventh centuries.4
I argue that conceptualizations of “death,” considered as both the mortal condi-
tion and entrance into eschatological judgment, provide an evocative symbol on
which these writers regularly draw to cultivate and communicate their ideal
identity as Christians. After introducing John and examining the literary and
spiritual structuring of the Ladder (Chapter 1), we will step back to survey the
tradition in which he wrote. Looking first at the biblical and, in a limited way, the
philosophical foundations of ascetic engagement with death (Chapter 2) we will
then turn to Athanasius of Alexandria’s mitigated but suggestive deployment of
engagement with death in his seminal Vita Antonii (Chapter 3). Chapter 4 then
explores death’s complicated and often ambivalent elaboration in the “Desert
Fathers” of the fifth and early sixth centuries. Chapter 5 examines the corre-
spondence of the Gaza Fathers of the mid-sixth century to show how the themes
and imagery of death became integral to their conceptualization of the ascetic
life. In each of these four chapters we discuss a number of interrelated practices
treated throughout the literature: obedience, renunciation, exile, humility, non-
judgment, dispassion, and, above all, the denial of one’s individual will. These
concepts are common to the writers at hand and constitute the relatively stable
vocabulary of ascetic spirituality. We will range over this vocabulary because the
authors herein examined increasingly describe these various practices in terms
of the practice of “death.” The importance of death for ascetics is demonstrable
from the movement by which death became a dominant feature of the language
of ascetic spirituality. Nevertheless, the movement was slow and often halting,
and so we must pause over crucial ambiguities, ambivalences, and multiple lines
of thought that emerge from the widening use of the language of death.
Finally, Chapter 6 returns to the Ladder to argue that John Climacus frames
the whole range of ascetic practices within an existential engagement with
death that operates on traditional material, variously overcoming, harmoniz-
ing, or at least holding together the variegated threads of spirituality that
emerged in the literature examined in this study. I show that for Climacus the
event and concept of death provide the organizing logic for the ascetic life as
principles according to which a monk can make progress through failure and
become a Christian—in Climacus’ definition a true imitator of Christ. Under
the rubric of death, Climacus, in keeping with the organic search for unity
4
â•‡ I will discuss dating in Chapter 1.
discussed in Chapter 1, draws together the themes and ideas laid out in the
central four chapters and elaborates a profound vision of the human person
and of ascetic spirituality. For him, all progress in the virtues and practices
discussed in the central four chapters is mobilized by a certain existential
engagement with death and takes the form of a metaphorical practice of death
circumscribed by Christ’s dying and rising.
This study sets out, therefore, to accomplish three tasks. First, it shows how
the monastic literature associated with Egypt and Gaza is imbued with the
engagement with and practice of death. Such a study is sorely lacking, which is
why it has seemed necessary to provide one here.5 Second, by examining the
Ladder of Divine Ascent at length in relation to this literature, we offer a holistic
understanding of John Climacus’ contribution to ascetic spirituality as Chris-
tian identity-formation, opening up fruitful avenues for further research on the
Ladder as well as re-examination of later Byzantine ascetic literature. Third, by
elaborating the ways in which ascetics engaged with death in the Desert litera-
ture and the Ladder we demonstrate more clearly the ways in which a Greek
ascetic tradition took or perhaps was given shape as a normative and coherent
body of wisdom that would itself shape later writers in their own traditional
and creative work.
This last point is not only made over the course of the study, but also informs
the choices I have made in terms of material, organization, and hermeneutical
approach. I therefore dedicate the remainder of this Introduction to situating
this study as a meditation on tradition.
THE PLACE OF THE STUDY
I did not originally intend this study to be about Climacus. Having envisioned
a broad thematic survey of death and Greek ascetics, I approached the Ladder
expecting another example among many. What I found in that text and what I
hope to convey to the reader was a profound and synoptic presentation of the
ascetic life in which death and engagement with death figured as a central prin-
ciple and organizing logic. In this sense, at least, the Ladder is a monumental
synthesis of ideas and themes that can be tracked across early monastic litera-
ture. Moreover, its influence was immense in the developing Byzantine ascetic
world and is still unsurpassed in the Christian East. Though as yet barely felt in
the scholarly world, a body of literature is growing around this enigmatic figure
5
â•‡ For evidence of the need, one must look no further than James Kellerman’s recent mono-
graph on the spirituality of humility and self-mortification. Kellerman, while making an other-
wise assiduous study of memento mori traditions, devotes only one paragraph to the role of death
in “asceticism” prior to Thomas Aquinas (2012, 135–36).
and his imaginative treatment of ascetic spirituality. For these two reasons—his
influence and his profundity—I have chosen to focus this study toward the
Ladder. As will become clear, however, focusing toward Climacus means also
seeing the tradition within which he wrote.
Chapter 1 offers a lengthier historical and literary introduction to the Lad-
der, its structure, and its author. After showing the popularity of Climacus’
book and the stability of the text, I will assess the scholarship thus far, primarily
to open up the crucial hermeneutical question of how we can approach the
study of the Ladder. Hermeneutics returns us to one of the central questions of
this study: How does tradition form? I then outline what I believe to be John’s
mode of reception and interaction with traditional material, which demon-
strates the necessity of this remaining a broad thematic study of death in Greek
asceticism, but focused on how that tradition is taken up and elaborated by
Climacus. I show that to understand Climacus we must also understand the
tradition within which he operated, and conclude by explaining which texts
from the early Christian centuries will be examined.
The Ladder in Byzantium and Beyond

John the man is interesting, but it was his work rather than his personality that
would exercise monastic imaginations across the globe. From its textual dis-
semination, it is clear just how important this work was and is, although it has
yet to receive the scholarly attention it deserves. The Ladder itself, however, has
long been a unique locus of reverent study in the Christian East. Peter Brown,
though dedicating to it only a few brief pages in his massive work, The Body and
Society, there called the Ladder the “undisputed masterpiece of Byzantine spir-
itual direction.”6 His comment concerns its content, but also touches on the
Ladder’s popularity. Scripture excepted, almost no other work has exercised
such a profound and lasting influence on Greek Christian ascetic spirituality.
Climacus’ Spiritual Sons

The Ladder’s readership spread from Sinai across the Byzantine Empire and,
thence in Eastern Christian spirituality. In Sinai, Climacus’ work was followed,
expanded, and interpreted by Hesychius (seventh–eighth century?) and
Philotheus (eighth–ninth century?) of Sinai.7 These two authors, whose bio-
graphical details have not survived, but whose short works are memorialized by
6
â•‡ Peter Brown, The Body and Society (2008, 237).
7
â•‡Hesychius, Λόγος πρὸς Θεόδουλον ψυχωφελὴς καὶ σωτήριος περὶ νήψεως καὶ αρετῆς ἐν κεφαλαίοις
διῃρημένος διακοσίοις τρεῖς, Philokalia 1: 141–75; Philotheus, Νηπτικὰ κεφάλαια τεσσαράκοντα,
Philokalia 2: 279-88. See especially their respective introductions in Palmer, Sherrard, Ware, et al.
(1979–95, 1: 161, 3: 15).
their inclusion in the Philokalia,8 together form what some scholars refer to as the
“Sinaite School” of ascetic spirituality.9 The language of “school” unduly pigeon-
holes them, but it remains true that the Ladder so exercised their imagination
that their works more or less amount to elaborations of the Ladder. Further afield,
the great Constantinopolitan monk and monastic organizer Theodore the Stu-
dite (759–826) liked and recommended the Ladder.10 Later, it graced the courtly
library of Basil Galaton, whose son George—better known as Symeon the New
Theologian (949–1022)—discovered it. It inspired and in no small part formed
Symeon’s own ideas about ascetic practice and ideals.11 Continuing the trend,
Symeon’s disciple and biographer, Nicetas Stethatus (eleventh century), like his
mentor drew heavily on the Ladder.12
Later, the Hesychast movement—an important strand of ascetic spirituality
in Byzantium that dominated following its conciliar vindication in the mid-
fourteenth century—turned to the Ladder for instruction.13 Briefly summarized,
hesychasm is the practice of “inner stillness” (ἡσυχία) through certain techniques
such as short, repetitive prayers, the most famous being the “Jesus prayer”: “Lord
Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” Monks, particularly
in Athonite monasteries beginning in the twelfth century (or earlier), underÂ�took
this practice assiduously, seeing in it the apotheosis of ascetic Christian spiriÂ�
tuality. They even claimed that such practices allowed them to reach such a state
of blessedness and union with God that they could physically see what they
referred to as the “uncreated light of Christ.” As the movement spread, its proÂ�
ponents, particularly Gregory of Sinai (1265–1346) and Gregory Palamas
(1296–1359), would turn to the Ladder to find references to both the “Jesus
prayer” and experience of “uncreated light.”14 The Ladder was even the subject of
two commentaries by Byzantine hesychasts: Elias, Metropolitan of Crete’s (fl.
8
â•‡ An anthology edited by Macarius of Corinth and Nicodemus of Athos and published in 1782;
it is composed of works conducive to or consciously written about what had become known as
“hesychast spirituality,’ discussed later.
9
â•‡ Palmer, Sherrard, Ware, et al. (1979–95, 3: 15); Völker (1968, 291–314). See also John Chrys-
savgis’ more cautious assessment in Chryssavgis (2004, 39).
10
â•‡ Theodore the Studite, Epistulae 150, 303; Theodore several times defers to “the holy Clima-
cus” in his own catecheses: Μεγάλη κατήχησις 73, 98, 122 (Papadopoulos [1904, 505, 706, 913]).
11
â•‡ Nicetas Stethatus, Vita Symeonis Novi Theologici 6. The name George is only to be conjec-
tured from cryptic references in Symeon’s own writings in Turner (1990, 17).
12
â•‡ It is clear from Symeon’s own writings as well as Nicetas’ biography that Symeon drew from
Climacus his emphasis on tears and the memory of death, as well as his views on the “spiritual
father.” See especially Ware (1989b). Nicetas’ teaching on tears reflects what we find in both Cli-
macus and Symeon: “On the Practice of the Virtues,” 69–70 in Palmer, Sherrard, Ware, et al.
(1979–95, 4: 97). See also Alfeyev (2000, 273).
13
â•‡Couilleau (1974, 379–80, 382–86, 386–87); Chryssavgis (2004, 222–32); Ware (1982,
43–58). So also Bogdanovic (1968, 222–24).
14
â•‡ Nicephorus the Monk, “On Watchfulness and the Guarding of the Heart” in Palmer, Sher-
rard, Ware, et al. (1979–95, 4: 200); Gregory of Sinai, “On Stillness: Fifteen Texts,” 2–13 (4: 265–
72), and “On Prayer: Seven Texts,” 4–5 (4: 277–80); and Gregory Palamas, “In Defense of Those
Who Devoutly Practise a Life of Stillness,” 4–7 (4: 335–37).
c.1120) massive and esoteric commentary, and Nicephorus Callistus Xantho-

poulos’ (c.1256–1335) “Brief Exegesis.”15 Both commentators enlist Climacus as
a fellow hesychast, an enthusiast of the Jesus prayer and, proleptically, a Palamite
mystic. While it would be very hard indeed to claim that hesychast readings of
the Ladder reflect the concerns of the text or the mind of its author, it is probable
that hesychasts found not only inspiration but, more especially, legitimacy and
the unquestionable stamp of tradition, from imaginative readings of the
Ladder.16
While the Ladder alone hardly imparted to later Byzantine spirituality its
unique character, it does appear in later writings as a beloved and authoritative
document, recommended reading for monks and hesychasts, as well as lay peo-
ple common and royal. Climacus was not the only author so memorialized, nor
the Ladder the only work, and yet it more than any other is cited, used, and
recommended by name. Understanding later Byzantine theological and spirit-
ual thought demands that we pay sustained attention to this formative moment
in its tradition.
The Character of the Text

Aside from references in later writers, even a brief glance at the Ladder’s textual
history reveals a vast and widely dispersed manuscript tradition extending well
beyond Byzantium’s borders. To judge from its surviving manuscripts, the Lad-
der is—Scripture excepted—one of the most popular spiritual works of the
Christian East.17 Written in the seventh century, by the eighth century it was
translated into Syriac; by the eleventh into Georgian, Armenian, and Slavonic.
By the fourteenth century it had been translated into Latin, Romanian, and
then Spanish, Portuguese, and more.18 Each monastery would have had a copy,
15
â•‡ Nicephorus Callistus Xanthopoulos, ΕΧΗΓΗΣΙΣ ΣΥΝΤΟΜΟΣ ΕΙΣ ΤΗΝ ΚΛΙΜΑΚΑ ΤΟΥ
ΙΟΑΝΝΟΥ. Ἀπὸ τὸν κωδικα 1 τῆς Ἵερας Μητροπόλεως Νικοπόλεως (Codex unicus). Nicephorus
seems to have written this commentary as an accessible and (relatively) concise alternative to
Elias’ three-volume tome. Elias’ commentary has never been published, but snippets of it were
written into the margins of manuscripts of the Ladder, becoming scholia, and form much of the
scholiastic material in Rader’s edition of the Ladder. On which, see Antonopoulou (2007a and
2007b).
16
â•‡ Hesychasm was a relatively recent development and its claims struck many as “novel”—the
dirtiest word in Byzantine theological vocabulary. Its proponents defended its traditionality by
scouring accepted works by Mark the Monk, Diadochus of Photice, Nilus of Ancyra, the Gaza
Fathers, and Climacus for possible references to hesychasm.
17
â•‡ Robert Sinkewicz lists more than 700 Greek manuscripts. Of these, 300 date from before
1300 ce. To these must be added Slavonic (of which Bogdanovic lists 108), Romanian, Syriac, Ara-
bic, Georgian, Armenian, and even the Latin manuscripts which would follow, see Sinkewicz
(1992, L21–C22); see also Johnsén (2007,10–11); Bogdanovic (1968, 205–208); Gribomont (1960).
18
â•‡ Couilleau (1974, 382–86); Corneanu (1963). Portions of the Ladder survive in Ethiopic as
well—sections of §6 (on the Memory of Death) in the Patericon Aethiopice, as well as a recently
published version of §5 (on Repentance) in Beylot (2009).
as did kings and princes, scholars, courtiers, and other laymen.19 The evidence
also suggests that these were well read and much loved. For example, the Lad-
der was kept in Romanian households and handed down like a family Bible.20
Likewise, at the other end of the social spectrum, Byzantine courtiers might
keep a copy in their private library; and it is intriguing that after Scripture, the
Ladder is the most frequently quoted text in the surviving correspondence of
the Russian Tsar Ivan IV “the Terrible” (1530–84), though perhaps we should
not hold Ivan’s appreciation against John or the Ladder.21 The numerous surviv-
ing manuscripts are also heavily illuminated and illustrated,22 while iconic
depictions of the Ladder itself adorn numerous monastery church interiors. Of
these, while the sober tones of the Sinaite icon are the best known, there are
other sorts of representation as well. In particular, one of the Moldavian “Paint-
ed Monasteries,” Mănăstirea Suceviţa’s southern exterior is entirely covered
with a massive and colorful representation of the Ladder, with every available
space occupied either by demons or angels. Clearly, Climacus’ masterpiece
fired the artistic imagination of Byzantine copyists and iconographers. While
authorial references reveal it as influential in certain circles, the manuscript
tradition shows the Ladder as an enormously popular and highly respected text
across the entire Christian East.
Though widely disseminated and frequently copied, the Ladder has a rela-
tively stable textual transmission. Where we might expect dozens of different
versions representing the assimilation of enthusiastic copyists (as happens
with John Moschus’ Pratum Spirituale or the Apophthegmata Patrum), we
find, for the most part, a text free from significant variation. Henrik Johnsén
has usefully compiled results from the Ladder’s editors and scholars, discern-
ing five more or less common types of variation: the title of the book, the titles
of the rungs, the division of some rungs, explanatory additions, and short
omissions—all of which are really quite minor. There is one other point of
significant variance, though not in the text itself. Manuscripts of the Ladder
very often have bodies of scholia (interpretive comments) either appended to
chapters or in the margins. In some cases, the scholia have found their way
into the text—thus the “explanatory additions.” These vary more widely with-
in the manuscript tradition. In Rader’s edition, for example, many of the scho-
lia originate in Elias of Crete’s twelfth-century commentary, while others are
quotations mined from various ecclesiastical and ascetic writers and applied
to the Ladder by scribes; some are simply brief comments written about the
Ladder from anonymous and sometimes surprising sources such as Byzantine
Emperor Leo VI (866–912).23 Scholia aside, Johnsén concludes that “there are
variations in the manuscripts, but they do not seem to be numerous and rarely
19
â•‡ Since the Ladder was to be read each Lent, no monastery library could be without it.
20
â•‡ Corneanu (1963, 342). 21
â•‡ Chryssavgis (2004, 236).
22
â•‡ Martin (1954). 23
â•‡ On these see Antonopoulou (2007a and 2007b).
of much importance.”24 In this way the Ladder differs from other very popular
works such as the Apophthegmata Patrum or the Pratum Spirituale, whose
textual transmission is as tortuous as it is vast.25 Rather, the Ladder’s greatest
point of variation emerges in the body of scholia, not always well distinguished
from the text to which it is attached.
These two facts—stability and commentary—allow us to characterize how
the Ladder was perceived by its readers. It was understood as an authoritative
collection of wisdom and so, while its author could remain all but anonymous,
its copying was undertaken with great care—changes being rare (except for
book and chapter titles), and illustrations (even color ones) popular. This same
perception explains the more widely varied body of scholia which have, in
some cases, attached to the text itself: as it was read and interpreted, pieces of
Elias’ commentary and other bits of wisdom (often attributed to if not directly
taken from works of famous luminaries such as Isaac the Syrian, Barsanuphius
of Gaza, and others), which recalled the Ladder or with which it resonated,
would be inserted in the margins to explain this or that obscure point. It was—
like works by Maximus Confessor, Dionysius the Areopagite, or Gregory Nazi-
anzen to which similar bodies of scholia have attached—difficult to understand,
but, like them, worth the labor. It became an altar of meditative reading onto
which readers might pour out libations of wisdom drawn from numerous
fonts.
In light of textual stability and the continuing lack of a critical edition, I have
relied confidently on the editio princeps by Matthew Rader, reprinted in Migne’s
Patrologia Graeca (PG).26 Though it has undeniable flaws—misreadings, omis-
sions, typos, the usual litany of errata associated with texts in PG—it is a repre-
sentative and reasonably accurate rendering of the Ladder. Another edition, by
the monk Sophronius, is preferred by Petit and Couilleau.27 In favor of Rader’s
edition, Dimitrije Bogdanovic noted that “the edition of M. Rader . . . is, to our
mind, still usable, since the variants, so far as there are any, are neither numer-
ous nor important.”28 More recently, Johnsén has made a persuasive case for
preferring Rader’s edition. He has analyzed Sophronius’ text and finds that the
well-intentioned monk had no qualms about incorporating scholia and his
own readings into the text when he felt that explanation might be required.29
24
â•‡ Johnsén (2007, 16).
25
â•‡ On the Apophthegmata Patrum see, for example, Guy (1955, 252–58); as well as citations in
Chapter 4. On the Pratum Spirituale, see Mioni (1951) and Chadwick (1974, 41–47).
26
â•‡ Sancti patris nostri Ioannis Scholastici abbatis Montis Sina qui vulgo Climacus appellatur
opera omnia (1633), reprinted, PG 88: 632–1164.
27
â•‡ Sophronios (1959); preferred by L. Petit (1924, 690–93) and G. Couilleau (1974, 382). Ware,
Chryssavgis, and others have repeated Petit’s and Couilleau’s preference without critically apprais-
ing it.
28
â•‡ Bogdanovic (1968, 217). 29
â•‡ Johnsén (2007, 12–19).
Sophronius’ text, therefore, is less reliable as a witness to the Ladder than Rad-
er’s which, for its faults, leaves the text alone. While the scholia are interesting
and valuable, meriting further study in their own right, I have not used them in
this study, as they lie somewhat outside its hermeneutical purview.
The scholia, like the manuscript tradition itself, are emblematic of Climacus’
great popularity and authority as a spiritual writer. His tremendous celebrité,
more than anything else, continues to astonish me. Climacus and the Ladder
are commemorated on the Fourth Sunday of Lent in Eastern Orthodox church-
es and in Orthodox monasteries the Ladder is prescribed daily Lenten reading
alongside Theodore the Studite’s Catecheses and the “Greek” Ephrem’s metrical
homilies in the Triodion—the Lenten service-book—thus perennially reinforc-
ing its dominant position in Eastern Christian spirituality.30 One can easily see
from the foregoing survey of its literary influence and textual tradition that
John Climacus—or rather his Ladder—is well worth scholarly attention.
Though the textual critics and historians alike find themselves stymied
before this unknown man John and his improbably popular work, it cannot be
denied that understanding the Ladder greatly facilitates our comprehension of
the complex development of various traditions and, in particular, the hesychast
movement in later Byzantine and Eastern Orthodox spirituality. Likewise, it
gives us an important insight into the spiritual expectations and reading habits
of generations of Eastern Christians. In light of its popularity and influence the
continuing scantiness of scholarly attention is surprising, even with the lack of
scientific critical edition. The Ladder, therefore, deserves greater attention and
more nuanced interpretation than it has so far received.
The State of Climacian Studies

I must confess to a bit of irony in using the term “Climacian studies.” Unlike so
many Church Fathers whose venerable names have been applied eponymously
to the ever-increasing bodies of scholarly literature dedicated to their study,
Climacus has garnered no such legacy. To date there are only six monographs
and a few dozen articles dedicated to the man or the work. Apart from these, a
few book chapters, two introductions, and the requisite dictionary entries
make up the bulk of what we may affectionately term “Climacian studies.” This
situation is certainly surprising, given the incredible popularity of the Ladder
among Byzantine and Eastern Christians, but, in fact, it is probably perpetuat-
ed by precisely that popularity. The Ladder’s manuscript tradition, as I have
noted, is so vast and complex—however stable it may be—as to preclude the
critical edition which is undoubtedly the cornerstone of a scholarly corpus.
Nevertheless, the literature grows and two clearly discernible hermeneutical
30
â•‡ Lash (2003, 82–83).
trends have emerged. I will outline these, then introduce the relevant literature
accorded to them, before moving on to the more detailed hermeneutical
discussion.
John Climacus wrote probably three centuries after the Christian ascetic
movement exploded across the Mediterranean world. He wrote with the accu-
mulated wisdom of those centuries spread before his eyes or in his memory,
and his own work is deeply indebted to a wide range of literature. He was also
followed by numerous authors who either continued his work in their own way
or—as was more common among the hesychasts—dutifully plundered his
pages for whatever might be amenable to their own practices and beliefs. Thus,
when reading Climacus, it is tempting both to look back to the world that
shaped his text and forward to the world that was shaped by his text. These two
ways of approaching Climacus have hermeneutically defined much of what
scholars have accomplished so far.
The Discerning Fathers

In 1968, Walther Völker published Scala Paradisi. Eine Studie zu Johannes Cli-
macus und zugleich eine Vorstudie zu Symeon dem Neuen Theologen,31 one of a
series of works he wrote on Greek patristic spirituality.32 In it, he analyzed the
Ladder chapter by chapter, attempting to work out the practical spirituality he
found therein. What is interesting about this piece is that, aside from careful
examination of Climacus’ possible sources, Völker approached Climacus as
preparation for an examination of later Byzantine theology; that he dedicated
the final chapters to the “Sinaite school” and to Symeon the New Theologian
shows that he has in mind the Ladder’s Nachlass and, indeed, this significantly
colors his approach. In the same year appeared Dimitrije Bogdanovic’s Jovan
Lestvičnik u vizantijskog i staroj srpskoj književnosti, whose closing chapter was
written in French rather than Serbo-Croat. Bogdanovic was clearly a careful
reader of Climacus, though he, too, was deeply concerned with later readings of
Climacus and, especially, his influence on the hesychast tradition. In 1989, John
Chryssavgis published his doctoral dissertation entitled Ascent to Heaven: The
Theology of the Human Person according to Saint John of the Ladder, which over
the years he refined into John Climacus: From the Egyptian Desert to the Sinaite
Mountain. This book is less a study of Climacus than an interesting essay in
theological anthropology for which the Ladder, Christos Yannaras’ creative
theology,33 and Palamite hesychasm provide three entangled root systems.
31
â•‡ Full bibliographical information for all works mentioned can be found in the Bibliography.
32
â•‡ This is actually not the first book on the Ladder, but it is the first monograph dedicated to its
teaching. Martin (1954) is a useful demonstration of the fusion of Byzantine artistic and spiritual
consciousness, and includes a Greek “Penitential Canon to the Holy Criminals,” discussed in
Chapter 4.
33
â•‡ Yannaras (1971).
Chryssavgis exerts great effort to find hesychast leanings in Climacus.34 How-

ever, it must be noted that Chryssavgis also tries to present Climacus as a con-
tinuator of the Gaza “School.”35 While a useful trajectory of spirituality to follow,
Chryssavgis tends to read the Gaza Fathers as curiously existentialist-Palamite
hesychasts as well.36
More recently, thanks to a salutary push from Germanic historical scholar-
ship, the pendulum has swung in the opposite direction. In 2006, Andreas
Müller wrote his massive Das Konzept des geistlichen Gehorsams bei Johannes
Sinaites. Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte eines Elements orthodoxer Konfession-
skultur. Müller attempts to radically redate Climacus, situating him in the
latter decades of Justinian’s reign, allowing him to formulate a new under-
standing of Climacus’ ideas on monastic organization. But as far as what
Climacus thought was obedience, Müller tells us little new, ultimately pre-
senting a picture derived much more from the Apophthegmata and Basil of
Caesarea than anything else. Müller’s reading shows us little of the unique
genius of Climacus. The following year, Henrik Rydell Johnsén published his
doctoral dissertation entitled Reading John Climacus: Rhetorical Argumenta-
tion, Literary Convention and the Tradition of Monastic Formation. This most
recent work also looks backward to Byzantine rhetorical practice. Johnsén
works very hard at what he calls a “literary” interpretation of the Ladder,
discerning forms of argumentation and prose style. His conclusions are fas-
cinating, but most intriguing is his attempt to re-evaluate Climacus’ relation-
ship withÂ�Â�tradition—meaning, for Johnsén, his literary sources. He, too,
presents Climacus as working from other peoples’ work—this time the Greek
Systematic collection of the Apophthegmata and Evagrius’ more practical
treatises. For Johnsén, Climacus is neither systematizer nor synthesizer—he
merely adapts the wisdom of others to his own situation and so rhetorical
and paideutic strategies exhaust the meaning of the Ladder—there is no
question of its “content.”
During the twentieth century, L. Petit, G. Couilleau, and Kallistos Ware
wrote fascinating introductory pieces on Climacus. Each of these engages Cli-
macus with a deep consciousness of his debt and repayment to tradition. Ware’s
is by far the most complete, concise, accessible, and informative introduction to
the Ladder available in English—possibly in any language. However, he too
betrays a certain predilection for a hesychast reading of Climacus, though he is
more cautious about it than Chryssavgis.37 There have also been a number of
very interesting articles on the structure of the Ladder, which will be evaluated
at some length in Chapter 1.38
34
â•‡ Chryssavgis (2004, 95–97, 228–32). 35
36
â•‡ I can only hope that such a term does not actually exist.
37
â•‡ Ware (1982, 43–58). 38
â•‡ Price (1980), Lawrence (1988), and Duffy (1999).
The Need for a Hermeneutic

The history of Climacian studies, though brief, reveals a common hermeneuti-
cal problem faced by anyone wanting to understand the Ladder. Its traditional-
ity, its celebrité, and its unique genius require of the scholar something of the
Pascalian ésprit de finesse: the comprehension which can at once grasp the Lad-
der’s place within a much wider body of ascetic literature while expositing its
particular content. Depth and breadth are both in high demand for a solid her-
meneutic. While the hermeneutic commonly supplied by Eastern Orthodox
readers such as Chryssavgis and Ware—reading Climacus through hesychast
eyes—cannot be dismissed out of hand, it does run the risk of distorting not
only the author’s intentions, but also the whole thought-world of the text. The
other approach, favored by writers recently, is to look more assiduously at Cli-
macus’ own context, be it rhetorical formation or Justinianic policies. Müller
and Johnsén appreciate more fully the ways in which Climacus draws on his
tradition but they, too, end up drowning Climacus’ own voice in the crowd of
sources, exhausting his meaning in adaptation and reception, just as others
have submerged him in “schools” of later interpreters. Curiously, both extremes,
motivated by certain conceptions of “tradition,” effectively dislocate the Ladder
from its place within the complex and ever-developing Greek ascetic tradition.
It is neither the end nor the beginning, but, rather, an important moment in
which earlier achievements are joined together, and later ones anticipated or
hinted at.
Nevertheless, reading the Ladder as the end or beginning of tradition has
been the tendency among scholars who can generally be divided according to
which hermeneutical pole they prefer. The question then becomes, how should
we approach the Ladder? A clearer hermeneutic is required, albeit one that
takes account of the achievements of scholars thus far. Any approach to Clima-
cus must have tradition in the foreground, but it must also realize how Clima-
cus would interpret tradition, how he would utilize all the wisdom he had
available, and, of course, be sensitive to what he accomplishes with it. In the
following section, I draw out in greater detail the potential and pitfalls of engag-
ing Climacus via tradition.
The Ladder and Greek Ascetic Tradition

While I have argued against readings motivated too much by Climacus’ literary
sources or successors, it is nevertheless true that the Ladder cannot be divorced
from the tradition in which its author explicitly places himself and his work.
Climacus alerts us to his self-conscious traditionality at the very outset of the
Ladder, when he describes his authorship thus:
faithfully constrained by the commands of those true slaves of God, stretching forth
a hand unworthy of them in undiscerning obedience, and by their knowledge Â�taking
up the pen to write, dipping it in downcast yet radiant humility, resting it upon their
hearts smooth and white, just as on sheets of paper or, rather, spiritual tablets, we
will write here divine words—or rather, seeds—painting them in many colours.39
This irenic statement belies the complexity of Climacus’ engagement with the
“Fathers” he claims, yet it certainly shows that, in order to understand Clima-
cus, one must also appreciate the tradition within which he worked. By this I
mean the writings and examples of the “Fathers” to whom John claims to sub-
mit as an obedient son. Along these lines, Peter Brown’s assessment is as correct
as it is vague, that “the tradition of the Desert Fathers flowed into the Ladder of
Divine Ascent of John Climacus.”40 Johnsén quite rightly argues that, for Clima-
cus, the “tradition of the Desert Fathers” refers especially to their writings, the
literary tradition to which he would have had access and within which he saw
himself writing.41 This was quite elaborate by the time John wrote, and so, while
his social-historical milieu is worth investigating, here we are primarily con-
cerned with Climacus’ reading habits. Analysis of Climacus’ utilization of and
relationship with earlier literature reveals the kinds of ideas he liked and dis-
liked, which lines of thought he followed up, and which he avoided.
The range of source material discernible in the Ladder is impressive: Barsa-
nuphius and John’s Quaestiones et responsiones, Isaiah’s Logoi, Dorotheus’ hom-
ilies, the Apophthegmata Patrum, Historia monachorum in Aegypto, Historia
lausiaca, Pratum spirituale, Evagrius’ works (especially the Practicus and Ad
Eulogium), Diadochus of Photice’s Capita, Mark the Monk (especially De Lege
and Ad Nicolaum), Basil’s Asceticon, the Vita Prima Graeca Pachomii, echoes of
Ps-Macarius, John Cassian, brief references to Gregory Nazianzen, and (per-
haps) even Gregory the Great. With so many sources and influences, we must
ask how Climacus engages all this literature? What did he do with what he
read? By examining that question we will be able to delineate the concerns
which motivated him as well as the parameters within which he exercised his
own creativity. There are, at present, three models of engagement which repre-
sent the three major tendencies among scholars of Climacus: an Evagrian-
Macarian synthesis, a Desert–Gazan trajectory, and an adaptation of formative
techniques. All have something to contribute to reading the Ladder, but none
by itself comprises a fully satisfying hermeneutic.
Evagrius and Macarius on Sinai

Eastern Orthodox scholars have at times suggested that Climacus combines the Eva-
grian with the Ps-Macarian tradition.42 This assessment goes back to a distinction
â•‡ §1 (PG 88: 632C).

39 40
â•‡ Brown (2008, 237). 41
â•‡ Johnsén (2007, 197).
â•‡ For example, Meyendorff (1974, 67–69); and Ware (1982, 60–61); see also Chryssavgis
42
(1988, 6).
drawn by Irénée Hausherr between two “grands courants” in Byzantine spirituality.

First, there was a “Semitic” strand, locating the unity of the human person in the
καρδία (and, therefore, body) and emphasizing purification of the “will” (θέλημα).
This, he argued, was exemplified by the Syrian monk Ps-Macarius (fourth–fifth cen-
tury). Second, there was a Hellenistic strand, locating the person’s true “self” in the
“mind” (νοῦς) and describing humanity’s proper activity as a divine and wholly intel-
lectual “contemplation” (θεωρία). This was exemplified by Evagrius Ponticus (346–
99).43 For Hausherr, the latter courant represented a corruption of the common
inheritance of early Christianity from Judaism. Thus, he sees a tension between
“intellectual” and “voluntary” spiritualities, each with its own exclusive anthropolo-
gy and soteriology.44 Climacus, it is then argued, brings these together either by
including both strands (Ware) or by avoiding either extreme (Chryssavgis).45
Two problems immediately emerge from the “Evagrian–Macarian synthesis.”
First, the whole dichotomy relies on artificial and ultimately untenable categorÂ�
ies that do not take account of determinative factors such as variety of monastic
organizations, effects of the Origenist controversies, and other complexities
which beset readers of ascetic literature. Second, even if Climacus utilizes lan-
guage and perhaps even ideas akin to Evagrius and Macarius, it is unclear from
the different perspectives of Ware and Chryssavgis that what he accomplishes is
in any way a rigorous “synthesis” of two different modes of thought.46
Nevertheless, it is true that Climacus seems to envision no real distinction or
priority between “voluntary” and “intellectual” humanity. It would be hard to
say whether for Climacus νοῦς or θέλημα locates the core of a person. Rather, for
him, each must be transformed and then both must be offered together to God.
Consequently, Climacus, who is not constructing a philosophical anthropolo-
gy, is equally comfortable with the language of καρδία (as one might find in Ps-
Macarius) and νοῦς (as in Evagrius), since he sees a deep connection between
what happens in one organ and the other.47 Thus, Climacus effectively holds
together different, even hostile strands of thought within a holistic (though
perhaps not “monistic”) view of the human person. One way of describing Cli-
macus’ achievement is that he stitches together the human being that ascetic
spirituality had so successfully laid bare; his synthesis is an existential one,
albeit not a consciously anthropological one.
43
â•‡ Hausherr (1935, 121–24); I will critique Hausherr’s claims about Evagrius in Chapter 2.
44
â•‡ Couilleau (1974, 372) and A. Müller (2006) replace Ps-Macarius with Basil of Caesarea,
making the synthesis concern individual versus community: Evagrius representing Scetiote ere-
miticism and Basil a coenobium.
45
46
â•‡ The same criticisms, mutatis mutandis, hold true if the synthesis operated on Evagrius and
Basil, see A. Müller (2006).
47
â•‡ See, for example: §1 (PG 88: 633D), calling the heart the tomb, and the mind Lazarus of
Bethany; §4 (700B-C), recommending parallel activities for heart, mind, and body; §6 (796B),
insensitivity in the heart hardens the mind; and §26 (1064C), an unmoved heart and mental
prayer represent ἀπάθεια.
Scetis Came to Gaza, Gaza Came to Sinai

Scholars sometimes consider Climacus as the end of a trajectory of thought
that may be visualized roughly as a sunwise pilgrim trail blazed from Scetis and
Nitria up to Alexandria, over to Gaza and Palestine, and back down to Sinai.
Climacus is strikingly fond of the Apophthegmata Patrum and related literature
from (or at least purporting to come from) Egypt, using and mimicking tales
and sayings liberally throughout the Ladder.48 He read this literature, though,
very often in the light of its interpretation and utilization by the Gaza Fathers,
Abba Isaiah (d. 491), Barsanauphius (d. c.540), John (d. 542), and Dorotheus
(d. c.578). Chryssavgis would go so far as to say that “John could be seen as a
deliberate continuator or a direct successor of this school of spirituality.”49 The
reasons for this are easily discernible. Not only were the Apophthegmata Patrum
first written down and collected in Palestine, but one of the earliest collections
of apophthegmata comes from the Asceticon of Abba Isaiah (Logos 8).50 Numer-
ous sayings, with and without names, but substantially belonging to the Apo-
phthegmata Patrum as we now know it, are to be found in the Gazan Quaestiones
et Responsiones. The Gaza School was inspired by the variety of sayings and
stories associated with the Egyptian desert and, most likely for that reason,
helped collect and edit them.51 Under this model, the best way of understand-
ing Climacus is to first read the Desert and Gazan literature, see the themes and
ideas developed there, and examine how Climacus handles them.
Of course, the “Desert–Gazan” model is hopelessly vague with regard to the
Ladder’s specific subject matter, apart from helping to explain Climacus’ own
emphasis on “spiritual fatherhood.” But it does alert us to the kind of mindset,
the preferences and animadversions that Climacus might have encountered. It
can also expose the tensions and ambiguities of the literary tradition within
which Climacus worked. This model certainly proposes a more useful geneal-
ogy of literature and ideas rather than the static categories of the “Evagrian–
Macarian.” And, taken together with the “Evagrian–Macarian” model, it reveals
the kind of literature to examine in order to better understand Climacus’ work.
Formation and Adaptation

Third, there is Henrik Rydell Johnsén’s model, centering on Climacus’ adaptation
of “formative” techniques. Johnsén has shown exactly the limitation of any kind
of “synthetic” or “source-critical” approach to the Ladder, whether conceived as
48
â•‡ According to Ware (1982, 59–60), citations from the Alphabeticon and Anonyma are second
in number only to Scriptural references.
49
â•‡ Chryssavgis (2004, 38); Völker (1968, 25–41), reads Climacus against Desert and Gazan. See
also A. Müller (2006, 156–64).
50
â•‡ Regnault (1987, 80–83); so also Chitty (1966, 67–68). Of course, the earliest known collec-
tion of ascetic apophthegmata is Evagrius’s cap. prac. 91–100.
51
â•‡ Chitty (1966, 73–77, 103–104).
Evagrian–Macarian or Desert–Gazan. He writes, “Either scholars seem to pre-

suppose that a source, a text or a concept is something more or less static or
unchangeable, understood or conceived in the same way in the new text, or at
least they do not thoroughly investigate how the sources are actually used and
function in the new text.”52 Johnsén then argues that most source-critical exami-
nations of Climacus seek to find what he retains or misses or, at least to trace
“ascetic doctrines that the text is supposed to expose to the reader.” In so doing,
scholars assume that Climacus is a dogmatic writer and the Ladder a systematic
treatise to be read as such—neither of which is the case. In order to draw out
Climacus’ ideas on certain topics or themes, he says, scholars rip material from its
proper place in the Ladder, set various formulations against one another, and so
attempt to construct a representative and, perhaps, synthetic view of Climacus’
ideas on this or that topic.53 Johnsén proposes a rather different reading of the
Ladder which centers on the concept of “formation.”
Johnsén himself argues at length that Climacus operates very much within a
literary tradition, and was himself shaped by the texts and treatises to which he
had access.54 Johnsén spends much time on what he sees as the order of argu-
mentation and Climacus’ prose style, before examining the Ladder as “forma-
tive” literature.55 With his emphasis on argumentation and style, Johnsén
considers especially how Climacus rearranges ordering of vices and virtues
found in the Greek Systematica and Evagrius’ works.56 Climacus’ achievement
is, for Johnsén, not a synthesis at all but, rather, an adaptation whose novelty—
if there is any—lies in the structural changes that Climacus makes to patterns
of argumentation rather than ideas gleaned from previous authors. On his
reading, Climacus retains the spirit of his predecessors and even maintains his
allegiance to them as teachers, while modifying their teaching in accordance
with his own rhetorical strategy, aimed at inculcating certain practices among
his own audience.
Johnsén is absolutely right to speak of “formation” rather than “systematiza-
tion,” but his model suffers from at least one important flaw: he sees only the
formal aspect of “formation,” and ignores its purpose and material. Johnsén’s
greatest achievement is his discernment of an order of argument within the
various chapters of the Ladder—he sees very clearly the rhetorical strategies of
which Climacus makes use. The accuracy and the precision of the form John-
sén describes are open to criticism, but for present purposes it is worth noting
that, even if it turns out to be correct, it tells us little about what Climacus
teaches and in no way delineates what is formed. Thus, “formation” excellently
keeps the reader focused on Climacus’ practical intent, but must be filled out by
deeper engagement with the Ladder’s specific content.
52
â•‡ Johnsén (2007, 23). 53
â•‡ Johnsén (2007, 18). 54
â•‡ Johnsén (2007¸ 196–99).
55
â•‡ Johnsén (2007, 196–276). 56
â•‡ Johnsén (2007, 198).
Each of the three models described here contributes something to under-

standing Climacus, but each represents an unduly limited way of engaging the
Ladder. The “Evagrian–Macarian synthesis” rests on problematic categories
and generalizations, but it also takes account of a profoundly existential con-
cern in the Ladder. The “Desert–Gazan trajectory” tells us little about what
Climacus thinks or what topics specifically concern him, but it does outline an
excellent way of locating Climacus within recognizable trends in literature. The
“adaptation” of “formative” strategies calls the reader back to Climacus’ intent,
but has been applied only to a purely formal critique of the Ladder’s “rhetorical
strategies.” Later I will elaborate a way of understanding the Ladder as “forma-
tive,” which moves beyond formal critique and will describe how this study
reads Climacus against and yet within Greek ascetic tradition.
TRADITION AND THE INDIVIDUAL MONK
With these three models (Evagrian–Macarian, Desert–Gazan, and adaptive–

formative) in mind, we can outline a hermeneutic that takes account of the
Ladder’s existential concern with identity formation. It will more fully delineate
Climacus’ literary relationship with his own tradition, as well as expand this
study’s examination of language and ideas of death as they emerge in that
tradition.
Forming Monks, Forming Christians

To begin with, we must appreciate the wider implications of Climacus’ empha-
sis on formation. Kallistos Ware perspicaciously remarked of the Ladder that
“It is an existential work, and only those who read it existentially will appreciate
its true value.”57 Ware means that the Ladder seeks to form the kind of person
who can live a specifically Christian way of life. If, then, formation describes
Climacus’ purpose, we must understand this as referring not simply to rhetori-
cal strategy but to the cultivation of identity. Climacus’ teaching is not limited
to one or a tally of beliefs, actions, or even habits, but refers to a holistic constel-
lation of ways of perceiving objects of belief, habits of acting and speaking, and
modes of relating to other people, to the world more generally, and, especially
to God.
Specifically, Climacus seeks to form Christians through monastic lifestyles.
While Climacus begins the Ladder with a list of definitions of the monk, he
concludes that list with a definition of the Christian, suggesting that a monk is
57
â•‡ Ware (1982, 8).
ultimately just that—a Christian. His monastic vocation allows him to flee
from sin toward the Kingdom of Heaven and to enjoy the love of God more
completely and more effectively than those in the world. Of monastic “renun-
ciation” (ἀναχώρησις) Climacus writes, “All who eagerly abandon the things of
life have done so either solely for the coming kingdom, or because of the glut of
sinners, or out of love for God.” Though the final reason is, for Climacus, the
strongest, all are reasonable and undoubtedly intertwined. Thus, he warns, if
none of the foregoing purposes has motivated monks, their renunciation has
been irrational.58 Of these three motivations, though, the greatest is love, and
love’s attainment at the final rung of the Ladder confers a “likeness to God, so
far as is possible for mortals.”59
And yet, only thus does the monk achieve the definition of Christian which
Climacus offers in the First Rung: “the imitator of Christ, as far as humanly
possible, in words, deeds and thought, rightly and blamelessly believing in the
Holy Trinity.”60 Here is a character study, a vision of the person modeled on the
person of Christ, which incorporates actions, speech, and thought. The virtues
that Climacus teaches so well are those which render their practitioner more
and more like Christ through faith in the Trinity. The Ladder speaks not only to
this or that practice but to the human character in both its voluntary and intel-
lectual capacities, within the ascetic’s uniquely Christian hope. The Ladder is
formative of a Christian identity that incorporates and implicates the whole
human being.
Shape and Not System

Climacus writes to form Christians and, as he claims a place among the “dis-
cerning Fathers” it stands to reason that his own achievement will stand out
best when read against earlier authors’ ideas of how to cultivate and communi-
cate a peculiarly Christian ascetic identity. This should hardly be surprising,
since ascetic literature is inevitably prescriptive, consisting of advice about hab-
its, thoughts, and words; of rules; and of exemplary and cautionary tales that
explicitly or implicitly call for either imitation or aversion. Ascetic literature is
most naturally read as teachings on how to become a monk, a Christian, and,
as so many Desert pilgrims would say, to “be saved.” The important thing is that
we are also sensitive to this way of reading. Certainly, Climacus is likely not a
conscious synthesizer and still less a systematizer. This fact does not preclude
him from operating within certain doctrinal contexts and concerning himself
with the content rather than merely the form of earlier teaching.
58
â•‡ Ladder §1 (633C); see also §1 (640B–C) on married people who, for all their virtue, are only
“not far . . . from the Kingdom of Heaven.”
59
â•‡ Ladder §30 (1156B). 60
â•‡ Ladder §1 (633B).
The Doctrinal Context

John does not write like dogmatic theologians. We find only hints of technical
Trinitarian or Christological language, and absolutely no polemic against
opponents real or imagined; rather, Climacus keeps always to his formative
purpose, instructing monks in the way in which they can become Christians.
However, in doing so Climacus also presupposes certain doctrinal and eccle-
sial contexts. He refers, in the definition of the Christian, to “rightly and blame-
lessly believing in the Holy Trinity,” and elsewhere states that “I venerate a
Trinity in unity and a unity in Trinity.”61 In this instance, Climacus quotes a
doctrinal statement originating with Gregory Nazianzen,62 but by his own time
had become a watchword for Byzantine orthodoxy, acceptable to heresy hunt-
ers (such as Epiphanius of Salamis) and zealous emperors alike. Justinian
incorporated the phrase into a doctrinal statement issued in anticipation of the
Fifth Ecumenical Council in 552/5363 and it was reincorporated into a state-
ment issued by the Emperor Justin on his accession in 565.64 Among these,
then, Nazianzen’s Trinitarian formulation had come to constitute a miniature
dogmatic tradition, a formula that could encapsulate the broader claims of
orthodox doctrine. John, deploying it here, shows himself aware of the impor-
tance of orthodoxy as maintained in the Byzantine Empire. Elsewhere John
remarks that, “Some say that prayer is better than memory of one’s death
[ἔξοδος]; but I hymn two natures of one person [μιᾶς ὑποστάσεως δύο οὐσίας
ὑμνῶ].”65 Here Climacus writes in Chalcedonian language, using its famous
(and by the time of Justinian’s death, highly divisive) definition as the backdrop
to his comment on two activities which, though seemingly disparate, he would
aver together. John Climacus writes from within the fold of the Byzantine
Church, yet only nods in passing to dogma—Christology and Trinitarian the-
ology provide the context within which the ascetic life may unfold.66 Imitation
of Christ presupposes a sense of who and what Christ is. Climacus’ emphasis is
on a way of life, but this way can only be found within “right and blameless”
belief in the Holy Trinity. We must, therefore, keep in mind that John develops
61
â•‡ §25 (993A): “. . . προσκυνῶ Τριάδα ἐν μονάδι, καὶ μονάδα ἐν Τριάδι.” See also §3 (672B); §25
(992A); §27 (1117A).
62
â•‡ Oratio 25.7.
63
â•‡ Edictum rectae fidei in Amelotti, Albertella, and Migliardi (1973, 130).
64
â•‡ Justin II, “τοῖς ἑκασταχοῦ Χριστιανοῖς πρόγραμμα” in Evagrius Scholasticus, Historia Ecclesias-
tica, 5.4 in Bidez and Parmentier (1898, 198): “Μονάδα γὰρ ἐν τράδι καὶ τράδα ἐν μονάδι προσκυνοῦμεν.”
A. Müller (2006, 213) thinks that John refers to a Greek translation of the creed Quincunque vult,
citing the Formula Tertia (PG 28: 1587C): “Ὥστε κατὰ πάντα (καθὼς εἴρηται) καὶ τὴν μονάδα ἐν Τριάδι,
καῖ τὴν Τριάδα ἐν μονάδι σέβεσθαι δεῖ.” While the object of veneration is the same, the verb (προσκυνέω
in Gregory, Justinian, Justin, and Climacus; σέβομαι in the Formula Tertia) shows Müller’s conclu-
sion to be false.
65
â•‡ §28 (1137A).
66
â•‡ So argues Alexis Torrance in his excellent recent study (2013, 165–66).
his treatment of monastic identity within the parameters of what he under-

stood as Nicene and Chalcedonian (Byzantine) orthodoxy, but that his interest
is not doctrinal.
Ways of Shaping
Within the Byzantine context, there are basically three ways in which Climacus
engages with traditional material, all of which are connected to the touchstone
of John’s own experience. First, there are a very few instances where he openly
rejects an acceptable point of teaching. For example, Climacus rejects Evagrius
Ponticus—by the seventh century a straw man for almost all suspect eschato-
logical speculation—as “most foolish of the foolish.” This should not surprise
us. However, John lambasts Evagrius at this point not on account of suspect
eschatology,67 but rather because he thinks Evagrius’ advice on fasting is too
strict. John quotes Evagrius’ Practicus—a work that remained popular reading
among mainstream monks and was even included under Evagrius’ own name
in the Philokalia—as saying, “When our soul desires various foods, discipline it
with bread and water.”68 Climacus compares Evagrius’ advice to “telling a child
to leap the whole ladder in a single bound.” Climacus offers rather more mod-
erate advice instead—cut out fatty, spicy, and sweet foods and stick to filling
and easily digested ones.69 On this point, Evagrius’ ideas were hardly heretical
or extreme, and the Practicus perfectly acceptable reading. Climacus, neverthe-
less, rated it unfavorably against his own experience which he judged to be of
greater worth.70 Climacus’ rejection of this widely accepted teaching demon-
strates that he was critically and reflectively engaged even with literature that
fell within safe bounds.
Second, there are times when Climacus submerges his own opinion in the
wisdom of the “Discerning Fathers.” For example, Climacus believes insensi-
tivity to be the second vice after lust.71 Nevertheless, he follows the Discerning
Fathers in putting avarice (or, as Climacus calls it, the “many-headed snake of
idolatry”) between the two.72 He admits to not knowing why the fathers have
set things down in this order and, although he has followed them, it seems to
him incorrect.73 Nevertheless, the order he accepts becomes the order of his
work. Perhaps there is ambiguity on this point and, though Climacus cannot
understand the reason for it, experience teaches that, while not ideal, the order
of things that has been handed down is perfectly usable.
67
â•‡ As does, for example, John Moschus, at prat. 26, 177 (PG 87.3: 2872C–2873A, 3047A–B).
68
â•‡Evagrius, cap. prac. 16 (SC 171: 540). 69
â•‡ §14 (865B).
70
â•‡ See also Ware (1982, 7–10). 71
â•‡ §14 (869C).
72
â•‡ §17 (929B); ironically an Evagrian inheritance—see for example, Evagrius, vit. 3 (PG 79:
1141), etc.
73
â•‡ §17 (929B).
Most often, Climacus combines and reshapes traditional material. A simple

but illustrative example concerns Climacus’ list of vices, which is inspired by
Evagrius’ list of eight thoughts (λογισμοί), which passed into common usage
from the fifth century.74 During one discussion,75 Climacus argues that these
λογισμοί take hold as “passions” (πάθη), according to a psychological schema
derived from a synthetic reading of Mark the Monk. In Mark’s schema the stages
of succumbing to temptation are: provocation (προσβολή), coupling (συνδυασμός),
assent (συγκατάθεσις), delusion (πάλη), and passion (πάθος).76 However, Clima-
cus crucially modifies and expands Mark’s terminology by including an Eva-
grian term, “captivity” (αἰχμαλωσία) between “assent” and “delusion,” although
Evagrius had not applied it particularly to human psychology.77 Climacus
expounds this schema at some length, adding to it another term—“disturbance
of mind” (παραῤῥιπισμὸς νοός), read from another of Mark’s works.78 The change,
though slight, represents a view of human psychology necessarily different from
either Mark or Evagrius. Moreover, Climacus freely develops (or at times
Â�reduces to seven) Evagrius’ eight thoughts, and then splays them out once more
according to the order which he and perhaps others deemed best, dwelling on
their confused interrelations and offering his own account of how best to deal
with them.79 Climacus demonstrates here that while he very often does not
adjudicate between different strands of thought, he will hold them together.
When necessary, though, he will either reject prior teaching as inconsistent with
experience or submit his own experience to the wisdom of his fathers. Through
the interaction of these three modes of engagement, Climacus crafts an ascetic
spirituality which is fully unique, though resembling what one finds in previous
literature.
The implications of Climacus’ threefold engagement with tradition illumi-
nate the Ladder as a unique achievement. Mark’s schema, like Evagrius’, was
built on a particular psychology, which said that thoughts operate in this way,
that passions develop in this way, and, by implication, not another. By changing
the process of temptation and by setting it within his own ordering of vices and
virtues, Climacus establishes a necessarily different series of psychological
assumptions and epistemological claims. In doing so he creates a new, equally
formative model for ascetic practice, operative now according to his own
understanding and experience of human nature and capacity. At stake in
â•‡ See also Johnsén (2007, 239–73).

74 75
â•‡ §15 (897A–D).
â•‡ Following Palmer, Sherrard, Ware, et al. (1979–95, 1: 365–67); see Mark the Monk, De lege
76
141, 142, and Operibus 148 (SC 445: 110–12, 178).

77
â•‡ Αἰχμαλωσία is, for him, simply a property of demonic λογισμοί: Eulog. 16, 20 (PG 79: 1113C,
1120C).
78
â•‡ ad Nicolaum 7 (SC 455: 130); on questions of Markan authorship see Durand (1982–83 and
1984); see also the discussion in Vivian and Casiday (2009, 1: 48–52).
79
â•‡ For example, §22 (948D–49A); §29 (1149A–B); on which see Ware (1982, 62–66), though
Ware too quickly rigidifies Climacus’ thought to say that for him there are only seven thoughts.
We shall return to this question in Chapter 1.
Climacus’ working of traditional material, by which he holds together various

strands of thought, is a concept of the human person. What emerges is a new
and profound picture of the human being as sinner struggling by the grace of
God to a Christian identity always by means of existential engagement with
death.
Tradition and Not Sources

To return to the claim with which I began this Introduction, Climacus operates
within tradition. He neither caps nor systematizes it. He is part of it and his achieve-
ment is most noticeable as it interprets and contributes to its dynamism.
It is for this reason that we will spend a great deal of time looking at other
literature, not only because it contours Climacus’ theological and spiritual
“thought-world,” but because it too constitutes an integral part of the same
Christian tradition. The material is treated in roughly chronological order,
which allows us to see how authors drew on, elaborated, and even disagreed
with one another. This diachronic literary conversation, wherein each genera-
tion could interrogate its predecessors especially through their texts, created
currents of spirituality, and gave an increasingly definite shape to ascetic prac-
tice.80 Certainly, the social and spiritual heterogeneity of, for example, the Apo-
phthegmata Patrum, has led scholars “to conflicting conclusions on a variety of
subjects, including the degree of literacy, theological training and speculative
thinking among the monks.”81 While monks read for very different reasons,
seeking not historical artifacts but ways of crafting their own lives, the specific
spiritual claims of such varied writers and works are equally conflicting. Thus,
as Douglas Burton-Christie notes, “In assessing the Sayings as literature, one
must take into account the diversity and richness of its literary expressions and
the dynamic, reciprocal relationship that existed between it and other early
monastic texts.”82 One task of this study is to show the kind of heterogeneity—
even conflict—highlighted by variable attitudes toward the language of death
in Greek ascetic literature. I say “conflict” because disagreements on spiritual
matters as central as death implicate equally conflicting conceptions of the
monastic vocation, even of the human being itself, and open up the sheer vari-
ety of approaches that authors such as Climacus had at their disposal, and
which traditionalists like him sought to maintain, perhaps to harmonize, if not
to synthesize.
And so we must keep in mind Burton-Christie’s later remark, “This exuber-
ant polyphony of words is one of the real strengths and charms of the Sayings.”83
For all of the different voices were read together, all were accepted as useful and
80
â•‡ See Harmless (2000, 488–89, 518) on this. 81
â•‡ Rubenson (1999, 332).
82
â•‡ Burton (1993, 90). 83
â•‡ Burton-Christie (1993, 94).
at least potentially normative for the reader’s life. As texts were read, some ele-
ments were picked up, others discarded; they were recombined, reconceived,
and redeployed according to what editors and copyists considered most edify-
ing. Reified in codices, editorial changes came, along with the incorporation of
new and local material, to define trajectories of thought. By a process of friction
and diachronic textual dialogue, a tradition emerged, perhaps marked at times
by ambiguity and ambivalence, and yet possessing an increasingly pervasive
and coherent sense of the importance and potential of death as impulse and
symbol of asceticism. This sense would be given a full expression and profound
application in John Climacus’ Ladder of Divine Ascent.
Obviously, the works on which Climacus drew were not discarded as unnec-
essary afterward. They, too, continue to be read within the same Christian
ascetic context where they remain normative pieces whose portraits of asceti-
cism monastics still strive to emulate. They are now read alongside Climacus,
maybe in light of his contribution, but whatever shape he gives to the tradition
before him, his own work becomes one of the voices in the “exuberant polyph-
ony” of the Desert. We do well, then, not simply to point out how and where
Climacus differs from other writers and thus laud his uniqueness. Rather, we
must also take a more synoptic view of a living and dynamic tradition—literary,
practical, theological—which neither ended nor began with the Ladder.
I will, therefore, demonstrate in Chapters 2 through 5 how themes and
vocabulary surrounding engagement with and practices of death: (1) are main-
tained over time; (2) diverge; (3) are broadened in their application; and (4) are
sometimes worked out in new ways. Not everything in those chapters will fea-
ture in the ultimate discussion of Climacian spirituality, but it remains impor-
tant for the material treated in those chapters. This “singing silence” will, I hope,
further not only our understanding of the Greek ascetic tradition, but also our
appreciation of Climacus’ achievement as both traditional and original.
THE SHAPE OF THE PRESENT STUDY
In keeping with the hermeneutical considerations outlined earlier, I have made

certain material choices by which I have focused the argument in terms of the
material to be covered and the questions to be addressed. One could trace the
genealogy of Climacus’ ideas back through not only Greek ascetic material, but
also hagiographic, martyrological, biblical, and even Greco-Roman literature.
This is because Climacus, like any writer, writes from within not only his imme-
diate milieu, but also the wider tradition which informed it, and that tradition
also has its own past. Thus, we must be selective when attempting to delineate
Climacus’ tradition. I have chosen to confine myself to Greek ascetic literature
(and, rather briefly, the Christian Scriptures and Greco-Roman philosophical
and rhetorical materials), foregoing extended examination of other obvious

fontes, such as the Christian Acta Martyrum.
From among Greek ascetic authors I have been more selective, and it is easi-
est to describe the selections in reverse order. The Gaza School is Climacus’
most proximal source and teacher. Its inclusion is integral to the study. Of the
authors associated with Gaza, I have, for reasons of space, limited discussion to
the central two: Barsanuphius and John (though Dorotheus will join us when
needed). However, the close and sustained reading I offer of their Quaestiones
et Responsiones will be representative of the main lines of thought that Clima-
cus took from Gaza.
Likewise, for Climacus and Gaza, “Desert literature” was formative,
though often Climacus’ reading of Desert material is colored by the ways in
which it was understood and deployed by Gazan writers. This study exam-
ines a variety of pieces I refer to as “Desert Fathers” or “Desert literature”:
primarily this means the Apophthegmata Patrum (fifth–sixth centuries),
both the Alphabeticon and the Anonyma;84 the anonymous travelogue, His-
toria monachorum in Aegypto (c.399); Palladius of Helenopolis’ Historia
lausiaca (c.420); and John Moschus’ Pratum spirituale (c.593). Of these, the
first three are obvious choices,85 but the last was probably not directly known
to Climacus.86 I have included the Pratum spirituale in a limited way because
it represents a literary continuation of the tradition begun with Apophtheg-
mata Patrum and the Historiae. While these latter purport to describe lives
and practices of fourth-century Egyptian monks, and Moschus those of
fifth- and six-century Palestinians,87 the differences are not so great as they
might seem. First, as Demetrios Katos notes, Moschus’ collection of pil-
grim’s tales was, perhaps, the “true successor” to the Historiae.88 Second, the
Apophthegmata patrum were first compiled in Palestine in the fifth and sixth
centuries.89 Thus, the Apophthegmata reflect to some extent the mentalité of
post-Origenist Palestinian monasticism. The Pratum more obviously con-
tinues the story of that world, including quite a bit of apophthegmatic
84
â•‡ I will leave aside the Systematica as contributing little unique in material and little if any-
thing in organization; see Johnsén (2007, 216–39).
85
â•‡The Historia Monachorum and Historia Lausiaca were so closely associated in readers’
minds that the Historia Monachorum in its Greek form was thought until the twentieth century to
be part of the Historia Lausiaca. See Butler (1904, 1: 10–15). See also Gould (2010, 27–33), on a
later Latin version of the Historia Lausiaca, which is a sort of anthology of extracts from the
HistorÂ�ia Lausiaca and Apophthegmata Patrum. This only goes to show how the Historia Lausiaca,
Historia Monachorum, and the Apophthegmata Patrum were interrelated in their readers’ minds.
86
â•‡ Though Ware (1982, 60 n. 220), and Johnsén (2007, 201 n. 19), have each discerned one pos-
sible allusion.
87
â•‡ Moschus’ account, as John Binns notes, picks up where Cyril of Scythopolis’ biographies
leave off, in 558, Binns (1994, 49–52). However, the two authors share nothing of genre or style,
and Moschus is certainly far fonder of anecdotes and lore in the style of Apophthegmata Patrum
and the Historiae.
88
â•‡ Katos (2012, 110). 89
â•‡ Regnault (1987, 80–83); so also Chitty (1966, 67–68).
material either original or lifted directly from the Apophthegmata.90 Thus,

the Pratum spirituale consciously continues the kind of literary and spiritu-
al traditions that first flowered in the Apophthegmata patrum, Historia lau-
siaca, and Historia monachorum, while more explicitly addressing certain of
the controversies that lay implicit in that other material91 and opening up
the newer genre of “spiritually beneficial tales” that would carry so much of
Desert wisdom to a broader audience.92 The collecting of tales, sayings, and
short homilies would reach its apogee in the massive and still-popular
Â�eleventh-century collection of Paul Evergetinos, the Synagoge (or Evergeti-
nos) which would, like the Ladder, form and inform the great hesychasts
and their heirs the Kollyvades Fathers alike.93
In the same chapter, we discuss the most famous teachers of the Christian
desert: mainly Evagrius Ponticus (346–99), but also Ps-Macarius (fourth–fifth
century), Mark the Monk (fifth century), and Diadochus of Photice (fifth cen-
tury). Climacus’ reliance on these is universally acknowledged. However, I do
not focus primarily on these authors because their treatment of death does not
differ markedly from what we find in other literature.94 I will, however, certainly
draw attention to and incorporate these authors and their work wherever nec-
essary and, though short, the readings will be responsible and representative.
Vita Antonii
I have also included Athanasius’ Vita Antonii. This may seem a somewhat
stranger choice than the other works, and raises a few methodological ques-
tions that must be addressed: Why stop the genealogy with a work not directly
referred to by Climacus? Why not Basil’s Asceticon instead or as well? Indeed,
why not press on to include the Acta Martyrum?
I include Vita Antonii primarily because this study concerns not simply those
texts that provide direct sources for Climacus or those to which he alludes, but
the wider tradition of ascetic literature within which he wrote. Though John does
not quote or cite the Vita Antonii it exercised an unparalleled and paradigmatic
influence on later hagiographers and Desert writers alike. The figure of Antony
which emerged from Athanasius’ account inspired generations of writers, and
â•‡ See, for example, prat. 54, 110, 113, 115, 144, 152, and 212 (which comments on n. 337).
90
â•‡ So concludes Chadwick (1974, 43–44, 60).

91 92
â•‡ On which see Wortley (2010).
93
â•‡ In fact, this text was handsomely edited by Nicodemus of Athos, at the same time as he was
preparing the Philokalia, and both were undertaken at the behest of Macarius of Corinth. It
appeared one year after the Philokalia, in 1783. Of this, John McGuckin writes that “It is clear,
therefore, that the Evergetinos was the companion study to the Philokalia from the outset, and
both were Makarios’s brainchild” (2012, 46).
94
â•‡ Excepting Evagrius’ speculative eschatology that was roundly rejected by the sixth century
and did not influence Climacus, but which will be discussed in Chapter 4.
his life would contour expectations of holiness and ascetic enterprise in texts as
diverse as the Apophthegmata Patrum and Cyril of Scythopolis’ monastic biog-
raphies, which Climacus did read.
Like the Ladder’s influence, that of the Vita Antonii may be traced in two
ways: translational dissemination and literary influence. With regard to the for-
mer, it was translated into Latin within twenty years (no later than 374) by
Evagrius of Antioch, though another, more literal Latin translation was com-
pleted even before his. Coptic translations were made quite early, as witnessed
by its appearance in Shenoute’s homilies, though these may also include Coptic
source material (as is suggested by a late-sixth century text of John of Her-
mopolis). Arabic and Ethiopic translations were also made. Vita Antonii was
translated into Syriac in the fifth century and later into other languages of the
Christian world.95 Anyone who wished could read the story of Antony and it
seems that very many wished for exactly that.
We can see Vita Antonii’s literary and spiritual influence at work in Jerome’s
ascetic biographies, in the foundation of Marcella’s monastery in 386,96 in
Augustine’s own ascetic tendencies,97 in John Chrysostom’s homilies,98 and in
Sulpicius Severus’ popular and influential Vita Martini. Of the Desert literature
surveyed in this study, the Vita Antonii is explicitly or implicitly used in: the
Historia monachorum in Aegypto,99 Historia lausiaca,100 and Apophthegmata
Patrum.101 It was read in the sixth century, since Cyril of Scythopolis uses it in
five of his biographies,102 including a reference in his Vita Euthymii to the
95
â•‡ On the early dissemination of Vita Antonii see especially Garitte (1956); see also L. W. Bar-
nard (1974, 169–70), and Bartelink (1994 [SC 400], 68–70). On the independent witness of Coptic
material, see Garitte (1943, 100–31, and 330–65). On the early Latin translations, see Gandt (2008,
1–55), and Mohrmann (1956), which argues that the translation, though often close to the Greek
text, is still interpretive. René Draguet (1980) had argued that the Syriac version depended not on
the Greek, but on a lost Coptic original. From this claim flared an argument concerning Athana-
sius’ authorship and the provenance of Vita Antonii. Against those such as T. D. Barnes (1986)
who argued that Athanasius had little if anything to do with Vita Antonii, Andrew Louth (1988)
argued convincingly from the theological content that Athanasius was at least an editor. More
recently, David Brakke (1994) established firmly on linguistic grounds that the Syriac text does
not betray a Coptic original but is, in all likelihood, a fifth-century translation and redaction of
Athanasius’ Greek original. Brakke has, I think, settled the issue convincingly in favor of Athana-
sian authorship.
96
â•‡Jerome, Epistulae 127.5. 97
â•‡ Confessiones 8.14–29. 98
â•‡ In Mattheum 8.
99
â•‡ For example, H. mon. 22.9 (Festugière 1971, 122) preserves v. Anton 60.1 (SC 400: 294): its
author paraphrases Antony’s vision of Amoun’s death. H. mon. 9.1 (Festugière 1971, 71–72)
recounts a tale of a δράκων which recalls Athanasius’ language in v. Anton 6.1 and 24.4 (SC 400:
147, 202).
100
â•‡ h. Laus. 8.6, Bartelink (1974, 44) incorporates (with reference) v. Anton 60.1: Palladius tells
Antony’s vision of Amoun’s death.
101
â•‡ For example, Arsenius 41 (PG 65: 105C–D) refers to v. Anton 91.1 (SC 400: 366–68): Arse-
nius echoes Antony’s burial requests.
102
â•‡ Garitte (1957); see also Roldanus (1983, 194–98, 211–16). For Vita Antonii’s later influence,
see Foscati (2008).
memory of death103 and a vision of death in Vita Johannis Hesychastae.104 Bars-

anuphius and John were, at least, familiar with it,105 while Dorotheus’ first letter
alludes to it.106 Thus, even if Climacus does not directly refer to Vita Antonii, its
influence can be felt in salient ways throughout the tradition in which he wrote.
One might ask, though, why Vita Antonii and nothing else? Though it meets
much of the same criteria, I have not discussed Basil’s Asceticon because death
does not feature very strongly in that work, and so it adds very little to the tradi-
tion on this theme.107 We encounter in Vita Antonii—albeit only in seminibus—
many spiritual practices and concepts centering on death. Likewise, I have
ended Climacus’ ascetic genealogy with Antony and not with the martyrs
because, while the martyr literature bears on the topic and would enrich this
study, Climacus has little to say about it and martyrdom’s heritage among ascet-
ics would require a full study of its own which is certainly needed but that need
cannot concern us here.
CONCLUSION: LO CATING THE LADDER WITHIN

TRADITION
We have laid out the material and hermeneutical considerations with which
this study will approach John Climacus’ Ladder of Divine Ascent as well as the
broader tradition of Greek ascetic literature. I have so far only gestured toward
the specific topic of death, around which this study will be centered. But, with
these general hermeneutical principles in place and remaining sensitive to het-
erogeneity, to the rough edges of traditions, we will see in the central four chap-
ters how a tradition was built up that drew attention to death as an event which
is determinative of human life and as a symbol for the practices and achieve-
ments of Christian asceticism. We do not set out, then, simply to interpret the
Ladder, but, rather, to situate it and its author within a living tradition to which
his work contributes, whether through rejection, submission, or reshaping.
For now, we turn first to John Climacus and the Ladder to understand a bit
about the man, how he thought, and the shape he gave his great treatise. Doing
so will highlight just how important death was for him and for the tradition
that this study will examine.
â•‡ Vita Euthymii 9 (TU 49.2: 17) echoes v. Anton 5.6 and 19.3 (SC 400: 144, 186).
103
â•‡ Vita Johannis Hesychastae 17 (TU 49.2: 215–16) redeploys v. Anton 60.1 (SC 400: 294).
104
105
â•‡ resp. 508 (SC 451: 634) relies directly on v. Anton 7.11–12 (SC 400: 154).
106
â•‡ His first letter, Pauli (2000, 464–66) alludes to v. Anton 26 (SC 400: 206–208); so Regnault
and de Préville (1963, 492, n. 1).
107
â•‡ I will, however, discuss Basil in the context of Barsanuphius’ spirituality, in Chapter 5.
1
John of Sinai and the Quest for Unity

Scala vero ipsa erecta nostra est vita in saeculo, quae humiliato corde a
Domino erigatur ad caelum. Latera enim eius scalae dicimus nostrum esse
corpus et animam, in qua latera diversos gradus humilitatis vel disciplinae
evocatio divina ascendendo inseruit.
Regula Sancti Benedicti 7.6–9
The L adder’s Author, John of Sinai
I have discussed the Ladder already at some length in the Introduction and
have sketched Climacus’ “modes of interaction” with tradition. I have shown
that he is especially good at holding together variegated strands of spiritual
thought and that, doing so, he crafts something quite new. This is a point to
which we will return rather frequently in this study.
Having looked, then, at John’s formation and given some sense of his person-
ality, it would be good here at the beginning to introduce our author in greater
detail. This is difficult, though, since little is known of the man who wrote the
Ladder. He is a shadowy figure, remembered more for his writing than any-
thing else. Even his commonest epithet, Κλίμακος (which becomes the Latin
adjective Climacus), merely means “of the Ladder,” suggesting that the most
important thing to know about John is not where or when he lived or what
profession he held, but that he wrote the Ladder.
Our primary source is a biography written by one Daniel of Raithou, about
whom we know nothing—save that he was a monk at the monastery of Raithou.1
As Chryssavgis puts it, “Daniel writes as an eyewitness, or at the very least as a
contemporary . . . Yet we cannot be entirely sure of this; after all, in his Life,
which resembles an edifying eulogy, Daniel too is imprecise.”2 With Chryssav-
gis’ caveat in mind, we can nevertheless trace a career for John Climacus from
1
â•‡ v. Jo. Clim. (PG 88: 596–608), with other material—miracle accounts (PG 88: 608–609) and
the Menological entries (PG 88: 609–12). An alternate edition is: Acta Sanctorum 3.2: 834F–38F. I
will cite from PG 88.
2
the pages of Daniel’s “eulogy.” John came to Sinai at the age of sixteen—likely
from Egypt, with at least some education.3 When John arrived, Sinai already
had a long history and had become a thriving spiritual hub—itself a large mon-
astery and, despite Arab harrassment, also an important stop on pilgrim itiner-
aries through Egypt and the Holy Land. Christians had lived in the wilderness
there since at least the Decian persecution (c.254).4 When Egeria (fl. 360–400)
visited Sinai at the end of the fourth century, she found a monastic center well
equipped for pilgrims.5 Various ascetics traveled to the wilderness for solitude,
and after the “devastation of Scetis” many Scetiote monks settled in Sinai.6 By
the time Justinian ordered the building of a castrum (in this case a fortified coe-
nobium) at the base of Gebel Musa, the mountain had long been associated with
Mosaic Sinai and Elijah’s Horeb.7 The monastery there was called Βάτος (“bush”)
since it was built on a site revered as the place where God appeared to Moses in
the bush that “burned but was not consumed” (Exod. 3.2ff.). In Eastern Chris-
tianity, the image of the unconsumed bush has long been understood as a sym-
bol of Mary’s perpetual virginity. Thus, the monastery was (and is, despite its
secondary association with St Catherine) dedicated to the Mother of God.8
At Sinai, John became disciple to a monk named Martyrius9 who, four years
later, tonsured him in the chapel atop Gebel Musa.10 John lived for either three
or nineteen years under Martyrius’ direction in a cell near the central castrum.11
This type of life, “practicing stillness with one or two others,” John would term
“hesychastic,” praising it above either eremitic or coenobitic lifestyles, even as
he affirmed the validity and value of each.12 Indeed, John seems to have earned
3
â•‡ Though Daniel admits ignorance of John’s birthplace (596A), he does tell us that John was
sixteen (597A) when he came to Sinai.
4
â•‡Eusebius, Historia ecclesiastica 6.42.4. 5
â•‡ Itinerarium Egeriae 1.1–5.
6
â•‡ The narratives associated with Nilus of Ancyra (PG 79: 589–694) describe semi-eremitic
monks living in seclusion on Sinai in probably the early fifth century. Ammonius described Chris-
tians killed by Saracens in raids on Sinai: Lewis (1912, 1–24). However, Chitty gives good reason
for mistrusting the historicity of either account, locating them instead as examples of sixth-Â�
century hagiography (1966, 170–71). On Scetiote colonization, see in the Alphabeticon Cronius 5
(Joseph of Peleusia lived in Sinai), Nicon 1 (who lived at Sinai), Netras 1 (Netras lived in a cell at
Sinai), and Silouan 5 (Silouan also lived at Sinai), as well as Megethius 2 and Sisoes 17, 26. On
which, see Chryssavgis (2004, 2–7) and see also Van Parys (1968).
7
â•‡Sinai and Horeb are identified in the Eastern Christian tradition.
8
â•‡Procopius, De Aedificiis 5.8.2–10; see also Eutychius of Alexandria (Sa’id Ibn-Batriq), Annales
(PG 111: 1071–72). Eutychius is perhaps more reliable than Procopius: Dahari (2000, 56).
9
â•‡ v. Jo. Clim. (608B). 10
â•‡ v. Jo. Clim. (608B–C).
11
â•‡ v. Jo. Clim. (597B): Daniel’s language is ambiguous. Ware (1982, 4) reads it as “when John
was nineteen years old,” while Chryssavgis assumes that “nineteen” refers to the number of years
that John spent with Martyrius (2004, 17). Both readings are possible, though the latter seems to
have been preferred by the compilers of the Menaion who assume John to have died at the age of
eighty. The forty years at Tholas followed by an estimated five as abbot would give precisely that
age. If we follow Ware, then either the Menaion is wrong (entirely possible, since it is also likely
wrong about John’s era) or sixteen years would need to be accounted for.
12
â•‡ Ladder §1 (641D–44A).
John of Sinai and the Quest for Unity 31
the right to rank them thus, since he experienced firsthand all three forms of
monastic life. After Martyrius’ death, John moved further up the mountainside
and became a hermit in a cave near Tholas.13 There he dwelt for forty years,
Daniel tells us, in what solitude he could, as his reputation increased among the
brethren and visitors to the monastery. John received visitors, gave counsel,
worked signs, and, above all, became “a font of tears.”14 Daniel draws particular
attention to this detail, probably because John placed so much importance on
“mourning” (πένθος) and “tears” (δάκρυα) in the Ladder. The length of John’s
sojourn is less historically precise than religiously allusive, recalling Moses’
forty days atop Sinai (Exod 24.18–19), Elijah’s sojourn on Horeb (3 Kgds 19.8),
and the Israelites’ forty years in the wilderness of Sinai (Num 32.13). During
this time John accepted a disciple—aptly named Moses—to live with him.
Eventually, John was persuaded to become abbot of the monastery and he dwelt
there in old age—though it is possible that, at the end of his life, he returned to
solitude.15 Somewhere in his career—probably both prior to and during his
time at the monastery—John found time for copious reading, and, as Johnsén
has argued, at least some rhetorical training.16
Dates
Assigning John to a specific place in history brings us into a realm of silence
and speculation. That is, we can assign a likely albeit broad range of dates based
on where he is not mentioned, but we have very little in the way of positive
evidence. Once upon a time, John was assigned by tradition and scholarship
alike to the sixth century.17 Modern scholarship brought a dramatic shift in
thinking, beginning with François Nau’s groundbreaking work on the Narra-
tiones, which he ascribed to Anastasius of Sinai and dated to 650 or thereafter.18
Combining this dating with contents of Narratio 32 concerning “John the
Sabaite,” Nau suggested that the Sabaite was, in fact, Climacus and gave the date
13
â•‡ v. Jo. Clim. (597C).
14
â•‡ v. Jo. Clim. (597C–600C); an alternative account is given in the menological entries (PG:
608C–12A), which speak of numerous miracles. Daniel notes that John was renowned as a healer
(604C) but is more interested in his pastoral prowess.
15
â•‡ v. Jo. Clim. (605B–608A); see also the menological account (609A–B).
16
â•‡ Once, scholars such as Krumbacher assumed that Climacus was unlettered. However, not
only his biography but also the Ladder testify to his learning and skill as a writer and divine. Most
recently, Johnsén (2007, 30–195) argues at length that the Ladder is a highly structured example of
late antique rhetorical argumentation, and that Climacus wrote in the “Jeweled style” advocated
by Longinus. See Ware (1982, 10); and Bogdanovic (1968, 221–22).
17
â•‡ Marginal notes in the Bollandistes’ edition of v. Jo. Clim. (Acta Sanctorum 3.2: 834F–38F)
give the year 580 (835B), based on correlations with Saba’s death in 531. Nevertheless, Karl Krum-
bacher (1897, 143) gave Climacus’ dates as c.525–600, probably on the basis of menological
passages.
18
â•‡Nau (1902).
of his death as 649, based on internal evidence from the Narrationes. Nau’s sug-
gestion has not met with universal acceptance. Chitty, for example, argues in
his always persuasive way that John the Sabaite could not be John Climacus.
Rather, he reads Narratio 34—which tells the story of a monk Martyrius bring-
ing a disciple to John the Sabaite and the Sabaite washing his feet and prophesy-
ing that this young disciple would be abbot of Sinai—as concerning a young
John Climacus.19 In that case, Narratio 6 also likely concerns Climacus and
would suggest that Anastasius, not Martyrius, actually tonsured John.20
There is no other direct testimony to the life of John Climacus. It is telling
that he is (probably) not mentioned by John Moschus in the Pratum Â�spirituale—
which means his abbatial period likely postdates Moschus’ death in 634, mili-
tating in favor of Nau’s or, perhaps, Chitty’s dating. It is possible that there is a
reference to John in one chapter, but it is vague at best, and so scholars are
extremely reticent to make the stretch to a full identification.21
Internal evidence is no more helpful, whether in dating John’s life or the
composition of the Ladder. John makes no mention of the Arab invasions that
swept through Sinai and into Egypt in 640.22 It is hard to imagine that the crisis
of change that accompanied them would not have found its way into his think-
ing. One of the most interesting possibilities takes off from Climacus’ interest
in defending a dyothelite view of Christ, suggesting that he was at least aware of
the Monothelite Controversy and, therefore, a contemporary of Maximus the
Confessor. Broadly, this controversy centered on the question of Christ’s “will.”
Was there in Jesus a single, divine, will (the “monothelite” position) or were
there two wills, one human and one divine (the “dyothelite” position)? Derwas
Chitty, followed by Kallistos Ware and John Chryssavgis, has championed this
view, which aligns Climacus with Maximus as championing a dyothelite Chris-
tological position.23 At one point, Climacus writes that “Christ is afraid of
death, but not terrified, that he might clearly reveal the properties of the two
natures [Δειλιᾷ Χριστὸς θάνατον, οὐ τρέμει, ἵνα τῶν δύο φύσεων τὰ ἰδιώματα σαφῶς
ἐμφανίσῃ].”24 This passage certainly resembles the sorts of distinctions that
Maximus the Confessor makes in his own treatment of Gethsemane.25 The
problem is that Maximus in his sixth Opusculum specifically rejects any attri-
bution of δειλία to Christ—thus rejecting the very diction chosen by John.26
â•‡ Chitty (1966, 172–73).

19 20
â•‡See Pierre (2009, 460–61).
â•‡ Petit (1924, 692), noting John’s alternative epithet of “Scholasticus,” and linking that to
21
Sophronius’ description of one “John Scholasticus” (prat. 102 [PG 87.3: 2959D]), argued that Cli-
macus was born no later than 579 ce.
22
â•‡However, this is not decisive. Heinz Skrobucha (1966, 57–60) notes that we possess little
information about Sinai between the Arab invasion and the Crusades save that the monks were
able to secure good relations with the Mameluk rulers in Cairo.
23
â•‡ Chitty (1966, 174); Ware (1982, 18–19); and Chryssavgis (2004, 44–45).
24
â•‡ Ladder §6 (793B–C). 25
â•‡ Maximus Confessor, Opusculum 3 (PG 91: 48C).
26
â•‡ Maximus Confessor, Opusculum 6 (PG 91: 65B).
Though the Sinaite and the Confessor may write in a similar spirit, they do not
use the same vocabulary, making it difficult to show any direct correlation
between them.
Nevertheless, in a seventh-century context, the passage certainly could be
responding to monothelite claims. The Monothelite Controversy was confined
roughly to the years between 638 (when the monothelite position became
imperial policy with the promulgation of Heraclius’ Ekthesis) and 680–81
(when dyothelite Christians emerged triumphant at the Sixth Ecumenical
Council). At that council both “monothelitism” (the doctrine that Christ had
only one, divine, will) and “monenergism” (the doctrine that he had only one
“theandric” activity or “energy”) were formally condemned. It was for the sake
of dyothelite Christology that Maximus the Confessor suffered so much before
dying in exile in 662. If Chitty’s reading is correct, and Climacus is, in fact,
making a subtle point about the two wills of Christ, then this would suggest a
date of composition not earlier than 633, when Cyrus, then appointed Patri-
arch of Alexandria, achieved reconciliation with non-Chalcedonians by his
promulgation of “monenergism.”27 Reading Climacus as dyothelite would cer-
tainly support the post-Moschus dating, yet given the paucity of reference, this
must remain a supposition.
The only hard evidence we have is that Climacus mentions Justinian’s κάστρον
(castrum, the fortified monastic settlement), which places the Ladder after its
construction in 566–67.28 Otherwise all is silence and contradiction in external
sources, and, in the absence of further evidence, we can only speculate within
the range of a hundred years. As far as probabilities go, while scholars have not
accepted Nau’s theory in its entirety, neither have they departed far from his
suggestion of a range of 579–649 ce. If they have disagreed, it has been like
Chitty, to push John even further into the seventh century. Bogdanovic, for
example, argued for a death sometime after 654 ce.29 Chryssavgis argues in
favor of a later death—659 or even 679 ce.30
This study is concerned with John’s spirituality and theology, and with the
theological and literary tradition that informed his writing. We see that tradi-
tion in the sources to which he alludes, and all are accounted for, whether John
Climacus lived late in the sixth century or through the middle of the seventh
century. Thus we have in this regard the luxury of a healthy agnosticism as
regards the specific years of John Climacus’ life. I will, therefore, content myself
with agreeing to the likelihood of a seventh-century milieu and reiterate as
most plausible a range from c.579 to c.659 ce.
27
â•‡On the events of the “Monothelite [and ‘monenergist’] Controversy,” see Louth (2008,
228–35).
28
â•‡ Ladder §6 (797A), 7 (812B). 29
â•‡ Bogdanovic (1968, 216–17).
30
The Ladder’s Genesis

Friendly Advice
The writing of the Ladder dates in all likelihood to John’s abbatial period and its
impetus to the correspondence between John Climacus and John, Abbot of
Raithou.31 It seems that John of Raithou had asked his Sinaite counterpart—in
Climacus’ capacity as abbot and given his experience as a shepherd of souls—to
give some advice about, presumably, how he could better lead his own monas-
tery. John writes,
Thus, as to a common father of everyone, to one who is my elder in everything,
both in training [ἀσκήσει] and sagacity [ἀγχινοίᾳ], to the very finest teacher, through
these words of ours we earnestly entreat you, the crown of virtues, to send to us
untaught ones what you have seen in contemplation [θεωρίᾳ] like Moses of old on
the mountain. And to send, as it were, God-written tablets [πλάκας θεογράφους],
sent by him to us, set down in an honored book, for the instruction of the new
Israel, recently delivered from the spiritual Egyptians and the sea of life.32
John goes on to compare these “God-written tablets” to a “ladder, made firm,
leading up to the gates of Heaven.”33 Without really specifying the content of
this sought-after treatise, he nevertheless suggests to Climacus’ imagination
three of the dominant conceits that run through the Ladder, as well as its struc-
ture: Mosaic tablets, Jacob’s ladder, and Israel’s flight from Egypt. Ultimately,
though, John seems to be asking for instruction for himself, which implies that
he is interested in advice on the abbatial office or, perhaps, a more mystical
teaching that could aid him in his own duties or that he could then dispense to
his flock.
Climacus certainly obliged, but perhaps not in quite the way John expected.
With the deprecations obligatory to rhetors (the adynaton), Climacus remarks
that he has no place instructing one so godly, virtuous, and brilliant as John of
Raithou but, “greatly fearing the death which comes from disobedience [τὸν ἐκ
τῆς παρακοῆς θάνατον],” he will write something “stammering,” which will
require readers “to fill in whatever is lacking from these tablets and so to fulfill
the spiritual law.”34 Climacus here takes up the image of tablets, and hints at the
obscure and epigrammatic style that will mark so much of the Ladder. He also
makes clear that he sends neither an instruction manual nor a revelation of
spiritual visions or contemplation. In fact, late in the Ladder, even as he com-
pares his own visionary experience to Paul’s in 2 Corinthians 12.1–4, Climacus
actually rejects any pretensions to revealed knowledge.35 The Ladder, then, is a
meditation that readers ought to ponder and work through and even elaborate
31
â•‡ ep. (PG 88: 623A–628C): Bogdanovic (1968, 217) picks this correspondence out as authen-
tic. In order to at least reduce confusion, I will, when discussing the correspondence, refer to John
of Raithou as “John” and to John Climacus as “Climacus.”
32
â•‡ ep. (624A–B). 33
â•‡ ep. (625A). 34
â•‡628A–B. 35
â•‡ §27 (1139B–C).
upon, rather than a revelation or manual. One imagines that Climacus would
have appreciated the work of the Byzantine scholiasts, not because it would flat-
ter his vanity, but because they were reading actively and making the Ladder
their own.
Climacus also makes clear that his work will not speak primarily to John as
abbot. Concluding his adynaton, Climacus suddenly changes tone and says
that he has not addressed his response to John at all. Given John of Raithou’s
prowess, to do so would be “a sign of the greatest silliness.” So Climacus writes,
“Not to you but to the God-called community which, with us, is learning from
you, greatest of great teachers!”36 Climacus has sent a text for the whole com-
munity, speaking only incidentally to the abbot’s work through allusive and
telling stories. Most notable in this regard are stories in the Fourth Rung of the
curiously unnamed “shepherd and doctor [ποιμήν καὶ ἰατρός]” of the great mon-
astery in Alexandria, and Isaac the head of its “Prison.”37 By means of the “great
shepherd,” whose words, actions, and discernment he continually praises, Cli-
macus paints a portrait of an ideal abbot, the sort of man he himself would
strive to be and, by implication, the sort that John, too, should emulate. But the
Ladder does not dwell, even when dealing with the Alexandrian monastery, on
its shepherd. That rung is, rather, on obedience—on the equally exemplary
work undertaken by those under the great shepherd’s care. This concern with
ordinary monks in all their varieties of life, of motivation, of progress, is
emblematic of the tone and tenor of Climacus’ Ladder: there is something in it
that will appeal to, call to, search out everyone.
To his credit, Climacus sent John a postscript, the Ad pastorem.38 A relatively
brief companion piece, this is clearly written for the abbot alone, and contains
advice and exhortations directed specifically to a monastic leader. It, too, is
epigrammatic, and has rather more in common stylistically with the wider
genre of gnomic literature. In any case, in both Ladder and Pastor, Climacus
writes with assured confidence, and so we may think of the Ladder, whatever its
author’s deprecating claims to incompetence, as the work of one comfortable in
authority. He came to this authority after spending most of his life, as much as
sixty-one years, in the monastic trenches. In responding to John’s request, Cli-
macus draws not only on his own wide learning and rhetorical education but
also on a lifetime of experience as both disciple and guide.39 This combination
of factors lends the Ladder both its synoptic vision of ascetic spirituality and the
incredibly detailed practicality one finds throughout; the allusive instruction
for abbots, and the searching contemplation of ordinary monks. Indeed,
though not exactly what he requested, the Ladder could not have disappointed
36
â•‡628B.
37
â•‡ The “shepherd” is introduced at §4 (681C), and Isaac at §4 (704B).
38
â•‡ past. (PG 88: 1165A–1207B); a fascinating and completely unexplored piece, but which adds
little to the present study. I will cite when relevant, but will not build anything on it.
39
â•‡See Ware (1982, 6–10); Johnsén (2007, 23–25); see also Völker (1968, 153).
John of Raithou: it is a vision compendious and profound, designed to guide

the “new Israel” as Moses did through the Sinaite wilderness.
The Spiritual Landscape

If the Ladder begins from a request, it takes much of its character from the wil-
derness. We have already seen references to Israel’s flight from Egypt, to the
great theophany atop Sinai, to Moses’ vision there, and to the Law that he
brought down. Throughout John Climacus deceptively simple life, the terrain
both physical and spiritual of Sinai—the history of desert withdrawal and wan-
dering written into the fierce landscape of Gebel Musa—shaped his character
and his thought. Traditionally, scholars have understood Climacus as having
come from Egypt and at least to have traveled to Alexandria. This is evidenced
by his remarkable memory for details of a “Great Monastery,” which, based on
two allusions to Alexandria, scholars believed to have been located near that
city.40 There are, it seems, two places in John’s world: Egypt and Sinai. Recently,
Marie-Joseph Pierre has argued eloquently, though not always persuasively, that
there is really only one place: Sinai. Pierre attempts to recast each scene that
might suggest Alexandria or Egypt—especially those of the “Great Monastery”
(§4) and the “Prison” (§5)—as being veiled references to the Vatos Monastery
itself.41 While speculative, Pierre is right that Climacus was not simply a resident
of Sinai: he was formed there, and his life of discipleship, solitude, and pastorship
has as its reference a world bounded by the spiritual and historical evocations of
the Sinaite wilderness, wherein he sought the “spiritual Jerusalem.”42 This world
pervades the Ladder, with Climacus repeatedly adverting to images of Israel’s
flight from Egypt and the sojourn in the wilderness, as well as Moses’ theophany
at Sinai,43 while ad Pastorem closes with one of the most remarkable extended
allegorizations of these scenes outside Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Moses.44
The Quest for Unit y

Purpose and Structure: The Way Down and the Way Up
John Climacus, whatever his other virtues—and I have no doubt that they were
many—is neither a clear nor a systematic writer. I do not mean that he is
40
â•‡ Chryssavgis’ claim that the Ladder provides “significant historical information about the
cenobite monasteries in Alexandria” (2004, 19) is perhaps a little extravagant.
41
â•‡ Pierre (2009, 458–60, 463–67). 42
â•‡ §3 (662B) and §29 (1152A).
43
â•‡For example, Climacus demands a spiritual director “in every way like Moses” who will lead
those “fleeing Egypt and Pharaoh” and who wish to “turn to flight the Amalek of passions” (§1
[633D–36A]).
44
â•‡ past. (1201C–1207B).
incoherent, but rather that wherever one traces one line of argument within a
chapter, one can also trace three others. If one can discern a particular organi-
zation to the Ladder’s rungs, one can also find another, different, but equally
plausible one. This degree of fluidity is likely intentional and its execution a
rather remarkable feat. Chryssavgis writes of John Climacus, “he is a master of
the ambivalent, of saying and unsaying the same thing. It is a way of having it
both ways. This, after all, may well be the divine way ”45 Like Kierkegaard’s
pseudonym Johannes de Silentio so many centuries later, Climacus “neither
writes the System nor promises of the System, neither subscribes to the System
nor ascribes anything to it.”46 Climacus’ apparent obscurity serves a didactic
purpose—not to frighten readers off, but to draw them in, calling them to find
their own way up the Ladder and so be formed by it. His construction leaves
gaps open, as he noted to John of Raithou, and it is up to readers to fill them in
and, in doing so, to “fulfil the spiritual law.” Multiple ways of reading, lists of
unexplained definitions, and multiple organizational logics keep the work
fresh even for those monastics who read it annually during Lent. Theirs is the
kind of active engagement Climacus envisioned to John of Raithou, and it
recalls us to Henrik Johnsén’s point, elaborated in the Introduction, that Clima-
cus writes to form monks, to teach, and to instruct as a father would his chil-
dren, and so to nurture in them a properly Christian identity.
Forming Christians within a monastic milieu is certainly Climacus’ purpose
in the Ladder. In Climacus’ conceit this means helping deliver the “new Israel”
from Egypt and its wilderness wanderings, bringing it safely to Sinai and, ulti-
mately, the heavenly Jerusalem of divine love. This purpose, coupled with Cli-
macus’ allusive and shadowy way of thinking—concerned with the organic and
existential reality of asceticism—renders the Ladder obscure in part because it
is difficult to draw out any kind of linear progression in it. While the image of a
ladder naturally suggests some sort of sequential progression divisible into dis-
crete stages, Climacus, concerned with forming identity, constantly anticipates,
expounds, and revisits virtues, vices, and ideas. Understanding something of
the construction of the Ladder will be a crucial aid to showing, in keeping with
the hermeneutical considerations laid out earlier, how Climacus holds together
various traditional trajectories of ascetic spirituality as well as how he centers
his work on death.
Scholars have, of course, discerned structure in the Ladder. Or, rather, they
have discerned multiple possible structures. So, it may be noted, did illumina-
tors of the Ladder manuscripts. Broadly, though, we see two sorts of structure:
a bipartite one and a tripartite one. The former was put forward by Couilleau
and taken up by Bogdanovic, Ware, and, warily, by Johnsén. This is a structure
of opposition and balancing between earlier and later rungs.47 As to the latter,
45
â•‡ Chryssavgis (2004, 12). 46
â•‡ Kierkegaard (1994, 5).
47
â•‡ Couilleau (1974, 373–74); followed by Ware (1982, 14).
two competing tripartite models have been put forward, each with its own
Â�heuristic benefit. I will set these out and analyze their strengths, and will then
suggest my own “model,” which is, in keeping with Climacus’ style, not really a
“model” at all, but rather a way of holding together two different organizing
logics, both of which rely on engagement with death.
To explain, there are thirty “rungs” or “steps” in the Ladder, the titles of which
I give from the translation by Lazarus Moore,48 together with an abbreviated
form of the Greek from Rader’s edition, which notes the particular vice or vir-
tue with which each rung primarily deals:
1. On Renunciation of the World (Ἀποταγή)
2. On Detachment (Ἀπροσπάθεια)
3. On Exile or Pilgrimage (Ξενιτεία)
4. On Blessed and Ever-Memorable Obedience (Ὑπακοή)
5. On Painstaking and True Repentance (Μετάνοια)
6. On Memory of Death (Μνήμη Θανάτου)
7. On Joy-Making Mourning (Πένθος)
8. On Freedom from Anger and Meekness (Ἀοργησία and Πρᾳότης)
9. On Remembrance of Wrongs (Μνησικακία)
10. On Slander or Calumny (Καταλαλιά)
11. On Talkativeness and Silence (Πολυλογία and Σιωπή)
12. On Lying (Ψεῦδος)
13. On Despondency (Ακήδια)
14. On that Clamorous Mistress, the Stomach (Γαστριμαργία)
15. On Incorruptible Purity and Chastity (Αγνεία and Σοφροσύνη)
16. On Love of Money, or Avarice (Φιλαργυρία)
17. On Non-Possessiveness (Ἀκτημοσύνη)
18. On Insensibility (Ἀναισθησία)
19. On Sleep, Prayer, and Psalmody with the Brotherhood (Ὕπνος,
Προσευχή, Ψσαλμῳδία)
20. On Bodily Vigil (Ἀγρυπνία)
21. On Unmanly and Puerile Cowardice (Δειλία)
22. On the Many Forms of Vainglory (Κενοδοξία)
23. On Mad Pride and . . . Unclean Blasphemous Thoughts (Ὑπερηφανία and
βλασφήμια)
â•‡ Moore (1978, xiii–xv).

48
24. On Meekness, Simplicity, and Guilelessness (Πραότης, Ἁπλότης, Ἀκακἰα)

25. On the Destroyer of the Passions, Most Sublime Humility (Ταπεινοφροσύνη)
26. On Discernment of Thoughts, Passions, and Virtues (Διάκρισις)
27. On Holy Stillness of Body and Soul (Ἡσυχία)
28. On Holy and Blessed Prayer (Προσευχή)
29. On Heaven on Earth, or Godlike Dispassion and Perfection (Ἀπαθεία)
30. On the Linking Together of the Supreme Trinity Among the Virtues
(Ἀγάπη).
The question taken up by scholars is, What progressions or connections obtain
between these thirty rungs?
The Diptych: Body and Soul Unified

Thematically, the rungs of the Ladder can be divided rather neatly into two
halves, which mirror and balance each other. A “bipartite” reading stresses bal-
ance among the various rung (see Fig. 1.1). Though there are actually five divi-
sions in this diagram, the fifteenth rung, “On Incorruptible Purity and Chastity,”
with its focus on the monk’s unity of body and soul, achieved only through
labor and struggle, is the fulcrum.49 The Ladder balances this central struggle
against the body’s demands and on either side, each rung has a mirror-self.
Generally, “fundamental virtues” mirror “crowning virtues.” To be more spe-
cific, one obvious example is that the second rung concerns detachment
(ἀπροσπάθεια) while its mirror, the twenty-ninth run, concerns dispassion
(ἀπάθεια). First one severs attachment (προσπάθεια) before combating the sub-
tler passions (πάθη), but the activities are clearly related: passions ultimately
attach people to other people and things, and the extirpation of attachment
contributes to the extirpation of underlying passions. To take a somewhat less
apparent example, obedience (§4) defines the work of monks in communities,
while discernment (§26) defines the work of those preparing for solitude (§27).
Discernment means obedience still, but directly to God—understanding his
will for oneself—rather than through the mediation of a superior. Thus, these
two rungs concern the same theme, but display it from different sides, present-
ing complementary, mirror images of “obedience,” whether in community or in
solitude. Nevertheless, these are not of equal value, as Climacus clearly sees
discernment as a higher kind of monastic activity reserved for more advanced
practitioners, enabled through years of obedience, to sort the impulses that
come to them and to know which they ought to obey. And so the mirroring also
exemplifies the Ladder’s consistent pattern of “types” and “antitypes.” Return-
ing to detachment and dispassion, while the two are clearly related, extirpating
49
â•‡ §15 (880A).
1.â•‡ Breaking with the World

a. Renunciation (§1)
b. Detachment (§2)
c. Exile or Pilgrimage (§3)
2. Fundamental virtues
a. Obedience (§4)
b. Repentance (§5)
c. Memory of Death (§6)
d. Joy-Making Mourning (§7)
3. Struggle against Passions
a. Anger, Meekness (§8)
⎞
b. Remembrance of Wrongs (§9)
⎥
c. Slander or Calumny (§10) Non-Physical Passions
⎬
d. Talkativeness, Silence (§11) ⎟
e. Lying (§12) ⎠
f. Despondency or Acedia (§13) ⎞
i. Gluttony (§14)
⎬ Physical Passions
1. Purity, Lust (§15)
ii. Avarice, Non-Possessiveness (§16–17)50 ⎠
g. Insensibility (§18) ⎞
h. Sleep, Prayer, Psalmody (§19) ⎥
i. Bodily Vigil (§20) â•…â•…â•…
⎥
⎬ Spiritual Passions
j. Cowardice (§21)
⎟
k. Vainglory (§22) ⎥
l. Pride and Blasphemy (§23) ⎠
4. Crowning virtues
a. Meekness, Simplicity, and Guilelessness (§24)
b. Humility (§25)
c. Discernment (§26)
5.â•‡ Union with God
a. Stillness or Hesychia (§27)
b. Prayer (§28)
c. Dispassion or Apatheia (§29)
d. Faith, Hope, and especially Love (§30)
Fig. 1.1
50
â•‡To bring out the symmetry of Climacus’ construction, we must take §§16–17 as a unit. This,
however, is quite plausible, since, like other steps (for example, §§8, 11, and 15) these two rungs
deal with paired opposites and, in fact, §17 can easily be read as a continuation of §16.
attachments is not sufficient to extirpate underlying passions. Rather, detach-

ment is a necessary but preliminary movement toward dispassion. It is fully
completed only when the underlying sickness, the passions, are fully dealt with,
and so detachment only typifies the complete work of dispassion.
Mirroring and type–antitype relationships contribute to the Ladder’s rhe-
torical and didactic balance. Certainly, the balance of fundamental and crown-
ing virtues is clear, but this kind of organization is particularly evident in the
lengthy hypothesized central division (§§8–23), which details the ongoing
struggle against passions and temptations. In this struggle, non-physical pas-
sions stemming particularly from Anger (§§8–13) balance spiritual ones cul-
minating in Pride (§§18–23) and, between the two, Climacus sets Gluttony,
Lust, and Avarice, the three spiritual–physical passions that most clearly reveal
the troublesome relationship of soul to body, from which all others spring, and
within which all others may be subsumed. Climacus’ Ladder has, then, a
strongly bipartite organization built on mirroring, types, and their fulfillments,
and the careful rhetorical balance which emerges from both.
To achieve such a thoroughgoing sense of balance and pace, Climacus takes
up and modifies traditional material. In the Introduction, I pointed out how, at
one point, he runs an Evagrian thought-scheme through Mark the Monk’s
schema of temptation, and through combining them, subtly modifies both.
That was a very specific instance of the ways in which Climacus shapes tradi-
tional material, but if we look at the order of chapters—particularly the vices
and virtues—we find that Climacus does the same kind of work on a macro
level. So, while Climacus has chapters devoted to seven of the Evagrian
λογισμοί,51 he has nothing to say about the eighth, “sadness” (λυπή), and, in
addition, sets out chapters between many of these Evagrius-inspired ones. In
those intercalary chapters, Climacus often deals with subsets of the general
thought category. So, for example, after Anger (§8), he spends time on its pecu-
liar manifestations, malice (§9), slander (§10), talkativeness (§11), and lying
(§12). This elaboration is balanced by his elaboration of the “spiritual” passions
that afflict a monk’s bodily activities—so we have sleepiness (§19), the obstacles
to vigil (§20), and cowardice (§21). The structure, read in light of a passing list
of seven passions, has led scholars to imagine that Climacus, like Cassian, held
to seven thoughts. But several times John refers to and has maintained a system
of eight.52 I think that between these two elaborations, Climacus has set acedia
(§13) opposite insensibility (§18, ἀναισθησία) because for him “insensibility” is
an “eighth” thought: John has set aside λυπή and focused instead on what Eva-
grius also knew to be a deadly foe—the numbness of spirit that deadens the
51
â•‡ §8 (Anger), §13 (Acedia), §14 (Gluttony), §15 (Lust), §16 (Avarice), §22 (Vainglory), and
§23 (Pride).
52
â•‡ §8 (836B); §13 (860C); §22 (948A); §26 (1021C); etc.
monk’s receptivity to correction and nullifies his ascetic work.53 “Numbness” is,
in those regards, very much like acedia, the “noonday demon.” In the very cent-
er of his plan, Climacus has clustered three Evagrian thoughts—the three with
which Evagrius generally starts his lists, the three that attack first, and from
which others are born: Gluttony (§14), Lust (§15), and Avarice (§16). Evagrius
highlighted their importance by putting them first; Climacus highlights it by
putting them in the center. His organization of vices and virtues highlights,
then, just how much Climacus owes to tradition (particularly in its Evagrian
expressions) and how willing he is to expand on it, to rearrange, and to rethink
it as seems best to him, while yet submitting to its authority. In such ways, tense
though they be, Climacus demonstrates his intensely traditional originality.
The “diptych” structure, drawing as it does on traditional monastic psychology
while expanding and reordering it as necessary, creates a unique vision of monas-
tic endeavor. As Richard Lawrence describes it, the structure is elegant and pow-
erful, drawing the reader inward and always reminding him that each virtue has
a shadow in vice, and each step a partner.54 The diptych also reminds the reader
that one progresses within virtues and not simply from one virtue to another. In
Climacus’ thought, lower virtues compose higher ones just as bread is made
from separate ingredients, or as a rainbow is composed of various bands of
color.55 The ascetic’s life can be understood, then, not as progressing from one
virtue to another, but as progressing toward union with God by a gradual agglom-
eration of the various fundamental and crowning virtues, possible only within a
lifelong “break with the world” and struggle against the passions.
Climacus centers the diptych on Gluttony, Lust, and Avarice. Because they
operate on the most natural requirements of bodily existence, these are also the
most insidious passions. They manifest the divisions that appear between the
soul seeking after God, and the body entirely devoted to physical and temporal
requirements. The struggle against these passions lies at the very center of the
ascetic life. Their centrality also demonstrates how important the unity of soul
and body is for Climacus, that the monk endeavors to be single, unified, and
whole. He closes the fifteenth rung with an imagined conversation between
soul and body, punctuated by impassioned apostrophes on their union:
How will I hate what I was made to love? How will I be freed from the one to
whom I have been eternally bound? How will I trample down the one who will
rise with me? How will I reveal as immortal what has received a mortal nature?
...
What is this mystery in me? What is the principle of my mixture? How have I
been fashioned as enemy and friend to myself? Tell me, tell me, my yoke-mate,
my nature!56
53
â•‡ Evagrius deals with “the demon of insensibility” especially at mal. cog. (recensio fusius) 11
(SC 438: 188–92).
54
â•‡Lawrence (1988, 104–107). 55
â•‡ §25 (989C–D). 56
â•‡ §15 (901C and 904A).
The struggle against passions is so difficult because the problematic desires of

gluttony and lust, for example, twist perfectly natural, even divinely given,
desires for food and sex. To deny these is to strike at the heart of one’s own
embodied existence and Climacus, in these passages, adamantly refuses a sim-
plistic “anti-body” stance. Rather, he seeks ways to correct and train bodily
desire without destroying the soul’s “yoke-mate.” As fellow resurrectionists,
body and soul must come together. And so Climacus says, “The fifteenth prize
in the contest—whoever, while yet in the flesh, has obtained it, has died—and
risen. And he has, from this time, already manifested a foretaste of the incor-
ruption that is to come.”57 The glorious prize of the contest means not rejecting
the body but rather calling it too into the monk’s taste of the Kingdom—prac-
ticing, as Epiphanius put it, both death and resurrection. Climacus sees the
monk as called to an existential unity in which the needs and desires of both
body and soul are harmonized in virtues and directed toward eternal life. So it
is that among his initial definitional list, Climacus says specifically, “A monk is:
attainment of the order and status of bodiless beings in a material and defiled
body.”58
Perhaps John’s rhetorical balancing act is inspired by the image suggested by
John of Raithou’s request: Moses and the tablets of the Law given atop Sinai.
Climacus refers to his work not only as a “ladder” but as “spiritual tablets”
(πλάκες πνευματικοί), of which he says,
faithfully constrained by their commands, those true slaves of God, stretching
for a hand unworthy of them in un-discerning obedience, and by their knowl-
edge taking up the pen to write, dipping it in downcast yet radiant humility,
resting it upon their hearts smooth and white, just as on sheets of paper or,
rather, spiritual tablets, divine words . . . we will write here, painting them in
many colours.59
In this polychrome portrait of the “spiritual law” (see Rom 8.2), written, fit-
tingly, on “spiritual tablets,” the beginner’s work mirrors the contemplative’s
prayer, while virtues and vices mirror and balance one another, and the two are
held together in the existential unity of body and soul—a unity that requires
enormous labor—that fires the monastic endeavor.
The Triptych: Progress to God

One can just as well discern a tripartite structure at work and reading the Lad-
der with this in mind draws us back from the “spiritual tablets” to the image of
57
â•‡ §15 (904C). 58
â•‡ §1 (633B).
59
â•‡ §1 (633C); some manuscripts bear the title Πλάκες πνευματικοί and Chryssavgis (2004, 21)
goes so far as to claim this was John’s “original title,” but there is no clear internal evidence for pre-
ferring Tablets to Ladder, and in the artistic tradition Ladder is clearly dominant—not only in
iconography but manuscript illumination.
a “ladder.” Scholars have long noticed a tripartite structure (see Fig. 1.2).60
Rather than looking at mirrors and types, we see that Climacus arranges the
steps in general accord with traditional divisions of the ascetic life into basic
monastic virtues, followed by the practical life (πρακτική, vita activa), and the
contemplative life (θεωρητική, vita contemplativa). The twofold division of
πρακτική and θεωρητική is memorialized particularly in Evagrian literature, but
is common to the Greek philosophical tradition, going back to Aristotle’s dis-
tinction in the Nicomachean Ethics between “practical” and “intellectual” vir-
tues. There is also a threefold division of the subjects of philosophical study,
visible among Stoics and Middle Platonists, into physics, ethics, and logic.61
Clement of Alexandria, in his Stromateis, suggests an altered version of the
Platonist course syllabus, which runs ethics, physics, and then theology, incor-
porating Scriptural interpretation as the favored means of study.62 Origen, in
his Commentary on the Song of Songs, develops a similar division, relating it
also to a layered interpretation of Scripture.63 Clement and Origen, then,
turned philosophical courses of study into patterns of Christian spiritual
development. Later writers such as Gregory of Nyssa and Evagrius elaborated
both twofold and threefold divisions of ascetic progress, and, in fact, John
seems to be amenable to both, though he says rather little about “physics” or
“natural contemplation.”
In the ascetic life, ethics are covered under the heading of πρακτική, which
includes the war against passions and, in an Evagrian scheme, the ultimate
prize of apatheia, which gives birth to love. The contemplative life, θεωρητική,
picks up where the practical life leaves off—the monk has now been purified of
distorting passions and has his mind ready for proper contemplation (θεωρία),
made possible in Evagrius’ scheme by the acquisition of apatheia and its off-
spring, love. Contemplation, too, has its stages of progress, owing much to
Clement and Origen’s thought, which separated “natural” from “divine” con-
templation. Evagrius, for example, would speak of “first natural contempla-
tion,” “second natural contemplation,” and only at the highest point of human
endeavor, “divine contemplation” or θεολογία proper, in which he would include
pure prayer. Climacus rungs take up the practical–theoretical distinction, but
ground both in chapters on initial and all-encompassing virtues and tools
whose practice will inform and aid both the struggle against passions and the
higher demands of contemplation. While Climacus moves apatheia to the
penultimate and love to the ultimate rung (a very different location from the
Evagrian midpoint), he does imagine θεολογία as beginning only with love.64 As
noted in the Introduction, John often modifies and reimagines traditional
â•‡See Ware (1982, 12–13); Chryssavgis (2004, 28–29).

60
â•‡ The Stoic order, as given in Seneca, ep. 89; open to permutations among Middle Platonists,
61
though: see Dillon (1976, 121, 145, etc.).

62
â•‡ str. 4.1.3.1–2 (GCS 15: 249); notably, Clement seems not to have completed his project.
63
â•‡ S.v. “Contemplation” in McGuckin (2004, 81–83). 64
â•‡At §30 (1157C).
1.â•‡ Fundamentals of the Ascetic Life

b. Detachment (§2)
c. Exile or Pilgrimage (§3)
d. Obedience (§4)
e. Repentance (§5)
f. Memory of Death (§6)
g. Joy-Making Mourning (§7)
2.â•‡ The Practical Life
a. Anger, Meekness (§8)
b. Remembrance of Wrongs (§9)
c. Slander or Calumny (§10)
d. Talkativeness, Silence (§11)
e. Lying (§12)
f. Despondency or Acedia (§13)
g. Gluttony (§14)
h. Purity, Lust (§15)
i. Avarice (§16)
j. Non-Possessiveness (§17)
k. Insensibility (§18)
l. Sleep, Prayer, Psalmody (§19)
m. Bodily Vigil (§20)
n. Cowardice (§21)
o. Vainglory (§22)
p. Pride and Blasphemy (§23)
q. Meekness, Simplicity, and Guilelessness (§24)
r. Humility (§25)
s. Discernment (§26)
3.â•‡ The Contemplative Life
a. Stillness or Hesychia (§27)
b. Prayer (§28)
c. Dispassion or Apatheia (§29)
d. Faith, Hope, and especially Love (§30)
Fig. 1.2
material without radically changing it. It is no surprise, then, that under the
common tripartite reading, John presents an immediately recognizable, yet
carefully modified, and grounded version of traditional demarcations of the
stages of ascetic advancement.
James Robertson Price, followed by Richard Lawrence, has put forward an
interesting model, differing from traditional tripartite schemata in both organ-
izing logic and hypothesized sectional divisions.65 This can be seen, as Richard
Lawrence describes it, in Fig. 1.3. Instead of practical and contemplative lives
grounded in fundamental virtues, Price and Lawrence claim that the stages of
ascetic progress are: repentance, mourning, and humility. They argue that the
great divisions are defined by a particular activity that begins or interprets them.
Price claims from Climacus himself the impetus for this particular tripartite
structure. Climacus states, “Repentance lifts us up, mourning knocks on heaven,
holy humility opens it. I say this and I worship Trinity in unity and unity in Trin-
ity.”66 Lawrence, following Price’s model, attempts to reconcile this modified trip-
tych with the classic diptych (see Fig. 1.3), though he is by no means always
successful. Lawrence finds parallels between rungs in a repentance–mourning–
humility structure. Thus, for him “renunciation” and the “memory of death,” or
“discernment” and “apatheia,” must parallel one another. At this point, his
model, though imaginative, ends up feeling rather forced. The mirroring between
sections is lost as well as the “type–antitype” relationship between rungs. There
are too few clear connections between the divisions he proposes and too much
reliance on numerical symbolism, which is, of course, notoriously malleable.
Lawrence does, however, make some important points. First, like others
before and after he points out the centrality of πένθος in Climacus’ thinking.67
Certainly, John’s biographer, Daniel, drew particular attention to it, while Syme-
on the New Theologian and, through him, later hesychasts, derived much of
their emphasis on mourning from the Ladder. Second, Lawrence draws atten-
tion to the universality of “repentance” (μετάνοια). A superficial reading of the
fifth rung would suggest that μετάνοια means “penance,” when in fact it refers to
“repentance” more broadly, of which specific acts of penance are emblematic.68
The “holy criminals,” as we shall see later, by no means form a limited or isolated
group. Moreover, Lawrence rightly discerns in the sixth rung on Memory of
Death a “linking” chapter—one whose meaning is only comprehensible in light
of its connection to what came before (Repentance) and what will follow
(Mourning). Yet, in linking them together, the thought of death at once inter-
prets repentance and enables mourning. It is not transitional, but axial, as the
memory of death makes progress from one activity to the next possible, a point
to which we will return later.
â•‡ Price (1980, 338–62).

65 66
â•‡ §25 (992D); cited by Price (1980, 358–59).
â•‡See, for example, Völker’s treatment of πένθος (1968, 164–80) and, more recently, Hannah
67
Hunt’s fascinating study (2004, 41–96).

68
â•‡See especially Torrance (2012, 158–75), where he deals with the Ladder.
1.â•‡ Repentance
i. Detachment (§2)
1. Exile or Pilgrimage (§3)
2. Obedience (§4)
ii. Repentance (§5)
b. Memory of Death (§6)
2.â•‡ Mourning
a. Joy-Making Mourning (§7)
i. Anger, Meekness (§8)
ii. Remembrance of Wrongs (§9)
iii. Slander or Calumny (§10)
iv. Talkativeness, Silence (§11)
v. Lying (§12)
vi. Despondency or Acedia (§13)
1. Gluttony (§14)
2. Purity, Lust (§15)
3. Avarice, Non-Possessiveness (§§16–17)
vii. Insensibility (§18)
viii. Sleep, Prayer, Psalmody (§19)
ix. Bodily Vigil (§20)
x. Cowardice (§21)
xi. Vainglory (§22)
xii. Pride and Blasphemy (§23)
e. Meekness, Simplicity, and Guilelessness (§24)
3.â•‡ Humility
a. Humility (§25)
i. Discernment (§26)
1. Stillness or Hesychia (§27)
2. Prayer (§28)
ii. Dispassion or Apatheia (§29)
b. Faith, Hope, and especially Love (§30)
Fig. 1.3
While the bipartite reading emphasized the coherence and unity of ascetic life, a
tripartite reading of the Ladder reminds us just how much progress means to
John. The ascetic life can be divided into stages through which monks progress.
Whether those be “fundamental, practical, theoretical,” or “repentance, mourn-
ing, humility,” each reading sees a heavenly trajectory at work in Climacus’
spirituality. For example, in the twenty-sixth rung, on discernment, John gives

three “alphabets”—three mnemonically arranged lists of virtues. The first alpha-
bet is “for all,” though with its first term being “A: Obedience,” John seems to have
in mind those starting out in monasticism. This is confirmed by the second
alphabet, which he calls “a good order of those in the middle [μέσων]” and a
third, which he says is an “account and law of those spirits and bodies being per-
fected piously in the flesh.”69 John imagines, then, a threefold division of pro-
gress: there are in monasteries and cells apprentices, journeymen, and masters of
the ascetic life. As his reduplication of “alphabets” of virtues indicates, different
emphases and virtues are important at each stage. If we recall the image of bread,
the final product—humility—cannot be attained immediately. Time is necessary
for the ingredients—repentance and mourning—to bake in the fire of divinely
kindled desire. Only with sufficient practice in repentance and mourning, only
after the work of honing these two activities, can the monk hope to attain true
humility. Progress means patience, because Climacus’ vision of asceticism is a
lifelong endeavor. The monastic life is one of unceasing movement toward and
within “the perfect never-perfected perfection of the perfect,”70 whose end and
arc is love: what Climacus calls the “rest of angels, progress of the ages.”71
Conclusion: Dyad, Triad, Unity

What, then, can the reader do with the competing literary models put forth by
scholars? Is it possible to read the Ladder as, simultaneously, diptych and trip-
tych? Is it possible to focus at once on balance, union, and upward progress
without falsely privileging one over others? I chose the Rule of Benedict as this
chapter’s epigram because while his famous “ladder of humility” seems to have
little in common with John’s tome, for both authors spirituality’s framework is
the reality of embodied human life, the existential urgency being ever and
always renewed by the paradoxical and problematic union of body and soul,
mortal and immortal. Only in this framework is progress possible, and so we
can tie together both readings with a more fluid model of dyad and triad.
To return to the title of the work, we find not one but two before us: “spiritual
tablets” and “ladder.” Though tablets are important to him, it is with a ladder
that Climacus closes, and a motif of ascent dyes the fabric of his great work.
Speaking of love, the “empress” who “appears from heaven,” Climacus says,
How Jacob saw you atop the ladder (Gen 28.12), I long to learn. Show to one who
desires what is the form of this ascent; what the way of life and what the joining
â•‡ §26 (1017A–C).

69
â•‡ §29 (1148C): ἡ τελεία τῶν τελείων ἀτέλεστος τελειότης (Climacus’ preferred definition of apa-
70
theia). See also, for example, John’s beautiful discussion of hesychastic and angelic progress at §27
(1101A–B).
71
â•‡ §30 (1160A); on progress in the Ladder, see Zecher (2013, 124–36).
[ἔρανος] of that fashioning of steps to you, which your lover “has set as ascents in
his heart” (see Ps 83.6 LXX). What is their number I have thirsted to learn, and
how great, therefore, the time of the course. For one who learns your struggle and
sight has announced them to those whom he leads by the hand.72
Moreover, the epilogue (probably spurious, but written if not by Climacus him-
self then by a loving disciple) begins thus:
Ascend, ascend eagerly “the ascents placed in the heart,” my brothers, hearing one
saying “Come, let us ascend to the mountain of the Lord and unto the house of
our God (Isa 2.3) who makes our feet as those of a stag and sets us upon the high
places” (Hab 3.19) in order to be victorious in the way.73
Climacus undeniably intends his book to call readers to a lifelong endeavor of
ascent. This ascent may be up the ladder seen by Jacob, or perhaps up the crag-
gy side of Gebel Musa. Yet, the “diptych” or “mirroring” extends even to the
images adduced by Climacus—one at the beginning, one at the end—to
describe his own work: tablets brought down the mountainside and a ladder
leading back up; wisdom whose origin and end is in the God who has descend-
ed from heaven to draw sinners to himself.
For all that, Climacus has no interest in linearity for its own sake. He is fonder
of the metaphors of “family.” It is in genealogical terms that he lays out the tortu-
ous, anarchic relations between vices and the curious often paradoxical rela-
tionships between virtues. There is no clear path to be trod through so many
twining friends and foes. His, then, is a ladder shaped like the paths that wind
down the side of Gebel Musa, contorted and retorted until every rung and every
grain in the wood of every rung seems to intersect every other. An organizing
principle is very difficult to find and would be impossible to communicate—at
least without speaking of numerous others. We cannot, therefore, ignore the
divisions to which Couilleau pointed, for they seem equally as valid. There is a
sense in which the monk never progresses beyond, but only within, the diptych
of Climacus’ spiritual tablets. I think that choosing one model on which to
structure the Ladder will always end up feeling forced. One model is a little like
one definition—valuable to scholars but anathema to Climacus, who happily
runs out lengthy lists of definitions when he might have given only one. If we are
to speak of “structure,” or of coherence, it is not to be found in the reconciliation
of various schematic or systematic models.
Therefore, rather than a strict bipartite or tripartite structure, I propose that
we think in terms of interrelated dyad and triad. The dyad refers to an ascetic life
possessing ever two sides that must be held together. The monk who has attained
“contemplation” does not thereby forget the benefits of ethical training. Eva-
grius once wrote, “The Gnostic monk and the Practicing monk met, and the
72
â•‡ §30 (1160A). â•‡ §30 (1160D–61A).
73
Lord stood between them.”74 Like Evagrius, Climacus happily holds beginning
together with end—memory of death (§6) and prayer (§28)—averring that
“Some say that prayer is better than memory of one’s departure; but I hymn two
natures of one person.”75 Climacus sees value in holding together apparent
opposites, in balancing and mirroring because that is what he sees at work in the
Incarnation. Christ’s personal union of divine and human, heavenly and earth-
ly, not only allows but even demands that the most fundamental virtues remain
in and alongside the most ethereal. The dyad especially contextualizes ascetic
endeavor as a quest for unity within readers’ own mixed constitutions: beings
with both bodies and souls, set at odds by sin, yet destined to rise together.
But this human dyad progresses until, to borrow Gregory Nazianzen’s cryp-
tic remark, it becomes triad. In the Ladder, humans must make progress. The
triad defines the trajectory—three points a path—of progress toward divine
and heavenly existence. Certainly, one begins with fundamental virtues, and
then cultivates practical ones, and only later contemplative ones. As progress,
each section of the triptych contextualizes the next. To return to the earlier-
quoted description of progress: “Repentance lifts us up, mourning knocks on
heaven, holy humility opens it. I say this and I worship Trinity in unity and
unity in Trinity.”76 Climacus can cap his description of progress with a reference
to the “Trinity in unity” because progress is, as the dyad requires, always within
rather than from: the hesychast’s work is only possible because he has become
so perfectly obedient; one never forgets humility in prayer. Existentially, too,
the monk may ascend further into the life of the Trinity, but he never leaves
behind his natural dyadic composition of soul and body. As Chryssavgis very
rightly notes, Climacus has a strongly unitary view of the human being: “If
there is any ‘separation’—as in the case of death—it is only temporary. This
adds an eschatological dimension to John’s ascetic thought.”77 To this eschato-
logical dimension, I would add that the human being is called to become a
“unity,” only in the neverending progress that draws together body and soul.
In reading the Ladder, I speak of triad to convey motion—progress; I speak
of dyad to recall that motion is always within; I speak of unity to describe the
composite personal existence struggling toward wholeness.
Running Toward Death
With dyad and triad in mind and the quest for unity as context, we may fruitfully
ask one of the central questions of this study: how does John Climacus organize
the ascetic life? The answer that this study will propose is that he does so through
death. Though he devotes the sixth rung to the Memory of Death, he describes a
74
â•‡Evagrius, sent. mon. 121 (TU 39.4: 163). 75
â•‡ §28 (1137A).
76
â•‡ §25 (992D); cited in Price (1980, 358–59).
77
â•‡ Chryssavgis (2004, 56); see also Chryssavgis (1985b, 447–53).
practiced encounter with death in twelve forms78 in eighteen of the thirty rungs79
and connects it directly with twelve distinct virtues.80 Additional complications
arise because the connotations of various terms overlap, and of the virtues to
which Climacus connects the memory of death, some precede and some follow it
in the Ladder. He says in his sixth rung, “Memory of death gives birth . . . for those
away from the din of worldly concerns, to resignation and constant prayer, and a
guard of the mind. But these stand as mothers and daughters of the memory of
death.”81 The upshot of all this is that, in Climacus’ complicated genealogical
thinking, the memory of death is interconnected in curious, even paradoxical
ways, with numerous other virtues. When we return to Climacus in Chapter 6,
we shall see that progress always requires “memory of death.” He elaborates a
framework for progress built on a triadic engagement with time in which past,
present, and future all illuminate the ascetic’s eternal existence by their reference
to death as both mortality and judgment. We will then see that Climacus develops
the “dyad” in terms of a sustained and far-reaching practice of mortality. Death
runs like a grain of wood through the whole Ladder.
However, in order to make sense of what Climacus means by “memory of death”
or how he elaborates a “practice of death,” we need to step back and look at how
these two conceptualities helped define ascetic spirituality in the wide literary tra-
dition that formed Climacus. He builds up his vision of ascetic spirituality by very
carefully weaving together various strands of thought that emerged in the Egyp-
tian and Gazan monasteries while remaining sensitive to the often frayed ends and
ragged edges that were a natural part of the developing tradition. The next four
chapters will explore death, early Christianity, and the Desert, and each will have
the same structure, focusing on the three aspects of thanatological engagement
that are decisive for Climacus: first, the practice of the “memory of death” as both
mortality and judgment, then its metaphysical underpinnings in the continuity or
opposition of ages, before turning to “practices of death.” Each chapter will con-
clude with an examination of the rough edges and frayed ends of these ideas: that
is, how in the same literature we find ambivalence, nuance, disagreement, and
countervailing trajectories of spirituality at work. All of this will be important for
understanding both the developing Greek ascetic tradition and the Ladder.
78
â•‡ These are: μνήμη θανάτου (§1, §4, §6, §11, §15, §18, §27), ἔννοια θανάτου (§6, §20, Summary
after §26), ὑπόμνησις θανάτου (§12), μελέτη θανάτου (§4, §6, §18), μέριμνα θανάτου (§26), μνήμη
ἐξόδου (§6, Summary after §26, §30), αἴσθησις θανάτου (§6), δάκρυα ἐξόδου (§7, §18), πόθος θανάτου
(§26), ἔπειξις θανάτου (§27), δειλία θανάτου (§6), and φόβον ἐξόδου (§1). Climacus also uses other
phrases and terms with similar or analogous meaning.
79
â•‡ These are: §1 (On Renunciation), §4 (Obedience), §5 (Repentance), §6 (Memory of Death),
§7 (Mourning), §11 (Talkativeness and Silence), §12 (Falsehood), §13 (Despondency), §14 (Glut-
tony), §15 (Chastity), §17 (Poverty), §18 (Insensitivity), §20 (Alertness), §22 (Vainglory), §26 (Dis-
cernment), the Summary after §26, §27 (Stillness), §28 (Prayer), and §30 (Faith, Hope, and Love).
80
â•‡ These are: combating lust (§4), mourning (§5, §6, §7), detachment (§1, §6), obedience (§6),
fighting gluttony (§6), silence (§11), fighting lying (§12), pricking insensitivity (§18), wakefulness
(§20), discernment (§26), self-control (Summary after §26), and prayer (§30).
81
â•‡ §6 (793C).
2
Biblical and Philosophical Foundations

The thought of death is a good dancing partner, my dancing partner.
Søren Kierkegaard as Johannes Climacus, Philosophical Fragments
To understand the ascetic enterprise, whether formulated by Climacus or

another, we must look to its original inspiration, which comes from the Scrip-
tures. Whatever social influences, whatever philosophical pretensions, what-
ever their debt to third-century methods of tax evasion (anachoresis) or to the
curricula of Greek education (paideia), Christian ascetics consciously saw
themselves primarily as living out the Gospel.
In his Vita Antonii (to which we will return in the next chapter) Athanasius
famously presents Antony the Great’s entire career as a response to Scripture
readings in Church: “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your goods and give
them to the poor, and come, follow me, and you will have treasure in heaven”
(Mat 19.21). Antony had been meditating on just the right question, wondering
how “the Apostles, abandoning everything, followed the Savior.”1 So, hearing
the ways in which Scripture spoke to his own concerns, Antony responds to
Jesus’ command to “come, follow me”: “But Antony, as if he held the memory of
the saints [the Apostles] by divine inspiration, and as if the reading had been
performed for him alone, straightway departed from the Lord’s house and gave
away what he had received.”2 He keeps a little back until he later hears, “Do not
be anxious for tomorrow” (Mat 6.34a).3 Then, giving the rest of his goods to the
poor, Antony throws himself wholeheartedly into a life of asceticism. Athana-
sius presents asceticism as a rigorous attempt to live out the Gospel, steeped in
the language and lore of the Christian Scriptures. Beyond Athanasius’ portrait,
other examples could be adduced from across monastic literature. To see how
deep scriptural dependence can go, though, one need look no further than
Basil of Caesarea’s Asceticon, the great “rule” of Eastern monasticism, in which
both the theoretical framework of asceticism and responses to practical details
are built up through extensive commentary on Scripture.
1
â•‡ v. Anton 2.2 (SC 400: 132). 2
â•‡ v. Anton 2.4 (SC 400: 132–34).
3
â•‡ v. Anton 3.1 (SC 400: 134).
Biblical and Philosophical Foundations 53
This is not to say that Christian ascetics were familiar only with Scripture.
Long gone are the days when scholars imagined early monks as poor, illiter-
ate, simple folk—a picture that owes more, perhaps, to Athanasian ideology
and the disruptive force of the first Origenist Controversy than to historical
fact. Indeed, it grows clearer and clearer that the educated monk, the Eva-
grius or Ammonius, is not the exception but, at least in fourth-century
Egypt, the rule.4 Samuel Rubenson’s groundbreaking work on the Letters of
Antony,5 the publication of works by Ammonas and others, continues to
reveal a highly literate, well-educated group whose interests in gnosis and
union with God draw on the rich heritage of Alexandrian theology and
anticipate Evagrian language. Monastic spiritual development also recalls
the ideals of Classical paideia, and particularly its Christian renovation by
the great Alexandrians. However, the balance of this debt remains a ques-
tion: to what extent is the Christian ascetic project identical to Greek philo-
sophical practices? Or, if not identical, how much is it shaped by Greek
philosophy? I do not propose to answer this question and any definitive
answer awaits the completion of Samuel Rubenson’s massive “Early Monas-
ticism and Classical Paideia” project at Lund University.6 I will therefore set
to one side a more comprehensive examination of philosophical underpin-
nings and justify this study’s emphasis on Scripture with Anthony Mere-
dith’s remark that “even the most philosophically self-Â�conscious attempt to
justify asceticism with the Church has never been able to forget the appeal
to the words and example of Christ in the New Testament as a basis for its
practice.”7 For that reason this chapter will focus first on biblical material
and only then discuss the famous Socratic definition of philosophy as “prac-
tice of death” and its fate among Christian ascetics. Our survey of death in
the Greek ascetic tradition begins here by first describing key vocabulary
and conceptual themes that Greek Christian writers obtained from Scrip-
ture, and then practices of meditation on and anticipation of death derived
from Greco-Roman paideutic culture.
THE BIBLICAL VO CABULARY OF DEATH

The Event of Death
Scripture does not use any one word to signify the phenomenon of death. Gen-
erally, we encounter two kinds of vocabulary: terms for “death,” and terms for
4
â•‡ On which see, for example, Sheridan (2002). 5
â•‡ Rubenson (1990).
6
â•‡ The project’s conferences, publications, and plans can be viewed at www.monasticpaideia.org.
7
â•‡ Meredith (1976, 331–32).
“destruction.”8 Both of these are opposed to words for “life” or “living” (particu-
larly ζωή).9 The commonest words for “dying” are (συν)(ἀπο)θνῄσκω, and
τελευτάω.10 The latter is rarer than the former and, though τελευτάω shares an
etymological origin with τελειόω (“to perfect” or “make complete”), τελευτάω
simply means to “come to the end [of one’s life].”11 Thus, τελευτῶν, “dying,” refers
to the deterioration of the human being leading up to and culminating in death
(for example, Heb 11.22). Τελευτάω and its related form τελευτή refer most gen-
erally to the cessation of physical life and, therefore, to death as an event that (at
least temporarily) terminates physical existence.12
Another curious word is ἔξοδος. Though rare, its range of meaning is remark-
able: aside from the obvious reference to the departure of the Israelites from
Egypt, it can mean, among many other things, death.13 Luke, for example, uses
the term of Jesus’ death: “These, having appeared in glory, spoke about his
departure [τὴν ἔξοδον αὐτοῦ], which he was about to accomplish in Jerusalem”
(9.31). Departure here means “death,” and the context of the transfigured Jesus
speaking with Moses and Elijah highlights Luke’s intentional reference to the
Exodus narrative. Though tempting to infer similar references elsewhere,
ἔξοδος usually simply means a “departure” or “outcome”14 and so, metonymi-
cally, “death.”15 In biblical material, Ἔξοδος can refer to the departure of πνεῦμα
from σάρξ (or σῶμα—the material portion of the human being), as in the follow-
ing: “Be comforted for him in the departure of his spirit [ἐν ἐξόδῳ πνεύματος
αὐτοῦ]” (Sir 38.23). Or it can refer to death generally as a person’s “departure”
from life: “I will take care to have you remember these things after my death
[τὴν ἐμὴν ἔξοδον]” (2 Pet 1.15).16 Thus, by ἔξοδος authors intend “death as depart-
ure,” though without any discernible consensus on what exactly that entails.
Finally, there is Jesus Ben Sirach’s curious formulation of τὰ ἔσχατα, “end.”
While ἔσχατα is a common expression,17 Ben Sirach, uniquely, uses it thrice to
refer to death:
In all your words remember your end and you will never sin [Ἐν πᾶσι τοῖς λόγοις
σου μιμνῄσκου τὰ ἔσχατά σου καὶ εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα οὐκ ἁμαρτήσεις] (7.36).
8
â•‡ Words for “destruction” (ὄλεθρος, φθείρω/φθορά, ἀπόλλυμι/ἀπωλεία) comprise an interesting
group, but only tangentially related to the topics under survey.
9
â•‡ S.v. θάνατος, TDNT 3: 7–25.
10
â•‡ The NT also uses κοιμᾶσθαι: literally, “to fall asleep” (for example, John 11.11–13; 1 Cor 7.39).
Sleep and death were closely associated in Greek and Jewish thought and, as Bultmann notes (s.v.
θάνατος, TDNT, 3: 14 n. 60) both Homer and the rabbis could use “to fall asleep” for “to die” with-
out intending any idea of afterlife, let alone physical resurrection. See John 11.11–13. See also
Levenson (2006, 5, 74, 186–87 with notes).
11
â•‡ S.v. τελευτάω, LSJ.
12
â•‡ For example, Gen 6.17, 27.2; Lev 24.16; Ezek 18.17; Mat 2.19; Mar 9.48; John 11.39; Act 7.15.
13
â•‡ Judges 5.27; Wis 3.2, 7.6; Sir 38.23; Luke 9.31; and 2 Peter 1.15. 14
â•‡ s.v. ἔξοδος in LSJ.
15
â•‡ Nolland (1993, 498); Marshall (1978, 384). 16
â•‡ See Phil 1.23 and 2 Cor 5.8.
17
â•‡ The plural reflects LXX usage for “end” or “final end,” as at 2 Sam 2.26, Lam 1.19, and Wis
2.16; or for “outcome,” as at Isa 41.22 and Dan 12.8; or even for “descendants,” as at Dan 11.4; or for
“latter” state or days, as at Job 8.7, 42.12, and Mat 12.45.
Remember your end and cease from enmity; [remember] corruption and death,
and remain in the commandments [Μνήσθητι τὰ ἔσχατα καὶ παῦσαι ἐχραίνων
καταφθορὰν καὶ θάνατον καὶ ἔμμενε ἐντολαῖς] (28.6).
Do not give your heart to sadness; cause it to depart, remembering your end [Μὴ
δῷς εἰς λύπην τὴν καρδίαν σου ἀπόστησον αὐτὴν μνησθεὶς τὰ ἔσχατα]. (38.20)
In these passages “your end” (τὰ ἔσχατα) refers to “death” with the meaning of
“termination of existence.” Ben Sirach does not envision anything after death,
whether resurrection, eschatological judgment, or afterlife.18 He says, rather,
“Do not forget, there is no return . . . remember my sentence, for yours is simi-
lar, and today it is for me, tomorrow for you. When the dead body rests, let its
memory rest too, and be comforted for him in the departure of his spirit”
(38.21–23). Without return, and the expectation of absolute “rest,” τὰ ἔσχατα
must refer simply to that common “sentence” (κρίμα), which is itself death, the
fate of all mortals, and whose result is the “dead body” (νεκρός).19 Nevertheless,
as these same verses show, consciousness of death’s inevitability impinges on
one’s manner of living: protecting from sin (7.36), helping to make peace (28.6),
and lightening one’s heart in the face of calamities (38.20). Ben Sirach’s usage is
not retained, as Christian authors apply radically different meanings to τὰ
ἔσχατα and εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα, neither of which, for them, refer to the present life but
rather to eternity. However, his ideas will resonate throughout the ascetic trad-
ition. Sirach 7.36 provides the biblical foundation for the “memory of death”
(μνήμη τοῦ θανάτου), which will be so vital to ascetic authors.
Death and Disclosure

In the LXX θάνατος is sometimes personified,20 sometimes a natural event,21
sometimes great suffering,22 often the consequence of divine judgment,23 even
an expression of the moral character of one’s life.24 Death may not have been a
good thing, but neither was it necessarily a bad one: death was a fact of life. New
Testament writers responded to this perception, variously elaborating or alter-
ing it as the teaching and revelation of Christ demanded. Most conspicuously,
18
â•‡ Levenson (2006, 194–96). 19
â•‡ See Eccl 2.15–16.
20
â•‡ Hos 13.14; Hab 2.5; Sir 41.1–2; Job 18.13; see 2 Kgds 22.5; Prov 7.27; etc.
21
â•‡ Gen 3.19, 18.27; Eccl 12.7. See on Old Testament theology of death generally, Bailey (1979,
58f, 109–110). On the Eden episode see especially Barr (1992, 1–20).
22
â•‡ Pss 17.5–6, 106.18, 114.3, etc.; see Rom 7.12–25.
23
â•‡ Gen 2.17, 6.7; Exod 12.29, 32.28; 2 Kgds 6.7; etc.; so also in some New Testament writings—
Acts 5.1–11; see Luke 13.1–5. This is most especially true for Paul (Rom 5.12–21), on which more
later.
24
â•‡ Bailey (1979, 47–52, 77–80) confines this distinction to older strata of literature, seeing it
subverted in wisdom literature and fully reversed in Christian martyr literature as well as passages
such as 1 Cor 4.9–13 and Luke 21.16. This does not deny the validity of “good” versus “bad” death,
but simply changes the criteria rather drastically. See also Johnston (2002, 39–46).
Paul sees death as disclosing the limitations imposed on humanity through sin,
while Matthew refers it to an eternally viable resolution of human existence in
Christ’s eschatological judgment. For John, while death is terrible, even tragic
(11.34, 12.27), it in no way disrupts the life that Jesus offers (11.25–27).25 For
such writers, death can only be a good or bad thing, and, if ever it is neutralized,
as Matthew or John’s Gospels might suggest, it is only with reference to a more
fearful prospect in eternity26 or an eternal hope realized in the present.27
Ascetics—to put it very generally—who were also concerned with the spiritual
meaning of death, took ideas of eschatological judgment from Matthew,28 and
their focus on death as a symbol of fallen and saved humanity from Paul. While
the modern critic would be in no danger of confusing these two strands of
thought, patristic readers would, through creative readings, combine them
without rejecting either. I will, therefore, lay out these strands of thought with-
out attempting to adjudicate or synthesize. We will, in the chapters that follow,
see the ways that Matthew and Paul’s ideas, if not always their words, resonate
through ascetic literature.
Death and Judgment

Because it was conceived as the cessation of human existence, θάνατος could
give Job hope for rest after his torment (Job 3.13–16), remind Ben Sirach not to
worry so much, or, conversely, cause Qoheleth to toy with nihilism (Eccl 2.15–
20). In the Pentateuchal and Historical narratives what mattered was that death
be natural, in old age, and that one be buried and “gathered to one’s people.”29
To wish for more than peaceful oblivion was unknown and to expect any fate
other than that which befalls all mortals was absurd. Not so in Matthew’s nar-
rative. He writes, “And do not fear those who kill [ἀποκτενόντων] the body, but
are unable to kill [ἀποκτεῖναι] the soul. Fear, rather, the one who is able to des-
troy [ἀπολέσαι] soul and body in Gehenna” (10.28). Here, physical death—
which affects only the body—is much less important than the possibility of
eternal and total destruction “in Gehenna.”30 Death’s meaning is, therefore,
ultimately referred to an eschatological fate.
How does this terrible fate come about? We learn that “When the son of man
comes in his glory and all the angels with him, then . . . all the peoples will be
gathered before him, and he will separate them from each other, just as a shep-
herd separates sheep from goats” (25.31–32). The all-important event is the
â•‡ See Bailey (1979, 51–52); Clark-Soles (2006, 122–38); Rowland (2008, 66).
25
â•‡ Mat 5.22: “ἡ γέεννα τοῦ πυρός.”

26 27
â•‡ John 17.3: “ἡ αἰώνιος ζωή.”
28
â•‡ Ascetics seem to have been particularly fond of Matthew’s Gospel, a preference that John
Wortley notes still “has yet to be explained.” Wortley (2006, 315–28).
29
â•‡ Johnston (2002, 26–27, 33–35); see Levenson (2006, 67–81).
30
â•‡ See also Mark 9.43–49 with Byzantine variants. On which see Metzger (1994, 86–87).
eschatological and universal judgment of Christ at which all will be divided

into their two possible destinies: beatitude with Christ or torment in Gehenna.
In this moment all secrets are revealed (10.27) and God takes account of
actions.31 At points, Matthew (6.4; see also Heb 4.13) suggests (following 1 Kgds
16.7) that God’s gaze even now penetrates past distorting appearances. Yet it is
only in Christ’s eschatological judgment that all will see clearly what God sees
now—thus the surprise expressed by both sheep and goats in Matthew 25. The
goats are dismissed and sheep welcomed because of their ethical habits: feeding
the hungry, aiding the poor, visiting prisoners, etc. The surprise is that Jesus’
judgment reveals even the most apparently banal actions as eternally signifi-
cant: “Truly, I say to you, as much as you do for one of the very least of these, my
brothers, you do for me” (25.40).32 The myriads of different human lives, the
numerous degrees of goodness, resolve into the only two possibilities that
remain when nothing is kept secret and the implications of every action are
fully understood.33 In this context, death refers not primarily to mortality, but
to Christ’s judgment and the destiny it determines, which lies beyond the grave
and is based on how one lives presently. The terror facing humans, therefore, is
not the physical event of death but eternal “destruction,” which is itself under-
stood as a more complete form of “death.”34
For Ben Sirach, remembrance of death meant remembrance of mortality.
Christian ascetics would interpret Ben Sirach’s verses through descriptions,
such as Matthew’s, of eschatological judgment. In doing so, they would fill out
θάνατος with eschatological content, such that its remembrance refers most
especially to “judgment” and only secondarily to “mortality.” Memory of death
still motivates certain patterns of behavior, but now these must accord particu-
larly with the criteria of Christ’s eschatological judgment.35 Thus, for example,
Jesus counsels the removal of every stumbling block external or internal, since
“It is better to enter limping into life” than to go intact “to Gehenna, to the
quenchless fire, where their worm does not die and the fire is not extinguished”
(Mark 9.43–44). This image, though, must be thrown on the scale with Jesus’
demand that “If someone comes after me and does not hate his father and
31
â•‡ So also Luke 12.3.
32
â•‡ In one of the very few instances that he could be said to speak of it at all, Paul also speaks of
(probably) eschatological judgment in terms of actions: “The work of each will become clear, for
the day will make it clear, because it is revealed by fire. And the fire will test the quality of each
one’s work . . . if someone’s work is burned, he will suffer loss. But he himself will be saved, though
as through fire” (1 Cor 3.13, 15). On which see Clark-Soles (2006, 82–83).
33
â•‡ Clark-Soles (2006, 188–90).
34
â•‡ NT writers commonly use ἀπόλλυμι/ἀπωλεία—which can refer to any “loss” or “destruc-
tion”—to refer to the end of sinners (Mat 7.13; Phil 3.19; Heb 10.39; 2 Pet 3.7). Paul (1 Cor 1.18, 2
Cor 2.15; see also Jam 4.12) opposes ἀπολλυμένοι to σῳζομένοι, thus suggesting a binary analogous
to Matthew’s description of judgment. One is either “saved” or “lost” and, at least in Matthew, this
“destruction” must be understood as an ongoing separation from Christ: “into the eternal fire pre-
pared for the Devil and his angels” (25.41). So Clark-Soles (2006, 73).
35
â•‡ Rowland (2008, 60).
mother and wife and children and all his brothers and sisters and even, even his
own soul, he cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14.26).36 That is, the relativization of
physical death to eschatological judgment makes possible a perspective within
which total renunciation of the present life—insofar as it presents an obstacle—
is desirable.
Mortality, Sin, and Their Solution

Another trend in New Testament writings—confined to Paul and his pseud-
onymous successors37—is to treat physical death as an expression of the condi-
tion of sin. Death enters the world through the sin of Adam and, since all sin
(Rom 3.23), all die (5.12). In Paul’s cosmology, sin is not merely a kind of action
(though it is that); it is also a malevolent force that holds humanity in thrall.38
Sin’s power is expressed through mortality: “sin reigned by means of death”
(5.21a). Thus, Paul can apply “death” to describe the life of those bound by sin
(Eph 2.1; Col 2.13).39 Intriguingly, however, death’s sinister force is only revealed
by Christ and, most especially, by his death. But Paul sees Christ’s death as
uniquely vivifying because it ended in a resurrection that typifies and guaran-
tees a general resurrection in which all believers share: “For since through a
human came death, also through a human comes resurrection from the dead”
(1 Cor 15.21).40 Jesus is no longer held by the power of mortality because he has
died (Rom 6.10; 7.1–6) and yet, by his resurrection, the constricting potency of
death has been nullified (see also Rom 8.37–38; 1 Cor 3.22) and the power of
his resurrection extends to all who will receive it through faith (Rom 3.24–26;
Gal 2.20) and baptism (Rom 6.1–10; Gal 3.27). Thus we see Paul’s emphasis on
the “cross of Christ” as the manifestation of the power of God (1 Cor 1.18), as
the means of salvation (Eph 2.16; Col 1.20), and as the procurement—through
death—of life (1 Cor 15.21). This means that death is revealed as an “enemy” (1
Cor 15.28) only because it has been “conquered” by Christ’s own death; the rule
of sin is broken, and Christ exalted that he might rule over “both the living and
the dead” (Rom 14.9).
The upshot is that, as C. Clifton Black argues, Paul’s understanding of death
comes primarily from his understanding of Christ.41 Thus, although death
36
â•‡ See also Luke 9.62; Mat 16.24; etc. Some have wished to soften the tone of Jesus’ words, mak-
ing “hate” to mean “love less than,” though Johannes de Silentio’s rebuke must hold good: if sof-
tened, Jesus’ radical claim becomes meaningless and insipid. See Kierkegaard (1994, 63–64).
37
â•‡ Not wishing to enter the fray over Pauline authorship, I will simply accept it as writ that this
is contested for many letters but will, for the sake of brevity, speak as though Paul himself wrote
them.
38
â•‡ Rom 3.9, Gal 4.3; see also Heb 2.14–15; on which see Cousar (1990, 57) and Tannehill (1966,
124).
39
â•‡ See Heb 6.1, 9.14; Jam 2.17, 2.26. 40
â•‡ Cousar (1990, 88–109).
41
â•‡ Black (1984, 413–33).
expresses sin, it also becomes the means by which believers receive life. More
than that, “death” becomes a mode of “life.” Believers are called to a kind of
“death” themselves, but one which, being in accordance with Christ, differs
from the end of sinners.42 Thus, Paul describes baptism “into Christ” as baptism
“into his death” (Rom 6.3). However, elsewhere, he reminds his readers that “As
many of you as have been baptized into Christ, have put on [ἐνεδύσασθε] Christ”
(Gal 3.27). To put on Christ—to become like Christ, which, as I have already
pointed out, is Climacus’ definition of the Christian—means in some way to die
not only like but with Christ. Baptism into his death means that believers have
the opportunity of living free, beyond the reach of death and sin, because they
live in expectation of a resurrection like Christ’s in which they will live with
Christ.43 Just as we will see death impinge on life for philosophers, so resurrec-
tion impinges on life for Paul. His words are worth repeating on this point:
Therefore, we have been buried with him through baptism into death, so that, just
as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, so also we may
walk in newness of life. For if we have been planted together in the likeness of his
death [τῷ ὁμοιώματι τοῦ θανάτου αὐτοῦ], we will also be in the likeness of his resur-
rection. Knowing this, that our old self [παλαιὸς ἄνθρωπος] has been crucified, that
the body of sin might be abolished, that we might no longer be slaves to sin. For
one who dies [ὁ γὰρ ἀποθανὼν] has been vindicated from sin. But if we have died
with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with him. (Rom 6.4–8)
Believers exist now in a state of “death,” having been buried, and looking for-
ward to a future resurrection.44 Paul compares this state variously to a “new
creation” (2 Cor 5.17) and to a new person (Col 3.10), entirely free of the con-
straints and demands of his “old self ” (παλαιὸς ἄνθρωπος), or “body of sin” (σῶμα
τῆς ἁμαρτίας), or “flesh” (σάρξ) (Gal 5.24), which, like his relationship to the
world, has been “crucified” (Gal 6.14).
Believers can, therefore, happily face all manner of suffering, knowing that
“the sufferings of the present time are not worth considering, compared to the
glory about to be revealed to us” (Rom 8.18). As we saw with Matthew, believers
gaze beyond death to the eschatological hope that overshadows and displaces
the present life. On this account, they can accept as trivial or perhaps even
beneficial whatever trials come, “Always carrying around the dying of Jesus in
our body [τὴν νέκρωσιν τοῦ Ἰησοῦ ἐν τῷ σώματι] so that the life of Jesus might also
be revealed in our body” (2 Cor 4.10). Thus, suffering now actually helps con-
stitute future blessings.45 Death now, life later—or, to put it differently, alive
now in spirit while dead in body (Rom 8.10; 2 Cor 4.16), alive at the resurrec-
tion in glorified body and spirit (1 Cor 15.51–54).
42
â•‡ Cousar (1990, 157–64). 43
â•‡ So argues Tannehill (1966, 14–20).
44
â•‡ Paul’s argument in 1 Cor 15; and 2 Tim 2.11 quotes the saying as πιστός.
45
â•‡ Cousar (1990, 150–51).
New life, severed from the constraints of sin yet still subject to mortality,
carries an important ethical component. Paul exhorts his readers, since they
have died to sin, not to allow it a place in their bodies (Rom 6.11–13) and,
therefore to “put to death [Νεκρώσατε], therefore, your members which are
on the earth” (Col 3.5). The believer who, like Paul, would imitate Christ
(1 Cor 11.1; Eph 5.1; 1 Thess 1.6) must act the part—he does not sin because
of his freedom (Gal 2.16–19) nor in order to receive God’s gift afresh (Rom
6.1). Rather, he remembers Paul’s injunction that “if you live according to the
flesh, you are heading toward death, but if by the Spirit you kill the works of
the body, you will live” (Rom 8.13).46 If sinful acts lead “to death,” render a
person “dead in sins,” and are themselves “dead works,” then only by a process
of severance analogous to death, does a person live. A metaphorical death,
therefore, allows believers to receive God’s gift of life predicated on Christ’s
life-giving death.
To sum up, Paul opens up a second important mode of engaging with death.
Here, death can express both the condition of sin and the life of the Christian.
The former allows Paul to describe nonbelievers and their lifestyles as “dead.”
The latter allows Paul to describe Christians as “dead,” but rests implicitly on
the reversal which Christ’s death effected, delimiting death and offering resur-
rection to humans. Believers look forward to resurrection but, for the moment,
live in a state of tension, a kind of living burial, dead as far as the world or even
their own bodies are concerned. They are free from the constraints of sin—and
therefore “dead” to it—but not from mortality—and therefore “dead” in their
bodies.47 This line of thought will be important as well for ascetic writers, pro-
viding a theologically symbolic framework of thanatological imagery within
which to conceive Christian ascetic lifestyles.
Advanced Vocabulary Lessons

Having looked at two lines of thought about death in the New Testament (NT)
from which spring ascetic emphases on “memory of death” and “practice of
death,” I will enumerate five other concepts that those authors would draw
from the NT. Although the NT does not describe any of these in terms of
“death” per se, ascetics would increasingly use thanatological language for
them. To begin with, the NT emphasizes “self-denial” ([ἀπ]ἄρνησις). In a pas-
sage that ascetics never tire of quoting, Jesus tells those who would follow him,
“If someone wishes to come after me, let him deny himself and take up his
cross and let him follow me” (Mat 16.24).48 Though similar to Paul’s state-
ments, here the emphasis on “denial” of oneself is explicit: to die with Christ is
46
â•‡ See also Rowland (2008, 60–61). â•‡ Tannehill (1966, 76–77, 85, 130).
47
48
â•‡ Mark 8.34; Luke 9.23.
to willingly relinquish one’s own desires, choices, anything that might hold one
back. The idea of self-denial enshrined here will be of universal importance for
ascetics as regards the “will” (θέλημα).
Then there is nonjudgment: “Do not judge, lest you be judged, for by the
judgment by which you judge, you will be judged, and in the measure you
measure it will be measured out to you” (Mat 7.1–2). Judgment, as we saw earl-
ier, belongs to Christ, and so arrogating that function to oneself amounts to
hubris, which will, in Christ’s eschatological judgment, be turned against the
usurper. Nevertheless, Jesus’ call to nonjudgment does not preclude
“discernment”—“[τὸ] διακρίνειν” is praised (Mat 16.3; 1 Cor 6.5, 14.29), and 1
John commands people to “test the spirits [δοκιμάζειν τὰ πνεύματα]” (4.1). Cer-
tainly, both sides—refusal to judge others, and a strong emphasis on discern-
ment (διάκρισις)—come together in ascetic thought, particularly by turning
judgment against oneself, as Paul exhorts, “But if we have judged [διεκρίνομεν]
ourselves, we would not be judged [ἐκρινόμεθα]” (1 Cor 11.31).
We note also “mourning” (πένθος) and “sadness” (λυπή). In the NT, the for-
mer is rare and negative (Luke 6.25). The latter is important to Paul, who says,
Now I rejoice, not that you have been made sad, but that you have been made
sad unto repentance [εἰς μετάνοιαν]. For you have been sad in a godly way, that
you might suffer loss from us in nothing. For godly sadness cultivates repentance
unto a salvation which one need not repent of [ἡ γὰρ κατὰ θεὸν λύπη μετάνοιαν εἰς
σωτηρίαν ἀμεταμέλητον ἐργάζεται]. But worldly sadness conversely cultivates only
death [θάνατον κατεργάζεται]. (2 Cor 7.9–10)
Paul distinguishes here between “godly sorrow” that “operates repentance” and
“worldly sorrow” that “operates death.” There is, then, a kind of sorrow, perhaps
even of “mourning” (1 Thess 4.13),49 which is not only acceptable but actually
conducive to that fundamental and universally acknowledged virtue, “repent-
ance” (μετάνοια).
While Paul does not elaborate on his distinction between repentance-bearing
and death-working λυπαί, ascetic literature—especially following Evagrius
Â�Ponticus—will use λυπή to refer to that “worldly sorrow” that leads to death, asso-
ciating it with “restless indifference” (ἀκηδία), and “despair” (ἀνελπιστία).50 In place
of Paul’s “godly sorrow,” ascetic writers usually speak of “mourning” (πένθος) and
“tears” (δάκρυα) as the results and sources of μετάνοια.
â•‡ As Clark-Soles (2006, 101); see Barclay (2003).

49
â•‡ In fact, Evagrius claims that λυπή and ἀκηδία are companions (σύμφοιτοι), in vit. 3 (PG 79:
50
1141D). In some works, Evagrius does preserve the Pauline semantics as, for example, at Eulog.
6–8 (PG 79: 1101D–1104D) and spir. mal. (recensio A), 5.19–20 (PG 79: 1157B). However, more
generally he will, like the Stoics before him, consider λύπη as one of the problematic passions: vit. 3
(PG 79: 1141D–42A); cap. prac. 10, 19 (SC 171: 514, 546–48); sent. mon. 56 (TU 39.4: 157); rer.
mon. 5 (PG 40: 1257A); etc. Generally, the same distinction continues to operate, whether or not
under the same semantics.
Humility, Obedience, and Love

The five virtues discussed so far—self-denial, mourning, repentance, discern-
ment, and nonjudgment—flow into the final and, for ascetic writers, probably
greatest virtue available to those who would be like Christ: “humility”
(ταπείνωσις). Ταπείνωσις appears in the NT primarily in its verbal form, ταπεινόω.
For example, in the Gospels Jesus says, “Whoever exalts himself will be hum-
bled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted” (Mat 23.12).51 The implica-
tion of such statements is that by self-deprecation of some kind (see Luke
18.9–14) one becomes open to aid by which God effects an exaltation (see Luke
14.7–14). Similarly, Paul writes of Christ, “But he emptied himself, taking the
form [μορφὴν] of a slave, being in human likeness [ἐν ὁμοιώματι ἀνθρώπων]. And
being found in human shape [σχήματι εὑρεθεὶς ὡς ἄνθρωπος] he humbled him-
self, becoming obedient even to death—death on a cross” (Phil 2.8). This
verse—another favorite among ascetics—draws together in Christ’s example of
obedience both self-giving and humility, with death as the only limit to each.
It is no surprise, then, that with “humility” goes “obedience” (ὑπακοή), gener-
ally to God’s commands.52 Obedience, in the NT, specifies humility’s “submis-
sion to God” by means of the twin Mosaic commandments: to love God with a
whole heart (Deut 6.5), and to love one’s neighbor as oneself (Lev 19.18).53
While these commands are inherited from Mosaic Law, NT writers broaden
the concept of “neighbor” to include not only one’s friends, kin, or coreligion-
ists, but “enemies” in the Gospels (Mat 5.44; Luke 6.27), “persecutors” in Paul’s
letters (Rom 12.14), and, in the parable of the Good Samaritan, a complete
subversion of the concept (Luke 10.25–37).
The broader definition of obedience as love had important consequences for
Christian self-understanding, though ideals would develop in tension with cul-
tural assumptions. For example, Paul saw in Christ none of the distinctions,
whether national, cultural, or genetic, that kept people from being “neighbors”
(Gal 3.28; Col 3.10–11). Likewise, in the Johannine writings, love motivates and
is characterized by obedience, as Jesus told his disciples: “If you love me, keep my
commands” (John 14.15; see also 2 John 1.6). There though, Jesus’ commands
are to love (John 13.34) and give oneself for others (John 15.10–13), such love
being intended also to mark people out conspicuously as Jesus’ followers (John
13.35). Obedient self-giving takes place according to Jesus’ own example, and so
love, through obedience, makes one like him. Ascetics would prize Christ-like
humility as a preeminent virtue, and ὑπακοή as the necessary means of achieving
it. While they would recognize and allow for various motivations—fear of
51
â•‡ The opposition of humbling and being exalted is almost proverbial in NT writings: Luke
18.14; 2 Cor 11.7; Phil 2.6–11; Jam 4.10; 1 Pet 5.6.
52
â•‡ For example, Mat 5.19, 19.17; John 10.18; 1 John 5.2.
53
â•‡Mat 22.36–40; Mark 12.29–31; John 13.34–35; Rom 13.9; 1 John 3.23; see also Luke
18.20–21.
punishment, hope of reward—they would honor love of God and neighbor

above all. For Christian ascetics, obedience is only perfected in love, and only
thus does humility exalt a person up to Heaven.
PHILOSOPHICAL PRACTICES:
DEATH AND REMEMBRANCE
As noted at the beginning of this chapter, the primary fons for Christian ascetics
was always Scripture. Monks read and wrote their own lives through the lens of
Scripture. Yet, as has become increasingly clear, many (perhaps most) monks
were at least basically educated and literate, while some had very full academic
and rhetorical training, and a few, such as Evagrius, may be considered philoso-
phers in their own right. David Brakke argues, though, that we should not
“imagine monastic Christians as starting out with some fully formed Christian
ascetic paradigm into which they received or appropriated” philosophical,
medical, or other traditions, but rather “monks and ascetic authors were craft-
ing a new lifestyle, in which Christian themes were shaped by as much as they
shaped traditions from other discourses.”54 This means that, from author to
author, the particular engagement will vary widely: with high-level philosophy,
with what Anthony Meredith called “popular morality” (which readers often
confuse with philosophy),55 with medical wisdom and magical ritual (which
moderns too quickly separate from philosophy), and with the physiognomic,
racial, sexual, and other assumptions of late antique culture. There is no one
answer to the question of indebtedness versus rejection. Rather, we would do
better to speak, as Brakke does, of ways of interacting with cultural heritage and
ways of “shaping” tradition. Along those lines we may say a few general points
about how authors under survey here understood their own spirituality in rela-
tion to the broader intellectual and paideutic ideals of late antique culture.
As to Climacus’ own debt to Greek paideia, I will merely advert to the work
of Henrik Johnsén, discussed at length in the Introduction, who has shown
rather conclusively that John was well trained in rhetoric. Certainly, John is no
philosopher, nor (so far as I can tell) familiar with or interested in the entangled
arguments of late antique schools. I suspect that he, like many others who
rejected what they saw as Origenist “intellectualism” and its rotten Evagrian
fruit, would consider so much emphasis on dialectic to be at best an impedi-
ment on the straight and narrow way, at worst the paving stones of the broad
and winding one.
Tertullian’s absolutizing rhetoric about Jerusalem and Athens aside, tensions are
visible in ascetic literature between the paideutic and intellectual commitments of
54
â•‡ Brakke (2006b, 177). 55
â•‡ Meredith (1976, 313).
late antique culture and an awareness of their problematic results. This tension,
discernible in Climacus, is visible in many of the authors surveyed later. Emblem-
atic of how monastics might resolve their issues is the series of letters between
Barsanuphius and an anonymous correspondent who claims to have “accidental-
ly” stumbled on numerous books of Origen and Evagrius. He asks what he ought
to do because, having read them he finds some very curious—especially Evagrian
passages from the infamous Kephalaia Gnostica which suggest a universal apoka-
tastasis. Barsanuphius responds forcefully, but not with unthinking rejection. Cer-
tainly, Barsanuphius is more than mistrustful of the “doctrines of the Greeks,”
seeing an overcommitment to philosophically derived cosmology as the root of all
Origenist evil. He says that such speculations are the “vain chatter of people who
hold themselves to be something!”56 As we shall see, Barsanuphius is very deeply
committed to the ideal of humility and of reminding monks not to imagine that
they “are something.” For him, then, making out that one “is something” runs pre-
cisely counter to his admonishment that monks hold themselves “not to be some-
thing.” Philosophical speculations become marks of arrogance and are indicative
of a rejection of monastic virtues. Indeed, he goes on to argue that such preoccupa-
tions demonstrate a lack of concern with death and God’s judgment.57
Yet, Barsanuphius freely admits, his unnamed correspondent is free to
peruse suspect texts—he simply needs to ignore the questionable bits.58 Far
from an anti-intellectual stance that would have simply disposed of Evagrius’
books (which frequently happened, as seen from the loss of many of his works
in Greek), Barsanuphius seems to imagine the kind of open selectivity that
Basil of Caeserea had outlined in his work on “The Right Use of Greek Litera-
ture.” But, as E. L. Fortin rightly noted, one cannot sift without critically
engaging, one cannot reject only the bad parts without reading the whole and,
in fact, what one very often ends up doing is simply reading with a filter.59 It
will be no surprise, then, if, even as we read condemnations of philosophizing,
we can discern specific influences from Stoic, Platonist, and (early) Peripatetic
thought in the authors we examine. As Averil Cameron remarked, “The
many—often agonized—contemporary Christian discussions of the relation
of classical to Christian learning should be read as necessary attempts to
defend the extent to which Christians had in fact endorsed an educational
system that could be represented as contrary to their professed beliefs.”60
Though she referred to rhetors like Chrysostom and the Cappadocians, it
would apply, a fortiori, to educated ascetics, who very often drew, whether
consciously or not, on contemporary psychological and medical thinking in
order to elaborate their alternative lifestyle—at once rejecting and maintain-
ing the salient discourses of the cultural world in which they moved.
56
â•‡ resp. 600 (SC 451: 808), and John of Gaza express similar sentiments in resp. 601.
57
â•‡ So especially resp. 604 (SC 451: 818–24). 58
â•‡ resp. 602 (SC 451: 812).
59
â•‡ Fortin (1981, 189–203). 60
â•‡ Cameron (1991, 139).
But to return to the example above, Barsanuphius’ correspondent was read-

ing Evagrius, not Aristotle. He was concerned not with high-level philosophy
as such, but with the spiritual teachings of men who were themselves indebted
to philosophy. Evagrius owed much of his psychology to Aristotle and, in all
probability, to Aristotle’s heirs, commentators, and philosophers, but monks
reading Evagrius probably did not.61 For most, then, philosophy enters at
Â�second-hand, either through the writings of highly trained Christian theologi-
ans such as the Cappadocians, Clement, Origen, and Evagrius, or as part of the
broader schooling received in Late Antiquity. Lillian Larsen, part of the above-
mentioned “monastic paideia” project, has taken up the issue of the literary
construction of the Apophthegmata Patrum. It is a truism at this point that the
Apophethgemata Patrum ought to be read not as corruptions of once-pristine
oral sayings, recoverable with patient analysis, but as carefully conceived liter-
ary anthologies. Larsen has pointed out that their literary models are to be
found in the ubiquitous gnomic collections of schoolroom chreiai and senten-
tiai.62 What is interesting about the use of school exercises is that they are basic,
doxographical, and generally simplistic. In that way gnomic anthologies were
far more obtainable and usable than the ponderous treatises of philosophers to
those with only limited education. So, while it is highly unlikely that monks sat
around reading Plato, it is quite probable that they knew at least some of the
more famous clichés and slogans from schoolroom exercises. But this also
means that appropriation does not leave contexts intact, and we should keep in
mind that terms such as “apatheia,” “meditation,” or “memory,” all of which
have their context in high-level philosophical and medical discussions, are
used by ascetics in practical ways which very often betray no real awareness of
that philosophical context.
It is also important that, for better or worse, traits from Hellenistic and late
antique vitae of philosophers would indelibly color portraits of Christian “holy
men.” We will see some of this in the next chapter, on the Vita Antonii, but it
points us generally toward another form of engagement with Greek philoso-
phy: the exemplary lives led by philosophers. Even if monks would never have
read the Life of Apollonius of Tyana or even accounts of Socrates, they would
have read or heard accounts of Jesus (such as Luke’s presentation)63 and count-
less saints’ lives, such as that of Antony the Great written by Athanasius, which
drew on philosophers as models. Epicurus’ garden, Socrates’ trial and execu-
tion, and Cato’s suicide would have been in the air even as monks consciously
61
â•‡ See Stewart (2001, 173–204); Brakke (2006a, 185–86).
62
â•‡ Larsen (2010, 414); condensing the more detailed argument of Larsen (2006). See also
McVey (1998), a groundbreaking piece on which Larsen draws.
63
â•‡ See, for example, Sterling (2001). As C. J. Rowe has noted, parallels “which many find irre-
sistible” abound: Rowe (1999, 222). Some of these are explored, together with equally pregnant
contrasts, in Gooch (1996).
mimicked biblical figures such as Elijah and John the Baptist.64 Sometimes
these philosophical exemplars could directly influence monastic writers. Atha-
nasius is an obvious example but Palladius also, as we shall see in Chapter 4,
gives an account of one Sarapion the Sindonite who seems to have consciously
modeled his life (or Palladius did for him) on the infamous Cynic Diogenes.
Neither sort of influence—schoolroom exercises and philosophic “lives”—
require, however, the assumption that monks had more than “primary” educa-
tion in basic literacy, and so are very broadly applicable.
The Fate of a Platonic Slogan

In the remainder of this chapter, then, I will focus on one salient philosophical
“slogan,” a Socratic dictum set down in Plato’s Phaedo, which has important
implications for monastic life: that “philosophers truly practice dying”65 and
that philosophy itself can be thought of as a “practice of death [μελέτη τοῦ
θανάτου].”66 I will then explore the definition of “death” (θάνατος) and expect-
ations for postmortem judgment, both of which informed Plato’s claim, as
these were deployed and modified into Late Antiquity. Finally, I will show how
expectations of judgment after death developed together with a semantic shift
whereby “μελέτη” came to mean meditation through verbal repetition. These
intertwined development contextualize what ascetics mean by “memory of
death.”
What did Socrates mean when he claimed that philosophers “practice
dying?” He (or, at least, Plato) meant first that philosophy does not consist pri-
marily in the exercise of logic and establishment of particular propositions but
in a way of life. This way of life, in turn, consists of forming habits which separ-
ate, to the extent possible, the soul from the body. Why? The philosopher wants
to know truth. But, for Plato, knowledge can only be of immaterial, eternal
realities (the world of being), rather than the impermanent shadows of the
material world (the world of becoming and passing away) about which one can
have only baseless opinions.67 Those things that last (mathematical truths, for
example), which can be known rather than merely opined, are, paradoxically,
not objects of sense. Rather, the apparent solidity of the sensible world masks
reality—which is that all these solid entities are constantly changing, coming to
64
â•‡ See, for example, Sozomen, Historia Ecclesiastica 1.12.9; Jerome, Vita Pauli 1. On biblical
and extra-biblical Jewish exemplars, see O’Neill (1989). While John the Baptist and Elijah are rea-
sonably obvious, Paul is less often presented as a model of ascetic withdrawal. However, N. T.
Wright argues for a conscious rhetorical parallelism between Paul’s flight and Elijah’s retreat:
Wright (1996). For Wright, of course, the parallelism represents an attempt at rhetorical self-
presentation furthering Paul’s authority before his audience. For Christian ascetics, Paul, too,
could become a model of retreat, just as he certainly was of divine revelation.
65
â•‡ Phaedo 67e. 66
â•‡ Phaedo 81a. 67
â•‡ Phaedo 65a–66a.
be, and passing away. Thus, Plato argues, the philosopher knows that the best
way to seek knowledge is to do so without the hindrance of the five senses.
Indeed, the soul cannot perceive properly if it is bogged down in emotional
attachment and physical desires—how can a person attached to the perishing
world and its inhabitants possibly see beyond it?68 The perfect vantage is only
available in death, since only then is the soul absolutely free from the body.69
But, if one waits for death, the soul may be so attached to the perishing world it
must leave behind that it cannot appreciate its newfound freedom.70 So the best
plan is to anticipate death now and to purify oneself from all material attach-
ments in order to focus wholly on the contemplation of immaterial reality.71
The process of purification, Socrates concludes, is nothing other than “separat-
ing as much as possible the soul from the body and accustoming it to gather
and collect itself together from all parts of the body and to dwell as much as it
can both in the present time and the next by itself, freed from the body as from
chains.”72 The philosopher, therefore, practices a frugal, simple way of life,
enjoying perhaps but carefully avoiding attachment to pleasures and emotional
bonds, so as to clear the soul’s powers of perception and to engage it completely
in the search for immaterial truth and the contemplation of eternal verities.73
But this process of separation—that is, forming habits that denigrate emotional
attachments and physical desires and focusing one’s energies instead on con-
templation and dialectic—is a living mimicry of death which, Plato argues, is
nothing other than the “separation of soul from body.”74 Thus it is that the phi-
losopher truly practices death and, more importantly, that the work of philoso-
phizing consists in cultivating intellectual and ethical habits during one’s bodily
life, which are only fully realizable in death’s state of disembodiment.
Plato’s definition of philosophy, then, as “practicing dying,” has implications
for not only his epistemological commitments but also the conception of death
with which he operates. It embraces the end (τέλος) of philosophy and incorp-
orates ethical (ἠθική) as well as theoretical or metaphysical (φυσική) divisions
into which philosophy was often analyzed. Despite the elaboration it would
receive among neo-Pythagoreans and neo-Platonists, to whom Christian
thinkers were often amenable, ascetic authors do not commonly speak of a
“μελέτη τοῦ θανάτου,” and, when they do, they deploy it at important junctures
68
â•‡ Phaedo 66b–e. 69
â•‡ Phaedo 62B, 67D; so Cratylus 400C. 70
â•‡ Phaedo 108a–b.
71
â•‡ Phaedo 67a–b; this element would be particularly emphasized in the Pythagorean revival
that helped shaped later Middle and Neo-Platonism: see, for example, Justin Martyr, Dialogus
cum Tryphone 2.
72
â•‡ Phaedo 67c.
73
â•‡ Certainly, Plato’s accounts of eros in the Symposium and Phaedrus point in this direction—
one never really loves another human. Rather, one properly loves the eternal beauty that is refract-
ed through the other’s soul and aped by his body.
74
â•‡ Phaedo 64c.
in such a way as to suggest that they have not necessarily imported the whole
apparatus of Platonic metaphysics, epistemology, and other intellectual bag-
gage that might accompany it.
Notably, Evagrius Ponticus in his Practicus develops Plato’s dictum as one of
two traditional definitions of “withdrawal” (ἀναχώρησις). Evagrius writes,
To separate the body from the soul belongs to the one alone who bound them to-
gether. But to separate the soul from the body belongs also [to] the one who aims
at virtue. For withdrawal [ἀναχώρησιν] is called “meditation on death” [μελέτην
θανάτου] and “flight from the body” [φυγὴν τοῦ σώματος] by our fathers.75
Assigning the “meditation on death” to “our fathers,” Evagrius presents it as a
common ascetic inheritance. By giving it as one of two definitions for “with-
drawal” from the world, Evagrius connects the contemplation of death with
another practice resembling death: flight from the body. In doing so, he seems
to be tapping in to, in modified form, the Platonic description of “likeness to
God” as “flight from the world.”76 His point, though, is that withdrawal from the
world cannot be conceived merely in spatial terms, as, for instance, setting up
camp in the desert rather than the city. Evagrius and other ascetic authors were
keenly aware that a change of location does not necessitate, though it might aid,
a change of life.77 Rather, “withdrawal” must mean also a withdrawal from the
body—not entirely, since that would mean suicide, as his seemingly pedantic
insistence on word order makes clear—but from the desires and attachments to
which bodies make people prone.78 This, I think, is why Evagrius begins this
particular kephalaion with definitions of death and ends with definitions of
withdrawal: “withdrawal,” if it is to be effective, entails a life that diverts the soul
from bodily attachments and so mimics the traditional definition of death
itself.
However, Evagrius’ usage, and presumably the traditions that underlie it,
modifies and adapts Platonic thought to a Christian framework. Certainly,
Evagrius shares Plato’s epistemological commitments to clarifying the soul’s
perception, but what the soul sees is not “being itself ” or “the Good” or even
“forms.” Rather, Evagrius explains that humans are made to contemplate God,
at least in their rational aspects.79 But by God he means very specifically the
Christian Trinity.80 Indeed, elsewhere Evagrius uses the image of the Trinity as
a model for the monk’s self-unification through withdrawal and ascetic
Â�practice—thus, the “practice of death” would also be “imitation of the Trinity,”
which makes possible “contemplation of the Trinity.” As Evagrius spells out
â•‡Evagrius, cap. prac. 52 (SC 171: 618).

75 76
â•‡Plato, Theaetetus 176B–C.
â•‡ See on this [Archimandrite] Sophrony (1962).
77
78
â•‡ cap. prac. 35–36 (SC 171: 580–582); though, in these chapters Evagrius points out that there
are also passions that arise in the soul, which are much harder to deal with.
79
â•‡ cap. prac. 49 (SC 171: 610–12).
80
â•‡ cap. prac. 3 (SC 171: 500); see also sent. mon. 110, 136 (TU 39.4: 162, 165).
elsewhere, this means attaining “natural knowledge which is followed by the-

ology and eternal beatitude.”81 But the whole progress of knowledge begins
from apatheia, by which Evagrius means a healthy disposition of the soul,82 a
serenity toward present objects of sensation and their memories.83 Unlike the
much-maligned Stoic sage, though, Evagrius describes apatheia as the begin-
ning (paradoxically perhaps) of love.84 This implies a different ethical frame-
work, centered not on Stoic “self-affection” (οἰκείωσις) but on divinely modeled,
outward-oriented love (ἀγάπη). With regard to both end and material, Evagri-
us’ “practice of death” is recognizably Christian.
Evagrius has incorporated the dictum into a presentation of his own spiritu-
ality. Why? Because, he says, it is traditional—it is how “our fathers” speak. But
he does not have Plato in mind. Rather, he intends ascetic luminaries such as
the two Macarii, his mentors, snippets of whose teachings he incorporates at
the end of the Practicus.85 He also intends, though he does not say so, Clement
of Alexandria’s (d. c.215) adaptation of Platonic dicta in service of his own por-
trait of the “perfect Gnostic martyr.”86 There, Clement developed Platonic epis-
temology and ethics into a vision of lifelong ascetic perfection in imitation of
Christ and, above all, love of God and neighbor. The ethical demands of love,
modeled on God’s love expressed in Christ; the adaptation of “likeness to God”
into “imitation of Christ”; and the focus of intellectual contemplation on the
Triune God; all are recognizably Clementine, absorbed into Evagrian—and
Desert—spirituality.
The extent to which “practice of death” flowed into the broader and murkier
currents of Christian ascetic spirituality is discernible from one of Cyril of
Scythopolis’ vitae. Cyril was a staunch anti-Origenist, and roundly condemns
Evagrius as well as Greek philosophers by name. In Cyril’s Life of Cyriacus,
Abbot of Souka (c.449–529), the eponymous hero meets the author who impor-
tunes him about the value of Origenist speculations. Cyriacus sets young Cyril
straight in no uncertain terms. He begins by excoriating Origenist ideas,
asking,
What hell blurted out these doctrines? They have not learnt them from the God
who spoke through prophets and apostles . . . but they have revived these abomin-
able and impious doctrines from Pythagoras and Plato, from Origen, Evagrius,
and Didymus.87
Evagrius with his idiosyncratic teaching is aligned with Plato and both are to be
found, it seems, in the outer darkness. However, Cyriacus goes on to explain
81
â•‡ cap. prac. Prol.8 (SC 171: 490–92). 82
â•‡ cap. prac. 56 (SC 171: 630–32).
83
â•‡ cap. prac. 67 (SC 171: 652). 84
â•‡So cap. prac. 8, 81 (SC 171: 510–12, 670).
85
â•‡ cap. prac. 91–99 (SC 171: 692–710).
86
â•‡Clement, str. 4.1.1.1, 4.3.9.3–5, 4.21.131.1, etc. (GCS 15: 248, 252, 307). On Evagrius’ debt to
Clement, which has yet to be fully explored, see A. Guillaumont (1987).
87
â•‡ Cyril of Scythopolis, Vita Cyriaci 13 (TU 49.2: 230, trans. Price [1991, 253]).
what these Origenists ought to be doing instead of speculating: “Should they

not be disciplining the body by fasts, ascending to God in prayer, making this
life a rehearsal for death [μελέτη τοῦ θανάτου], rather than meditating such soph-
istries?”88 Cyriacus does not think of the “practice of death” as an Evagrian, let
alone a Platonic, “sophistry.” Rather, as Evagrius himself had formulated it, the
“practice of death” constitutes a traditional, innocuous index of ascetic prac-
tices that include fasting and prayer. As Pseudo-Athanasius (fifth century) puts
it in the Vita Syncleticae, “To us the cross is the trophy of victory. For our profes-
sion [ἐπάγγελμα] is the renunciation of life, the practice of death [ἀποταγὴ βίου,
μελέτη θανάτου].”89 This practice, then, was clearly detachable from its philo-
sophical background and could be meaningful as an index of the “Gospel” life-
style to ascetics who, even more vehemently than Barsanuphius, would oppose
philosophical speculation as mere “sophistry.”
Evagrius and Cyril alike testify to a remarkable development: the philosoph-
ical lifestyle has merged into a Christian one. I have dwelt on Socrates’ slogan at
some length because Clement and Evagrius’ ideas, though in some ways idio-
syncratic, play out as Cyril’s work would suggest, among many other authors
we examine, and will certainly resonate with Climacus’ own formulation of
ascetic withdrawal as a contemplation of death and living mimicry of it. Clem-
ent used the “practice of death” to redefine martyrdom in terms of the Chris-
tian life. Evagrius dwelt on it as a description of true withdrawal, the mode of
life by which monastics strive for self-mastery and union with God. For these
and others, “the practice of death” is, as John of Damascus would later put it,
voluntary and freely chosen.90 From philosophical slogans Christian writers
like Clement and Evagrius describe in detail a life that anticipates the event of
death and mimics its state, but they do so in Christian terms and in hope of
eternal life. As Epiphanius would put it, Christian “μελέτη” is the “preparation
for both death and resurrection.”91
Definitions Physical and Metaphorical

It is clear then, that one’s understanding of what death is must surely have con-
sequences for how one anticipates it in practice. Scripture never explicitly
defines death (θάνατος). Rather, we must, as early Christians did, look outside
the range of Scripture to the definition of death dominant in the Greco-Roman
world: the “separation of soul from body” (χωρισμὸς ψυχῆς ἀπὸ σώματος). This
definition seems to originate with Plato, in the same Phaedo passage discussed
88
â•‡ Vita Cyriaci 13 (TU 49.2: 230, trans. Price [1991, 253–54]).
89
â•‡ Vita Syncleticae (PG 28: 1532C).
90
â•‡ John of Damascus, Dialectica (capita philosophica) 3.
91
â•‡ Epiphanius of Salamis, Panarion 3.64.45.3.
above. Socrates says rhetorically, “Do we not call death this: the dissolution and
separation of soul from body [λύσις καὶ χωρισμὸς ψυχῆς ἀπὸ σώματος]?”92 While
the definition may have been controversial in Plato’s day, it was taken up by
later Platonists93 and Stoics.94
Though sharing this vocabulary, not all philosophers agreed on the implica-
tions of death as separation. What separation might entail—whether the soul
would continue to exist eternally or only for some time, or not at all; whether it
could still function at all, or even function better without the body; whether
death meant the complete destruction of a particular human being or simply of
the material portion; whether separation meant release or dismemberment—
hardly found consensus among philosophers, though Platonists leaned toward
immortality while Stoics and Epicureans were annihilationists.95 Indeed, the
ways in which philosophers filled out the details of separation implicated their
cosmological and anthropological ideas more broadly, and these naturally dif-
fer among schools, eras, and cultural milieus. The Epicureans, for example,
understood death as the dispersement of pneuma and the annihilation of the
human being, though Lucretius could at least hint at the above definition: “so,
we will not be, when the severance of soul and body/has come about.”96 Aristo-
tle’s legacy was somewhat different.97 Aristotle only discussed θάνατος briefly in
his medical works, defining it as a cooling of interior heat or cessation of respi-
ration—the loss of proper existence and activity (ἐντελεχεία/ἐνεργεία)—and the
corruption that accompanies that loss. He had little or no time for realist
notions of “human immortality.”98 However, later Aristotelian commentators,
as well as his interpreters in both Platonic and Stoic schools, would develop
Plato’s definition in some ways.99
Formally, Plato’s definition also became normative for Christian writers and
is employed in those rare moments in ascetic literature that gesture toward
defining death.100 However, because the common definition left so much to be
filled in, alternative definitions were deployed by Jewish and Christian thinkers
with a vested interest in the immortality of the soul. These definitions suggested
92
â•‡Plato, Phaedo 67d; see also 64c.
93
â•‡Plutarch, Moralia 1052c; Diogenes of Oenoanda, Fragmenta 37; Philo, Legum Allegoriarum
1.105, De Abrahamo 258; Iamblichus, Protrepticus 65; Plotinus, Enneads 3.6.5.20; Sextus Empiri-
cus, Adversus mathematicos 7.234.
94
â•‡Zeno, SVF 1.146 and Chrysippus, SVF 2.604, 2.790, 2.809; in all of these instance the defin-
ition is treated as axiomatic rather than the object of argument.
95
â•‡ On the variety of views see, for example, Tusc. 1.9.18–11.24; 1.22.50.
96
â•‡Lucretius, De rerum natura 3.838–39; see also 3.417–62, 624–33, 806–29. See also commen-
tary in Long and Sedley (1987, 153–54).
97
â•‡ Tusc. 1.9.18
98
â•‡ See Aristotle, De respiratione 472a, 479b; Problemata 909b. See also Tusc. 1.10.22; on which
see Sorabji (2006, 117–18).
99
â•‡ See, for example, Alexander of Aphrodisius, Problemata 3.11.
100
â•‡ For example, Ps-Macarius, Collectio H 22; Theophilus 4; Cyril of Scythopolis, Vita Joannis
Hesychastae 17; Evagrius, cap. prac. 52. Climacus offers no definition of death.
that the soul, being immortal, can suffer something analogous to what the
entire human, being mortal (at least with regard to the corruptible body), suf-
fers in physical death. For example, Philo, attempting to explain why, given
God’s stern warning in Genesis 2, Adam and Eve did not die upon eating the
forbidden fruit, argues that the term is equivocal: “For death is twofold [διττός]:
of a human and, properly, of the soul [ψυχῆς ἴδιος]: while death of a person is
separation of soul from body, death of a soul is corruption of virtue [ἀρετῆς μὲν
φθορά] and reception of evil [κακίας ἀνάληψις].”101 Alexandrian Christian
authors, familiar with Philo’s hermeneutical maneuvers, similarly multiplied
definitions of death to incorporate not only the cessation of physical existence,
which was, for them, of only limited import, but also a more worrisome “death
of the soul.” To return to Clement of Alexandria, we find that he would boldly
invert thanatological language: “One could dare to say that, while death
[θάνατος] is the participation of a sin-prone soul in a body [ἡ ἐν σώματι κοινωνία
τῆς ψυχῆς ἁμαρτητικῆς οὔσης], life is separation [χωρισμὸς] from sin.”102 Clement
uses “death” to describe a sinful state of being, and “life” to describe freedom
from it. Origen would make similar assertions, when describing how the Holy
Spirit is called “life-creating,” he compares it to Paul’s remark that “the letter
kills, but the spirit makes alive” (2 Cor 3.6). Origen then asserts that “the “letter
kills” and leads to death, not as the separation of the soul from the body, but as
the separation of the soul from God and his Lord and his Holy Spirit.103 Here
Origen shows his acceptance of the common definition of death, but suggests
that in relation to God there is a different kind of state, which might also be
called by the name “death.” In these examples, the standard definition of death
is accepted (at least implicitly), but its primary claim—that death means a sep-
aration of what is normally united—applied to the soul’s status with regard to
God, truth, or virtue. Writers thus attempted to elucidate the consequences of
death in spiritual terms as well as physical. The ascetic writers we survey would
also liberally apply the term “death” to vices that damage the soul or to a separ-
ation from God, even while envisioning a “death” that positively contributes to
Christian identity.104
What Lies Beyond?

Since death meant, generally, the separation of a durable (perhaps immortal)
soul from a corruptible body, and Christian authors understood this as having
an especially moral, spiritual dimension, it is also worth noting that very often
â•‡ Legum allegoriarum 1.105–06, see also 2.77; on which see Zeller (1995).
101
â•‡Clement, str. 4.3.12.1 (GCS 15: 253)

102
103
â•‡Origen, Commentarium in Ioannem 13.23.140 (SC 222: 106).
104
â•‡ “Τhe second death [ὃ θάνατος ὁ δεύτερος]” (Rev 2.11, 20.6, 20.14, 21.8) is, in the literature
under survey, mentioned once (resp. 233) and there without comment.
treatments of death incorporated some idea about postmortem judgment.105

Philosophers, both Stoic and Epicurean, may have derided myths of the afterlife,
but the enduring popularity of cults of the dead, of the Eleusinian Mysteries
(which centered on the expectation of postmortem judgment and beatitude),
and of Pythagorean elements in Middle and Neo-Platonism, testify to the ubi-
quity of speculations about judgments of the dead. The elaboration of an ethic-
ally divided afterlife was subject to careful and vivid discussion among Christians,
as has been shown earlier with regard to New Testament writings. However,
Christian ascetics also drew on apocalyptic visions of death and judgment such
as the Apocalypse of Paul (Visio Pauli), and the Apocalypse of Zephaniah.106 Thus,
when authors under survey here speak of death, they include judgment, and
they develop their accounts of both under influence from these proximal sourc-
es, behind which lie distant influences as diverse as Platonic myths, Greek mys-
tery religions, Egyptian mortuary religion, and Jewish apocalyptic literature. But
whether Christian ascetics looked to Hellenistic or Jewish fontes, they found
myriad confirmations that, indeed, the dead are subject to judgment whose ver-
dict determined the fate of souls (and sometimes of bodies, too).
So, death ushers humans to their lasting abode, and that abode depends
entirely on how they fare in a judgment made—for Christians—by God. While
New Testament writings might particularly locate this judgment eschatologi-
cally, as a universal and corporate judgment (as in, for example, Matt 25 or Rev
20–21), in apocalyptic texts such as the Apocalypse of Paul, judgment was
located directly after death, the “hour of necessity.”107 While there are differ-
ences between “postmortem” and “eschatological” notions of divine judgment
(I will suggest important nuances in later chapters), I think that for the moment
we might advert to John Chrysostom: death may be thought of as everyone’s
entrance into the eschaton.108
When the authors in this study say “death” they mean two things. First, they
mean mortality, the event of physical death. They intend the separation of soul
from body and they assume that the soul is durable enough to survive this sep-
aration. Being Christian authors, they do not, however, generally imagine that
the soul is somehow “better off ” in death. Second, they mean judgment, an
105
â•‡ The literature is too vast to discuss here and the topic too intricate to work through. I will
mention only a few helpful works. On early and Classical Greek ideas of the afterlife, particularly
with reference to the Eleusinian Mysteries, Rohde (1966) remains a classic; D’Elia (1985) is also
useful. On Plato’s myths, with their Pythagorean elements, see Annas (1982). On Jewish thought,
especially useful is Nickelsburg (2006); in addition to this, on varieties of early Christian eschat-
ology and thanatology, see Daley (1991). Of more general interest are Bernstein (1993) and
though painted in very broad strokes Segal (2004).
106
â•‡ Again, the literature is intimidating but, on the genealogy of “tours of Hell,” see Martha
Himmelfarb’s conclusions: Himmelfarb (1983, 169–73). On the literature more generally, see
Baun (2007). And on its relation to attitudes toward death among early ascetics see Daley (2001).
107
â•‡ Visio Pauli 15–17: James (1893, 17–19): in Latin, ora necessitatis.
108
â•‡ In Epistulam i ad Corinthios 9.1 (PG 62: 447); on which, see Daley (1991, 106).
assessment of the individual based on actions. They do not always specify if this
judgment is “postmortem” and individual or “eschatological” and universal—
mostly they seem to mean both and, anyway, the two are deeply connected.
What ascetic authors have in common is the belief that this judgment is based
on the moral character of human life, for which we are responsible. It is an
assessment in which our deeds become or are revealed as evidence in a moral
trial. Mortality gives way to judgment, and so the two meanings of “death” must
be understood not as alternatives but as aspects of the same experience.
The Meaning of μελέτη and the Content of μνήμη

With judgment in mind, we may draw together the “practice of death” with
ascetic “memory of death.” Why would Plato’s pregnant phrase enter so little
into ascetic discourse? The reason is that the term μελέτη which I have, follow-
ing tradition, translated as “practice,” meant something else to Christian ascet-
ics. Certainly the word has a broad connotative range that takes in not only
“practice” but “meditation.” More than that, though, John Wortley, following
Lucien Regnault, has persuasively demonstrated that while the term μελέτη is
quite common in ascetic literature—particularly among the Apophthegmata
Patrum—it had developed a rather specific meaning. Wortley argues that
μελέτη was “the vocal and continuous enunciation of the Word of God, the bold
proclamation by the anchorite of sacred texts he had committed to memory as
he worked away in the solitary confinement of his cell.”109 Μελέτη then, means
something much more like recollection. We should, at this point, repeat Ben
Sirach’s injunction to “remember your end and you will never sin.” Thus it is
that, instead of “practice,” we find instead that Christian ascetics called their
engagement with mortality and judgment a “memory of death [μνήμη τοῦ
θανάτου].” For example, an anonymous apophthegma says that those who laugh
too much “drive out virtues, and have neither a remembrance of death [μνήμην
θανάτου] nor meditation on punishments [μελέτην τῶν κολάσεων].”110 Here,
clearly, the “memory” of death is coordinate with “meditation” on the punish-
ments which might follow a postmortem judgment.
Memory of death meant, in keeping with contemporary ideas on memory,
vivid and even grotesquely imagistic description. Memory was generally under-
stood to be based in the “imagination” (φαντασία),111 and to operate imagistically
â•‡ Wortley (2006, 317–18); see also Regnault (1990, 110, 115–16).
109
â•‡ Systematica 3.55.

110
111
â•‡ The most important accounts of memory as it relates to perception are: Aristotle, De Memo-
ria 1 (450a24–25) and De Anima 3.3; and Plotinus, Enneads 4.3.30–32, 4.6.1–3. Late antique and
modern commentaries on both regard memory as a function of the imagination and likewise
understand it as working imagistically. On Aristotle and Plotinus’ theories of memory see Blu-
menthal (1996, 141–42, 145–47); Sorabji (2004, xvi–xvii, 14–16). On ancient theories of memory
generally, see King (2009, 224–40).
through individual impressions either (in Stoic and Peripatetic thought) received
from past experience (as πάθη)112 or (as Plotinus would have it) conjured up in
the mind.113 To “remember” meant, then, to “imagine” either something that has
already happened or that could happen—memory, understood broadly, could
be of the past or the future, though Aristotle would say that we reserve the term
“memory” for the past, “perception” for the present, and “speculation” for the
future.114 Ascetic “memory” of death is, presumably, of the latter: an imagistic
mental representation of what one expects to happen at and even after death.
Since Christian ascetics place rather greater value on God’s judgment than on
the separation of soul and body as such, they will, as we shall see again and again,
focus on descriptions of judgment. These descriptions are drawn from literary
and apocalyptic sources as well as individual experiences. They have much in
common, we shall see, with “meditation” as repetition—monks are enjoined to
regularly envision death and judgment and to dwell on the respective eschato-
logical fates of saints and sinners.
Christians who imagistically meditate on death and judgment have prede-
cessors certainly among philosophers. Pierre Hadot has discussed at some
length the practice and perceived benefit of so-called “spiritual exercises” in
antiquity, arguing that Christian ascetical practices owed much to these.115 In
particular he found in “attentiveness” (προσοχή, usually to oneself), a concept
that fared well among Christians. For Stoics and Platonists alike, the philoso-
pher sought to see himself as he really was and to discern how he did and ought
to obey the supreme principle, whether θεός, λόγος, or φύσις. Προσοχή Hadot
argues, “supposes a continual concentration on the present moment, which
ought to be treated as if it were at once the first and last.” Thus, attention to one-
self means also attention to one’s death, because humans, being mortal, live
always under the shadow of their own mortality, which is natural and reason-
able, distinguishing humans from gods. Indeed, Hadot characterizes the “spir-
itual exercises” of philosophers as existential. He says that “these exercises seek
to effect a transformation of one’s view of the world and an alteration of one’s
being. They have, therefore, not only a moral, but an existential value. They do
not concern a code of good conduct but a way of being in the strongest sense of
the term.” That is, the Socratic “practice of death,” undertaken in “spiritual
exercises” of attention to oneself and one’s proper existence, helped the philoso-
pher to live a life whose goals and habits accorded rationally to the fact and
consequences of his mortality, whatever he may envision thereafter.
Of particular interest among philosophical “exercises” are two: one is Cyre-
naic (hedonist, though taken up by the Stoics), the other Epicurean. Both share
112
â•‡ De Memoria 1 (450a27–b14); by πάθος Aristotle does not here mean emotion but rather the
changes in the soul wrought by the “perceptual process:” Sorabji (2004, 69–70, 81–83).
113
â•‡Plotinus, Enneads 4.6.3.19–21, 4.6.3.58–59; on which King (2009, 235–40).
114
â•‡ De Memoria 1 (449b9–29); a distinction also found in Plato, Philebus 39D–E
115
â•‡ Quotations from Hadot (1981, 60–65).
something in common with practices we shall see among Christian ascetics,

but neither is identical with monastic ideas. First, there is the praemeditatio
futurorum malorum, the “meditation on future evils [or sufferings].” This was a
way Cyrenaics had of imagining all the terrible things that might happen to
them in advance so that, if such things did ever occur, they would be mentally
prepared to face calamities with equanimity and would not lose pleasure.116 The
praemeditatio was an “exercise,” as Hadot understood them. Margaret Graver
says that Cicero’s account of it
suggests a regular practice, perhaps daily, in which one looks ahead and tries to
imagine each of the terrible things that can happen to a person. It is a sort of visu-
alization technique, intended to soften the impact of those events if any of them
should actually come to pass.117
While hedonists are not likely to have inspired Christians, the Stoics, with their
exercises, did, and it seems that the Stoics (and Cicero himself!)118 took up the
Cyrenaic ones. Chrysippus developed the idea, certainly119 and the later Roman
Stoic Seneca discusses this practice at some length as both a consolatory tech-
nique120 and prophylactic against undue emotional response.121 Seneca offers us
a most vivid account of the praemeditatio when he advises his friend Lucilius,
who is worried about a pending lawsuit to “imagine that whatever you fear will
happen is going to happen anyway, and whatever that trouble is, measure it in
your mind and examine your fear: you will surely realize that what you dread is
either not serious or not lasting.” This, Seneca claims, will guide Lucilius to
“freedom from care” (securitas, ἀμεριμνία).122 Seneca goes on to adduce numer-
ous examples of bravery and of contempt even for life. He notes that these are
common tales, “repeated in all the schools,” but remarks that still, they are
worth keeping in mind to “encourage you against what seems most fearful to
you.”123 Seneca himself dwells on violent death and concludes that “You are
trivial if I can bear you, and brief if I cannot bear you.”124 How, though, did
Seneca and other Stoics who advised or practiced the praemeditatio under-
stand its therapeutic function? They believed that by imagining the worst in
advance it would not be a shock if it did occur and, if an event does not shock—
in Stoic thought and, Cicero notes, in hedonist—it is much less likely to induce
a strong emotional response.125 Thus, the praemeditatio is fundamentally thera-
peutic: ultimately the philosopher realizes that the terrible things he has imag-
ined are not so bad and can, in fact, be dealt with equably.
116
â•‡ Tusc. 3.28–29, 3.76. 117
â•‡ Graver (2002, 161).
118
â•‡ Tusc. 3.31, on which Graver (2002, 158–61). 119
â•‡ Tusc. 3.52–55, 4.37.
120
â•‡Seneca, cons. Marc. 9.1–11; cons. Polyb. 11.1; ep. 63.15, 99.32.
121
â•‡Seneca, ep. 24.2f., 91.4, 93.6, 107.3–4; on all these instances see Manning (1976, 301–304).
122
â•‡Seneca, ep. 24.2; trans. Fantham (2010, 40).
123
â•‡ ep. 24.3–9; trans. Fantham (2010, 40–41).
124
â•‡ ep. 24.14; trans. Fantham (2010, 42).
125
â•‡ Tusc. 3.52–55; on which see Nussbaum (2001, 80–85); and Graver (2007, 79).
Against the Stoics the Epicureans argued for a different kind of therapy. They
too wished to reduce the effect of suffering on the soul, since suffering reduces
pleasure. But Epicurus and his school found that Stoic meditation on sufferings
diminished present pleasure and, frankly, were a little morbid. Epicurus, plac-
ing much greater emphasis on “attention” (ἐπιβολή) as criterion, understanda-
bly saw meditation on suffering as no more than “voluntary misery.”126 Instead,
he advised deliberate self-distraction and redirection through “the recollection
and anticipation of pleasures.”127 Why? Because, returning to the above discus-
sion, Epicureans and most others (except the Cyrenaics, admittedly)128 saw the
memory as preserving an imagistic impression of a sensation. If one focuses on
memories of past pleasures, one can actually enjoy them again, to some extent.
Because the memory uses the image-creating capacity of the imagination
(φαντασία), the same process can be deployed speculatively toward the future
and so one can experience in advance the pleasures that have yet to come. In
this way, Cicero says, “pleasures would in the wise man always be lasting and
continuous, when the expectation of hoped-for pleasures [exspectatio spera-
tarum voluptatum] is united to the memory of perceived pleasures [cum per-
ceptarum memoria].”129 The Epicureans found a meditation on future evils to be
more damaging than useful and so focused instead on its obverse, a meditation
on future good. Both Stoic and Epicurean practices, though, utilize the power
of imagistic memory and imagination to displace a person’s experience from
the present to the future. In doing so, however, each attempts to alleviate pre-
sent or future suffering.130
In respect of “therapy,” Christian “memory of death” and “meditation on
judgment” differ somewhat, as we shall find in coming chapters. Therapeutic it
may be, but not because the ascetic realizes that the events on which he dwells
are not so bad as he imagines. Perhaps that is so with regard to physical death,
but with regard to judgment, what the ascetic learns is, rather, its irreducible
terror. Why? Because unlike the villainy of tyrants or any temporary disease,
unlike even death itself, God’s judgment is absolutely final and eternal, its con-
sequences irrevocable. So ascetics are cured, but not of fear. Rather, they will
inculcate fear—but fear of the correct things. God’s judgment is fearful; loss of
property, reputation, or health are not. Nevertheless, just as Epicureans found
fault with Stoic meditations and devised their own, Christian ascetics some-
times found the “memory of death and judgment” to be paralyzing in its terror.
And so we will see that they sometimes advise meditation on future judgment
in its negative aspect (condemnation) and sometimes in its positive aspect
(beatitude). This tension, resonant with philosophical disputation but not
126
â•‡ Graver (2002, 171). 127
â•‡ Long and Sedley (1976, 1:124).
128
â•‡ Graver (2002, 167–70).
129
â•‡ Tusc. 5.96; so also 3.41–42; and Diogenes of Oenanda, Fragmenta 5.3.3–14.
130
â•‡ Graver (2002, 155–60).
reliant on it, will emerge especially in Chapter 4. What we must keep in mind
for now is that generally, ascetics will utilize practices of imagistic meditation
to change their behavior to accord more closely with the criteria by which they,
following New Testament writings, imagine God will judge them after death.
Conclusion: Death as Memory, Metaphor, and Practice

From Matthew we have seen that the end of physical existence is rather less
important than the consequences of Christ’s eschatological and universal judg-
ment. Eschatological focus effectively relativizes physical death and Â�motivates—
whether through fear or hope—patterns of behavior that will accord with the
judgment to come. One strives to become the sort of person who, having served
everyone as though they were Christ, is united with him in the Kingdom, and
not the sort who, having ignored Christ in this life, will be shut out in the next.
This is the death Greek ascetics “remember,” and for which they prepare—the
judgment into which one enters precisely through death.
For ascetic readers, this line of thought operates in conjunction with the
Pauline metaphors of death. Thus, death—physical death at that—symbolizes
the destructive power of sin as well as the saving power of God in Christ. Death
reveals the tragic position of humanity only insofar as it is already conquered
and those limitations destroyed by Christ. Only because it is already, in a sense,
rendered indifferent, is it also revealed as powerful. Because of this, Paul’s writ-
ings use death as the point of contact between present and future ages, and
suggest its deployment as a metaphor for the unique ways in which Christian
identity is formed in conscious contradistinction to the normative ethics and
limitations of the world at large. Thus, Paul can describe as “dead” those under
sin as well as those who live in Christ.
From the broader cultural world came philosophically contoured assump-
tions about psychology and ethics. Ascetics would develop practices of “mem-
ory of death” not only from biblical sources such as Ben Sirach, but from
Platonic and Stoic conceptions of a philosophical lifestyle as preparation for
death. Taking up ideas with a philosophical context, though, creates tensions
among ascetics eager to separate their way of life from “the world,” and these are
particularly relevant as regards the potentials and perils of “memory,” that is, of
the imagistic contemplation of past and future. Philosophical exercises aimed
at therapy, such as the Hedonist–Stoic praemeditatio futurorum malorum, will
be developed and reconfigured in Christian ascetic practices of the “memory of
death” and “contemplation of judgment.” Likewise, in subtle though important
ways we will see that the image of philosophy as lifestyle will factor in presenta-
tions of ascetic holiness, while simplified versions of philosophical dicta and
slogans, taken up as schoolroom chreiai, filter into ascetic discourse and,
indeed, help shape that discourse. Exercises and portraits both serve to fuel
and, to some extent, contour the Christian “philosophy” as this term would
eventually come to designate monasticism.
As helpful as these preliminary sketches are, I would stress that the literature
that we will examine in coming chapters rarely operates along semantic lines,
let alone easily traceable trajectories of conceptual elaboration. Biblical vocabu-
lary of death and various philosophical practices are necessary but inefficient
tools for understanding ascetic conceptualities of death. Ascetic identity will
include virtues of self-denial, discernment, nonjudgment, mourning, repent-
ance, obedience, humility, and love. While these do not connect to death in the
New Testament, ascetic writers increasingly use the language of “dying” to one-
self and others to describe these virtues and practices. And it is that kind of
perspectival shift, incorporating seemingly unrelated practices and conceptu-
alizations into a symbolic framework derived from death, which is of particular
interest for this study.
3
The Life of Antony: Embracing Death

on the Ascent to God
Ὅτι θανάτῳ ἀποθανούμεθα καὶ ὥσπερ τὸ ὕδωρ τὸ καταφερόμενον ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς ὃ οὺ
συναχθήσεται.
2 Kingdoms 14.14 (LXX)
Δέκατος ὅρος τῆς τελείας ἀλλοιώσεως· ἐν τρυφῇ θεοῦ χαρὰν ἡγεῖσθαι τὸ στυγνὸν
τοῦ θανάτου.
Diadochus of Photice, Capita, Proimion
Having previously sketched out biblical vocabulary and philosophically condi-

tioned conceptualizations of death’s meaning, we turn to the ascetic tradition
itself, beginning with the Vita Antonii, Athanasius of Alexandria’s encomiastic
biography designed to function as a normative exemplar. Here, I will show how
Athanasius deploys ideas of the “memory of death” and how his conceptualiza-
tion of spirituality as “ascent” operates within a Christocentric cosmology in
which life and death operate analogously.
This chapter has four sections: the first section demonstrates that Athana-
sius’ portrayal of ascetic spirituality in the Vita Antonii is contoured by his
favored motif of “ascent” (ἄνοδος), while the second section demonstrates that
Antony undertakes this ascent by means of sustained “memory of death,” with
reference primarily to mortality but also eschatological judgment. The third
section examines three visions in which Athanasius imagines the living and
dead alike attempting a cosmic ἄνοδος, while the fourth section shows that
Athanasius’ depiction of Antony’s “daily dying” contains the seeds of later
ascetic emphasis on a “practice of death.”
It must be admitted that what follows touches only tangentially on many of
the important themes, ideas, and issues present in the Vita Antonii. I will not
discuss monastic organization, episcopal jurisdiction, or Nicene orthodoxy.
Matters of authorship, genre, style, and sources pervade scholarly literature but
need not concern us so much here. We are not even primarily concerned with
The Life of Antony: Embracing Death on the Ascent to God 81
the portrait of the great “mystic initiate” himself. Engagement with death and
judgment does not radically color the picture of Antony as perfected holy man
in which Athanasius emphasizes his “Adamic,” even “deified” lifestyle1 or his
thaumaturgical sanctity.2 Rather, as we consider the Vita Antonii from the per-
spective of a spiritual “ascent,” we emphasize instead those initial movements
of the ascetic that laid the groundwork for his later achievements, as well as
those practices he presents to beginners. For the Desert and Gazan Fathers, and
especially Climacus, initial movement, daily struggle, and the means of pro-
gress are more pressing concerns than spectacular sanctity. By elaborating the
Vita Antonii’s incorporation of death into Antony’s early career, we will see
more clearly the first seeds of themes that will dominate in the Ladder.
A RULE IN NARRATIVE
It is, to begin with, well worth understanding what the Vita is and is not. What
sort of text is it? It has been hailed as a masterpiece of encomiastic biography,3
and its form compared to philosophical vitae of the “divine man” (θείος ἀνήρ).4
G. J. M. Bartelink (among others) discerned in Athanasius’ portrayal of Antony
a Christianized development of the classical topos of the θείος ἀνήρ:
Among Christians the “man of God” succeeded the “divine man” and the hero-
ized man, in full possession of ethical or political virtue and totally self-sufficient,
has given way to the Christian man of God, guided by grace, and who is but an
instrument in the hands of God.5
The “divine man” referred to great philosophers, deified heroes, and men whose
lineage might be traced to the gods.6 Christianization, however, so changed
their physiognomy that we cannot realistically equate Antony with “divine
men” at all. He moves instead within the tradition of the Israelite “man of God”:
the patriarchs (Deut 33.1) and prophets (for example, 1 Kgds 17.18), followed
in the usual ascetic litany of exemplars with Christian apostles and martyrs. The
ontological subordination to God that marks out “men of God” from “divine
men” is central to Athanasius’ portrait of Antony. Johannes Roldanus writes, “It
is the whole ascetic life which has been made possible by the incarnation of
1
â•‡ Brown (2008, 222–26); Bartelink (1994 [SC 400], 57); Harmless (2004, 90–93).
2
â•‡ Anatolios (1998, 180–94).
3
â•‡ See especially Bartelink (1982, 38–62). NB: almost immediately after the appearance of that
article, Patricia Cox called into question the whole idea of stable genres in late antiquity; Cox
[Miller] (1983). See also Hägg and Rousseau (2000, 1–28).
4
â•‡ Athanasius’ classical models include the Vita Plotini by Porphyry and Philostratus’ Vita Apol-
lonii Tyanae. On which, see Reitzenstein (1914, 13–39).
5
â•‡ Bartelink (1994 [SC 400], 47–48).
6
â•‡ Bieler (1976); see also Cox [Miller] (1983, 20–30, 52–54).
Christ,” but, he continues, “the true stature of asceticism is already realized by

Christ.”7 The ascetic life seeks to reflect Christ’s life, something possible only
because of what Christ accomplished. Thus, Bartelink points out that Athana-
sius subordinates Antony, the “subject” of Vita Antonii, to Christ: “There is, in
the asceticism of Antony, an essential difference from that of the philosophers
(above all, the Neopolatonists): it draws its strength from Christ and is directed
toward him.”8 Antony’s life, his achievements, and his career, are contoured on
the identity of Christ, who represents end and means, the one whom Antony
serves, and the strength by which Antony labors. This decentering process—
relativizing the ostensible subject, Antony, against another, Christ—makes the
Vita Antonii a curious sort of biography, if it is one at all. So concludes Bartelink
in his article on the Vita Antonii’s genre:
Didactic purposes stand, in the Vita Antonii, in stark competition with proper-
ly biographical ones. But one could well say that Athanasius, by using historical
details, has crafted a far clearer picture of his hero than one is accustomed to find
in some later stereotyped hagiographies, which are but shadows, bereft of any
individuality.9
That is, in describing Antony in relation to Christ, Athanasius inscribes in
Antony’s personality the points of Christian spirituality that particularly mat-
tered to Athanasius. He crafts a remarkable portrait, yes, but rather of the “ideal
Athanasian human being” than the historical Antony.10 Vita Antonii owes both
the vividness of its biography and the pointedness of its spiritual content to the
kinds of concerns that Athanasius foregrounded in it: Christ’s renovation of
humanity as it plays out in an ascetic lifestyle reflective of Christ’s own life.11
In this context, Athanasius and his readers understood Vita Antonii as a nor-
mative model of ascetic spirituality. Athanasius wrote that, “For monks, the life
of Antony is, as it were, a model [χαρακτὴρ] for discipline [ἄσκησιν].”12 Gregory
Nazianzen hailed it as “a legislation of the monastic life in the form of a narra-
tive.”13 When Augustine and his friends read it, they very nearly ran off to join
a monastery.14 While its form may be that of a vita (βιός) or encomium, the Vita
Antonii was meant to inspire and model other lives, and not to demonstrate
Antony’s uniqueness. As Gregory’s description and Augustine’s reading show,
Athanasius’ readers were inspired to imitate Antony. To read the Vita, then, is
to read not a “biography” exactly, but in the story of Antony’s awe-inspiring yet
paradigmatic relationship to Christ, a narrative portrait of ascetically con-
toured Christian spirituality.15
7
â•‡ Roldanus (1968, 316).
8
â•‡ Bartelink (1994 [SC 400], 48); see also Frazier (1998, 235).
9
â•‡ Bartelink (1982, 62). 10
â•‡ Brakke (1995, 242).
11
â•‡ Roldanus (1968, 317–21).
12
â•‡ v. Anton Prol.3 (SC 400: 126); on which, see Brakke (1995, 201–203).
13
â•‡ Oratio 21.5 (PG 35:1088D). 14
â•‡ Confessiones 8.14–29.
15
â•‡ So also Roldanus (1968, 308); Louth (1988, 506); Anatolios (1998, 180–84, 190–96).
Ἄνοδος
It is difficult to discern a point in Antony’s life where he is anything less than
perfect in the Vita Antonii, making it difficult to say how, exactly, anyone can
imitate Antony. It is, however, possible to trace a peculiarly Athanasian shape of
spirituality in the Vita, which could act as a sort of “rule” even for beginners:
that of an “ascent” (ἄνοδος) to Heaven. David Brakke has argued persuasively
that
Athanasius eschewed an educational program in describing the Christian life
and instead articulated a myth (humanity’s ascent past weakened demonic pow-
ers) that stressed moral effort and required practices of withdrawal from society,
which he metaphorically described as a death. The Christian life became an as-
cetic life.16
Brakke contrasts Athanasius with earlier Alexandrians, such as Clement and
Origen, who focused more on humanity’s corrupted understanding and
assigned to Christ especially a teaching function. Athanasius did not deny the
importance of Christ’s teaching, arguing at length in his de incarnatione that
Christ frees humanity from the deceit of demons.17 However, the “myth” of the
ἄνοδος largely contours Athanasius’ conception of what Christ taught: the
demons are responsible for epistemological error, whose symptoms include
idolatry, adultery, and murder. Their epistemic activity is one way in which
these demons, by inhabiting the atmosphere, block the soul’s path to God.18 By
his death on the cross (“in the air”) Christ overcame these malevolent spirits
and by his resurrection opened up the ἄνοδος to God once more.19 Humans, for
their part, are tasked with actually making the journey.
Athanasius raises the issue of aerial ascent quite explicitly in Vita Antonii.20
Indeed, David Brakke argues that Vita Antonii “is governed by Athanasius’
myth of heavenly ascent . . . the monk merges his own story into the myth of the
Word’s incarnation, death and resurrection.” The monk, typified by Antony,
follows Christ, taking on his characteristics and achieving, by Christ’s power,
great acts of sanctity: “Christ has rendered the devil and his demons powerless,
but the monk, through his ascetic regime, must make Christ’s victory his own.”21
Constitutive of all this are “social practices of withdrawal.”22 That is, Antony
leaves the world in order to remain on the ἄνοδος. So long as he continues his
renunciatory practices, Antony walks yet in the ἄνοδος and so does not reach
his goal in this life. Roldanus writes, “Though fearless, though a ‘physician’ and
16
â•‡ Brakke (1995, 144).
17
â•‡ See, for example, Athanasius, inc. 14.4–6 (SC 199: 314–16).
18
â•‡ On which see Athanasius, gent. 2: Thompson (1972, 6); inc., 25.4–6 (SC 199: 356–58); see
also [Ps] Plato, Epinomis 984E; Origen, De principiis, 2.11.6.
19
â•‡ Brakke (1995, 149–55). 20
â•‡ v. Anton 65.7 (SC 400: 306).
21
â•‡ Brakke (1995, 226). 22
â•‡ Brakke (1995, 203).
exemplar for men, he faces struggle and danger so long as he lives.”23 Antony
moves, therefore, in the same tense hope as all Christians and though his life
appears more perfect than others, it is because the ἄνοδος, to which all are
called, is revealed so perfectly in his life.
Obedience and Withdrawal

What is the ἄνοδος? David Brakke, as noted, points to “social practices of with-
drawal” as well as “moral effort.” These, however, are but means of maintaining
total obedience to God’s commands as revealed in the Christian Scriptures.
Withdrawal is, for Antony, simply a requisite facet of that obedience. Athanasius,
as we saw in Chapter 2, presents Antony’s withdrawal as a profound response to
a crisis moment: in church he heard the Scriptures read, which proclaimed
Christ’s commands to those who would be “perfect.” Antony wished to “go and
do likewise.” And so, in a village church on a Sunday Antony began the move-
ment that would make him one of the most famous and beloved figures in Chris-
tian history. It was, in Athanasius’ presentation at least, a movement of obedience
to Christ born of faith in Christ. Of this scene, Johannes Roldanus writes,
It is clear that, for Athanasius, faith in Christ is not merely one virtue among
many others. But likewise, he cannot imagine the obligation and obedience of
faith without asceticism. To finally be perfect in obedience to Christ and to attain
to celestial glory, it is necessary to detach oneself from every earthly possession,
to abandon every preoccupation, to turn away even from parents and friends . . . 24
Antony’s career from this point is a tale of continuous obedience and submis-
sion that keeps him ever on the ἄνοδος. He moves from village to tomb, fortress,
desert, and, finally, the “inner mountain,” ever further outward as he “out-
grows” his current place.25 His burial place epitomizes this withdrawal:
unknown save to the two monks who actually buried him, and to God.26 Yet
even Antony’s more spectacular acts of renunciation function within his daily
commitment to obedience. Antony first puts himself under a local ascetic and
those whom he could find nearby,27 and later directly under God,28 though he
still submitted to the proper ecclesiastical authorities.29 The outward path of
withdrawal and with it renunciation also describes the upward path of obedi-
ence to Christ. Antony’s work on that path is simply to stay on it: “each day, as
though possessing a beginning of discipline [ὡς ἀρχὴν ἔχων τῆς ἀσκήσεως], he
exerted greater labour for progress . . . he strove each day to present himself to
23
â•‡ Roldanus (1983, 202); see also Brakke (1995, 159–60).
24
â•‡ Roldanus (1968, 296). 25
â•‡ v. Anton 11.1, 13.1, 45, 48–51, etc.
26
â•‡ v. Anton 90–92. 27
â•‡ v. Anton 3.3–4, 4.1.
28
â•‡ See also v. Anton 66.1.
29
â•‡ For example, v. Anton 46–47.1, 67.2, 90.3–5.
God such as one must appear to God, pure in heart and ready to obey his will
and no other.”30 Antony works to maintain each day the same fervor he had
when he first heard Christ’s command to “come, follow me.” Antony’s all-
embracing work of withdrawal simply allows him to shed, so far as possible, the
distractions of society, money, property, family, and personal glory, which
complicate or obstruct obedience to Christ’s commandments.
Antony the Great is also and especially Antony the obedient. By obedience to
Christ, Antony participates in and dispenses Christ’s power. All those distinct-
ive signs of sanctity on which Athanasius lovingly dwells are subordinate to the
triumph already wrought by Christ. Thus we can properly appreciate Athana-
sius’ proclamations of Antony as “athlete,” or as “mystic initiate,” or even as the
“Physician given to Egypt.”31 Antony is an athlete trained not only by the old
men whom he found near his village, and not only by self-discipline, but ultim-
ately by Christ.32 The mysteries into which he is initiated are those of Christ,
and we ought to recall Athanasius’ remark elsewhere that Christ is the “Physi-
cian and Saviour” for all humanity.33 Antony’s achievements all participate in
Christ’s universal achievement since “God, and God alone, can destroy corrup-
tion and give life, and can unravel demonic deceits and lead each into all right-
eousness.”34 Because it reflects Christ’s life, the life that Antony leads reveals the
ascetic movement (and all the monastic developments that accompanied its
rise) as a particular means to the end proper to all Christians: perfect humanity
modeled on Christ.35 The way to that end is Athanasius’ ἄνοδος, which is best
appreciated as a consistent commitment to obedience that demands the more
visible and spectacular acts of withdrawal and renunciation—asceticism is the
mode of obedience, and obedience is the path to God made possible by Christ.
It is a temptation to which most readers understandably succumb, to focus
on the result of Antony’s obedience to Christ. They wish to discover the “new
man,” the “ideal,” the perfect saint. I wish to ask how Antony began, how he
continued, and how he held on to “his” achievement. If we look at Antony’s first
steps in the ἄνοδος, enshrined in those first crucial chapters after his epiphany,
we will find the means by which Antony maintained his obedience to Christ
and set “ascents in his heart.”
THE NEW MAN AND THE OLD ENEMY
Having delineated Vita Antonii’s spirituality as an “ascent” to God constituted by

consistent and perseverant obedience maintained through ascetic withdrawal,
30
â•‡ v. Anton 7.11–12 (SC 400: 154). 31
â•‡ v. Anton 12.1, 14.2, 87.3 (SC 400: 166, 172, 358).
32
â•‡ Brennan (1985, 211–12). 33
â•‡ inc. 44.2 (SC 199: 424).
34
â•‡ Pettersen (1995, 96). 35
â•‡ Roldanus (1968, 338–48); so Anatolios (1998, 203–204).
we turn now to Athanasius’ portrayal of the initial movements of withdrawal to

show that in these engagement with mortality and judgment emerges as a tool
conducive to maintaining the fervor of obedience to Christ.
Antony and the Monks

We will proceed in a conceptual, rather than narrative order, and begin in the
middle of Antony’s great sermon to young monks and disciples—his sermon is
directed at beginners and concerns their first movements while revealing
Antony’s own. Antony portrays physical death as an important ally of the monk,
an aid and incentive in his ascetic and, ultimately, Christian, hopes. Antony
says,
Lest we neglect [our work], it is good to consider the saying of the apostle that “I
die each day” (1 Cor 15.31). For if also we live thus, as dying each day, we shall not
sin [ὡς ἀποθνῄσκοντες καθ’ἡμέραν, οὕτω ζῶμεν, οὐχ ἁμαρτήσομεν]. There is a saying
that, “we rise up each day” [ἐγειρόμενοι καθ’ἡμέραν]. So also let us imagine that we
will not remain until evening, and again, when we come to sleep, let us think that
we will not rise.36
In this passage Antony does not treat death as a remote possibility, or mortality
as a theoretical condition. Rather, death looms each morning and night, and
renders foolish any confidence of reaching the next day. Antony goes on to
argue that this belief is the proper way to respond to the inescapable uncer-
tainty of mortal existence: “By nature our life is uncertain [ἀδήλου] and meas-
ured each day by Providence [παρὰ τῆς προνοίας].”37 Athanasius contextualizes
mortality primarily in terms of God’s providence (πρόνοια), and this context
marks out the uniqueness of Antony’s position: it is God’s care for humans,
rather than an ontological condition, that makes death’s hour uncertain.
Because humans are naturally mortal, death looms as an ever-present expecta-
tion. However, as in philosophical practices of “attentiveness” (described in
Chapter 2), the curiously uncertain foreknowledge of death’s inexorable
approach heightens awareness of every moment (for which “each day” stands
in Antony’s formulation) and reveals it as the only moment available in which
to obey and so ascend to God. Athanasius describes Antony’s daily fervor beau-
tifully and it is worth quoting at some length:
For he did not think it important to measure by time the way of virtue or the with-
drawal undertaken on its account, but rather by desire and choice. He, therefore,
did not tally up the time, but each day, as possessing a beginning of discipline, he
exerted greater labour for progress, continually repeating to himself the saying of
Paul: “Leaving behind what lies behind, stretching out to what lies before” (Phil
36
â•‡ v. Anton 19.2–3 (SC 400: 186); see also 7.11–12.
37
â•‡ v. Anton 19.3 (SC 400: 186).
3.13). He remembered also the voice of the prophet Elijah, saying “The Lord lives,
before whom I stand” “today” (1 Kgds 18.15). He carefully observed that, saying
“today,” he did not measure out this life. Rather, as though always making a begin-
ning [ἀρχὴν καταβαλλόμενος], each day he strove to present himself to God just as
one must appear to God, pure in heart and ready to obey his will and no other.38
Antony lives only in the present day, not measuring out the past, and not look-
ing to an uncertain future. By consciously disavowing any moment but the
present, Antony sees more clearly that the present moment images the time
when he will stand before God—thus connecting “mortality” to “judgment,”
more on which we will discuss later.
Obversely, the consciousness of mortality counters one of the Devil’s favor-
ite ploys: fantasizing about the future. We shall see that early in Antony’s career
the Devil suggests not only past memories, but also “the rough goal of virtue,
and how great its labour; he laid before Antony the weakness of the body and
the length of a life-time.”39 But, Antony could respond, “there is no tomorrow.”
There is only today, and ascetic progress is ultimately “a new life, a new future
to be constructed daily.”40 What futurity the new life might have refers to an
eternal future that the ascetic enters only when death cuts short the illusory
future of his present existence. Thus Athanasius speaks of Antony “always
making a beginning.” Each day is, in a sense, the first day and the last of the
ἄνοδος.
Antony and the Demons

Death has also an eschatological content, derived from New Testament claims
about Christ’s universal judgment. Athanasius’s Antony battles demons inces-
santly, and for his warfare he uses and recommends a recollection of death that
incorporates eschatological judgment. Not long after Antony had given his sis-
ter to the care of virgins and taken himself off to study under a nearby ascetic, he
was attacked by a series of three temptations designed swiftly to abort his whole
project.41 First, the “good-hating and envious Devil” conjured memories as a
means of drawing Antony back to his former life: the Devil contrasted the pleas-
ures of village life with the rigors of asceticism and, moreover, recalled to Antony
his obligations in familial relationships. Central in the list is Antony’s “charge of
his sister”—their parents being dead, her maintenance fell to him until she
Â�married. But, of course, Antony has given her to the care of others and so, des-
pite the “bonds of kinship” he shares with her and presumably other members
of his village, Antony presses on. Athanasius says tellingly that the Devil
38
â•‡ v. Anton 7.10–12 (SC 400: 152–54). 39
â•‡ v. Anton 5.2 (SC 400: 142).
40
â•‡ Pettersen (1995, 103).
41
â•‡ The following quotations are from v. Anton 5.2–6 (SC 400: 142–44).
found himself weakened before Antony’s “purpose” (πρόθεσις), and repulsed

and cast down by his “firmness” or “resolve” (στερρότης).
The second time the Devil attacked, he aimed a bit lower in hopes of snaring
Antony with sex, even taking a feminine appearance, and trying to seduce him.
But Antony, “considering [ἐνθυμούμενος] Christ and his nobility, and thinking
on the intellectual part of the soul, ‘quenched the coal’ (2 Kgdm 14.7) of that
one’s deceit.” The scriptural allusion is telling. In 2 Kingdoms, to “quench my
coal” is a metaphor for the utter destruction of one’s household and life, “leav-
ing neither remnant nor name upon the face of the earth.” Antony, it seems,
leaves to the Devil no further blandishments—he is done with sex, family, and
property.
Although his deceits are exposed, the “human-hating Enemy” depicts once
more “the sweetness of pleasure.” Antony, “as befitting one made angry and sad,
considered [ἐνεθυμεῖτο] the promise of fire and the work of the worm (cf. Mark
9.43–49); and opposing these [to the Devil’s suggestions] he passed over
unharmed.” At this, the Devil is utterly cast down and departs. After this epi-
sode we find Antony physically attacked by demons—the Devil had reached, it
seems, the acme of temptation, and with the thought of death as judgment, no
image of passing pleasure could ever again hold power against Antony.
Fear of Punishment
The Devil’s return to pleasure after Antony’s apparently total victory is curious,
but we should note how Athanasius spoke of pleasure in Contra gentes. There,
the “fall” of humanity into sin was, in fact, a fall into “pleasure,” or, rather, into
the erroneous belief that pleasure and its attainment constitutes a good equal to
or even greater than union with God.42 The Devil attempts, by showing “the
softness of pleasure,” to turn Antony, not to a particular action (as he might
with sex or kin), but toward a way of viewing the world that would surely hin-
der and very likely scuttle Antony’s ascetic obedience to Christ. In response,
Antony considers Christ’s judgment. In his sermon, Antony advises the same:
We should not simply control [κρατήσομεν] desire for a woman or for any other
impure pleasure, but let us rather turn from it as something which passes away,
always struggling and beholding in advance the Day of Judgment. For ever the
greater fear and agony of tortures [βασάνων] dissolves the softness of pleasure and
rouses the drowsy soul.43
Athanasius reminds readers here that the struggle is not simply one or another
pleasure, but the overwhelming desire for pleasure as such—this the condition of
sin-bound humanity—which contemplation of judgment effectively “dissolves.”
â•‡Athanasius, gent. 4: Thompson (1972, 10).

42
â•‡ v. Anton 19.5 (SC 400: 186). In Antony’s vision of the giant and the birds, discussed later, lan-
43
guage of “overpowering,” or “mastery,” will be important.

Why? Because pleasures are only temporary, while judgment and its conse-
quences are permanent. Antony weighs the eternity presupposed in judgment
against the transient world of the present life, and in their opposition, eternity is
inevitably the weightier option.
This fearful and eternal judgment belongs to Christ and, in the passage from
Mark to which Athanasius alludes in the Vita Antonii 5.6, is predicated not on
a tally of actions but on a willingness to sacrifice anything that might obstruct a
person from the ascent to God. It is better, Christ warned his disciples, to enter
missing some parts than to be cast complete into fire. Thus, judgment emerges
here as a question of identity, a wholeness, and unswerving obedience in those
who would follow Christ.
Hope of Beatitude
Antony exhorted visitors, would-be monks, and beginners by “discoursing and
recalling the good things to come and the love of God for us, ‘who did not spare
his own son, but gave him up for us all’ (Rom 8.32).”44 By such admonitions,
Athanasius tells us, Antony persuaded many to become monks. One cannot
underestimate the paraenetic value of future hope. Because so much awaits
those who give themselves wholeheartedly to the Kingdom of Heaven, it is no
great matter to sacrifice things such as women and pleasures, that will “pass
away.” The gaze that reveals “pleasure” as worthless simultaneously discloses
eternal “goods” as infinitely more valuable.
Hope, then, recalls Antony’s first forays into asceticism, wherein he overcame
sexual temptation by contemplation the “nobility of Christ” and the intellectual
aspect of the soul. In that case, Antony accomplished the renunciation of the
bodily aspect of human life—which, though not of itself an “evil,” carries “pleas-
ure” that pins humans to fractured desires and a demonic lifestyle45—by con-
centrating on another. He renounced the sexual expression of the “desiring”
aspect of the soul (ἐπιθυμητικόν), and aligned himself entirely with the “intellec-
tual” aspect (νοερόν). Athanasius presents Antony’s choice in Vita Antonii just as
he does Adam’s choice in Contra gentes—as a directing of his soul toward God
who is contemplated first via objects of intellection (νοητά).46 But, in that move-
ment Antony also aligns himself with what, in humanity, is eternal or at least
capable of becoming so—he cuts off his foot in order to enter heaven without it.
“Hope” and meditation on the beatitude that awaits Christ’s judgment means
also acceptance of a particular notion of what it means to be human, and a
44
â•‡ v. Anton 14.7 (SC 400: 174).
45
â•‡Athanasius, gent. 3, 4: Thompson (1972, 8, 10–11); see also similar ideas in Clement of Alex-
andria, str. 6.12.98.1 (GCS 15: 481) and Gregory of Nyssa, De Opificio Hominis 18.1–6 (PG 44:
192A–D).
46
â•‡ Anatolios (1998, 62–63); though it is worth noting that the Platonism of Contra gentes is
muted, if not largely rejected in Athanasius’ later works.
corollary rejection of those aspects of human life that run counter to that notion.
Yet this is no anti-somatic Platonism: Antony meditated not simply on the
“intellect” but, first and foremost, on the “nobility of Christ”—the Incarnate
Christ who properly utilized his body.47 We may further note that Antony’s
meditation on eternal punishment parallels his meditation on Christ and the
“intellectual part of the soul” elsewhere.48 That is, in response to the Devil’s
attacks (which in both instances focus on pleasure, whether conceived generally
or in its particular manifestations), Antony reflects on two aspects of Christian
belief as on two sides of a coin: on one side Christ the Word (Λόγος) and the
naturally rational (λογικός) human who is made “according to the image of
God” (Gen 1.27); on the other the pleasure-seeker consumed in eternal tor-
ment. These are merely the sheep and goats of Matthew 25, the ends of the nar-
row and wide ways respectively, and, therefore, the only two eternal possibilities
for humans.
Living with mortality and judgment provides Antony with a crucial means
of persevering in his ascetic mode of obedience to God. First, by admitting that
in the face of death’s uncertainty each day is a gift offered providentially by
God, he rightly perceives the urgency which it holds. Antony’s recollection of
death is most definitely not a “fear of death.” For Athanasius (following Sir
40.1–11), fear (φόβος) is an entirely negative emotion (or passion)—a result of
humanity’s fall, which keeps humans enthralled with passing pleasures.49 Rath-
er, as Brakke rightly notes, Antony’s μνήμη τοῦ θανάτου is “a focused attention on
the present and on oneself.”50 In that regard it far more closely resembles the
“spiritual exercises” that Pierre Hadot discerns among philosophers. Thus,
Mark Sheridan applies Pierre Hadot’s arguments to Vita Antonii and says that,
for Antony, attention to oneself (προσοχή) is “an essential element in the devel-
opment of the spiritual life, a continual concentration on the present moment,
which must be lived as if it were the first and the last; in this way prosoche is
closely linked to mindfulness of death.”51 However, unlike the Stoics, Antony
meditates on the far more important topic of Christ’s judgment, before which
47
â•‡ Anatolios (1998, 63–65) points out that for Athanasius the body provided “the crucial exist-
ential locus for the exercise of human freedom” (63) but that it is also a tempting entity to which
the soul may align itself being, as Athanasius puts it, “what is nearest.” Thus a certain rejection of
bodily desires may be necessary to overcome the temptations that they mask. So also Pettersen
(1990).
48
â•‡ v. Anton. 5.5 (SC 400: 144); both instances are governed by forms of the verb “ἐνθυμέομαι,”
meaning “to ponder” or “to consider.”
49
â•‡ See Brakke (1995, 221–23). So also v. Anton 36.2 (SC 400: 232–234), wherein Athanasius
includes “φόβος θανάτου” in a list with “dejection, hatred for ascetics, acedia, sadness . . . and all the
other desires of wickedness.” The list typifies vicious passions, and two of the items—acedia
(ἀκηδία) and sadness (λύπη)—even become part of Evagrian technical psychology. Athanasius,
like the Apologists before him, typically adduced fearlessness of death as a sign of that Christian
hope is reasonable: for example, v. Anton 27.5, 74.3, 75.1, 79.6; inc. 27.1–4, 44.8, 52.5.
50
â•‡ Brakke (1995, 224). 51
â•‡ Sheridan (2002, 23).
fear and hope are reasonable and appropriate responses. By doing so he sees
not only the vanity of the world but the criteria of obedience to Christ and so
discerns in every momentary choice the everlasting dichotomy of beatitude
and damnation.
Nevertheless, mortality also alleviates the burden of an uncertain future: for
the monk there is no future in this life; there is only today, death, and eternity.
He lives authentically with a simple fact that Charles Spurgeon would later
describe so eloquently:
To-morrow—it is not written in the almanack of time. To-morrow—it is in Sa-

tan’s calendar, and nowhere else. To-morrow—it is a rock whitened by the bones
of mariners who have been wrecked upon it . . . To-morrow—it is a dream. To-
morrow—it is a delusion. To-morrow, ay, to-morrow you may lift up your eyes in
hell, being in torments. Yonder clock saith “to-day”; everything crieth “to-day!”52
Ultimately, Athanasius elaborates both sides of Paul’s engagement with death.

For nonbelievers, mortality means primarily the cessation of pleasure and so
becomes an object of fear and repulsion.53 Conversely, physical death actually
aids ascetics such as Antony because it discloses the urgency of their business
and, by revealing the transience of pleasures and the prospect of Christ’s judg-
ment, it also clarifies the absolute and comprehensive identity toward which
every choice will tend. In light of death, there are no idle moments—there are
only moments pregnant with eternal possibility. Thus, meditation on mortality
and judgment enables Antony to remain firm in his renunciation, and to main-
tain his fervency in obedience to Christ.
THE CONTINUIT Y OF LIFE AND DEATH
Having seen just how valuable the recollection of mortality and judgment is for
Antony, I turn now to further elaborate the cosmological assumptions behind
the conception of death at work in Vita Antonii. I will examine two visions of
death and one of the ascetic life, which has often been mistakenly read as a third
death vision. We will see that Athanasius understands the ἄνοδος as linking life
and death. This creates a strong continuity between the two, and means that
while actions in the present age determine one’s state in the next, the next actu-
ally reveals the real meaning of present deeds. I will conclude with a discussion
of Antony’s paradigmatic death scene.
52
â•‡ Spurgeon (2007, 153–60).
53
â•‡Athanasius, gent. 3: Thompson (1972, 8–10); on which Brakke (1995, 146–49); and Brakke
(2006a, 32).
Amoun’s Ascent
While “seated in the mountain”—his “inner mountain” in the far desert—a
mature Antony sees “someone [τινα] ascending [ἀναγόμενον] in the air, and
there was great rejoicing from all those he encountered.” Antony is perplexed
but excited: “He prayed to learn what this might be. And straightway a voice
came to him, [saying] ‘this was the soul of Amoun, the monk in Nitria.’”54 Atha-
nasius then explains that Amoun had “remained an ascetic until old age” and
immediately launches into a calculation of the distance between Antony’s
mountain and Nitria, before digressing about the deeds of Amoun, a celebrated
wonder-worker and frequent visitor at Antony’s retreat.55 Athanasius then
returns to Antony whose disciples have recorded the date of his vision and, sure
enough, though the distance was thirteen days’ travel, Antony’s vision had
taken place the very night of Amoun’s death. Ostensibly, then, the story serves
as yet another proof of Antony’s gift of clairvoyance, his discernment, and his
favor with God.
On another level, though, it tells us something of what Athanasius thinks
death might be. It is first worth noting that Antony does not know what he
sees—the “soul” of a person is, even to his eyes, no more than τις—someone,
something. Moreover, Antony’s great power only operates thanks to God’s
revelation, which must explain to him what he saw, and which is only granted
in response to his prayer. The vision itself is simple enough in most other ways:
Antony sees what takes place when a great Christian goes to join Christ in
heaven. Those who “meet” Amoun are, presumably, the angels who guide him
to and meet him in heaven (see also Luke 15.7; Heb 12.23). We will shortly see
how important such figures can be. Amoun, though, is an old man who has
endured—“remained” in Athanasius’ favored terminology—in the “discipline”
until his death. His joyous entrance into heaven is continuous with his chosen
of life: his death befits his earthly accomplishments. Palladius emphasizes the
continuity of life and death when paraphrasing Vita Antonii in his Historia
Lausiaca: Amoun’s soul is borne aloft by angels, just as they carried him across
the river Lycus. Athanasius relates the miracle but says nothing of angels—only
that Amoun did not actually walk on the water, since that is possible only for
Christ.56 Palladius’ account nicely elaborates the sense of continuity in Athana-
sius’ own cosmology: angels ferried Amoun in life and they did so in death—in
each event because Amoun had sought it through asceticism, and God had
granted it by grace. Death and life operate in the same way.
â•‡ v. Anton 60.1–3 (SC 400: 294).

54
â•‡ Amoun likely founded the community at Nitria, and is well known from other sources,
55
whose accounts (minus the frequent visits to Antony) correlate with those of Athanasius. For
example, h. Laus. 8, Sozomen, Historia ecclesiastica 1.14, 6.28; and Socrates, Historia Ecclesiastica,
4.26; see also Vita Pachomii altera 4. On Amoun see Chitty (1966, 11–12, 29–32); and Evelyn-
White (1933).
56
â•‡ v. Anton 60.5–9 (SC 400: 294–96); h. Laus. 8.6: Bartelink (1974, 44).
The Giant and the Birds

A second vision of death, this one rather grander, elaborates on the ways in
which Athanasius’ myth of ascent plays out in death. A discussion arose with
visitors concerning the “journey of the soul and what sort of place there will be
for it after these things.” The next night,
a voice called [Antony] from above, saying, “Antony, rise up and go out and see.”
He went out, therefore . . . and he beheld a great figure looking upward, formless
and fearful, standing and reaching to the clouds, while figures were ascending like
birds; and that figure was stretching out its hands and some he impeded and some
flew over him and passed over, and were led upward without worry. The great
figure gnashed his teeth at those that escaped, but at those that fell he rejoiced.
Understandably, Antony does not comprehend the vision. But his gift is to
receive understanding and so,
Immediately a voice came to Antony: “Understand what you see.” And his
understanding being opened, he knew that the vision concerned the passage
of souls [τῶν ψυχῶν εἶναι τὴν πάροδον], and the standing figure was the enemy
who hates the faithful. And those who were liable to him he overpowered and
impeded from passing on [καὶ τοῦς μὲν ὑπευθύνους αὐτῷ κρατοῦντα καὶ κωλύοντα
διελθεῖν]. But he was unable to overpower those who did not obey him, as they
passed over.57
After death, whether immediately or eschatologically, the soul seeks to
ascend to God. If it owes nothing to the enemy it can ascend. If not, for
whatever reason, it is hindered. The “enemy” is formless. His appearance,
like that of Amoun’s soul, is unclear to Antony. Yet the enemy in death is
certainly the enemy in life, who has always attempted to hinder souls from
their ascent to God. The metaphor of ascent past diabolical forces is, as we
have seen, integral to Athanasius’ vision of salvation. Yet, just as Amoun’s
death befitted his life, so here the metaphysics of death reflect the course of
life as ἄνοδος. The question is whether a person is liable (ὑπεύθυνος) to the
enemy. If so, the ἄνοδος is blocked and, in death, this blockage also means
permanent mastery by the enemy. In life, as we shall see below, people have
the opportunity to clear their debts by repentance, and to gain the support
and aid of Christ and his angels. In death, actions performed and habits
developed in life have consequences that are themselves accomplished with
such certainty as to be almost mechanistic. This is death’s revelation of lia-
bility: all the shades and grades of identities resolve into those who owe the
enemy and those who do not. Thus, while death is continuous with life, it
57
â•‡ v. Anton 66.2–5 (SC 400: 308–10); see also a similar presentation in h. Laus. 21.16–17: Bar-
telink (1974, 116). The differences between the presentations of Palladius and Athanasius are
instructive and worth a study in their own right as revealing something of the historical Antony,
but need not concern us here. For an extensive discussion, see Zecher (2014a).
also calcifies into a permanent state what in life had been only a tendency,
thus clarifying the urgency of every moment and every choice.
The Aerial Path

To explain this last point, Antony has an unexpected vision immediately prior
to that of the giant: angels and demons warring over his soul as he is being “led
through the air” [ὡς εἰς τὴν ἀέρα ὁδηγου΄μενον]. This story does not concern
death.58 Rather, it is a brief allegory of Athanasius’ conception of spirituality as
ἄνοδος, but its proximity to Antony’s vision of death is not accidental. This
vision serves, in conjunction with the vision of the giant, to strengthen the
impression one gets from Amoun’s death: that life and death operate analo-
gously and within the same cosmological framework of ascent.
Certain “vindictive and fearful beings [πικροὺς59 καὶ δεινούς τινας]” stood in
Antony’s aerial path and “desired to hinder him as not to allow him to pass
through.” Given what we have already seen of Athanasius’ demon-filled cos-
mology, these are undoubtedly demons. Antony’s guides, however, argue back
that he is not “liable to them [μὴ ὑπεύθυνος αὐτοῖς].” This vision expresses, in no
uncertain terms, Athanasian concern with the Christian’s ἄνοδος past weak-
ened yet ever-present demons using terminology analogous to Antony’s vision
of death.60
Liability is also central to the vision of the giant, but on the aerial path we
learn how it accrues. Athanasius’ use of “liable” (ὑπεύθυνος) implies at least the
possibility of being completely free of liability—those who ascend are, like
Antony, answerable for nothing. Of course, all are liable for something, but by
Christ’s mercy “each day a beginning” is available. This new beginning, however,
implies other problems. Antony’s guides sternly warn his interrogators that
deeds from birth to his profession as a monk are wiped clean by Christ. How-
ever, Antony must answer for whatever he has done since that profession: a new
beginning means a new life complete with its own records and judgment. The
radicalism of the ascetic mode of spirituality is quite clear in this distinction.
58
â•‡ Many do think this vision concerns death. See, for example, Daniélou (1956, 140–45); and
Alexandre (1984, 271). I disagree. Given that this vision is immediately followed by another one
whose content is explicitly related to death, it seems unlikely that Athanasius would have simply
stacked varying visions on top of one another. Moreover, the language is different—although
Antony is led εὶς τὴν ἀέρα, there is no mention either of his ψυχή or an ἀναγωγή—both terms are
integral to the vision of Amoun and that of the giant. John Wortley draws the same conclusion,
but rightly notes that “Although this experience concerns only Antony’s monastic life, all the elem-
ents of many subsequent visions of the last judgment are here” (Wortley [2001, 62]). See also
Zecher (2014a).
59
â•‡ The usual meaning of πικρός is “sharp” or “bitter.” But it can also mean “relentless” or “vin-
dictive” (s.v. LSJ). This latter definition fits with the legal scene and language (ἀπαιτέω, ὑπεύθυνος)
at hand.
60
â•‡See v. Anton 21.1–5; and Brakke (2006a, 36–37).
Antony passes by unharmed only because his interrogators cannot prove any-
thing against him as a monk. The monastic lifestyle demands an absolute renun-
ciation of all that has gone before, because the monk is fully accountable for
everything. The ἄνοδος is open, but only to those who are not liable to the
demons. Indeed, only after demonic accusations fall flat did “the way become
free to him and unhindered.”61 Demons hinder and angels help, but, in the midst
of such legal wrangling it is, ultimately, Christ’s mercy that makes ascent
possible.
Athanasius then relates another story. He describes Antony as meditating on
Ephesians 2.2, “‘concerning the prince of the power of the air’ for in the air the
enemy has power, by fighting and trying to hinder those who pass through.”62
Antony, considering this verse, has a mystical experience in which he “saw
himself coming up to the air and struggling until it [or he] became free.”63 In
this experience the emphasis lies much more on Antony’s effort. Yet it is not
irreconcilable with the more elaborate vision, if we suggest that Antony’s
“struggle” consists precisely in maintaining his way of life undefiled, and that
the only reason the air is even open to human endeavor is the foundational
work of Christ.
In these visions life and death operate within the same cosmological
framework, although the terms of the myth vary. At the same time, the
visions also demonstrate that both death and life remain veiled: death because
humans can only speculate on it, life because it is easy amidst the din of
worldly occupations and the illusion of longevity to lose sight of the apoca-
lyptically charged meaning of each moment. Antony has death and life
revealed to him, and their parallelism suggests that what takes place spiritu-
ally in the present life on the “aerial path” determines whether or not one
evades the giant after death. The dead inhabit the same kind of world as the
living, but their status is only determined by their actions before death. Like-
wise, the underlying spiritual forces at work in each person’s life are only
clarified by judgment that takes place after death, though it may be tasted
proleptically in the present.
DAILY DYING
This final section will draw together the threads of argument laid out in this
chapter, showing that Athanasius draws heavily on practices of remembering
death as both mortality and judgment. He incorporates this practice into his
broader conception of spirituality as ascent to Christ in life—an ascent whose
61
â•‡ v. Anton 65.2–5 (SC 400: 304–306). â•‡ v. Anton 65.7 (SC 400: 306).
62
63
â•‡ v. Anton 65.9 (SC 400: 306).
end is clarified only in death. We will look, then, at Athanasius’ presentation of

Antony’s cultivation of a serene and natural lifestyle, to see that the great monk
does so by living always with his own death in sight. His practice of living
authentically begins with a radical withdrawal from the world, and with that, a
fresh approach to ethics and relationships. Both of these are characterized and
motivated by a continuing engagement with death—Antony stays on the
“upward path” by beginning life again each day, and, by implication, dying each
day as well.
Withdrawal as Death?
As we have seen throughout this chapter, Vita Antonii portrays asceticism as
obedience made possible by profound withdrawal. As Roldanus notes, the
proper characteristic of monks as opposed to ascetically minded Christians
generally (such as the old man under whom Antony first studied), is their
“renunciation” (ἀποταγή). He says that theirs becomes a new world,
their own and particular, by the greatest possible isolation. It is freed from
every familiar or agreeable tie—familiy, house, security, propriety, culture,
gourmet food, sexual relations—and builds, be it alone or with others, a new
place in which no tie to the temporal world impedes a full focus on divine
matters.64
Thus it is that Athanasius traces the lineaments of Christian monasticism as a
more settled movement with regard especially to “renunciation,” or “withdraw-
al” (ἀποταγή). Monastics symbolized this withdrawal by locating their existence
in the desert.65 For Athanasius, indeed, Antony’s great accomplishment was not
the founding of asceticism, nor even of monasticism as such. It was, rather, his
withdrawal into solitude that encouraged others to do likewise. When Antony
attempted to persuade the old man with whom he first studied asceticism to
join him in moving permanently away from the village, the old man demurred
for two reasons: first, because “his advanced age” prevented him; second,
because “this was not yet customary [διὰ τὸ μηδέπω εἶναι τοιαύτην συνήθειαν].”66
Whether this was quite historical or not, Antony’s defining characteristic
becomes his willingness to renounce more than others all that was familiar for
the sake of an ever more fervent obedience to Christ.
What is the logic of withdrawal? David Brakke argues that Athanasius char-
acterizes this withdrawal with “the extreme metaphor of death. Natural death,
64
â•‡ Roldanus (1968, 281–82).
65
â•‡ See especially A. Guillaumont (1975) and Goehring (1993).
66
â•‡ v. Anton 11.2 (SC 400: 164).
Athanasius believed, was the complete separation of the soul from the body;
the metaphor of death expressed the goal of ascetic renunciation as the with-
drawal of the soul from the bodily passions.”67 Brakke is certainly right, but,
while his argument works very well for Athanasius’ other works, such as the
Festal Letters, we must be careful not to overstate the case with regard to Vita
Antonii.68 First, Athanasius does not use the language of death to describe
Antony’s withdrawal or ascetic practices.69 Second, Athanasius is preoccupied
with the reattainment of humanity’s natural state of union with God through
Christ. These concerns, rather than a kind of metaphorical death, undergird his
famous descriptions of Antony’s tranquility and joy after his emergence from
the fortified well.70 It would be unwise to try to make theVita Antonii conform
to a model of asceticism as death.
That being said, theVita Antonii does, however tentatively, suggest a practice
of “dying,” if not a metaphorical state of “death.” This suggestion consists, rather
simply, in the implications that Antony’s “memory of death” has for the monk’s
approach to ethical relationships.
Daily “Dying”
Antony accompanied his initial withdrawal with “spiritual exercises.” He used
the thought of death to stave off memories of friends and relatives, property
and social responsibility, as well as worries about an uncertain future and pre-
carious bodily health. More than this, though, Antony preached a kind of daily
“dying” to his disciples. The dying Antony commanded his disciples to “live as
though dying each day [ὡς καθ’ ἡμέραν ἀποθνῄσκοντες ζήσατε].”71 What does this
mean? Antony’s sermon helps illuminate what it means to live “as though dying
each day.” He says, “Serving and living each day thus, we will neither sin nor
desire anything, nor become angry at anyone, nor store up treasures on earth
[cf. Mat 6.19]. But, expecting each day to die we will live without property and
forgive everything to everyone.”72 This statement echoes what I have already
argued, that contemplation of mortality means that there is no “tomorrow” for
the monk. Here, Antony connects a close relationship to one’s own mortality
directly to a lifestyle of forgiveness and simplicity. This prospect prevents old
illusory possessions of both past and future from taking hold—the monk car-
ries neither goods nor grudges. In fact, “propertylessness” (ἀκτημοσύνη) and
tranquil relationships go hand in hand: property is so often the cause of strife.
Perhaps this constant consciousness of death, and the habits of forgiveness and
67
â•‡ Brakke (1995, 158). 68
â•‡ Brakke (1995) cites Athanasius’ ep. fest. [Syriac] 7.2–3.
69
â•‡ Even Antony’s famous move to the tombs is presented as an act of enthusiastic athleticism,
rather than a metaphorical death (v. Anton 8–10).
70
â•‡ v. Anton 67 (SC 400: 310–14).
71
â•‡ v. Anton 91.3 (SC 400: 368).
72
â•‡ v. Anton 19.4 (SC 400: 368), following Ben Sira 28.6.
simplicity which accompany it, are part of what Athanasius meant when he
wrote that Antony was “daily being martyred in conscience, and struggling
with the athletes of faith.”73
Antony’s claims about property and relationships recall and explain his renun-
ciation of property (his inheritance), while militating against the usual modes of
social relationships (family and village). Antony’s motivation for severing all ties
with his family rests on his wish to escape from disposing of property. Because
he has given up attachment to both property and to people—at least the divisive
attachment implied by distinguishing family from nonfamily—Antony can then
live happily, enabled by propertylessness to approach all with equanimity and
love. Yet, as we have seen, Athanasius suggested something further in his descrip-
tion of Antony’s death: he was gathered, not to his “people” but to the “fathers,”
not to tribe or family, but to the community of saints in heaven.74 In effect,
Antony gave up one type of community to gain another. Thus, living as though
dying also entails a radical reorientation of relationships to property and people,
which, if carried through consistently, means a new way of life and new commu-
nity for the monk.
Indeed, while it is quite correct to say that Athanasius does not emphasize a
“death to self ” in Antony’s career, focusing instead on a return to humanity’s
natural state and union with the Logos,75 it is important to see the ways in which
that return is made possible. David Brakke argues of the monk Antony that
His consideration of the rewards in heaven, the precarious nature of human life
. . . and the horrors of hell should produce an unwavering life of virtue free of the
“negligence” that led to the fall of the original human beings. The person whose
meditation on death leads to such resolve will display courage even in the face of
imminent death.76
Living with the constant memory of mortality and judgment inculcates a new
lifestyle that accords to the exigencies and demands of both. This affects rela-
tionships with others, and also cultivates the unwavering character that Antony
displays. Yes, his tranquility is undoubtedly a sign of his living “naturally” as
Adam did—but, importantly, Antony does not lose this tranquility as Adam
did. Rather, through his renunciation of property and social relationships, and
73
â•‡ v. Anton 47.1 (SC 400: 262): “. . . καθ’ ἡμέραν μαρτυρῶν τῇ συνειδήσει καὶ ἀγωνιζόμενος τοῖς τῆς
πίστεως ἄθλοις.” I have, for reasons given in the Introduction, chosen not to discuss martyrological
literature in this study. The elements of martyrdom that concern Athanasius have to do with the
endurance that the “athletes of faith” show in the face of torture and death—and he describes that
endurance in Antony’s struggles in the tombs (v. Anton 8–10). Antony’s life is a kind of ongoing
near-martyrdom, in which the spectacular “single hour” of martyrdom is traded for the slow
grind of daily suffering. On which, see Malone (1950, 212–15, 224–27). Martyrs’ endurance
points also to an intrinsic connection with ascetic training, on the implications of which, see
Young (2006).
74
â•‡ See Guillaumont (1975, 17).
75
â•‡ Brakke (1995, 238–44).
76
â•‡ Brakke (1995, 223).
then through an engagement with death considered in light of Christ’s victory

over corruption and the demons, Antony becomes “something greater than”
Adam, able not only to find but—a crucial Athanasiuan distinction—to remain
in a natural state.77 The monk, though not actually dead, effectively dies each
day and is, implicitly, born again with equal frequency, and so able constantly
to “make a beginning.”78 In a sense, then, death constantly clears away for
Antony all passing pleasures and worries from the ἄνοδος, separating him from
his past in sin and mortality, freeing him toward a future whose only reference
point is Christ’s judgment seat, and the hope of beatitude beyond.
Conclusion: Antony’s Death

The Vita offers, in the scenes leading up to and including Antony’s death, a nar-
rative paradigm for monastic death, drawing together all the main themes of
this chapter. As Athanasius puts it, “his death also became worthy of emulation
[ζηλωτόν].”79 However, Antony’s death remains only as imitable as Antony’s life:
like the ascetic discipline he teaches, it is normative but difficult.80 The continu-
ity of life and death, visible in Antony’s visions, holds true in Athanasius’
description of his death. Athanasius dwells on two observable foci of the pro-
cess of dying: preparation and burial. Between these poles, Athanasius crafts a
vision of death transformed from an object of terror into a calm passage to
Christ.
As to preparation, Antony foretells his death to his disciples and prepares
them accordingly. Athanasius tells us that he “learned about his death from
Providence.”81 As we have seen, human lives, possessing no “fixed term,” are
meted out by Providence and, therefore, offer no certain time for repentance or
relaxation. Antony lived so attuned to Providence that he gained some know-
ledge of death generally: in one vignette Athanasius says that Antony knew that
one of two monks coming to visit him had died because he “kept his heart
watchful.”82 Antony was, in that case, unable to explain why one brother died
and not the other, but he was able confidently to ascribe the events to God’s
inscrutable judgment.83 Antony’s attunement to Providence reveals the course
of events as they run and God’s care in them, but does not often allow him to
offer causal explanations. Thus, when it came time for him to die, Antony sim-
ply told his disciples in the outer mountain, “This is the last visit I will make,
and I wonder if we will see each other again in this life; for it is time for me to
77
â•‡ See Athanasius, inc. 3.3–4, 5.1; Anatolios (1998, 36–37); Roldanus (1968, 63–64); Brakke
(1995, 146).
78
â•‡ v. Anton 7.12, 19.4, etc.; so Alexandre (1984, 267).
79
â•‡ v. Anton 89.1. 80
â•‡ Alexandre (1984, 263, 271–72).
81
â•‡ v. Anton 89.2. 82
â•‡ v. Anton 59.6.
83
â•‡ v. Anton 59.1–5.
die [ἀναλῦσαι] (see 2 Tim 4.6).”84 Antony’s disciples are horrified at this state-
ment and begin to mourn, but he, Athanasius tells us, “like one setting off from
an alien land to his own city, conversed with them rejoicing.”85 Similarities to
Plato’s account of Socrates’ death in the Phaedo are unmistakable86 but Antony’s
expectations, Christian and resurrectional, differ dramatically.87
Antony dies while instructing his disciples one last time. Many of his instruc-
tions concern burial, and reveal more about Athanasius’ attitudes toward Egyp-
tian customs than anything else—they reinforce what Athanasius elsewhere
attempted to teach: that bodies must be buried, not displayed. It is a false rever-
ence to display a dead body rather than burying it as was done not only for “the
patriarchs and prophets to this day,” but also and especially for the Lord. For
what, Athanasius asks, “is greater or more holy than the Lord’s body?”88 Antony
requested, therefore, a simple burial, not wishing to make of himself an idol,
even in death. His disciples complied with his wishes and so, Athanasius
reports, no one knows to this day where he is buried save the two disciples who
dug his grave.89
I wish to focus briefly on the content of Antony’s farewell address. Apart
from lengthy digressions on burial, it forms a précis of his great sermon whose
points Athanasius most wished to impress upon his readers. Antony says,
We must be watchful and not abandon our lengthy discipline, but as having a
beginning now, let us hasten to preserve our perseverance. You see the demons
plotting, you know how savage they are, even being weak in strength. Do not fear
them, but rather breathe always Christ and believe in him. And live as though
dying each day [ὡς καθ’ ἡμέραν ἀποθνῄσκοντες ζήσατε] (see 1 Cor 15.31), paying
attention to yourselves and remembering the exhortations you heard from me . . .
Hasten rather always to join yourselves chiefly to the Lord, but also to the saints,
so that after death they may receive you, as friends and familiars, into the eternal
dwellings (cf. Luke 16.9).90
We see three themes that we have already touched on: first, that one must renew
one’s discipline each day; second, that one can, in Christ, overcome the demons;
third, one must live as dying so as to hasten toward heavenly dwellings. The first
command is guaranteed by contemplation of mortality, the second by remem-
brance of judgment. The third describes the lifestyle that rests on memory of
death and judgment. Finally, the point of all is to cling to Christ, to be joined to
Christ, but not just to Christ—to the saints as well. The ascetic community
strives to enact proleptically the eschatological community of heaven, seeking
84
â•‡ v. Anton 89.2–3. 85
â•‡ v. Anton 89.3.
86
â•‡E.g., Phaedo 117c–118a. 87
â•‡ v. Anton 91.8.
88
â•‡ v. Anton 91.4–6.
89
â•‡ v. Anton 92.2 (drawing a parallel with Moses; see Deut 34.6). On issues with Egyptian burial
see Malone (1956, 216–20); and Alexandre (1984, 267–70).
90
â•‡ v. Anton 91.2–5; the ellipsis comprehends a philippic against Meletians and Arians.
to live now as saints and the friends of saints and, especially, as participants in
Christ. Of the moment of death, Athanasius can only say that
Antony having spoken at length and having greeted each of them, “he stretched
his feet” (Gen 49.33) and, as though he saw friends coming towards him, and be-
ing very glad at the sight (for as he lay his face appeared joyous) he “died and was
gathered to the fathers” (see Gen 49.33).91
Antony dies tranquilly like Jacob surrounded by his sons, the twelve Israelite
patriarchs. By this allusion, Athanasius confidently ascribes to Antony a “good”
death, in the style of the Old Testament’s Patriarchal narratives. Thus the allu-
sion to Gen 49.33, regarding Jacob’s death—but perhaps also to Abraham’s
death (Gen 25.8), to the death of Isaac (Gen 35.29), or to that of Moses (Deut
32.50). Athanasius clearly wishes to draw a parallel with these accounts, but he
presents Antony as gathered not to his fathers, but to “the fathers.” Athanasius
suggests that Antony (like Amoun) is received into the company not of his dead
ancestors but of God’s righteous ones, the saints who had gone before him. The
“fathers” stretch from Abraham to Amoun. Of course, there is a dark side to
these ascriptions. Antony’s death is that of Jacob in Egypt—one who died not in
the Promised Land, but in the land that would become synonymous with exile
and suffering. Likewise, Antony’s burial conforms to the accounts of Moses’
grave, whose whereabouts no one knows. Moses’ unknown grave, near but out-
side the Promised Land, is intended, in the Scriptural accounts, to contrast
directly with Abraham’s cave tomb, by means of which he “inherited the land of
promise” (see Jos 24.32; Heb 11.9–18). Moses’ grave, like Jacob’s death, is a tes-
tament to the fact that they had not yet grasped the promises in hopes of which
they lived. Antony, too, dies in the land of Egypt, both literally, and thanks to
Athanasius’ clever allusions, spiritually—he did not, in life, enter the Land of
Promise.
Nevertheless, for all the ambiguities, Antony’s is certainly a good death,
which Athanasius opens up for imitation just as much as his life and profession.
Antony dies, we hear, as he lived, approaching death with the same joyous tran-
quility with which he served Christ. Indeed, Monique Alexandre argues that,
for Athanasius, Antony’s joy demonstrates that his is a “good” death. His advice
at death enshrines the principles by which he lived and through which he
hoped to attain to Christ. His death was, as Alexandre puts it, “continuity rather
than rupture.”92 Yet in all this, death’s inner quality remains veiled. We cannot
see Antony’s ascent, or what befalls his soul in death. We cannot hear the angels
rejoicing over him or the companies of saints which he longed to join. And so
Athanasius throws us back upon Antony’s visions of the giant and of Amoun’s
ascent, leaving us to wonder how glorious Antony’s own ascent must have been.
91
â•‡ v. Anton 92.1. 92
â•‡ Alexandre (1984, 264–65).
The Seeds of Tradition

Athanasius’ high hopes for ascetic accomplishment—perseverant tranquility
and embodiment of Christ’s victory over demons—will, among the Desert
Fathers, be played out in terms explicitly taken from death. Likewise, his
description of the practice of the “memory of death” will remain basically con-
stant through the authors we survey. Others will nuance, expand, elaborate,
and even react against the picture of spirituality laid out here—particularly as
regards Athanasius’ obviously high expectations for permanently overcoming
temptation—but the practices and, to some extent, the hopes that Athanasius
typifies in Antony will remain the standard point of departure for all those who
come later.
In the Desert, though, and in Gazan literature, the content of death will shift
to include more prominently the vivid imagining of judgment that Athanasius
included in Antony’s visions, but did not ascribe to Antony as a practice. Cer-
tainly, the incorporation of visions of judgment points forward to the kind if
vivid speculations that we will see among the Desert Fathers, and especially in
Climacus’ Ladder. We will also see how Antony’s withdrawal becomes a prac-
tice of death that plays out in ways appropriate to the monk’s environment:
hermits and cenobites will “die” in different ways. We turn now to the Desert
Fathers, among whose writings the ideas presented in the Vita Antonii are
Â�elaborated with increasingly consistent reference to death, and that yet display
a tremendous ambivalence to the view of ascetic spirituality typified by the-
Vita Antonii.
4
The Desert Fathers:

“Like a body whose soul has departed”
Self will come to life even in the slaying of self; but there is ever something
deeper and stronger than it, which will emerge at last from the unknown
abysses of the soul: will it be as a solemn gloom, burning with eyes? Or a
clear morning after the rain? Or a smiling child, that finds itself nowhere,
and everywhere?
George MacDonald, Phantastes
Having explored the role played by memory and conceptions of death and judg-
ment in the Vita Antonii, and having shown their implications in Antony’s “daily
dying,” we now turn to the Desert Fathers. This chapter falls into four sections:
the first showing practices of memory of death as both mortality and judgment;
the second elaborating the opposition and continuity of life and death under-
pinning those practices; the third section explores practices described as death
and dying. In connection with this last, we discuss important practices, such as
“cutting off the will,” apatheia, and obedience, which the Desert Fathers empha-
size but seldom conceptualize in terms of death, since these practices will,
among Gazan Fathers and in the Ladder, become practices specifically of death.
The fourth and final section highlights points of ambivalence and even oppos-
ition to the expectation that by means of the “memory” and “practice” of death,
ascetics can accomplish more or less complete self-transformation.
IMAGINING DEATH AND JUD GMENT
When Theophilus, Archbishop of Alexandria, was dying, he is reported to have

said “You are blessed, Abba Arsenius, because you have always kept this hour
in mind.”1 Two centuries later an anonymous elder in Palestine rebuked two
1
â•‡ Theophilus 5 (PG 65: 201A).
visiting philosophers, saying “Let the object of your philosophy be always to

contemplate death [τὸ ἀεὶ μελετᾷν τὸν θάνατον], possessing yourselves in silence
and tranquillity.”2 Theophilus’ dying words and the quiet rebuke of that anony-
mous elder summarize neatly the attitude with which they and numerous of the
Desert Fathers approached the ascetic life. Using and greatly expanding on
ideas present already in Vita Antonii, ascetics began to make death a constant
companion and to shape their own selves around it.
Expecting Judgment
Unlike what one finds in, for example, the Apologists or Athanasius, the Desert
Fathers do not generally imagine death to be something indifferent or con-
temptible. Many Desert Fathers actually advocate a kind of “fear of death,”
though not, as in Athanasius’ description of sin-bound humanity, because
mortality is itself terrible or because death ends defiling pleasures. Rather, this
fear centers on a postmortem narrative described tersely by Abba Elias: “I fear
three things: when my soul will go out of my body, and when I will present
myself to God, and when the verdict on me will go out.”3 Elias fears the moment
of death because it ushers him into judgment, but what he really worries about
is the verdict. In Elias’ staccato narrative of death, each moment is at once cer-
tain and unknown: he will die, but he does not know when; he will be judged,
but what judgment will look like he can only imagine; there will be a verdict,
but he does not yet know what it will be. In this instance, fear of “death” means
fear of the unknown outcome of an expected judgment whose criteria, as we
have seen from the New Testament and the Vita Antonii, are the actions and
habits that one has cultivated in life. As Antony saw, God’s future judgment
demands a radical response now if one is to prepare for it.
Kinds of Judgment
What is it that the ascetic contemplates when he speaks of “judgment?” Cer-
tainly, he would often mean Christ’s eschatological judgment and, with it, the
whole spectacular narrative of Christian eschatology that active imaginations
could and often did draw from biblical descriptions such as the Old Testament
“Day of the Lord,” Matthew’s Gospel, and the Apocalypse of John. For example:
An old man said: If it were possible, at the time of the coming of Christ after the
resurrection, that men’s souls should die of fear, the whole world would die of
terror and confusion. What a sight, to see the heavens open and God revealed
2
â•‡ prat. 156 (PG 87.3: 3025A, trans. Wortley [1992, 130]).
3
â•‡ Elias 1 (PG 65: 183A); similar sentiments can be seen in, for example, Evagrius 4 (sent. mon.
54), Sisoes 19, Silouan 2, Syncletica 7; N 110 134, 136, 138–42, 175, 182, 186, 189, 193, 264; h. mon.
Prol.7, 11.57; h. Laus. 34.6, 54.5; prat. 8, 26, 43, 59, 71, 101, 110, 141, 142, 186.
The Desert Fathers: “Like a body whose soul has departed” 105
in anger and wrath, and innumerable armies of angels and, at the same time, the
whole of humanity. Therefore, we ought to live as having to give account to God
of our way of life every day.4
In this saying, as in Matthew’s Gospel, judgment means especially a revelation—
of the heavens, angels, earth, and of God as judge. Yet, as revelation, the judg-
ment merely clarifies what is always true but forgotten or only dimly perceived:
that humans must give account to God. The reason is that full awareness of the
scope of judgment would actually paralyze people with confusion. “Human
kind,” after all, “cannot bear very much reality.” To ponder judgment means,
then, to ponder something still veiled, not only in its outcome, but in its scope
and depth. Thus, within a broadly biblical eschatological narrative there was
space for speculation and, certainly, many authors took very different views of
what Christ’s judgment might look like. However, all speculation revolved
around only two verdicts—vindication or condemnation.
Veiled it may be, but monastics saw Christ’s judgment as neither distant nor
in deferral. Rather, ascetics lived “as having to give account to God of our way
of life every day”5 since “our master, Christ, dwelling and being present with us,
beholds our life.”6 Abba Elias located judgment within the narrative of his own
death, and the anonymous old man says that eschatological judgment should
inspire a sense of being judged daily. Thus, throughout the Apophthegmata
Patrum and other literature, Christ’s judgment (and it is always Christ’s) is vari-
ously located as daily,7 postmortem,8 and eschatological.9 For each of these,
judgment concerns one’s daily life, but is only possible once that life is com-
pleted. As Abba Poemen said, one is judged according to the state one has
attained at death.10 Christ’s judgment is perhaps built up daily, but its effect
becomes irrevocable only at death—until then one can always “make a new
beginning.”11 While eternal life in the Kingdom of Heaven is the monk’s goal,
and the ascetic life his means, death connects the two through judgment.
One Judgment, Two Verdicts

As noted earlier, whatever the specifics, ascetic conceptions of judgment always
have two sides—positive (vindication/beatitude) and negative (condemnation/
punishment). Regarding punishment, it seems to have been common practice
4
â•‡ N 136: Wortley (2013, 96); as also h. mon. Prol. 7: Festugière (1971, 7).
5
â•‡ N 136: Wortley (2013, 96). 6
â•‡ N 78: Wortley (2013, 64).
7
â•‡ Antony 4, Antony 33 Agathon 24, Ephrem 3, Paphnutius 1, Or 11; h. mon. 1.22–25, 8.32–33.
See also prat. 38, 76, 78, 99, 178, etc.
8
â•‡ Dioscorus 3, Cronius 3, Sisoes 38; h. Laus. 21.16–17; see also Poemen 182; prat. 19, 44, 128, etc.
9
â•‡ Ammoes 1, Zeno 6, John of Cellia 1, Cronius 2, Matoes 12, Orsisius 1, Sisoes 19, Silouan 2,
Syncletica 7; h. mon. Prol. 7, 8.53, 11.5–7; prat. 8, 26, 95, 101, 130, etc.
10
â•‡ Poemen 182 (PG 65: 365C), see also Sisoes 38.
11
â•‡ Poemen 85, Silouan 11 (PG 65: 341D, 412C).
to meditate on the horrors that await sinners. One abba compared memory of
death and punishments to the onion juice that mothers put on their breast to
wean children—the memory “of death and the punishment-chamber of the age
to come” provides an analogous antidote for “impure thoughts.”12 Likewise, a
story of Abba Sisoes is worth recounting:
Three old men came to Abba Sisoes, having heard about him. And the first one
said to him, “Father, how can I be saved from the fiery river?”. . . The second said,
“Father how can I be saved from the ‘gnashing of teeth’ (Mat 25.30, etc.) and from
‘the sleepless worm’ (Mark 9.49)?” The third said to him, “Father what shall I do,
for the memory of the ‘outer darkness’ (Mat 25.30) kills me?”
These three questions reveal first, that a biblically based, but highly vivid medi-
tation on punishments was common enough practice; second, that it was
largely based on biblical language; and, third, that it could be almost paralyzing
in its effect. Sisoes gently rebukes their enthusiasm, saying,
You are blessed, my brothers. I envy you. The first of you spoke of the fiery river,
the second of Tartarus, and the third of darkness. Now, if your mind masters such
memory, it is impossible for you to sin . . . What shall I do, hard-hearted as I am, not
being granted to know even if there will be punishment for people [μὴ συγχωρούμενος
εἰδέναι ὅτι κἄν ἐστι κὀλασις τοῖς ἀνθρώποις]? And from this I sin each hour.13
We will explore Sisoes’ own attitude toward the memory of death in the final
section of this chapter, but for now one thing is clear: even in his rebuke he
admits that a memory of punishment has power to turn a person from sin. His
response recalls Ben Sirach 7.36, and conveys the intended result of contempla-
tion of torments: freedom from sin. The fear to which such contemplation gives
place has a paralyzing effect and, in proper doses, this paralysis should extend
only to sinful actions and impure thoughts, effectively freeing the monk to
obey God and cultivate virtues. However, if given too much place, it could lead
to pervasive ataxia, as with the three tormented brothers. The fear of punish-
ments requires, therefore, a corrective.
Hope of eternal bliss offers such a corrective, and, in fact, operates in dialec-
tical unity with fear of punishment. Douglas Burton-Christie notes, “Mindful-
ness of judgment also meant awareness of the possibility of salvation.”14 This
possibility was expressed in robust yet biblical terms. A brother, suffering in
fear and frustration, asked an old man,
“How is it that my soul desires tears as I hear of the old men and yet they do not
come, and so my soul is afflicted?” The old man said to him, “The sons of Israel
12
â•‡ N 182: Wortley (2013, 127): the “σκίλλα” had long been thought to possess healing powers
and is mentioned many times by medical writers, but, “above all it is regarded as καθάρσιος” (Rohde
1966, 589). Whence—one is tempted to think—comes its association with “impure” thoughts.
Wortley (2013, 127 n.) points out an analog in Romeo and Juliet (I.iii.26) that speaks of “worm-
wood” applied in the same way.
13
â•‡ Sisoes 19 (PG 65: 397D–400A). 14
â•‡ Burton-Christie 1993, 183.
after forty years entered the land of promise. Tears are the land of promise. If you
return to it, you will no longer fear warfare. For thus God desires for the soul to
be afflicted, so that it may always long to enter into that land.”15
The old man reminds the brother of his great hope, the “land of promise”—
long associated with the eschatological dwelling of the saints with Christ,16 in
which he need no longer fear temptation (“warfare”) or affliction. Other stor-
ies speak of the crowns that await those who have endured17, and of the
“hoped-for rest,”18 or the “great gifts of God.”19 This hope helps carry the monk
through the self-doubt and frustration of constant warfare and mitigates the
paralyzing effect of fear. As Abba Euprepius put it, “Knowing that, as he says,
God is faithful and strong (see Heb 10.23), believe in him and you will share in
what is his. But if you shrink back, you do not believe, for we all believe him to
be strong and believe that ‘all things are possible for him’ (Mark 14.26).”20
God’s faithful promises ground the ascetic’s hope and keep him from despair
or paralysis.
Nevertheless, unbridled hope could lead to undue expectations, even to
arrogance and carelessness. Hope must be tempered with fear, just as fear must
be tempered with hope. As fear should make the idea of sin so horrific as to be
impossible, so hope should make virtue appear possible even when it is very
difficult to achieve. Mark the Monk describes this relationship of hope and fear,
referring both to God who alone can judge: “Fear of Gehenna and desire for
Paradise yield endurance of afflictions; and this not because of themselves, but
because of the one who knows our thoughts (see Pss 93.11).”21
We should understand hope and fear, then, as corollaries of the same escha-
tological expectation—the judgment of Christ—and as contributing to molding
monks from those who had already entered a life of asceticism. A lengthy and
influential apophthegma attributed to Evagrius illustrates this point excellently:
Being seated in the cell, gather your thoughts. Remember the day of death. Be-
hold then the death of the body. Contemplate the event. Take up the labour. Ob-
serve the vanity in the world. Thus you will be able to remain always in same state
of tranquillity and will not become weak. Remember also the present state of
things in Hades. Consider how the souls are there, in . . . great fear and struggle
and with a certain expectation . . .
But also remember the day of resurrection and presentation before God. Imagine
that horrible and fearful judgment. Bring to mind the things reserved for sinners
. . . Then also bring to mind the good things stored up for the righteous . . .
15
â•‡ N 142: Wortley (2013, 98). 16
â•‡ Heb 3.11–4.11.
17
â•‡ h. Laus. 21.12–14: Bartelink (1974, 112–14).
18
â•‡ N 196: Wortley (2013, 142); h. mon. 1.29, 1.46, 1.56, 8.16–7: Festugière (1971, 19, 27, 31–32,
52–53).
19
â•‡ N 197: Wortley (2013, 143). 20
â•‡ Euprepius 1 (PG 65: 172B).
21
â•‡ Operibus 132 (SC 445: 168).
Evagrius goes on to describe how one should react to these thoughts:

Bring before yourself the memory of each of these, and weep for the judgment
of sinners, mourn, fearful lest you yourself come to that end. But rejoice and be
glad at what is saved for the righteous. And exert yourself so as to enjoy these,
and to be utterly alien from the lot of sinners. Take care that you do not forget
this, whether you be in your cell or elsewhere, that you may flee from impure and
harmful thoughts.22
According to Evagrius, the monk not only imagines judgment on others, but
actually anticipates future judgment by God through a conscious anticipation
of it in which he judges himself. In this scene the monk takes up a double role:
as judge and as the one judged. The act of imagination allows him to perform
on his own thoughts the same separative judgment that God will ultimately
perform on humans.
Some ascetics actually performed the results of judgment, though most
would resort to confessional “revelation of thoughts.” Among the former is
Abba Zeno, who was besieged by the idea of plucking and eating a cucumber.
So he reminded himself that “thieves are punished” in this life and the next, and
betook himself to stand in the sun for five days, suffering now the kind of pun-
ishment he expected would await thieves in eternity. At that point he decided it
would be better not to take the food, since he could not endure the punish-
ment.23 More often, though, the monk “performs” judgment by confessing his
thoughts to an abba. Columba Stewart has argued this point brilliantly, saying
that by such “confession” monks sought to clear away the demonic deception
and, as often as not, self-deception, to which humans are prone.24 Their confes-
sion completed verbally the mental task that Evagrius sets out above, and so it
should be clear that the monk sought through confession and the imagination
of Christ’s judgment to cultivate an awareness of himself by which he could
prepare for that judgment in which all illusion is cast aside and things revealed
as they really were all along.
Such self-awareness, however, can only be attained by those already in the
ascetic life. Diadochus of Photice would later argue that accurate contempla-
tion of God’s judgment requires a pre-existing degree of detachment from the
world and love for God.25 This statement, coupled with Evagrius’ portrayal of
22
â•‡ Evagrius 1 (PG 65: 173A–C), taken from his rer. mon. 9 (PG 40: 1261A–D). The same apo-
phthegma is found, split in half, in Systematica 3.2 and 3.5, where it is attributed to Antony the
Great and Theodore (or Ammonas), respectively. The same passage is paraphrased in a century of
texts (§§57–59) attributed to Theodore the Great Ascetic, in Philokalia, 1: 313–14. Though this
passage is unusual for its vivid depictions of judgment, it is not out of character for Evagrius, who
recommends the memory of death in a general way at, for example, Eulog. 23 (PG 79: 1124B) and
sent. mon 54 (TU 39.4: 157); on which Rich (2007, 70).
23
â•‡ Zeno 6 (PG 65: 177B); see also John Kolobos 21, John the Persian 1, Isaac of Thebes 1, etc.
24
â•‡ See Stewart (1990, 25–39), and the references given there, as well as, for example, Macarius
3, Poemen 101; h. Laus. 26.1–4.
25
â•‡Diadochus, perf. 16–19.
spiritual exercises as taking place within one’s cell and the fact that revelation of
thoughts is always to someone else, demonstrates that the practices of contem-
plating judgment operate within the context of monastic withdrawal. Memory
of judgment and all the activities that go with it became a way of cultivating the
lifestyle that one has already, to some degree, chosen and, therefore, a means of
living into an identity that one already holds as an ideal.26
Mortality
Consciousness of death means also dwelling on mortality. Mortality, as Antony
preached, is uncertain yet inexorable—life is measured out by Providence, but
its limit remains hidden. Such uncertainty, and the urgency it suggests, also
pervades Desert literature. As Pseudo-Macarius puts it, “Let us hasten, there-
fore, beloved, as children of God, having put off all possession and carelessness
and relaxation, to become noble and prepared to follow after him [Christ], not
delaying day after day, stolen away by wickedness. For we do not know when
our departure [ἔξοδος] from the flesh will take place.”27 Such ideas as this are
illustrated excellently by a curious saying from the Anonyma. A new monk
keeps back a little money for his own maintenance. An old man advises him to
give away even that small amount—his renunciation is not yet complete and he
is, therefore, something less than a monk.28 The young brother has trouble giv-
ing his money away because he imagines that his cell will require repairs—and
this thought keeps him from prayer. But, after repeated reminders, he finally
gives away his last. When the last bit of money is gone, the monk suddenly
notices not only the age and decrepitude of his cell but that a lion is prowling
nearby. In terror he confronts the old man:
“Everything here is old, and a lion is coming to devour me.” The old man then
confessed his own thoughts: “I expect everything to collapse on me and for the
lion to come and devour me so that I may be free. Go. Sit in your cell and pray
to God.”29
While he held back for himself some measure of independent control over the
world around him (money), the young monk was distracted by thoughts
expressive of his desire to exercise that control (fixing his hut). But when he
finally renounced that power he found new worries: he could not control his
world (the hut’s collapse came to seem inevitable) and he had to confront mor-
tality as an ever-present companion (the lion). When one has completely
26
â•‡ For a fuller discussion of Evagrius’ meditation on judgment, see Zecher (2014b).
27
â•‡ Collectio B 49.4.5; (GCS 56: 116) see also, for example, Cyrus 1, Longinus 2, Pambo 8, Rufus
1, Phocas 1, Or 1; h. Laus. Prol. 3–4, 5.2; h. mon. 1.29, 1.45–46, 1.56, 8.16–17; prat. 5, 19, 42, 44, 71.
28
â•‡ So also Cassian the Roman 8 and Antony 20.
29
â•‡ N 17: Wortley (2013, 16); see also a similar sentiment in h. Laus. Prol.3–4: Bartelink (1974, 6).
renounced the world, one dwells in sight of death. But it is only in sight of
death, the old man explains, that a person can live the ascetic life—“Sit in your
cell” and pray.30
This proximity to one’s own mortality, as Antony pointed out in the Vita,
means honesty about one’s natural condition. A “great old man” said, “I exhort
you, brothers: we have ceased the deeds, let us cease the desires as well. For
what are we but dust from dust?”31 Living as one about to die is, in fact, no more
than admitting that one leads a mortal existence. Evagrius showed how mortal-
ity calls human pretensions into question: “Why are you lifted up and raised
beyond the clouds, o man, being by nature clay and corruption?”32 Yet that
admission helps complete the monastic’s renunciation of the world—he can
retain nothing of it if he is to make progress. To illustrate: Abba Elias, burning
with lust, left his cell to slake his thirst and fell into a pit. There an angel showed
him decomposing bodies of both men and women and said, “Go and enjoy
yourself . . . But in return for that pleasure, take note how much labour you
intend to destroy. Just look at the sort of sin for which you are prepared to
deprive yourself of the kingdom of heaven . . . Would you lose the fruit of all
that toil for one hour’s [pleasure]?”33 Mortality reveals the natural transience of
human life and, therefore, of pleasure. But such transience in turn appears, in
light of the demands of Christ’s judgment, as the hook dragging one toward
eternal punishment.
As did Antony in the Vita, so the Desert Fathers speak frequently of “making
a good beginning.”34 To make each day a good beginning implies that the monk
carries nothing over from the previous day, and takes nothing with him into the
next. One encounters, along these lines, descriptions of the whole ascetic life as
taking place or, at least, able to take place, within one day: “The whole life of a
man is one day for those who work with desire.”35 To live entirely within each
day, bounded by mortality, dramatically illustrates the sort of “newness of life”
that monastics sought. That sort of life must constantly shed the past and can
take no thought for the future. Both past and future bind the monk to the
world—one through passions, family, and memories, and the other through
worry and care. Far from encouraging a facile optimism about constant re-
newal, the hope of a new beginning serves to heighten the urgency of ascetic
labor: too often death cuts repentance short and for those who fall, “today” is not
30
â•‡ On “sitting in the cell” as representative of monastic life see, for example, Moses 6, Also
Antony 1, Antony 10, etc. Notably, Evagrius 1 uses the imagination of judgment to make the “cell”
portable: Zecher (2014b).
31
â•‡ N 83: Wortley (2013, 69). 32
â•‡ mal. cog. (recensio brevius) 18 (PG 79: 1164A).
33
â•‡ prat. 19 (PG 87.3: 2865C–D, trans. Wortley 1992, 14).
34
â•‡ For example, Arsenius 3, Dioscorus 1, Poemen 85, Sisoes 14, Silouan 11, Or 8, N 168, 187,
208; see also v. Anton 7.11–12.
35
â•‡ Gregory Nazianzen 2 (PG 65: 145B); see also Alonius 3, Poemen 126.
always enough.36 Nevertheless, each day brings the opportunity of beginning

once more—which is the sum total of progress for which monastics longed. Liv-
ing as though about to die heightens the significance and perceived soteriologi-
cal value of each day and helps the monk to avoid the deadly snare of anticipating
an unknowable and illusory future.
Mortality and future judgment cannot be separated, except logically as dif-
ferent aspects of the experience that Christian ascetics expect from death. Eva-
grius would recall an old man’s words: “He who always takes thought of the
memory of death is led to the fear of judgment.”37 Even where remembering
death means dwelling on the mortal condition, the activity is inextricably
bound up with the eschatological ramifications of death considered in light of
Christ. When dwelling on judgment, as we have seen, the Desert Fathers hold
together the fear of punishment and the hope of salvation—each balancing the
other, and both operating in tandem to keep the monk from sin while spurring
him to virtue. Thus, memory of death and judgment keeps monks from both
despair and pride. Each day offers the monk a chance to anticipate God’s judg-
ment and to accord himself to its criteria through performance of that judg-
ment in thought and, especially, revelation of thoughts. Recollection of
mortality helps the monk to constantly begin again, to work urgently and tire-
lessly, since each day becomes, in light of death’s imminence, a kind of new
lifetime. This intertwining of sober reflection, fear, and hope, will profoundly
inform Gazan and Climacus’ thinking.
LIVING BEYOND DEATH: OPPOSITION OF THE AGES
Hope and fear regarding Christ’s judgment intertwine dialectically with a per-
ception of an underlying opposition—even exclusivity—in their demands
between the present life and the age to come.38 While Antony’s visions empha-
sized continuity between life and death, what we find more often in Desert lit-
erature is that an assumed opposition between the present age and the coming
one underlies the memory of death and judgment. The perceived opposition
has, in memory of death, a twofold effect. First, the expectation of death dimin-
ishes the perceived value of transient goods, whether those be interpersonal
relationships, sensual pleasures, or material possessions. Simultaneously, the
expectation of an ethically divided existence beyond death keeps this percep-
tion of transience from driving the monk into a kind of Epicurean nihilism—a
36
â•‡ Antony 14 (PG 65: 80B–C).
37
â•‡ Eulog. 20 (PG 79: 1120B); so also Diadochus, perf. 81, and Rufus 1, on which see Moschos
(2010, 155).
38
â•‡ In this section I will use “age” and “world” interchangeably to describe the life before and the
life after death. These words reflect the usage of ascetic literature.
possibility of which Palladius, for example, was at least aware: “For some receive
their soul in vain (see Pss 23.4 LXX), those who, believing it to be dissolved
with the body, are careless about virtue.”39 In effect, the “opposition of ages”
forms the cosmological structure which moves toward Christ’s judgment, and
the responses appropriate to this cosmology are sharpened by expectation of
that judgment.
There are, as this section shows, several interrelated ways in which Christian
ascetics understood the present life as relating to the age into which death would
usher them. Very generally, ascetics saw a fundamental incompatibility between
the polity of the present life—one defined by property, divisive and fractious
relationships, by convention, spiritual warfare, and, ultimately, sin and demonic
powers—and their “citizenship in heaven.” This incompatibility could mean that
one must suffer presently to rest in the future, or perhaps labor now for rewards
later. Alternatively, the disjunction of ages could spin out a kind of paradoxical
continuity, wherein the same activities are appropriate in different ways to the
present or future ages—that is, humans must suffer, but have the choice whether
to do so willingly and efficaciously now, or unwillingly and futilely after death.
Both interpretations coexist in the literature, and, I will argue, speak to the same
core belief: that the restrictions sin puts on the present life oppose the order of
Christ’s judgment and the criteria of entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven.
These restrictions preclude enjoyment of things now if one is to enjoy them
properly later, while severance from that enjoyment demands repentance, which
takes the form of voluntary suffering so as to avoid involuntary suffering.
The Narrow Way

Ascetics had in common with those they excoriated a sense that the present life is
an opportunity to acquire goods. Those goods could be material and transient—
money, property, fame, physical pleasures; or spiritual and eternal—the longed-
for “land of rest” with Christ. The problem is that acquiring the latter meant
renunciation of the former, and enjoyment of the latter was generally consigned
to the “age to come.” For example, Amma Theodora said,
Strive “to enter through the narrow gate” (Mat 7.13). For, it is as happens with
trees: if they do not withstand winter and rain, they cannot bear fruit. So also with
us, this age is winter and unless it be through many tribulations and temptations,
we cannot become inheritors of the kingdom of heaven.40
39
â•‡ h. Laus. 6.4: Bartelink (1974, 32).
40
â•‡ Theodora 2 (PG 65: 201B); see also Bessarion 12, Elias 6; Moses 18, 20; Hyperechius 6–7.
Theodora’s saying echoes John of Lycopolis’ admonition at h. mon. 1.29–30. Similar sentiments
are found, more generally, at h. mon. 8.53; N 21, 141, 142, 193, 299, 312, 368; prat. 69, 152; Nilus of
Ancyra, ΛΟΓΟΣ ΑΣΚΗΤΙΚΟΣ (Philokalia, 1: 191–92); Mark the Monk, Operibus 130, 156. So
also Burton-Christie (1993, 219–22).
Generally, Desert monks considered that the present life was a time for toil and
labor and, in particular, for resisting temptation.41 Antony said to Abba Poe-
men that “This is a person’s great activity, to place his former failings before
God (see 1 Pet 5.7) and expect temptation until his last breath.”42 While we have
seen that ascetics longed for “rest,” Abba Theodore of Pherme, for example,
warned against “beginning to enjoy rest in this age, before God grants it.”43
Rather, rest must lay on the other side of death, in the “age to come.” More spe-
cifically, ascetics display a keen awareness that at present pleasures inevitably
carry with them temptations that ascetics must expect and resist if they are not
to become addicts of pleasure—or, in the philosophically grounded language of
ascetic psychology, if they are to conquer the passions. Rest before God gives it
can only be illusory, and its enjoyment implies not that one has conquered the
passions and temptation, but that one has succumbed to both. Thus, the activ-
ity appropriate to a life filled with temptation is watchful resistance and con-
stant labor.
The curious example of wine will help to clarify these claims. Wine was the
ancient world’s drink of choice, less a luxury than a fact of life. There was no
biblical prohibition on it—the psalmist commends it (Ps 103.15 LXX), Paul
recommended a little to Timothy (1 Tim 5.23), and Jesus would seem to have
endorsed it at festivities (John 2.1–10). Indeed, biblical authors (like all sober-
minded Mediterranean thinkers) seem only to have been concerned that peo-
ple not get drunk or become overly addicted to wine (see Eph 5.13; 1 Tim 3.8).
Among the Desert Fathers, though, we find a consistent and explicity sense that
wine is inherently dangerous. Poemen and Xoios both would remark that wine
is “alien to monks”44 while it represents, for Amma Syncletica, the allure of all
worldly pleasures.45 It is a dangerous item, one that can intoxicate and whose
pleasures are, moreover, addictive. Ascetics, however, attributed these dangers
not only to natural properties of wine, but to the work of demons, and so to the
strictures of a fallen world. A saying of Xoios explains the situation:
A brother asked Abba Xoios, saying, “If I am found somewhere, and I eat three
loaves, that isn’t much, is it?” The old man said to him, “Have you come to the
threshing-floor, brother?” Again he said, “If I drink three cups [of wine], that isn’t
much, is it?” And [Xoios] said to him, “If there is no demon, it is not much. But
if there is one, it is too much. For wine is foreign to monks living according to
God.”46
Were it not for demons and their temptations, wine would not present a prob-
lem. As things stand, though, there is a demon and Satan is always at hand, in
wine and food, in gold and luxury, and especially in women (or men).47 There
41
â•‡ Brakke (2006a, 152). 42
â•‡ Antony 4 (PG 65: 77A).
43
â•‡ Theodore of Pherme 16 (PG 65: 192A).
44
â•‡ Xoias 1, Poemen 19 (PG 65: 311C, 325D). 45
â•‡ Syncletica 4 (PG 65: 421C).
46
â•‡ Xoios 1 (PG 65: 311C); so also Sisoes 2. 47
â•‡ Abraham 1; see Peter the Pionite 11.
is no escape from temptation, so the only response is to repudiate as far as pos-

sible the means by which temptation comes. And so ascetics very often gave up
drinking wine entirely or, at least, as much as possible while still observing
hospitality and Eucharistic gatherings with the brethren.48 This renunciation of
wine did not, however, mean that ascetics did not hope for enjoyment in better
circumstances. In the Kingdom of Heaven there is neither demon nor tempta-
tion, and so ascetics gave up illusory and addictive pleasures now for more
perfect pleasure the other side of death.
Ascetics responded to the allure of transient goods (such as the pleasure of
wine) by withdrawal from the society that accepts transience as normative, and
by renunciation of goods that cannot be properly enjoyed because of sin. We
are, again, not so far from Antony’s outward movement from village to desert,
but we see among the Desert Fathers a wider variety of interpretations of
“renunciation” (ἀποταγή). For some it might mean especially the distribution of
money or goods,49 or care for the sick50 or, alternatively, it could mean flight
from people and speech.51 In each case, however, the monastic renounces
something and acquires a new activity. Just as the activities of ἀποταγή vary, so
also do its descriptions. For some, “exile” (ξενιτεία) best describes the monk’s life
on earth, since he is ever reminded that his true citizenship is in heaven.52 Mark
the Monk, on the other hand, draws freely on the Gospel images of sowing and
reaping, to argue that the present provides opportunity to renounce what one
hopes to find again, though now multiplied a hundredfold.53 Generally, though,
as in the example of wine, whatever the specific means by which the ascetic
accomplishes it, renunciation means exactly that—either a repudiation, or
reduction of possession, or usage of things whose enjoyment tempts the monk
toward addiction and away from single-minded desire for God.
Importantly for us, these variegated conceptualizations and activities of
renunciation all find their rationale in a metaphysic made concrete through
engagement with death. The reality of death and the expectation of judgment
particularly sharpen the sense of opposition, the character of renunciation, and
the urgency of labor. A particularly visceral apophthegma of Antony explains:
Hold the fear of God ever before your eyes. Remember the one who “kills and
makes alive” (4 Kgds 5.7). Hate the world and everything in it. Hate all fleshly rest.
Renounce this life, that you may live to God. Remember what you have promised
48
â•‡ Even then, Macarius found ways to ensure he did not become addicted to pleasure. He
would give up drinking water—one day without hydration for every cup of wine drunk (Macarius
10 [PG 65: 267B])!
49
â•‡As h. Laus. 54.4–5, 61.7, 68.1–4, 71.1–4; prat. 231.
50
â•‡As h. Laus. 21.3; cf. prat. 75, on which see H. Chadwick (1974, 61).
51
â•‡ As Asenius 1–2, Doulas 2, Evagrius 2; see Mark the Monk, De lege 108, 114.
52
â•‡ See, for example, prat. 12, 37, 55.
53
â•‡ Mark the Monk, Operibus 47, 121, 133, 137; see also N 157 and Nilus of Ancyra, ΛΟΓΟΣ
ΑΣΚΗΤΙΚΟΣ (Philokalia, 1: 190).
God—for he will require it from you on the Day of Judgment (Mat 10.15, 2 Pet 3.7,
etc.). Hunger, thirst, go naked, keep vigil, mourn, weep, wail in your heart. Test
whether you are worthy of God. Despise the flesh that you may save your souls.54
Here Antony describes the monk living with two companions: the “fear of
God” and the expectation of death. The latter reminds the monk that worldly
goods will be irrevocably lost and are, in any event, of only illusory value—
fleshly rest is not eternal rest and, as Evagrius put it, “possessions will not ben-
efit you in the day of death.”55 The fear of God rests on the assumption that one
has to “give account” to God of “what has been vowed to him”: that is, of one’s
way of life. The expectation of judgment urges voluntary suffering, some of
which is clearly renunciatory (hungering, thirsting, being naked), and some of
which is more interior (weeping, wailing, testing oneself). This is the voluntary
suffering and self-denial that turns one away from the world and helps the
monk to despise the flesh that would ensnare him. Evagrius sums matters up
thus: “Faith and baptism will not deliver from the eternal fire, without works of
righteousness. For if you are under the command of Christ, then keep his com-
mandments. And if you believe in the things to come, contend for the glory of
that age and fear the flaming sword (see Gen 3.24).”56
A Matter of Eschatology
I have said that death lies between the monk and his hopes. However, many
monks, like Evagrius, for whom knowledge of God (γνῶσις) constitutes the
ultimate goal of asceticism, believed eschatological hopes to be realizable in the
present life. Even so, arguments for renunciation hold good, since spiritual
goods are still opposed to material ones. Moreover, Evagrius certainly does see
death as an important moment, at which the character of a monk is tested and
revealed, and in that sense it is safe to say that hopes for rest must lie beyond
death. He says,
The monk free of possessions . . . is above every temptation and scorns present
realities; he rises above them, withdraws from earthly things, and associates with
the things above . . . Affliction comes and with no sadness he leaves that place.
Death approaches and he departs with a good heart, for he does not bind his soul
with any earthly fetter.
But the monk with many possessions has bound himself with the fetters of his
worries . . . Even if death should approach, he is miserable in leaving behind pre-
sent things and giving up his soul . . . he is separated from the body but he is not
separated from his possessions; the passion has a greater hold on him than those
dragging him [towards death].57
54
â•‡ Antony 33 (PG 65: 85C). 55
â•‡Evagrius, inst. 2.34 (PG 79: 1237D).
56
â•‡ inst. 2.42 (PG 79: 1240A).
57
â•‡ spir. mal. 3.5–7 (PG 79: 1152C–53A, trans. Sinkewicz [2003, 78–79]); see sent. mon. 21 (TU
39.4: 155).
Nevertheless, Evagrius can also speak of the opposition of “ages” as one that
plays out in the present life. The ascetic rises by means of renunciatory ascesis
(πρακτική), through dispassion (ἀπάθεια), to a state of knowledge (γνῶσις)
wherein prayer (προσευχή) and contemplation of God (θεωρία) are possible.58
Yet θεωρία and προσευχή, likewise, constitute Christians’ eschatological hope,
since they are defined not as ephemeral activities, but as a state of union with
God: “Prayer is converse of the mind with God.”59 Thus, Evagrian eschatology
is strongly realized, since the Christian is capable of the same activity now as
later—there is little left for death to accomplish except the shedding of the body.
Writers such as the anonymous author of the Historia monachorum in Aegypto
oppose the active life (πρακτική) and contemplative life (θεωρετική) in similar
terms,60 while Palladius uses “outer” and “inner” persons as his contrasting
terms.61 These follow Evagrius to some extent, though it is not clear that they
share his speculative opinions.62 For the majority of the Desert Fathers, though,
as Graham Gould notes, the “reward” hoped for is “implicitly an eternal, heav-
enly one, a divine response to the way in which [the monk] has chosen to live
the monastic life as a life of concern for their neighbours.”63 A particularly Eva-
grian vision of monastics’ eschatological hopes became increasingly unique
after the Origenist Controversy of 400 ce, and so Gould’s argument is generally
true for the literature here under survey—including even Evagrius’ less specu-
lative works—that, whatever hopes ascetics held for the present life, it was
eschatological rest in Christ for which they longed, and though they might taste
it now, the ever-present threats of temptation and passion ensured that they
only expected to enjoy it fully after death.
The Time of Repentance

The process of renunciation, reliant on a perception of ages opposed in their
modes of being and centered on the fulcrum of death, implies more than sim-
ply a choice of water over wine. Or, rather, that choice implies a forcible realign-
ment of priorities and a willing renovation of desire. To that end, “repentance”
58
â•‡ For a convenient and helpful summary of Evagrian spirituality, see Louth (2007, 97–110).
59
â•‡Evagrius, or. 3 (PG 79: 1168C); for Evagrius, this is only one of several definitions, but in all
of them he envisions a kind of communion between the intellect (νοῦς) and God. Antoine Guil-
laumont’s subtle assessment of Evagrius’ eschatology (drawn from his analysis of the Kephalaia
Gnostica) shows that prayer anticipates—to the extent possible—the life of “intellects” (νόες) in
the consummation of the age. See A. Guillaumont (1962, 37–39); see especially Konstantinovsky
(2009, 162–70).
60
â•‡ h. mon. 1.62, 13.11: Festugière (1971, 33–34, 101).
61
62
â•‡ See Draguet (1946–47). Draguet’s assessment must, however, be balanced out by those such as
E. D. Hunt (1973, 479–80) and Demetrios Katos (2012, 116–24, 153–54) who argue convincingly
that Palladius, though partial to Evagrius, was not a slavish “Origenist,” and his work likely reflects
the broader tradition within which Evagrius (and other monks, such as Antony) operated.
63
â•‡ Gould (1993, 105).
(μετάνοια)—the forcible change of attitude and action discussed at length in the

New Testament—is necessary: “Abba Peter . . . told us about Abba Thalilaios the
Cilician that he passed sixty years in the monastic life, never ceasing to weep-
ing, and he always said ‘God gave us this time for repentance, and we have to
seek him wholeheartedly.’”64 The activity of repentance in service of whole-
hearted seeking God brings us to the second way of considering the “opposi-
tion” of ages: analogous in the kinds of activities possible in each, but radically
different with regard to the contexts and effects of those activities. Specifically,
we see that Abba Thalilaios expressed his repentance through “mourning”
(πένθος). This practice, unknown to the Vita Antonii’s Antony, was common
among the Desert Fathers, and will be absolutely pivotal in the Ladder. Empha-
sis on repentance opposes the present age to eternity, not so much in the kinds
of activities appropriate to each (though that is certainly true), but as mutually
exclusive loci for similar activities, whose effects are opposed. That is, one must
weep, and the choice is between weeping now and weeping later.65 Thus, a curi-
ous continuity between the ages leads to a different kind of opposition, in which
ascetics strive to suffer now what they wish to avoid in eternity and to renounce
now the very pleasure they hope to gain in eternity.
Arsenius, John of Cellia, and Macarius the Great, among others, all agreed
on at least one point: humans must weep at some point. And so each of these
exhorted his disciples “Let us weep, brothers, and let tears pour from our eyes,
before we depart for that place where our tears will burn our bodies.”66 The
sense is that while tears are useful now for repentance, after death they will be
no more than a mark of damnation, paradoxically exacerbating a fiery punish-
ment. Amma Syncletica describes the kind of mourning one must accomplish
here and now:
There is useful sadness [λυπή] and corrosive sadness (see 2 Cor 7.9–11). Useful
sadness includes weeping both for one’s own sins and for neighbours’ weakness,
so as not to lose sight of one’s purpose and to grasp perfect goodness. But there
is also a sadness from the enemy, wholly irrational, called by some acedia. This
spirit must be cast out by prayer and psalmody (see Mark 9.29).67
Syncletica points out the danger of indiscriminate weeping as well as the causes
of proper mourning—one’s own sins, and the weakness of others. One does not
weep for material or even relational loss in this world—that would be irratioÂ�
nal, expressive of attachment to transient pleasures, and would only contribute
to discontentment with the life of renunciation. We may note that, in light of
64
â•‡ prat. 59 (PG 87.3: 2912C, trans. Wortley [1992, 46] modified).
65
â•‡ Following Luke 16.19–31; see Mark the Monk, Operibus 73, 119.
66
â•‡ Macarius the Great 34 (PG 65: 277C); see also Arsenius 41, John of Cellia 1; prat. 110.
67
â•‡ Syncletica 27 [S10] (Guy [1984, 35]); see Poemen 26, 39, 50, 72. Syncletica’s advice relies on
the Pauline distinction—discussed in Chapter 2—between godly and worldly “sadness” (λύπη).
Syncletica’s saying, one clearly weeps before the expectation of a judgment in

which sin and the world will be condemned and, therefore, one seeks not to
lament the loss of those things that must pass away, but to mourn for those
actions and thoughts that may keep one from God.68 It is no surprise, then, that
the primary reason for weeping is “for one’s sins” and that mourning (πένθος) is
thereby associated with repentance (μετάνοια).69 One may also weep, as Palla-
dius puts it, for the lost life of Paradise, spurned in favor of “irrational food.”70
The connection between these various sources of tears lies in their effect: the
addictive pleasures of the present world lose their power to tempt one who sees
in them cause not for celebration but for mourning.
Abba Poemen: The Way of Tears

While many ascetics expected to benefit from tears, Abba Poemen turned
mourning into a way of life that expressed actively in tears an ongoing concern
with repentance. His emphasis on mourning by no means reflects normative
practice among the Desert Fathers, but his was a popular form of spirituality,
and in it tears played a central role. Barbara Müller argues that, for monks
whose spirituality is typified by the sayings attributed to Abba Poemen,
“mourning” (πένθος) and “tears” (δάκρυα) do not constitute one virtue among
many, but a framework within which virtues may be cultivated and the whole
array of sins combated.71 We shall see how much Poemen’s spirituality influ-
enced Climacus’ own thinking. For the moment, two of Poemen’s sayings dem-
onstrate the importance of tears:
A brother asked Abba Poemen, “What shall I do with my sins?” The old man said
to him, “Weep within yourself. For deliverance from sins and procurement of
virtues both derive from mourning.”
Again he said, “Weeping is the way which the Scriptures and our fathers have
handed down to us.”72
These two sayings illustrate the dramatic benefits of a commitment to mourn-
ing, and yet they also demonstrate that tears are always a way and never an
end.73 Rather, Poemen’s emphasis on tears begins with his engagement with
death and ends with the hope of salvation. As to the beginning of tears, “Abba
Poemen said: ‘There are [always] three mysteries before me: it is good for me to
pray at all times before the Lord, without stopping; to place my death before me
at all times; and [to think] that, when I die, I will be thrown into the fire because
68
â•‡ Hausherr (1982, 3–4, 17–33).
69
â•‡ Macarius the Great 27, 41; h. mon. 1.37, 1.53–58; prat. 30, 41, 110; on which see Burton-
Christie (1993, 184).
70
â•‡ h. Laus. 1.3: Bartelink (1974, 18). 71
â•‡ B. Müller (1997, 293–94, 299–309).
72
â•‡ Poemen 208, 209 [21, 22]: Guy (1984, 31). 73
â•‡ Driscoll (1995, 167).
of my sins.’”74 William Harmless argues that Poemen exhibited a particularly

“penitential piety” and that “By picturing himself as deserving damnation, Poe-
men fiercely cultivates in himself the penitent’s heart, knowing that he must
face Christ the judge.”75 Harmless’s point is good, but we must be clear—
Poemen mourns now not because he will be punished, but so as to avoid pun-
ishment. Tears keep him constant in his monastic vocation whose end is salva-
tion, which Poemen compares to the land that God promised to Abraham:
A brother asked Abba Poemen, saying “What shall I do?” Poemen replied, “Abra-
ham, when he entered the land of the promise (Gen 23.1–20), purchased a tomb
[μνημεῖον] for himself, and by this grave [τάφος] inherited the land (see Heb 11.8).”
The brother said, “What is a grave [τάφος]?” The old man replied, “A place of
weeping and mourning [Τόπος κλαυθμοῦ καὶ πένθους].”76
Poemen highlights something paradoxical in the patriarchal narrative: that by
means of his own death Abraham “inherited” the land God had promised.
Another saying of Poemen explains why this might be the case:
When Poemen came to Egypt, he saw a woman sitting at a tomb and weeping
bitterly. And he said, “If all the pleasures [τερπνά] of this world came, they could
not move her soul from mourning [πένθος]. So also the monk should always hold
mourning [πένθος] in himself.”77
The tomb, which represents the activity of mourning by which a monk is pro-
tected from worldly distractions, keeps the monk looking only at the heavenly
rest typified in Abraham’s story, a rest that the present life with all its transient
pleasures cannot replicate, but only obfuscate. Poemen, as will Climacus, advo-
cates mourning as a means of keeping oneself constant in repentance and obe-
dience to God, and is motivated to do so through remembrance of death and
judgment.
Loving What One Leaves

Monks renounced goods not simply to procure others, but out of love for God.
Palladius describes an ascetic as “smitten with a love of eternity” who
“renounced the clamours [of the world], and disposing of all his goods” went to
undertake the ascetic life.78 The desire for eternal beatitude is a desire to please
God and to find happiness in him. Yet, it seems, in order to please God, a per-
son must learn not only to hate what one leaves behind, but to love it without
striving to possess, and without becoming unduly attached. This, in turn, could
74
â•‡ Collectio Monastica 13.46: Arras (1963, 95–96); trans. Harmless (2000, 505– 506).
75
â•‡ Harmless (2000, 506). 76
â•‡ Poemen 50 (PG 65: 333B).
77
â•‡ Poemen 119 (PG 65: 353A); on which see Harmless (2000, 491f.).
78
â•‡ h. Laus. 21.3: Bartelink (1974, 106); so Cox Miller (2002, 295–96).
lead the monk to love the things of the present life in a new way, consonant with
freedom and devotion to God. Douglas Burton-Christie’s conclusion is partic-
ularly apt:
The telos of the monks’ life in the desert was freedom; freedom from anxiety
about the future; freedom from the tyranny of haunting memories of the past;
freedom from an attachment to the ego which precluded intimacy with others
and with God. They hoped also that this freedom would express itself in a positive
sense: freedom to love others; freedom to enjoy the presence of God; freedom to
live in the innocence of a new paradise.79
This means that the Desert Fathers looked not for freedom absolutely, but free-
dom from the enslaving power of the world. They sought rather to become
slaves of God and to serve their neighbor through love of God and eternity.
Freedom is not the end. Love, Burton-Christie reminds us—love of God and
neighbor—is the end, but it is only possible when someone is free from the false
“love,” the divisive and addictive attachment to transient pleasure that desires
not to serve but to possess. The monk renounces goods to flee from anger, from
grudges, and malice. He flees marriage to avoid lust, and family to overcome
fractional convention. He seeks freedom in which to forgive all because he is so
conscious of his own sins over which he weeps, and learns thereby to love and
give himself in love as Christ did.
To illustrate this claim: in a particularly poignant passage, John Moschus
tells the story of Abba John the Eunuch who, when he died, had so thorouÂ�
ghly renounced the world and given himself to charity that he left “nothing
whatsoever of the world’s goods behind. Not even for one hour did he ever
possess books, money, or clothing. He gave everything to those in need,
investing his entire concern in those things which were to come.”80 Yet this
same man fed the animals of the monastery right down to the ants. Abba
John’s all-consuming desire for the next world clarified and purified his love
for this one. The all-encompassing power of ascetics’ desire for the Kingdom
of Heaven drove them to renounce the kind of life that might find success in
this world. To dwell on the good things to come means deprioritizing the
present world, and yet it also means learning to properly love the present
world, and to save oneself wholly for God requires, ultimately, making a gift
of oneself for one’s neighbors. It is the ascetics’ rejection of the present world
that grants them the freedom to love it as they wish—or, rather, as God does.
To feed the poor one must, it seems, first renounce wealth, and to love one’s
neighbor, one must turn over property and family. It seems clear that,
whether or not they ever succeed in loving creation, it is only because they
79
80
â•‡ prat. 184 (PG 87.3: 3056D, trans. Wortley [1992, 153]); see 141, 142; h. mon. 6.4.
have realized the transience of worldly goods that ascetics could ever be able
to love creation.
Of course, this is all very optimistic and one could claim that it runs counter
to the ascetic sense that every pleasure carries temptation. How can one “love
as God does” when one must contend with temptation in every love? It is a
problem, no doubt, and Desert monastics generally prefer simply to cling
tightly to both poles—renunciation of the world and love of creation—rather
than to explicitly harmonize them.
Desert monastics were keenly aware of a fundamental incompatibility
between this life and the next. As in the Vita Antonii, the two are in one way
continuous—one’s life now determines one’s state later, and the choices one
makes in this life crystallize into an unchanging mode of being after death. The
expectation of death and judgment assumes and sharpens a perceived opposi-
tion between the exigencies of the present life and the freedom of the Kingdom
of Heaven, since one cannot enjoy pleasure in the present life without running
the risk of being enslaved by it. Death cuts any such pleasure short, and Christ’s
judgment expects very different behavior anyway. This opposition demands
renunciation of goods now for the sake of God and eternal goods. It also
demands that one choose to suffer now for the sake of repentance if one wishes
to avoid suffering unwillingly in eternity. This drive for repentance through
willed suffering is often expressed in terms of “weeping” now or “weeping later.”
The opposition is asymmetrical: the work of weeping now is effective for repent-
ance, while later weeping is decoupled from repentance and is, therefore,
merely part of one’s punishment. Here too, death, after which one can no longer
amend one’s life, demarcates the opposition: it divides between effective labor
and mere suffering. Repentance is fueled, then, by monastic meditation on
mortality and judgment.
While the opposition of ages is contextualized by and predicated on the
memory of death and judgment, it is also conducive to the lifestyle of renun-
ciation and withdrawal within which one can repent and acquire whatever
virtues are to be associated with repentance. Fathers such as Poemen espe-
cially advocated the practice of mourning as expressive of and conducive to
repentance. They mourned not for loss of transitory goods, but for sin—for
the irreducible difference between the life one longs to lead, and the life into
which one is thrown. Other stories argue that repentance actually teaches the
monk to love by first renouncing “passionate” love, which is, really, addictive
attachment to transitory pleasures. He cultivates a lifestyle in keeping with
Christ’s commands to love God with all one’s self and, through that, one’s
neighbor as oneself. This twofold motion reflects and is, as we have seen, made
possible by the twofold meditation on punishments and salvation—the for-
mer inculcates abhorrence of possession, the latter a virtuous application of
godly love.
LIVING IN DEATH
Having looked at how ascetics actively engage with death, and having explored
the cosmological underpinnings and implications of that engagement, in this
section we will trace various “practices of death” as they emerge in Desert lit-
erature. These elaborate further the drive to renounce addictive pleasures, and
to resist demonic temptation, while impelling the monk to repentance and
focusing his desires on God.
Beginning with general metaphorical depictions of monks as dead or
entombed, I will then describe ways in which ascetics strove to “die to them-
selves” and “to the world.” I will draw particular attention to practices that are
clearly important to the Desert Fathers, but which, in this literature, are only
sometimes connected with death, and then without any real consistency. Nev-
ertheless, Desert literature develops enormous conceptual material for prac-
tices and virtues of cutting off the will, non-judgment, apatheia, and obedience,
all of which the Gazan Fathers and, especially, Climacus, will shape in terms of
death.
The Untimely Tomb

While Abba Poemen compared monks to mourners at tombs, other stories
compare them to the denizens of tombs. To some extent this could have been
suggested by the Vita Antonii’s account of Antony’s move to the tombs, where
he battled demons,81 though one could hardly forget the vivid accounts of the
Gerasene (or Gadarene) demoniac(s), “Legion,” who dwelt among the tombs
until exorcised by Jesus.82 However, Desert literature portrays flight to the
tombs in contradistinction to Antony’s enthusiastic assault that carried no con-
notations of “death.” Rather, as for Poemen, the tomb represents the place of
weeping—of constant awareness of one’s own sins and failings and, of course,
of one’s own impending death and judgment. John of Lycopolis echoes such an
opinion in his tale of an unnamed youth:
There was another young man in the city who had done many evil deeds and
had sinned gravely. At God’s bidding this youth was struck by compunction for
his many sins. He made straight for the cemetery [τοὺς τάφους], where he bitterly
lamented his former life, throwing himself down on his face . . . for he consid-
ered himself unworthy even of life itself. While still living he incarcerated himself
among the tombs, and renouncing his own life [καὶ πρὸ θανάτου ἐν τοῖς νεκροταφίοις
ἑαυτὸν κατακλείσας καὶ ἀπειπὼν ἑαυτοῦ τὴν ζωὴν], did nothing but groan from below,
from the depths of his heart.83
81
â•‡ v. Anton 8–10. 82
â•‡ Mat 8.24–32, Mark 5.1–13, Luke 8.26–33.
83
â•‡ h. mon. 1.37 (Festugière [1971, 22–23], trans. Russell [1980, 57–58] [modified]); see N 177
and h. Laus. 45.1–3.
This man went to die before his death, to renounce “his own life,” and to be
relieved of his sins. He does not go to carry the fight to demons, but to take up
an abode that befits his way of life.84 Certainly, as John continues the story, the
demons do come—but not as though to a formidable adversary such as Antony.
Rather, they come to afflict him with memory of his sin, terror of judgment,
and to claim him as their own. His response is simply to continue his groaning.
And so the demons attack him as they did Antony—physically, but not to the
point of death. As with Antony, they continue for three nights, and then depart,
crying out “You have won; you have won; you have won.” Now, John relates,
“he dwelt in the tomb as a pure man without any defilement for as long as he
lived . . . And so, my children, first of all let us discipline ourselves to attain
humility, since this is the essential foundation of all virtues.”85 The youth is
raised up to virtue and an Antonian persona by first humbling himself down
to death. As Anthony Rich puts it so well, “The awareness of his coming death
and judgment, combined with renunciation of secular life, led the monk to
regard himself as dead.”86 The ways in which Desert monastics attempted to
“regard themselves as dead” are as varied as the tombs among which ascetics
dwelt. Practices of “dying” utilize the memory of death and judgment, and
operate within the context of a perceived opposition of ages that makes a
“death” desirable in this life if by it one can attain life in the next.
It is not unusual to hear certain Desert Fathers, notably Poemen and Moses
the Ethiopian, speak of the monk as one dead.87 Several sayings of Poemen
illustrate the interior meaning of this “death.” Once, Poemen was annoyed with
his brother Paësius (also a monk) whose conversations were not to Poemen’s
liking. Poemen fled then to Abba Ammonas and told him the situation.
Ammonas responded thus: “Poemen, are you still alive? Go, sit in your cell and
set it in your heart that you have already been in the grave a year.”88 Two other
sayings tell us that Poemen did just that. Abba Anoub (another of Poemen’s
brothers) came to ask if Poemen would like to invite some priests over. Poemen
kept silent and finally Anoub left saddened. When asked the reason for his
behavior, Poemen responded, “I have nothing to do here. For I died and a dead
man does not speak.”89 Another time, Paësius fought with his brother till both
were bloodied, and Poemen said nothing. Abba Anoub came, scandalized that
84
â•‡ Dimitris Kyrtatas fruitfully compares dwelling in tombs to polytheistic initiation rituals, and
notes especially the unexpected encounter with demons. While Kyrtatas’s claim that ascetics
emerged with great power applies better elsewhere, his point generally that the tomb provided a
locus of mysterious initiation into the ways of ascetic life is generally applicable: Kyrtatas (2012).
85
â•‡ h. mon. 1.44 (Festugière [1971, 26]); John’s mention of purity almost certainly recalls Jesus’
healing of the Gadarene demoniac.
86
â•‡ Rich (2007, 219).
87
â•‡ See, for example, Macarius the Great 23, Moses 11–12, 15; N 90, 143; h. mon. 14.15; h. Laus.
16.4; prat. 144, 229. See also Collectio Monastica 13.5.
88
â•‡ Poemen 2 (PG 65: 317B).
89
â•‡ Poemen 3 (PG 65: 317B–C); see also Moses the Ethiopian 11–12 (PG 65: 285C–D).
Poemen had allowed the fight, and Poemen said, “Set it in your heart that I was
not here.”90 Poemen, the dead man, can hardly leap in and instruct brothers. He
cannot even be perturbed by their commotion. He makes no demands of them
and they do not disturb him. On the other hand, Moses the Ethiopian points to
the exterior meaning of ascetic “death.” He says, “A person ought to mortify
himself from every wicked act before he departs the body that he may do ill to
no one.”91 The “dead” monk both cultivates an interior tranquility that isolates
him from distractions and temptations, and he takes care how he relates to oth-
ers. We must explore both of these two facets of ascetic “death”: death to oneself
and death to one’s neighbor.
Death to Self: Apatheia

Monks cultivate interior tranquility that some compare to “death.” Macarius
the Egyptian (the “Great”) had someone ask him for “a word that I might be
saved.” Macarius responded by giving him a task: “Go to the cemetery and
insult the dead.” So the lad did so, hurling both abuse and stones, and upon his
return Macarius asked him, “Did they say anything to you?” The brother
responds “No.” So Macarius tells him to go and “praise them now.” Going he
calls them “apostles, saints, and righteous men!” Again, on his return, Macar-
ius asks if the dead responded at all, and again the brother responds “No, not
at all.” Macarius then explains the meaning of this “action-parable”:92 “You
know how much you dishonoured them, and they did not respond to you; and
how much you praised them, and they said nothing to you. So too you, if you
wish to be saved, must be a corpse. Like the dead, consider neither the abuses
nor the glory of humans, and you can be saved.”93 Macarius can make no
starker, no more devastating demand than to tell the disciple to die, bearing
insult and praise alike as meaningless. Implicitly, all that matters is God’s judg-
ment. Macarius does not use the language of apatheia, but his demand is not
far different. Indeed, Anthony Rich sums up the tranquility that Macarius
demands thus: “Apatheia is to be as unmoved . . . as the dead.”94 The ascetic
who has severed his ties to and therefore his slavery to the “passions” (πάθη),
can be insulted without becoming angry and praised without becoming vain.
The result, according to Macarius, is that “if contempt has become like praise
for you, and poverty like wealth, and want like abundance, you will not die.
For it is impossible for one who believes well and works in piety to fall into the
90
â•‡ Poemen 173 (PG 65: 364C). 91
â•‡ Moses the Ethiopian 15 (PG 65: 288B).
92
â•‡ Nagel (1977–78, 253–54).
93
â•‡ Macarius the Great 23 (PG 65: 272B–C); see also Agathon 5, Zacharias 3, Isaiah 1, John
Kolobos 41.
94
â•‡ Rich 2007, 138; see also Gould’s similar sentiments about ascetic “fear of praise,” Gould
(1993, 133–39).
impurity of passions and error of demons.”95 Such a monk is free from attach-
ments to worldly goods and expectations, which freedom allows him to live
tranquilly whether praised or insulted—he is unphased by illusions of ego or
possession, the “impurity of passions and error of demons.”
Palladius’ tale of Sarapion the Sindonite presents probably the most extreme—
even repellent—example of such a “death.” It could have been lifted directly
from Diogenes Laertius’ tales of Cynics and their aggressive disregard for con-
ventional morality. This man Sarapion sought out a famous virgin in Rome, one
who had not been seen for years, and asked her first why she remained seated
when he greeted her. She responded that, far from it, she was journeying to
God. He then asked if she were “alive or dead.” She responded, “I believe in God
that I have died. For one living in the flesh does not journey [to God].”96 Wish-
ing to test her and perhaps humiliate her, Sarapion proposes that she go out and
show herself in church. She demurs and he responds, “if you have died to the
world and the world to you, it is for you to go out or not. So go out.” She does
and, wishing to press her to the limit, Sarapion says, “If then you wish to fully
convince me that you have died and no longer live ‘so as to please humans’ (see
Gal 1.10), do what I do and you will know that you have died. Strip off all your
clothes with me and go into the city carrying me thus.” She responds, “I will
scandalize many by doing this and they will say I am possessed!” Sarapion
responds “What do you care? Are you not dead? . . . I am more dead than you
are and by deed I show that I have died to the world. For I do this dispassion-
ately [ἀπαθῶς] and unashamedly.”97 For such a “dead” man even perfectly valid
concerns of modesty and scandal—which Athanasius praised in Antony and
mark out the particularly “discerning” Desert Fathers—hold no meaning. He
lives instead the life of a Cynic, openly flaunting conventions. The Cynic life-
style, though, was hardly the ideal of many Christians, for whom conventional
morality offered a bare minimum of decorum, to be outstripped rather than
flouted. The assumptions about the transformative power of ascetic practices
implicit in the stories of Macarius and the convention-flaunting Cynicism of
Sarapion often meet with understandably negative reactions (which I discuss
later) among Desert monastics.
Death to One’s Neighbor

With the cultivation of apatheia as “death to oneself ” goes a “death to one’s neigh-
bor [ἀπὸ τοῦ πλησίου].” Graham Gould understands the ascetical metaphor of
95
â•‡ Macarius the Great 20 (PG 65: 269D); see also Nisterus the Coenobite 2.
96
â•‡ See Diadochus, perf. 14: Rutherford (2000, 25): “He who loves God with the heart’s sense . . .
is present in this life and not present. For dwelling in his body he moves out of it through love by
the ceaseless motion of the soul towards God.”
97
death as an expression of “the Desert Fathers’ strong aversion to attitudes and

behaviors that seemed to involve harming anyone else (especially if such behav-
ior also involved a monk in failure to recognize his own sins).”98 Abba Moses the
Ethiopian said, “Unless a person sets it in his heart that he is already three days in
the tomb, he will not attain to this word [i.e., how one can be ‘dead to one’s neigh-
bor’].”99 Whatever Moses meant by his admittedly obscure response, in context
of the collection (wherein it clearly parallels Ammonas’ advice to Poemen) his
words imply that the way one dies “to one’s neighbors” is the same way one dies
“to oneself.â•›” Death means not only that a monk not allow himself to be per-
turbed by others, but that he not allow himself to harm others. We must remem-
ber that these men and women were never solitary—even the hermit lived with
his disciple and received visitors. Many more lived in coenobia and lavrae. The
Desert Fathers were always engaged in building communities of mutual love,
rooted in a shared desire for salvation, which could not allow a “root of discord”
to spring up in divisive preferences and factions.
The tranquil dead man is the one who can forge a community with his breth-
ren. His freedom is, as we have noted already, freedom to love and to give him-
self without expectation. A story of Poemen and Anoub illustrates this principle,
applying the same logic as we have seen with Macarius and the cemetery. After
they left Scetis, Anoub, Poemen, and a small band of disciples settled briefly in
an abandoned temple near Terenuthis. Anoub suggested that they all live qui-
etly for a week and only at the end of it should they come together again. Dur-
ing the week “each morning Anoub stoned the statue’s face, and each evening
he asked its forgiveness.” Poemen is understandably confused and, when they
come together, asks Anoub the meaning, saying “Does a believer do this?”
Anoub responded:
“I did this for you. For you saw me stoning the statue’s face, but it did not say
anything or become angry, did it?” And Abba Poemen said, “No.” And again, “I
did penance before it, but it was not troubled, was it, saying ‘I will not forgive?’”
And Abba Poemen said: “No.” And the old man, “We are seven brothers. If you
wish that we remain together, let us be like this statue, which, whether insulted
or praised, is not troubled. But if you do not wish to become like this, behold
there are four gates in the temple, each may go where he wishes.” And they all
cast themselves to the ground, saying to Abba Anoub, “As you desire, Father, we
do, and we listen as you speak.” And we remained together all our lives, working
according to this speech which the old man made.100
Anoub’s point was well made and perhaps more similar to Macarius’ instruc-
tion than might initially be expected. Poemen asks if a “believer” would ask a
pagan statue for forgiveness. Why? These statues were not alive, they had no
98
â•‡ Gould (1993, 132). 99
â•‡ Moses the Ethiopian 12 (PG 65: 285D).
100
â•‡ Anoub 1 (PG 65: 129A–C); see also Poemen 198: Guy (1984, 31).
god behind them. They were merely stone, no more than empty corpses.101
Statues were not all considered thus—the population of Antioch certainly felt
otherwise when it faced punishment for defacing statues of the emperor.102
Statues of the living are, in a sense, living. But, so in fact are statues of dead gods
also dead. This does not, of course, preclude the possibility that demons inhabit
the space consecrated to dead gods, but the purpose of this story is certainly
that an idol is empty and inanimate. Thus, Anoub’s point is not to be “stone” but
“dead.” If the community is to succeed, then its members must be as tranquil as
the dead.
The “death to one’s neighbor” requires not only a particular sort of interior
tranquility, but also a new way of conceiving relationships. Social and animal
ties are predicated on preference, possession, and attachment—one’s family can
hardly include all people and conducting business often means harming oth-
ers. The Desert Fathers rejected these sorts of claims in favor of non-divisive
relationships. The dead, as Anthony Rich points out, “have no legal rights.”103
Thus, when confronted with an inheritance, Arsenius replied, “I died before
him. He died only recently.”104 The dead person has no relatives—Poemen has
no sons and Evagrius’ acquaintance, when informed that his father has died,
responds “Cease blaspheming, for my father is immortal.”105 That is, the monk
has God for his father.106 These kinds of claims are not to be confused with deni-
gration of marriage or families.107 The ascetic may deny his blood family, but he
certainly has an ecclesial and monastic family in his “brothers” and “abbas.” In
fact, as Philip Rousseau points out, many early ascetics (such as Poemen, Paë-
sius, and Anoub) were also blood relations. He argues that for monks who
wished to be “spiritual” relations, “some well-defined change had been called
for; and such change, successfully achieved, ensured a more wholehearted,
freely chosen bond, and further progress in the ascetical life.”108 Relationships
had to be reconstituted, not by blood or the will of men but, rather, the various
parties had “to realize that they could appeal to some different set of ideals,
which would impel them to cooperate at a new level of spiritual endeavor.”109
Tensions arose when only one party (the ascetic) saw the need for a change, and
101
â•‡ The identification of temple images as idols and, therefore, “empty,” goes back to Jewish
anti-idol polemic: for example, Wis 15.15 and the “Letter of Jeremiah” (Bar 6), which was taken up
by Paul (1 Cor 8.4–6) and made a topos of Christian apologetics.
102
â•‡Sozomen, Historia Ecclesiastica 7.23. 103
â•‡ Rich (2007, 220).
104
â•‡ Arsenius 29 (PG 65: 97C); see also Cassian 8; see Poemen 33 and h. Laus. 1.4, 54.2, and 66.1.
105
â•‡ h. Laus. 38.13: Bartelink (1974, 202) attributes this to Evagrius; but Evagrius (cap. prac., 95
[SC 171: 700]) attributes it to “one of the monks.” Perhaps it was modesty on his part, or perhaps
Palladius’ memory was a bit confused and he turned a story told by Evagrius into a statement
made by Evagrius. On Palladius as oral historian, see Zecher (2014a).
106
â•‡ See also Mark (disciple of Silouan) 3–5, Sisoes 10; h. mon. Prol.8, 1.25, 2.4 (see also 3.1, 8.2,
8.17, 8.26), 14.14; h. Laus. 35.8–9, 54.2; prat. 68, 85, 110, 184.
107
â•‡ On which see Clark (1995, 356–80). 108
â•‡ Rousseau (1972, 139).
109
â•‡ Rousseau (1972, 138).
the other party (a secular family member or a spouse) did not. Yet this tension
demonstrates only the inevitable friction of two mutually exclusive attitudes
toward the demands of service to God. While some such as Gregory of Nyssa
would, in service of glorifying virginity, attack marriage as not merely repre-
sentative of but actually contributory to the corrupt condition, the literature at
hand is generally more cautious. What we find instead is a constant awareness
of how close the world is, that it can tempt through the visitation of a mother, a
sibling, or in some instances, a spouse. Thus, death “to one’s neighbor” means
both severance and reconstitution of relationships such that their mode and
exigencies are radically altered. Within this context, the tranquility presup-
posed in “dying to oneself ” extends to the ways in which one relates to others
and so the community built up of the “dead” is one of mutual love and under-
standing without cultural or animal divisions.
Ways of Dying?
How a monastic achieves interior tranquility and a new kind of relationship is
less clear or, at least, less obviously related to the language of death. For the
Desert Fathers, apatheia and new relationships are of interest, but not clearly
defined, and the ways in which they might be cultivated—the specific practices
and virtues that might come under the heading of death—rarely made explicit.
Nevertheless, Desert literature does elaborate ideals of self-renunciation that
will be described in terms of death by the Gazan Fathers, and given new shape
within the context of death by Climacus. These are worth discussing at some
length as we find here the conceptual material with which Gazan and Sinaite
writers would work.
Amputating the Will

We begin with the “cutting off of the will.” Abba Ammonas, when asked what is
the “hard and narrow way” (see Mat 7.14), said “It is this: to do violence to one’s
thoughts and to cut off one’s individual will for God’s sake [καὶ κόπτειν διὰ τὸν
Θεὸν τὰ ἴδια θελήματα]. And this also explains the saying, ‘Behold, we have left
everything and followed you’ (Mat 19.27).”110 Why should the amputation of
the will proper to each (ἴδιον) which labor Gould calls “a general feature of the
Desert Fathers,” be so important?111
I have chosen to use the term “individual will” throughout this study to trans-
late the term “ἴδιον θέλημα.” Lorenzo Perrone prefers “personal will,” and several
110
â•‡ Ammonas 11(PG 65: 124A); see also Cassian 5, Poemen 36, 72, Pambo 3, Joseph of Thebes
1; Rufus 2.
111
â•‡ Gould (1993, 33); see also his discussion of the will (27–36 and 149–50). So also Brown
(2008, 226–27); Regnault (1987, 87–111).
other scholars of Gazan Monasticism follow him.112 It is also natural to translate

the term simply as “one’s own will.” I have opted for “individual” because this
better reflects what many ascetic writers see as the individuating effect of follow-
ing one’s own will. The problem is that one’s own will is very rarely one’s own and
it is never God’s. It belongs instead, as Poemen tells a young monk named Abra-
ham, to the demons. Poemen says, “Do the demons war against you? They do
not war with us as long as we do our will [τὰ θελήματα]. For our wills become
demons [Τὰ γὰρ θελήματα ἡμῶν δαίμονες γεγόνασι].”113 Thus, no work is good if
done according to one’s individual will—not even “ascending to heaven”114—
because the will stands as the last boundary between God and oneself. It is the
final barricade of rebellious individualism, the “brazen wall” that can only be
overleapt by its utter rejection.115 Why? Why should one’s will become a demon?
Why is the choice between God’s will and one’s own an exclusive one?
The explanation lies with Desert literature’s consistent pluralization of “will”
(θέλημα). In the plural the word means “objects of desire,” yet this multiplicity
in objects points to a deeper and more problematic multiplicity. While, as
David Bradshaw notes, θέλημα is not a philosophical term and does not refer to
a faculty of the soul, it does refer to an “act of willing” by which one chooses and
pursues particular desires.116 Moreover, in general the Apophthegmata use the
perfectly serviceable ἐπιθυμία for “desire” or “object of desire.”117 When sayings
refer to “θελήματα” in the plural they intend something like a fractured and
multiple process of willing that chases after numerous, perhaps conflicting,
objects. They mean, then, a plural will. In the New Testament we find the basis
for the “plural will.”118 Paul writes,
And you being dead in trespasses and your sins, in which you once walked ac-
cording to the age of this world, according to the ruler of the authority of the air,
the spirit now working in the sons of disbelief, among whom you all once lived
in the desires of our flesh [ἐν ταῖς ἐπιθυμίαις τῆς σαρκὸς ἡμῶν], doing the will of the
flesh and minds [ποιοῦντες τὰ θελήματα τῆς σαρκὸς καὶ τῶν διανοιῶν], and we were by
nature children of wrath like the rest. (Eph 2.1–3)
Here, one does the “will of the flesh and minds,” a concept Paul parallels with
“the desires of our flesh.” The desires of the flesh and the wills of the flesh, these
112
â•‡ Perrone 2004, (135–37); so Kofsky (2006, 332–33).
113
â•‡ Poemen 67 (PG 65: 337B–C). 114
â•‡ N 244: Wortley (2013, 169).
115
â•‡ Poemen 54 (PG 65: 336A).
116
â•‡ Bradshaw (2010, 825–26); s.v. θέλημα: LSJ gives only “will” or “desire;” Lampe adds “object
of an act of willing.”
117
â•‡ See, for example, Isidore 3, John the Eunuch 3, Poemen 110 (in positive sense), Paphnutius
4; N 152, 165, etc. See also Ps-Macarius, Collectio B 2.9.2, 3.5.1, 15.2.5, 33.1.6, 35.1.3; Evagrius, or.
31; Basil, reg. fus. 41.
118
â•‡ The LXX does use the plural to describe “desires.” English translations render θελἠματα at
Pss15.3; 102.7; 110.2; Isa 44.28, 58.3, 58.13; Jer 23.26 as “will” when it means something more like
“those things which one would will,” i.e., “desires.” In the LXX, the plural expresses totality: “τὰ
πάντα θελήματα μου/σου” means “all my/your desires.”
are “trespasses and sins” in which a person is “dead,” a “son of unbelief,” and a
“child of wrath.” Doing these θελήματα places one in servitude to the Devil, the
“ruler of the authority of the air” and renders one “dead in trespasses and sins.”
The multiplicity of “θελήματα” expresses, therefore, the fractional and irra-
tional chasing after desires that characterize fallen humans. A saying of Arse-
nius makes clear how Paul’s thinking penetrates Desert spirituality. When
asked why he avoided people so assiduously, he said, “God knows that I love
you, but I cannot be with God and men. The thousands and myriads of angels
above have one will [ἓν θέλημα], but humans have many wills [πολλὰ θελήματα].
I am not able therefore to leave God and join people.”119 Here the contrast is
explicit, and the problem (and reason for Arsenius’ flight) is that humans have
many wills—a problem perhaps of a world fallen into multiplicity. To do one’s
individual will is to do, actually, a variety of “wills” by following fleshly desires.
Clement of Alexandria remarked that “choosing according to sin to conduct
oneself like the demons, unstable, weak, changing in desires like a demon, one
becomes a demonic human.”120 Thus, following one”s “ἴδια θελήματα” makes one
a diabolical person, one in whom the Devil can operate, who unknowingly
expresses that ruler’s desire rather than one’s own. The plurality of wills
expresses in its very multiplicity an underlying duality: either God or the
demons. Selfishness is no more than slavery behind a mask of pleasure.
The plural will that is cut off is a divided one, borne about by demons and
devils as their plaything. It is not susceptible to self-enforced unification. In
any event, even if one achieves a measure of philosophic self-control, doing
one’s individual will means elevating oneself to be the one giving command-
ments and thus to falsely usurp God’s place. This does not mean that ascetics
attempted to sidestep responsibility or that they were determinists. Rather,
they saw how deeply their own ability to discriminate between objects of desire
and to follow them is implicated in sin. To follow the will is to become diaboli-
cal; to reject it, though, is to lose the core of one’s identity. Burton-Christie says
that the Desert Fathers “knew from experience that the freedom and intimacy
with God which they sought could come about only through renunciation of
one’s very self—that is the will.”121 For many, one’s individual will, restricted
neither by place nor by company, marks the final frontier of withdrawal and
renunciation. It is his “very self ” and its rejection that suggests, however
implicitly, a form of death.
Desert Anthropology and Evagrian Self-denial

The matter of what constitutes the “very self ” is rather complicated, though,
and θέλημα is not a universal answer. Irénée Hausherr once argued that this
119
â•‡ Arsenius 13 (PG 65: 91A). â•‡ str. 6.12.98.1 (GCS 15: 481).
120
121
conception of the person is common to early Christian thought, as well as other

ancient cultures: “For all the ancients, the human is before all else a free will,
capable of loving, and of sacrificing for his love. In charity, therefore, and in the
self-denial which he experiences, human perfection will consist.”122 It is by no
means clear that all Desert writers understood the human will as particularly
“free,” but it is surely correct to say, in light of the argument above, that they
very often located the center of the person in her capacity for willing and choos-
ing, which, however vaguely understood, is the locus of choice and action and,
therefore the nexus between self and world.
Hausherr went on to contrast this “primitive spirituality” with the intellectu-
alism that, suffering under the influence of Plato and his Hellenistic heirs, con-
sidered “contemplation of God” (θεωρία) to be the purpose of human life. In
this strain, “θέλημα” is much less important than “mind” (νοῦς), and it is safe to
say that many of the activities associated with θέλημα are transferred to νοῦς.
Hausherr (unsurprisingly) sets up Evagrius as the signifer of this spirituality
and argues that, for him, “the human is a mind.”123 This dichotomy, as stereo-
typed as it is, began the “Macarian–Evagrian” distinction which would so influ-
ence later writers such as John Meyendorff and Kallistos Ware, and which those
authors and others would apply to John Climacus.124 Such sweeping dichoto-
mies suggest a desire for neat categories and anachronistic systematizations. I
do not think Hausherr’s dichotomy worth holding. Rather, I would point out a
level of continuity between Evagrius and Ps-Macarius (and, in this case, the
broader Tendenzen of Desert literature) with regard to what constitutes the
core of human existence.
Evagrius’ spirituality actually operates analogously to “cutting off the will.”
That is, both can be related to a kind of “death” to human restrictions. He never
says so specifically, but if we recall that “theology” (θεολογία, which is, after all,
θεωρία of the Trinity) is “the realm of prayer” in Evagrian thought, then we may
say with justification that the goal of ascetic life is prayer.125 In many ways this
is quite consonant with the Vita Antonii and informs much of the Christian
ascetic tradition. However, Evagrius’ definitions of prayer are somewhat more
idiosyncratic and one is particularly telling: “Prayer is the rejection of mental
images [προσευχή ἐστιν ἀπόθεσις νοημάτων].”126 The import of this phrase rests on
the meaning of “mental images” (νοήματα). Νοήματα may be translated thus,127
but it must be remembered that for Evagrius, νοήματα are the building blocks of
“thoughts” (λογισμοί).128 David Brakke argues that for Evagrius “thoughts make
use of the more basic intellectual currency of representations [νοήματα] . . .
122
â•‡ Hausherr (1935, 121). 123
â•‡ Hausherr (1935, 124).
124
â•‡ I have discussed this hermeneutical model at length in the Introduction.
125
â•‡ Louth (2007, 103). 126
â•‡ or. 70 (PG 79: 1181C).
127
â•‡ S.v. νόημα, LSJ.
128
â•‡ See, for example, mal. cog. (recensio brevius) 1, 17 (PG 79: 1201B, 1220B).
The mind cannot think without representations.”129 In this, Evagrius follows a

broadly Aristotelian psychology in which, as Aristotle puts it, “It is not possible
to think [νοεῖν] without an image [ἀνεὺ φαντάσματος].”130 If Evagrius rejects dis-
cursive thought, he is, however implicitly, rejecting the kind of perception that
is implicated in the “plural will”—that humans suffer precisely in their ability to
properly perceive and choose objects of choice implicates the mental represen-
tations of those objects. Mental representations do not simply display objects.
They also carry a value judgment, which says that this or that object is worth
pursuing or, alternatively, worth rejecting. Thinking, then, means relying on
imagistic value judgments. But these judgments are those that fracture and
multiply the will. Evagrius’ “intellectual” claims, then, come surprisingly close
to the “thelematic” claims of other Desert Fathers.
How is this a death, though? While the demons tempt by means of λογισμοί,
human λογισμοί are neutral, and angelic λογισμοί are good—and all require
νοήματα.131 Humans can proceed to the heights of “natural contemplation”
without having to reject νοήματα—these are not inherently bad. However, God
is beyond all representation132 and, therefore, any νόημα would necessarily be
false and would serve only as an idol.133 Brakke’s argument that pure prayer
transcends only “impassioned representations”134 is insufficient in light of Eva-
grius’ absolute rejection of any image that can convey God—prayer must reject
all representations and, therefore, λογισμοί. The result is that, in order to con-
template God, humans must reject their natural epistemic capabilities and thus
reject at least one of the most basic and primary means of νόησις, the activity
proper to the νοῦς. The rejection of intellectual faculties brings us back to “cut-
ting off the will”—Evagrius is still rejecting the means by which humans direct
attention and adjudge objects of desire or revulsion. In this rejection, the mind
is opened to receive God and, simultaneous, one must choose to direct desire
toward the God who is beyond any representation: heart and mind, willing and
contemplation, are not so far removed from each other after all.
Total Obedience
The Desert Fathers are rather clearer on the means by which one cuts off
θελήματα: obedience to one’s abba or abbot. For example, Abba Rufus told visi-
tors that, of all the activities by which monks might live out their withdrawal—
caring for the sick, offering hospitality, taking up absolute solitude—the monk
who practices obedience to his abba becomes the greatest of all, receiving
“greater glory” than the others in heaven. Questioned about this claim, Rufus
129
â•‡ Brakke (2006a, 72–73).
130
â•‡Aristotle, De memoria 1 (449b35–450a1, trans. Sorabji [2004, 43]); so also De anima 3.4–8.
131
â•‡ mal. cog. (recensio fusius) 8, 17 (SC 438 : 176–78, 208–14).
132
â•‡ mal. cog. (recensio fusius), 40–41 (SC 438 : 288–92).
133
â•‡ See Konstantinovsky (2009, 27–47). 134
â•‡ Brakke (2006a, 73).
responds that, while the first three do good things, they perform them “by their
individual will [ἰδίῳ θελήματι].” However, the one who “has obedience, having
abandoned all his own desires [πάντα τὰ θελήματα], depends entirely upon God
and his own father.”135 Rufus argues here that only obedience actually accom-
plishes the denial of one’s individual will, which makes renunciation complete.
More generally, the Apophthegmata Patrum laud obedience in no uncertain
terms—it is total and absolute, but freely given by the disciple, never taken or
demanded by the abba.136 It is obedience that turns men into angels,137 that
elevates them to heaven,138 and that earns lofty crowns.139 Rufus offers, in the
same saying as quoted above, a veritable encomium of obedience:
See, my child, how good obedience is when it is undertaken for the Lord . . . Obedi-
ence, salvation of the faithful! Obedience, mother of all the virtues! Obedience, dis-
closer of the kingdom! Obedience opening the heavens, and making men to ascend
there from earth! Obedience, food of all the saints, whose milk they have sucked—
through you they have become perfect! Obedience, companion of the angels!140
In the Desert, it does not matter so much what the elder has his disciple do.
What matters is that the disciple acts immediately. One thinks of Mark, Sil-
ouan’s disciple, running when called though his pen had not finished the ω he
had begun.141 There is John Kolobos, commanded by his abba to water a stick in
the desert for three years, at the end of which, according to Cassian, the abba
simply went and threw it away.142 Perhaps the most extreme parable of obedi-
ence is that of the man who would be a monk, ordered by his would-be abba to
throw his own son into a river—on his way a monk sent from the old man stops
him, saying, significantly, not that this act was wrong, but that the abba had
ordered him to desist—thus couching both the crime and its prevention as acts
of obedience!143 We learn something important from the structure of this story.
It parallels that of the “Sacrifice of Isaac” (the Akedah, Gen. 22.1–19): when the
elder commands a would-be disciple to throw his son in the river, before send-
ing his own messenger to stop the event and bless the disciple—he is explicitly
given the role of God in the Akedah, who calls Abraham to test him, commands
him to kill his own son, and stops the action at the last moment by sending his
135
â•‡ Rufus 2 (PG 65: 389C–92A).
136
â•‡ See Kronius 2, Poemen 174, Pistus 1, etc. See especially Hausherr (1990, 197–98), and
Gould (1993, 58–63).
137
â•‡ John the Theban 1; N 46. 138
â•‡ Hyperechius 8; N 53; see also Mius 1.
139
â•‡ Joseph of Thebes 1; N 211.
140
â•‡ Rufus 2 (PG 65: 392A); so also Cassian 5, Pambo 3, see Mark, disciple of Silouan 2; N 72.
141
â•‡ Mark, Disciple of Silouan 1 (PG 65: 296A).
142
â•‡ John Cassian, Institutes 4.24. See also John Kolobos 1 (PG 65: 204C), which relates that the
stick blossoms and bears fruit, and the abba takes it to the brethren, telling them to “taste the fruit
of obedience.” The miracle expresses the interior value of obedience—the effect it worked in John’s
soul. But Cassian’s version is more likely the primitive one—as Owen Chadwick (1968, 20–22)
notes, he would not likely have excised the miracle if he knew of it.
143
â•‡ Sisoes 10 (PG 65: 393C–396A); also N 295; see also Saius 1.
angel to stay Abraham’s hand, and to bless him. Obedience to one’s elder, we
may surmise, is also obedience to God, and thus the demands of an elder must
not be held to the same account as those of other men. They are, in a very real
way, the words of God. The disciple’s role, then, is that of Abraham before
Moriah—not to question, debate, or deviate, but simply to obey with fear and
reverence. And yet, even so, his obedience must be voluntary—that anonymous
man was given a choice and though its consequences were enormous, he was
free to say no as well as yes.144 Submission of oneself to an elder means, then,
freely rejecting even a naturally good capacity for choice and discernment in
order to comprehensively renounce one’s individual will.145
Obedience occupies a curious position in Desert literature—as something
with which one begins and yet something that one never really outgrows. Obe-
dience is at once the most basic act of Christian asceticism and, to read Rufus’
panegyric, the crowning achievement of the holy. Certainly, its importance for
beginners should not be taken to mean that abbas are exempt. While Gould, for
example, would argue that the demands of obedience “apply principally to
beginners,” he admits that a number of sayings reveal an attitude wherein “Sub-
mission of one’s individual will to another is seen as something of value in itself
and not only a means to an end that can be set aside.”146 A story of Zacharias
directly affirms obedience for the more advanced. Zacharias has a vision and
asks his abba if it comes from God. His abba, being a man yet engaged in the
purification of ethics (a “πρακτικός”) and not able to adjudge “precisely con-
cerning these matters,” beats him, saying the vision came from the demons. But
the vision persists and Zacharias discovers an abba with great gifts, who not
only tells him what happened but assures him that “the vision [θεωρία] is from
God.” But, the old man continues, “Go, be obedient to your father.”147 Obedi-
ence (ὑπακοή) in this story supplants even “contemplation” (θεωρία) as the work
of a monk, and Zacharias’ return echoes Rufus’ claim that obedience alone
completes a monk’s renunciation.
While obedience delineates the relationship of disciple and abba, it also
operates in coenobitic contexts. Amma Syncletica argues that obedience is
most necessary in coenobitic contexts—there it does not simply supplant (as in
the story of the would-be Abraham) but actually expresses the great desert vir-
tue of “discernment” (διάκρισις).148 Poemen tells one novice to be prepared,
because he will not be “free” even to drink a cup of wine in the monastery.149
144
â•‡ So Isaac, Priest of Kellia 2 (PG 65: 224C–D).
145
â•‡ Hausherr notes, though, that the “astonishing things” that abbas might command does not
imply an actual moral responsibility that somehow removes ethical obligation from the disciple
(1990, 199–203).
146
â•‡ Gould (1993, 52–53). His discussion of the abba–disciple relationship is also valuable
(53–58).
147
â•‡ Zacharias 4 (PG 65: 180B–C).
148
â•‡ Syncletica 17 (PG 65: 428A); see on this Hausherr (1990, 204–205).
149
â•‡ Poemen 152 (PG 65: 360B); see also Poemen 103, Syncletica 16; N 245.
Nilus of Ancyra (d. 430), writing in all probability for monks over which he was
abbot, put it thus:
When such teachers [as Moses] are found, they require disciples who deny them-
selves (see Mat. 16.24) and their wills, who conduct themselves like a body whose
soul has departed or like material submitted to an craftsman. This is so that, just as
a soul operates as it wishes in a body and the body resists in no way, or as a crafts-
man shows his art in material and the material offers no resistance to the purpose
of his craft, so also the teacher operates the faith of virtue in his disciples, having
them obedient and contradicting him in nothing.150
Nilus’ formulation of obedience as a kind of death is important, though rela-

tively unique in Desert literature. In all places, though, obedience was, as
Hausherr notes, the means of cutting off one’s individual will and, thereby, of
attaining perfection: “The essential interest in salvation and perfection
demands the death of this perceptible attachment to self which is called one’s
individual will.”151
Judge Not, Lest You be Judged

A refusal to judge others also emerges as a principle of monastic community
directly related to self-denial, obedience, and the various “deaths” to self and
neighbor. Moses the Ethiopian and Pior both protested against judgment, even
when it was sanctioned by the community. To councils of judgment each came
with a bag of sand on his back, and a hole punched in the bottom: “My sins pour
out behind me and I do not see them; and I have come today to judge the sins of
another!”152 Moses’ point, as Gould notes, is that “God alone is the true judge.
For a human being to judge is to appropriate a divine function, and this . . . is
always an act of presumption and pride.”153 Instead, focused wholeheartedly on
their own impending judgment by God, monastics turned that capacity inward,
and “judged” themselves—without, however, passing verdict. Joseph of Pane-
physis, when asked how to become a monk, responded, “If you wish to find rest
both here and there, in every action say ‘Who am I?’ And judge no one.”154 The
refusal to judge another required the self-interrogation demanded by the pros-
pect of death and judgment. Indeed, as Euprepius noted, only when one refuses
to judge others does the “fear of God” dwell in the soul.155 For Abba Moses, this
refusal to judge constitutes the essence of “dying to one’s neighbor.”156 In this
150
â•‡ Nilus of Ancyra, ΛΟΓΟΣ ΑΣΚΗΤΙΚΟΣ (Philokalia 1: 214).
151
â•‡ Hausherr (1990, 205).
152
â•‡ Moses the Ethiopian 2 (PG 65: 281D–284A); so also Pior 3.
153
â•‡ Gould (1993, 125). 154
â•‡ Joseph of Panephysis 2 (PG 65: 228C).
155
â•‡ Euprepius 5 (PG 65: 172C); so Gould (1993, 88–92).
156
â•‡ Moses the Ethiopian 14, 20 (PG 65: 288B, 289C).
regard, the “death” can be quite visceral: one should not even trust one’s senses,
if it means condemning another.157 However, though language of “death” makes
it sound rather negative, the refusal to judge could have an almost deifying
effect. It was said of Macarius the Great that “he became as it is written an ‘earthly
god,’158 for just as God covers the world, so Abba Macarius covered defects,
which he saw as though not seeing and heard as though not hearing.”159
In Desert literature, monks strive to die to themselves and their neighbors.
They strive for interior tranquility and ethical relationships in which their own
desires are subordinated to the needs of others. Though the literature rarely
explains what this “death” entails, it does elaborate related activities at length:
particularly important is cutting off one’s plural will, through absolute obedi-
ence and nonjudgment of others. The Gazan Fathers will describe these activi-
ties in terms of death, while Climacus will go further, making the same practices,
together with repentance and mourning, into a thoroughgoing work of death
and resurrection.
AMBIVALENCE
I have so far laid out evidence that the Desert Fathers used the memory of
death and judgment. I have argued that this use was predicated on a perceived
opposition between the present life and the age to come. And I have shown
that there emerged in Desert literature a conscious deployment of the lan-
guage of “death” to describe ascetic practices. Each of these claims has a rough
edge of ambivalence, or even antipathy, within the same body of literature. The
sayings associated with certain abbas—especially Poemen, Moses the Ethio-
pian, Arsenius, and Theophilus—assign a significant role to the language and
symbols of death, others, such as those of Abraham and Sisoes, suggest the
opposite. Between these extremes, sayings that militate in both directions
accrued to men such as Macarius the Great. If we were attempting to recon-
struct a “theology of Abba Moses,” or a “theology of Evagrius,” we might say
that, so far as one or the other is concerned, the assumptions and ideals that
underpin the use of death meet with certain and specific responses. However,
we are not concerned with analyzing Desert literature into its constituent logia
157
â•‡ Alonius 4, Elias 4, Mark (disciple of Silouan) 2, Poemen 113–14.
158
â•‡ Referring, perhaps, to Constitutiones Apostolorum 2.26 (SC 320), where “earthly god after
God [ἐπίγειος θεὸς μετὰ Θεὸν]” refers to the “bishop, who ought to enjoy honor from us.” If this
attribution is correct—and “ἐπίγειος θεὸς” is a very uncommon moniker—then we may wonder if
Macarius is being given the honor due to a bishop not because he holds clerical office but because
he actually enacts the forgiving work of God which that office so often mediates.
159
â•‡ Macarius the Great 32 (PG 65: 273D).
to discover what the abbas “really thought.”160 We read these sayings, homilies,
and gnomic material as they have been collected by men such as Barsanuphius
and John of Gaza, and as they would have been read together by later writers
such as Climacus. In such collections systematic homogeneity did not feature
as a criterion for inclusion. Rather, as Jean-Claude Guy writes, “Each monas-
tery possessed its own Patericon . . . the quality of each Patericon was judged by
the measure of its ‘richness,’ that is to say, by the number of ‘edifying words’
and sayings which had been gathered together.”161 This means that scribes
would add whatever they found valuable, and in that process considerations of
rigid or absolute consistency did not figure very strongly. With these polypho-
nous—sometimes cacophonous—voices singing together, we find that the
polyvalent tendencies in Desert literature do not allow us to reconstruct some
systematic “theology of death.” Rather, we must speak of currents or trends of
optimism—expectations that these and other practices can radically trans-
form an individual’s lifestyle, uniting him to God—and ambivalence about
those very expectations, with which various authors deployed or reacted
against the language of death.
The Danger of Remembering

As we have seen, many sayings advocate the meditation on death and judg-
ment, and very often do so in terms of the punishments that sinners expect.
Generally, then, memory of judgment implies and cultivates a close aware-
ness of one’s own sins as well as a fear of the destiny toward which sins draw
one. However, for some these two implications are problematic. For exam-
ple, the saying of Abba Sisoes discussed earlier betrays his misgivings about
meditation on punishment. When the brothers told him of their fear of pun-
ishment, Sisoes responded, “You are blessed, my brothers. I envy you. The
first of you spoke of the fiery river, the second of Tartarus, and the third of
darkness. Now, if your mind masters such memory, it is impossible for you
to sin.”162 Yet, he continues, “What shall I do, hardhearted as I am, not being
granted to know, even if there will be punishment for people; and because of
this I sin each hour.” Sisoes says this, Graham Gould argues, to help his visi-
tors “to see their fears in a different, more positive light, perhaps even as a
source of faith and hope.”163 His ironic tone suggests, further, that the prac-
tices to which these brothers had given themselves were not as helpful as
160
â•‡ Likely a fruitless endeavor anyway, given the amount of literary working that went into the
collections of sayings, lives, and travelogues. On which see the valuable discussions in Guy (1955,
252–58); Regnault (1987, 67–69, 70–72); Rousseau (1978, 9–18, 32–55); Brakke (2006a, 128, 145);
and Rubenson (1999, 319–338). See also Gould (1993) and Harmless (2000).
161
â•‡ Guy (1984, 232–33). 162
â•‡ Sisoes 19 (PG 65: 397D–400A).
163
â•‡ Gould (1993, 64–65).
they thought. The paralyzing effect of meditation on punishment stands in

stark contrast to Sisoes’ own calm. Rather than blessing their activity, Sisoes,
by questioning whether there will even be such a thing as punishment,
throws his visitors back on his own hope in God’s mercy, saying “I do not
remember any of these things; for I hope that God, being merciful, will ‘show
mercy to me’ (see Luke 1.58, etc.).” In his response we can detect the old
debate between Hedonists and Epicureans about how best to deal with future
sufferings, discussed in Chapter 2. The Desert meditation on judgment ech-
oes the Hedonist (and Stoic) praemeditatio, while Abba Sisoes points to the
kind of paralyzing misery that Epicurus thought would be the outcome of
such anticipated suffering.
On a deeper level, neither Evagrius nor Mark the Monk emphasized the
“memory of death,” (though both allow for it) because they mistrusted the fac-
ulty of memory. The problem arises from the close awareness of one’s own sins
required by contemplation of judgment. Memory, as noted above, is a function
of the “imagination” and so conjures up images and ideas that simply rekindle
the very passions one hoped to uproot. For Evagrius, while memory is a natural
faculty and not necessarily beset by passions, it retains the “impressions” of
passions left there164—this is Evagrius’ understanding, I suspect, of the Aristo-
telian idea that memory retains an impress (“πάθος”) of perception. Aristotle
meant that the process of perception imprints the soul, and in that sense it “suf-
fers.” For Evagrius, though, the “πάθη” are the “passions,” the vices to which
thought betrays humans. For the memory to retain a “πάθος” in that context, is
to speak of a grave danger: “impassioned memory” (μνήμη ἐμπαθή). The demons
call up memory’s impressions, then, to tempt and to distract from prayer.165 So,
while Evagrius may not despise the memory, he certainly does not trust it.166
The same could be said for Mark the Monk, who sees the same terrible power
at work in “prepossession” (πρόληψις), his ethical elaboration of the old Stoic
notion of “preconceptions,” ideas that act as filters on perception.167 Mark’s
notion, which Kallistos Ware astutely defines as “the involuntary presence of
former sins in the memory” thus “predisposes a man to yield to particular
temptations.”168 For these influential thinkers, whose examination of the mem-
ory owes probably rather more than most to sophisticated philosophical dis-
cussions, the power of memory is as dangerous as it is effective. A concern with
the perils of too-specific memorialization of sins will emerge in important ways
in the letters of Barsanuphius and John while Climacus will focus the imagina-
tion more completely on death.
164
â•‡ cap. prac. 12, 34 (SC 171: 520–26, 578).
165
â•‡e.g., mal. cog. (recensio fusius) 2, 4, 41 (SC 438: 154, 162–64, 290–92).
166
â•‡ So Brakke (2006a, 64).
167
â•‡ Operibus 151–52 (SC 445: 178) and ad Nicolaum 1 (SC 455: 108).
168
â•‡ Palmer, Sherrard, Ware, et al. (1979–95, 1: 367).
Resisting the Opposition of Ages

For certain abbas, such as Macarius the Great, the opposition of ages could be
amplified to a conception of the ascetic life as a kind of complete freedom from
the world. Thus it was not enough simply to flee from cities, but from desires
and regrets—especially those related to marriage and sex.169 For some of the
Desert Fathers, then, their conception of renunciation was so total as to be a
kind of alternative universe. A tale told by Macarius the Great powerfully illus-
trates the deep calling of freedom from the world. Asked for a word, he
responds, “I have not yet become a monk. But I have seen monks.” He then tells
how, having wandered into the far desert, he found an oasis and saw there two
naked men whom he believed at first to be “spirits.” They placate his fear,
though, and the conversation runs thus:
“We are from a coenobium, and there was harmony between us, so we came
hither. Behold, [we have been here] for forty years!” One was Egyptian and the
other Libyan. And they asked me saying, “How is the world? Does the water rise
in its proper time? And does the world have its prosperity?” And I said to them,
“Yes.” And I asked, “How can I become a monk?” And they replied, “If a person
does not renounce all that is in the world, he cannot become a monk.” I said, “I
am weak, and I cannot be like you.” They responded, “If you cannot be like us, sit
in your cell and weep for your sins.” And I asked them, “When winter comes, are
you not cold? And when summer comes, do your bodies not burn?” And they
said, “God has given us this consideration, that we do not freeze in winter and
heat does not harm us in summer.”170
Macarius saw in those monks the profundity of total renunciation—not only
goods and family, but clothes and concern for health, accepting only God’s pro-
vision,171 unaware of whether or not the Nile floods—a thing unimaginable for
an Egyptian. The sight, Burton-Christie says, “spoke to his deepest aspirations
and to those of all the monks—to live an unfettered, graced existence, as their
ancestors in paradise had done before them.”172
Crucially though, Macarius could not actually attain the state for which he
longed. He admitted his weakness, choosing to return and labor at a far less
impressive task: repenting like any other monk, weeping for his sins. The dis-
continuity between ideal and reality to which Macarius’ tale speaks is echoed
also in the Historia Lausiaca. There, the same Macarius visits a coenobium,
performing such acts of austerity that he is dubbed a “fleshless man” and sent
away. Yet his next story details his abortive attempt to keep his thoughts in
heaven with the angels—after succeeding for two days his mind fell again to
169
â•‡ For example, John Kolobos 16, Zacharias 2, Cyrus 1, Olympias 2, Sisoes 3, Paphnutius 4; N 186.
170
â•‡ Macarius 2 (PG 65: 260B–261A).
171
â•‡ Burton-Christie (1993, 223–24) (commenting on Poemen 146). See also h. mon. 1.46, prat.
85, and Mark the Monk, De lege 110, 158, 159.
172
â•‡ Burton-Christie (1993, 232–33).
earth.173 For Macarius, the opposition of now and later, earth and heaven, is
irreducible, and, though he works very hard to live entirely in the next age, he
cannot. The opposition of ages cannot be so amplified as to become absolute;
rather, the monk lives in a kind of frontier between the two, a region which
John Climacus will call “death.”
The Problematic Ideal of Apatheia

I have argued that “death to self ” meant especially the cultivation of tranquility
and apatheia. If, however, we are to speak of apatheia among the Desert Fathers,
we must bear in mind Abba Abraham’s admonition to a monk who thought
that he had “killed” the passions. He says that, in fact, if that monk saw a woman,
or money, or anything else, he would not fail to notice, but that he would “fight
with his thought.” Abraham concludes, “So then, the passions live, but they are
fettered by the saints.”174 The monk’s claim to comprehensive apatheia amounted
to foolish self-deception. Even Abba Joseph’s joyful statement that “I am a king
today, for I rule over the passions,” implies that he does not rule them every day.
David Brakke thus concludes that, while no single view emerges on the possi-
bility and meaning of apatheia, “The monks are fundamentally ‘resisters.’”175
Their combat continues because passions always return and temptation always
waits. A saying of Poemen illustrates the fundamental opposition to the high
hopes of apatheia. Although Poemen is a name we have seen heavily associated
with the ideal of being “dead,” he is nevertheless sensitive to the needs of his
fellow “resisters,” and this saying suggests a very different view of life. A young
monk struggled with the idea of lust (that is, the λογισμός of πορνεία), and asked
Abba Ibistion for advice. Ibistion told him to cast the thought away. The monk,
certainly discouraged by such austerity, went to Poemen, who told him, “Abba
Ibistion’s works are above with the angels, and it escapes him that you and I are
in fornication.”176 It is well to be in heaven, but there one is not much of an abba,
and, even if some can attain such apatheia as to brush aside λογισμοί, most can-
not. We must wonder, then—since even Poemen the “dead man” did not expect
perfect freedom from temptation, just as even Macarius the Great could not
stay in Paradise—to what extent the optimism implied in being like the dead
was well received among the Desert Fathers.
In a different vein, even if monks claimed to be able to achieve tranquility,
and so to bear insults and praise alike, they maintained a very definite limit to
the abuse they would suffer and to their avoidance of judgment: the accusation
173
174
â•‡ Abraham 1 (PG 65: 129D–132B); see also Antony 4. â•‡ Brakke (2006a, 151–52).
175
176
â•‡ Poemen 62 (PG 65: 337A); see also Poemen 8.
of heresy.177 This limit is instructive—the community must have a common

conception of the theological and spiritual dogmas around which its constitu-
tive relationships are constituted. For example, Agathon was once tested by the
brethren. He happily accepted every reproach offered, saying cheerfully that
“Yes, yes, I have done that as well,” until the brethren called him a heretic. At
that point he rounded on them and said “I am not a heretic.” They ask him why
he accepted all but this last accusation and he says, “The first accusations I
ascribe to myself; for it is beneficial to my soul. But heresy is separation from
God, and I do not wish to be separated from God.”178 Heresy is not something
that conduces to salvation. Rather, it constitutes the damnation that asceticism
seeks to avoid. Thus, the criterion for forging relationship always comes back to
the overriding desire for salvation. While the fissures that heresy necessitated
might be cause for lamentation, neither place,179 nor the demands of hospital-
ity,180 nor even the great appearance of sanctity,181 could overcome the ascetics’
simple desire to find life in Christ. The matter of heresy problematizes not only
the possibility of complete tranquility—which different assessments of apa-
theia would already question—but the universal value and validity of such
tranquility.
Conclusion: Expanding and Resisting the Uses of Death

The concepts and practices at which Antony’s “daily dying” hinted are more
fully formed in later Desert literature. Monks are called to “die” both to them-
selves and to their neighbors. Death to oneself means especially achieving the
tranquility of dispassion (ἀπαθεία), which means that the monk has severed
attachments not only to transitory goods and pleasures, but to his own ego.
Death to one’s neighbor operates in conjunction with death to oneself, because
it refers to the severance of conventional or sanguinary relationships and the
cultivation of a spiritual community. The unity in which brothers dwell arises
directly from the tranquility with which they approach relationships.
While the Desert Fathers begin to deploy a vocabulary of “death,” they only
seldom suggest how one might attain to such tranquil unity as “death” suggests.
However, at various points in the literature, certain practices are connected in
177
â•‡ Gould (1993, 107–112) also notes the limit that one might find when staying with an abba
means harm for one’s soul (for unspecified reasons). This, however, is much less clearly defined
than the consistent boundary of heresy.
178
â•‡ Agathon 5 (PG 65: 109C); the problem of heresy forms a great theme in prat.: e.g., 10, 12, 26,
40, 46, 74, 144, 241.
179
â•‡ Agathon 6, 23, Ammonas 5, Ammoes 5, Joseph of Panephysis 8, Poemen 18, 155, 159, 189.
180
â•‡ Poemen 78 (PG 65: 341B).
181
â•‡ prat. 106 (PG 87.3: 2965A–C); of which H. Chadwick (1974, 57) remarks, “Moschus felt no
less passionately than Sophronius about the truth of the Christological definition of Chalcedon.
To be in error on so cardinal a matter was to fail in all.”
one way or another to death, and I have argued that by means of these one
achieves the kind of state to which “death” refers in this literature. Foremost
among them is the “cutting-off,” “denial,” or “abandonment” of one’s individual
will. For most, the will lies at the very center of a person and its denial means a
complete renunciation of oneself—ego, rights, desires, everything goes with
the will. Evagrius suggests a similar sort of self-denial as regards the intellectual
capacity. In both cases, though, one denies what is one’s own to receive instead
what God chooses to give—a unified will attuned to God’s will, or the uniquely
imageless contemplation of God. Obedience is often presented as the means to
a life of self-denial. Obedience concretizes the idea of abandoning one’s indi-
vidual will by submitting to whatever one’s abba (or abbot) demands. While
obedience is particularly important for beginners, it is a lifelong activity by
means of which one continually renounces one’s individual will. Lastly, the vir-
tue of nonjudgment, predicated as it is on contemplation of God’s judgment,
allows for the cultivation of monastic community. Thus, the ideal of “dying to
one’s neighbor” plays out especially in the refusal to judge one’s neighbor. While
the denial of one’s individual will is not generally presented in the language of
death, its effect is just as complete, and obedience is at times presented as a kind
of “death.” Likewise, sayings of Poemen and Anoub claim that only by reckon-
ing oneself as dead can one avoid judging others. These various virtues begin to
mingle with the language of death, and are very often predicated on the mem-
ory of death and judgment as well as a conception of asceticism as conscious
self-denial.
Yet, even as monastic virtues are being clothed in the language and symbols
of death, many vignettes illustrate countervailing lines of thought. The lines of
thought resist deployment of the language of death not, so far as I can discern,
because of dislike of the language itself, but on a suspicion of unduly high
expectations that underpin its deployment in the Desert literature. Can one or,
indeed, should one, attain apatheia? Does one proceed by meditating on death
and judgment, or by some other exercise? Must one live wholly “on earth as
though in heaven?” Is such a goal beneficial for others, let alone possible for
oneself? Different Fathers answered these questions in different ways. Cer-
tainly the ways in which Desert Fathers praised practices of “death” recall the
optimistic picture of the all-forgiving and all-loving monk painted by the Vita
Antonii’s Antony and his “daily dying.” Those Fathers who react against the
language of “death” are likely reacting more especially against what they per-
ceived as undue optimism or even self-deception about what an ascetic can
accomplish through certain practices. The memory and practice of death
emerge in Desert literature as important but contested means of cultivating and
communicating the whole ascetic life.
5
The Great Old Men of Gaza:

Learning to Die through Obedience
Ἐὰν ἴδῃς βίον ἀνδρὸς ἐν μέσῳ θανάτου καὶ ζωῆς ἐνδεικνύμενον . . . πρὸς τοῦτον
βλέπε τὸν κανόνα τοῦ βίου· τοῦτον τέθεικε σκοπὸν ὁ θεὸς τῇ ἡμετέρᾳ ζωῇ.
Gregory of Nyssa, De Virginitate 23.6
By the sixth century, Gaza had become a thriving monastic center. Asceticism
bourgeoned in Palestine from the fourth century onward, beginning with
Hilarion at Gaza and Chariton in the Judean desert, and its development,
organizationally and theologically, took in influences from Egypt, Cappadocia,
and Syria. Egypt, or rather a literary memory of Egypt, was built up in Palestine
in the fifth century through the collecting of apophthegmata, the composition
of the Historia lausiaca, and other literature. However, this mythic Egyptian
past was blended with adherence to Basil of Caesarea’s ascetic teachings and the
spirituality of Palestine’s own great founding fathers as it played out through
controversies surrounding the Council of Chalcedon (in 451) and a resurgence
of “Origenism” and its condemnation at the Council of Constantinople (in
553).1 Monastic spirituality flourished in Judaea at the lavras founded by Euthy-
mius (d. 473) and Saba (d. 532). In Gaza, developments in ascetic theology
come particularly from the Monophysites Abba Isaiah (d. 491) and his disciple
Peter the Iberian (d. 489). Isaiah’s thought would be formative for his Chalce-
donian successors, the Abbot Seridos and the two Old Men who lived in seclu-
sion at his monastery near Thawatha: Barsanuphius, the Great Old Man, and
John the Prophet. These men—Isaiah, Barsanuphius, John, and their disciple
Dorotheus—form what is sometimes called the “Gaza School.”
This “school” crafted its own vision of ascetic life through creative
Â�interpretation and elaboration of the literature surveyed in Chapter 2.
All the Gazan Fathers owe much to the Apophthegmata Patrum (which
1
â•‡ On the formative influence of Christological and ecclesial controversies in these years, see
especially Binns (1994, 56–78); and Hömbargen (2001).
they helped to collect), as well as to Mark the Monk and Basil of Caesarea.2
They take up the Apophthegmatic tradition but adapt it to their own rather
diversified milieu—a lavra which housed and was quite often run by her-
mits3—and write in different genres: Isaiah and Dorotheus both wrote
homilies, while Barsanuphius and John wrote only letters. Of these last two,
François Neyt remarks that their correspondence “admirably reflects the
religious maturity which reigned in the monastery; it takes up the best of
Egyptian monastic traditions, without forgetting the writings of the great
Cappadocians and the monastic literature of the day.”4 Barsanuphius and
John represent the efflorescence of the Chalcedonian, anti-Origenist
strands of Palestinian ascetic thought presented also in Cyril of Scythopolis’
monastic vitae. Their work would influence generations of Byzantine ascet-
ics including the Kollyvades Fathers and editors of the Philokalia, and Cli-
macus’ own reliance on texts such as the Apophthegmata Patrum often runs
through Gazan readings, and the spirituality of Barsanuphius and John.
Two methodological points are in order as we approach the voluminous
Gazan literature. First, John and Barsanuphius are different men, each with his
own style, interests, and personality, and it is important to note this explicitly,
lest we misunderstand them. However, it is equally important to see what
emerges from their correspondence as a whole, since they are always read
together. They themselves demand it when one directs correspondents to the
other one. Likewise, the editor of their correspondence, perhaps their disciple
Dorotheus,5 arranged the complete correspondence chronologically, rather
than by author, thus necessitating the collection’s often obscure references to
authorship in each letter’s inscription. Barsanuphius is not John, but the two
operated together, and so were and are read together. This means that the pic-
ture one gets of spirituality emerges not only from one or the other, but through
the interaction and assemblage of the two.
Second, Gazan material (particularly that of the Great Old Men) is best
approached through Scripture, and examinations of the Fathers’ exegesis will fig-
ure heavily in this chapter. Barsanuphius constantly quotes, alludes to, para-
phrases, or generally reminds his readers of Scripture. In many cases it is difficult
to tell where Scripture ends and Barsanuphius begins, so imbued is his language
with it. As François Neyt and Paula de Angelis-Noah have argued, the Word of
God—mediated by the Scriptures and the Great Old Man’s commentary on
them—is fundamental to the formative work at Gaza, since “The correspondence
2
â•‡ Neyt and de Angelis-Noah (2000 [SC 450], 68–126); John Chryssavgis (2006–2007, 1: 10–12)
notes particularly the influence of the Apophthegmata, cataloguing over eighty references in Bars-
anuphius and John’s letters, and fifty–five in Dorotheus’ works.
3
â•‡ See on the monastic structure at Maiuma (Isaiah’s monastery) and Thawatha (Seridos’ mon-
astery) Hirschfeld (1992 and 2004); see also Hevelone-Harper (2005, 32–36).
4
â•‡ Neyt and de Angelis-Noah (1997 [SC 426], 20).
5
â•‡ Hevelone-Harper (2005, 76–77).
The Great Old Men of Gaza: Learning to Die through Obedience 145
of the monks of Gaza, like the Rules of St Basil, are presented as a commentary, an
exposition of Holy Scripture adapted to each correspondent, so as to aid,” or,
more generally “to transform their life.”6 Elsewhere, Neyt expands on this assess-
ment: “Rarely in ascetic writings does one find a spiritual man posing so con-
stantly and so radically the ‘word of life,’ which challenges and arouses a liberation
of the person and a conversion to a God at once mercifcul and ‘human-loving’
[philanthrope].”7 That is, in order to understand the more general theological
claims being adapted to individual situations in the correspondence, we do well
to examine the Old Men’s use of scripture—in particular their deployment of cer-
tain preferred passages. While a study of Barsanuphius’ scriptural hermeneutic
would lie far beyond the scope of this chapter,8 it is possible to pick out and dis-
cuss his use of a few relevant verses that stand out from the crowd of quotations
littering his letters.
In this chapter we will look first at how the Great Old Men elaborate and
nuance the now-standard memory of death and judgment, and then at how,
going further than, for example, the Vita Antonii, Barsanuphius and his disciple
Dorotheus particularly emphasize the mortal identity of humans. We will then
explore a side of death that has not figured thus far: Barsanuphius’ highly Basil-
ian conception of death as the limit of ascetic work. Third, we will see how the
“practices of death” that first emerged in Desert literature becomes, for the Old
Men, a normative means of describing the ascetic life. A final section will argue
that “death” and especially the “corpse” retain important ambiguities in Gazan
thought, that asceticism as “death” must be understood within parameters of
imitation and response to Christ’s death, a reference that Climacus will make
central to ascetic spirituality.
THE MEMORY OF DEATH AS JUD GMENT
Like those before them, writers of the Gaza school laud the memory of death.
In keeping with what was becoming tradition, they describe this memory in
terms of the contemplation of the nearness of death;9 and the contemplation of
postmortem judgment.10 Very commonly the Great Old Men connect mortal-
ity and judgment within the same conceptual space. Barsanuphius writes
succinctly,
The approach [παρουσία] of death strengthens your thinking, for it is hidden from
every person. Let us hasten, therefore, to do good before we are seized by death—
6
â•‡ Neyt and de Angelis-Noah (1997 [SC 426], 83–84).
7
â•‡ Neyt (1974, 352, and 2004, 154–55). 8
â•‡ Elia (1996–97).
9
â•‡ resp. 37, 92, 94, 98, 99, 123, 517–18, 785, 789 (quoting Ben Sira 7.36), etc.
10
â•‡ resp. 57, 77, 138, 208, 242, 271, 379, 428, 446 (where it is advised together with the “Jesus
prayer”), 454, 464 (citing John Chrysostom, In Matthaeum 82.4–5), 553, 569, 574, 685, 690, etc.
for we do not know in which day the call comes—lest we be found unprepared
and dismissed with the five foolish virgins (see Mat 25.1–13) . . . Let us do what
we can in our infirmity, for the Master of all is good and will lead us with the five
wise virgins into his bridal chamber to unspeakable joy with Christ. Amen.11
Contemplation of mortality requires the monk to acknowledge that his life is
uncertain—meted out day by day, as Antony the Great saw. Unforeseeable yet
inexorable death gives way to an eschatological judgment based on one’s actions
and choices in life, and so spurs the monk toward good works now. In this
regard the Gaza fathers use the memory of death in ways perfectly consonant
with the tradition emerging from the Vita Antonii and Desert literature. The
next section, dedicated to mortality, will show the existential implications that
the Great Old Men draw from physical death’s memorial. In this first section,
though, we will explore how Barsanuphius and John both nuance and expand
the role played by memory of death considered primarily as entrance into judg-
ment. In doing so, these Fathers connect the memory of judgment especially to
endurance and via tears to repentance, and so begin to delineate a comprehen-
sive spirituality of the sort hinted at by Abba Poemen.
Nuancing an Inheritance
The Old Men nuance the memory of death vis-à-vis judgment in three import-
ant and interrelated ways. First, they tend to contextualize contemplation of
mortality within a broader focus on God’s judgment, often foregrounding the
latter without, however, ignoring the former. Second, Barsanuphius nuances the
mode of remembering so as to avoid the perils, seen by Mark the Monk and
Evagrius respectively, of “prepossession” and “impassioned memories.” Third,
John brings out a point hitherto unexplored in the literature surveyed—though
Stoic definitions of philosophy noted it—that one must remember death freely,
making of the inevitable a freely chosen practice, if one wishes the glorious sal-
vation commensurate with ascetic endeavor. In this, John develops (probably
without realizing it) the kind of praemeditatio which Seneca recommended.
While Barsanuphius often connects the memory of mortality with that of
judgment, John separates them in an interesting way. To a layman concerned
with attacks of the passions sparked by just a glance at another person he says,
You ought to remember also the corruption and the stench of our nature, how we
are entering the graves. But why give you a word about corruptible things? Don’t
you think rather to put the coming fearful judgment of God before your eyes?
And where will the inheritance of those who do these [sinful] things be found?
And how will you escape that great shame of the revelation of our actions before
the angels and archangels and all people—before the just judge?12
11
â•‡ resp. 617 (SC 468: 38–40); so also 20, 96, 232, 256–59, 346, 790.
12
â•‡ resp. 659 (SC 468: 92).
John’s response at first sounds like one of Moschus’ visions of decaying bodies,
but abruptly changes tack to refer his correspondent not to death but to the
judgment after it. The memory of mortality, though helpful, is far less valuable
than the memory of the judgment that follows death. Certainly, as a guard
against passionate relationships with other people, a recollection of putrefac-
tion may be helpful. But that misses the point—rather one flees passions
because they expel a person from her heavenly inheritance. Though he deni-
grates it here somewhat, John is actually contextualizing the memory of mortal-
ity. Contemplation of limited and uncertain existence must function within an
expectation that mortal life gives way to an eternal state defined by the ethical
criteria of Christ’s judgment.
Indeed, Barsanuphius offers much the same advice as John, though he shows
a particular concern with mortality, as we shall see. It is true, though, that Barsa-
nuphius elevates contemplation of judgment—he even catches himself mid-
sentence and switches abruptly from reminding John of Beersheeba about
passing troubles to talking about “more fearful things, whether in heaven or in
earth.” He then says simply, “Place God and judgment before your eyes, and
keep in mind that we have only a little time in the world.”13 He does not denigrate
contemplation of mortality but, rather, the troubles of life that are bounded by
mortality—the fact of death allows Barsanuphius to adjust his correspondent’s
focus toward eternal matters. Here also contemplation of mortality as an end of
transient matters naturally leads to contemplation of the eternal realities to
which physical death provides an entrance, and those realities are immediately
conditioned by the fact of divine judgment.
While elevating memory of judgment, Barsanuphius also offers another sort
of corrective with regard to the mode of remembering. He shows himself cogni-
zant of the misgivings expressed by Evagrius and Mark the Monk, that too-Â�
specific contemplation of sins simply rekindles old passions: “Compunction
[κατάνυξις] comes to a person from unceasing remembrance. Thus, when he
prays, the one praying ought to bring into his own memory [εἰς τὴν ἰδίαν μνήμην]
all his deeds, and how those doing such things will be judged, and the fearful
voice saying ‘Depart from me you cursed ones unto the eternal fire’ [Mat 25.41],
and all the rest.” One should remember one’s deeds—presumably one’s sins—
imagistically, leading them into memory, in context of God’s judgment of sin-
ners, and with a suitable fear of condemnation. However, he goes on, one must be
careful just how one brings all these sins to mind: “I say memory of sins, not each
and individual—lest by intruding the adversary lead in other shamefulness—
but, rather, simply remembering that we are debtors to sin.”14 Since the memory
is imagistic, one has to use two modes: sins require vague images while God’s
judgment requires rather specific ones—going so far as considering his fearful
voice and the (admittedly scriptural) words with which God condemns sinners.
13
â•‡ resp. 20 (SC 426: 202). 14
â•‡ resp. 428 (SC 451: 504).
John, taking a cue perhaps from Abba Sisoes, later tells A

Â� elianus—then a layman,
later Seridos’ successor as abbot—who had fallen into despair from terror of eter-
nal punishment, that having faith means giving oneself to God. And, since God
is merciful, one should never fear too strongly eternal punishments. One con-
templates judgment so as to desire all the more God’s mercy, yet one does so ever
in hope of God’s mercy. Memory of judgment and death must, therefore, be
measured, general enough that passions do not find footholds, specific with
regard to God’s judgment, ever careful to avoid passionate intrusions as well as
despair.
Memory of Death and Fear of Death: Freedom and Constraint

Finally, there is the matter of voluntary and free choice in salvation, a point
worth dwelling on at some length. In a fascinating exchange of letters with a
“Christ-loving layperson,” John takes up the matter of whether contemplation
of death is effective and whether it leads to salvation. He argues that if someone
is told that he will die the next day and on that account changes his ways, he is
saved “as though constrained [ὡς βεβιασμένη].” Why? Because when someone
sees death at hand, he will “give up his deeds in accordance with necessity [ὡς
κατὰ ἀνάγκην].” Rather, if someone is to be saved “freely” (κατὰ προαίρεσιν), he
must consider that he will live for a long time and if he can still do good then he
has done so by choice and not constraint. Then, even if he does happen to die
immediately, he is still saved freely (κατὰ προαίρεσιν) and not as though con-
strained (οὐ βεβιασμένη).15
The layperson is understandably confused and asks if someone does
good through “fear of death [φόβος θανάτου],” is that not salvific? John—
characteristically coming at the question somewhat obliquely—responds
by saying that salvation “by constraint’ is better than none, but not as good
as one freely chosen: “Salvation sought out of necessity is not like salvation
freely chosen, but likewise it is better than doing nothing. If we will not be
lords of ourselves, then destruction is in store for the soul who does noth-
ing.” John then reminds the layman of Jesus’ parable of the five foolish vir-
gins, saying that the layman ought not to be like them “who are shut out of
the bridal chamber on account of not having the fruit of mercy and good
deeds.”16 These are, then, the good things to which the monk, imagining
death, ought to apply himself, but he gains more if he does so freely, so it
seems that John intends the foolish virgins not as examples of those saved
“by constraint” but of those who, even under constraint, do nothing at all.
The layman, therefore, ought to focus on how to procure such good things—
mercy (almsgiving) and good deeds—without being forced into it.
15
â•‡ resp. 637 (SC 468: 64). 16
â•‡ resp. 638 (SC 468: 64).
The layman, now thoroughly confused, asks “If then someone reminds his
soul about death [Ἐὰν οὖν τις ὑπομιμνήσκῃ τὴν ψυχην αὐτοῦ περὶ θανάτου] and
through this he hastens to do good, is this not a voluntary reward [ἐκούσιος
μισθός]”? John responds by distinguishing between habits developed willingly
and the necessity of constraint: the memory of death “is good, so that someone
learn he is mortal and a mortal is not eternal and not being eternal he will invol-
untarily leave this age. From the unremitting memory of death he learns to do
good freely [κατὰ προαίρεσιν].” Good things done “through the continuous
memory of death . . . become freely chosen through continual meditation [διὰ
συνεχοῦς μελέτης].” So far, so good, the act of remembering death motivates a
continual care for cultivating good works. But only now does John explain the
distinction he has had in mind all along: the monk on his deathbed only acts
“because of the revealed fear of death” and so his works only “come about out
of necessity [κατὰ ἀνάγκην].”17 Memory of death is good and, being itself freely
undertaken, leads to free actions and a salvation voluntarily accepted. Fear of
death, a kind of fight-or-flight response that accompanies the immediate pros-
pect of one’s demise, forces one to act—fear of death is no more than a lash on
the slave’s back—and so one does not freely accept salvation, but is compelled.
The necessity referred to here is neither logical nor causal Â�necessity—since a
person can still choose to do nothing—but, rather, the compulsion that an
owner can exert over slaves. The layman had thought that “memory of death”
equated to “fear of death,” and it is on this disjunction that John’s admittedly coy
and oblique responses operate to highlight two possible ways of living—as a
slave or as a free person—both of which ultimately reduce to one’s relationship
with death.
The question, really, is what difference does all this make? Why spend so
much time exhorting someone to voluntary memory of death and cultivation
of good works? What, really, distinguishes “salvations?” Only after digesting
this distinction does the layman, realizing that not all “salvations” are equal,
think to ask the question that he ought to have asked in the first place: “How
much does voluntary [τὸ ἐκούσιον] salvation benefit the soul, and how much
does compulsory [τὸ ἀκούσιον] salvation benefit it?” John responds simply:
“Voluntary salvation perfectly delivers the soul from death, but involuntary
salvation diminishes from this grace and is found to be inferior.”18 What does a
voluntary memory of death accomplish? Deliverance from death. Strains of Sen-
ecan praemeditatio can be heard in John’s distinction between habits that one
develops by choice and events that so deeply affect the soul one cannot help but
respond. The preparation for death that “memory of death” accomplishes,
delivers the monk from the terror of death that would force him to act in certain
ways out of terror.
17
â•‡ resp. 639 (SC 468: 66); see also 790 (SC 468: 248–252). 18
â•‡ resp. 640 (SC 468: 66).
Investing an Inheritance
“To him who has, more will be given.” Barsanuphius and John elaborate a wider
index of virtues than authors thus far, toward which and in which the memory
of death at least indirectly aids progress, and they explicitly draw into the orbit
of its practice virtues that thus far have remained at the edge.
In keeping with ideas found already in the Vita Antonii and in some Desert
literature, Barsanuphius and John recommend the practice for acquiring vari-
ous other virtues, particularly endurance. Certainly, Barsanuphius implies that
memory of judgment aids in procuring “humility, obedience, subjection.”19 The
fact of future judgment helps frighten those who have been lazy or are wound-
ed into action and the attainment of better virtues than they have hitherto
found, while, as seen earlier, continuous practice of the memory of death culti-
vates the “fruit of mercy and good deeds.” Neither Barsanuphius nor John seem
to see a direct causal dependency of virtues on the memory of death. Rather,
the reason for its importance may be that the memory of judgment (tempered,
of course, with God’s mercy) breeds endurance while the memory of death as
mortality comforts those who find themselves in affliction.20 We are, perhaps,
not so far from Athanasius’ Antony who kept his hope green by contemplating
death. By cultivating endurance, the memory of judgment provides a perspec-
tive necessary to develop all the virtues. It may not itself be a virtue and it may
not directly inculcate any save fear of sin and willingness to endure suffering,
but those two virtues are, as Basil of Caesarea saw so clearly, necessary for pro-
curing all others. I will return later to the matter of endurance.
We have seen how, for Poemen especially, tears represent a penitential way of
life. Barsanuphius and John take up and expand that way of thinking. For
example, Barsanuphius comforts a confused monk who has, somehow or
another, been reading Origen and Evagrius insatiably, that it is not concerning
such speculative matters as they describe that he will give account. Instead, he
ought to “weep and mourn.”21 Speculative theology as Origen or Evagrius may
have conceived it is, in Barsanuphius’ opinion, often more dangerous than
helpful, though he is willing at times to engage in it.22 Tears, on the other hand,
are unquestionably beneficial. Along these lines, Jennifer L. Hevelone-Harper
describes Barsanuphius’ style of spiritual direction as “not allowing theological
speculations to distract his disciples from their task of personal spiritual
19
â•‡ resp. 379 (SC 450: 414).
20
â•‡See resp. 77 (on endurance in light of judgment and mercy), 123, and 689 (in light of
mortality).
21
â•‡ resp. 604 (SC 451: 824); on virtues of mourning see especially B. Müller (1997, 294–98);
Hausherr (1982, 121–56).
22
â•‡ See Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky (2006, 99–106); and, as a corrective to their assessment of
the Old Men as “anti-intellectual,” note resp. 137b, “On the ‘η’” which, according to the redactor, is
only a sampling of Barsanuphius’ more speculative mediations. On 137b, see de Angelis-Noah
(1983, 494–506).
discipline,” a description borne out by Barsanuphius’ tendency to forcibly bring

his correspondents back to their daily practice of virtues from the more ethe-
real spheres of controversial debates.23 But this daily practice involves more
than a few tears.
Why should mourning be so important? To begin with, Barsanuphius tells a
monk that “If you wish to wash all your pollutions, wash with tears, for these
wash every stain completely away.”24 He is comparing mourning to baptism—
except that, whereas baptism introduces a person to the Christian life, mourn-
ing is a practice, something that the monk can continue. It speaks, then, to the
problem of those sins that one accrues after baptism or, worse, after one’s
monastic profession. Recall Antony’s aerial trial: everything he had done prior
to his monastic confession was off limits to the accusing demons, but every-
thing after was under review. Antony passed because he was perfect, and the
demons could find nothing against him. Needless to say, most ascetics would
have a tougher trial, indeed. For them, there is a waiting bath of purification—
mourning and tears. It is a bold claim, certainly, to elevate mourning to such a
level, yet Barsanuphius has reason for it. He says of those who have found “true
weeping with compunction” that “war no longer comes upon them,” and later
they “are not at all bothered by war, whether among people or even prosti-
tutes—it [weeping] is with us and fights [for us].”25 If we recall Poemen’s descrip-
tion of the woman mourning at the graveside—if all the pleasures and
blandishments of the world came and presented themselves to her, they could
not move her. Her mourning was all-engrossing. Certainly, such engrossing
sadness could be a real problem, even a passion—like the Evagrian thoughts of
λυπή and ἀκηδία—but godly mourning, which takes no care for goods or family
but, rather, for repentance and the hope of spiritual goods, actually detaches a
person from worldly concerns. Thus, Barsanuphius says of mourning,
It also wipes out former faults and washes away stains. And unceasingly it guards
the man who has procured it with the name of God. And it banishes laughter and
distraction and obtains unceasing mourning [κλαυθμός]. For it is a shield repel-
ling all the “fiery darts of the Devil” (Eph 6.16).26
Barsanuphius, in yet another moment of boldness, has substituted “mourning”
(κλαυθμός) for Deutero-Paul’s “faith” (πίστις); mourning, Barsanuphius implies,
possesses a power like that of faith. It detaches the monk so completely from
the concerns of the present age that its greatest pleasures appear to be either
worthless or worse. Like baptism and faith together, tears wash away not
23
â•‡ Hevelone-Harper 2005, 26; see also resp. 58, 693, 694, 695, 699–701. Barsanuphius and John
alike attach less importance to doctrinal accuracy than, for example, Cyril of Scythopolis or John
Moschos (both staunch Chalcedonian anti-Origenists), and more to obedience to God’s com-
mandments as mediated through one’s spiritual father.
24
â•‡ resp. 148 (SC 427: 530–32). 25
â•‡ resp. 461 (SC 451: 554).
26
â•‡ resp. 461 (SC 451: 554).
only the stain of faults, but the much subtler taint of attachment to transient
pleasures.
John, too, connects mourning with detachment, saying, “‘To rejoice with
those who rejoice’ means to rejoice together with those establishing godly vir-
tue and to be glad with them in the hope of good things to come. ‘To weep with
those who weep’ (Rom 12.15) is to suffer together the repentance from sin with
those who sin.”27 One weeps, though, not out of hope for anything in the pres-
ent life. Rather weeping, like the memory of death and judgment, nourishes a
detachment predicated on the recognition not only of one’s own mortality but
of the transience of all present things and their conclusion in judgment. It pre-
cludes concern for passing things and even temptations because it demands a
constant awareness of one’s failures. Weeping for one’s sins certainly assists in
inculcating sobriety, humility, and with them patience and compassion for oth-
ers: the monk who sees his own sins and weeps for them has put himself below
the azimuth of demonic assault. No wonder, then, that John, as Poemen before
him, refers to monks simply as “mourners [Ὁι πενθοῦντες].”28
Importantly, Barsanuphius, like Poemen and others before him, founds
mourning on the memory of death and judgment. He writes, “Mourning wash-
es a person from his sins, but it comes with labour, through much effort and
endurance, and pondering the fearful judgment and eternal shame, and deny-
ing oneself.”29 Yes, mourning is powerful, but it is no “quick fix.” It comes from
the constant practice, which John so emphasized, of voluntarily remembering
death and judgment, and allowing this memory to affect one’s view of the pres-
ent life. It is interesting that mourning requires endurance—it operates precise-
ly within the framework of virtue set up by memory of death. Indeed, this fact
feeds the detachment wrought by mourning so much that even one’s body
becomes a matter of indifference. Moreover, John claims that those who mourn
take no thought for temporal possessions—they see things in a different light
and so recognize the unimportance of objects whose value and utility is bound-
ed by death—including their own bodies. The monastic does not pamper his
body, since it is destined for the dust, though neither should he hate his body as
though it were alien. Rather, as a part of himself, albeit a mortal one destined
for destruction, the body offers the monastic a instrument for cultivating
virtue.30
Barsanuphius and John take up the memory of death and judgment from
their Desert forebears and use it to explicitly develop, by the cultivation of
endurance and detachment (via mourning), a robust framework within which
the monk can achieve virtue. Memory of death and judgment is characterized
as a regular but general self-examination in light of God’s commands imaged in
the orders of one’s spiritual father. As such, it not only helps monks turn from
27
â•‡ resp. 675 (SC 468: 110). 28
â•‡ resp. 618 (SC 468: 40).
29
â•‡ resp. 257 (SC 450: 222). 30
â•‡So resp. 517–18.
sin, but makes them more freely obedient, humble, and perseverant. Many of
these virtues rest on a proper interpretation of the present world in relation to
eternity. Memory of death and judgment therefore fosters detachment above
all, an attitude that in keeping with the rigors of renunciation, keeps the world
at arm’s length. In an extension of the spirituality associated with Abba Poe-
men, the monk learns through contemplation of death and especially judg-
ment to mourn for his own sins and to effect repentance. This leads him to
realize how little transient pleasures benefit him and so reduces the power of
those pleasures by which the demons tempt. Mourning not only purifies the
monk like baptism, but defends him like a shield of faith. It requires the endur-
ance cultivated by memory of death and judgment and yet, by keeping the
monk in tension between the present and future ages, contemplating the disin-
tegration of the present and the judgment to come, mourning also feeds back
into the same constant contemplation of death and judgment which, according
to John, freely seeks out salvation through good deeds. It is a beautiful paradox
that the salvation sought through death is, in John’s words, a “complete deliver-
ance from death.”
THE MORTAL SELF AND THE LIMIT OF DEATH
Though he directs memory of death primarily toward judgment, Barsanuphius

by other means inscribes a remembrance of mortality indelibly into the monk’s
consciousness. More than we have seen among other authors, mortality refers
here not to an unforeseeable event that must befall the monk. Rather, mortality
provides the Gazan Fathers with a way of describing who and what a monk is,
both now and, paradoxically, after death. In this vein Barsanuphius draws on
but certainly expands Antony’s awareness of divine providence and Poemen’s
“penitential piety.” While Barsanuphius may remind disciples of their mortality
at times in order to construct or reinforce a relationship that gives him power
over them, we will see that, in fact, he develops this self-conscious muddiness
dialectically with the virtue of humility, which he applies equally to himself. To
demonstrate this dialectic, we will turn to Dorotheus of Gaza. Dorotheus was
primarily John’s disciple, but was also heavily influenced by Barsanuphius. He
left Thawatha sometime after John’s death and founded a monastery near
Maiouma—whether he did so because of personality conflict or some other
reason remains conjectural.31 Dorotheus develops an interpretation of mortal
31
â•‡ See Hevelone-Harper (2005, 72–76), which also claims that Dorotheus never actually left
Thawatha. Hers is an intriguing argument, but just as conjectural as the more accepted tradition of
his founding a new monastery.
identity at once consonant with and explanatory of Barsanuphius’ own, and

which highlights the existential importance of mortality even for the very holy.
It is a way of remind oneself of the irreducible contingency of being human and
the unbridgeable distance that even deification (which we will discuss at the
close of this chapter) leaves between oneself and God. We will begin, then, by
turning to one of Barsanuphius’ favorite verses of Scripture: Genesis 18.27.
Mortality and Contingency: “Then Abraham Spoke . . . ”

Taking up Barsanuphius’ scriptural predilections, we find numerous quota-
tions and allusions to Gen 18.27 (also Job 42.6 and Sir 17.32 LXX), and Abra-
ham’s self-identification as “earth and ashes [γῆ καὶ σποδός].”32 The reader of
Genesis would also have in mind God’s admonition to Adam: “you are earth
and unto earth you will return.” The identification of humanity with “earth and
ashes” recalls, therefore, both God’s formation of humans from the earth (Gen
2.7)—their origin, and the body decayed in the grave—their end. The whole of
mortality—the ontological and eternal condition of human contingency,
which, because “created” is subject to the possibility if not the event of annihi-
lation—is contained within the pungent image of “earth and ashes.”
Barsanuphius quotes Genesis 18.27 eleven times and alludes to it once, while
John quotes it three times. Each consistently employs it as a reminder of the
need for humility—a virtue which, together with obedience and endurance, is
certainly fundamental to theirs and others’ conceptions of ascetical life. For
example, in his earlier-referenced exchange with the monk confused by Origen-
ism, Barsanuphius counters the urge toward eschatological speculation with
the following admonition:
Let us concern ourselves with the account we will give of every word. For it says
that “you will render to each according to his works” (Rom 2.6). And again that
“We must appear before the judgment seat of Christ, that each may receive that
for which he has worked in the body, whether good or ill” (2 Cor 5.10). Con-
cerning these things we ought to be concerned, these things about which our
Fathers—those around Abba Poemen and those like him—were also concerned.
This effort includes: not thinking of oneself as somebody, not measuring oneself,
and regarding oneself as “earth and ashes.”33
Barsanuphius here founds proper self-understanding on contemplation of
future judgment. But he also refers to Abba Poemen, whose “penitential piety,”
as we have seen, especially emphasized humility and a consistently low opinion
32
â•‡ Barsanuphius quotes the verse(s) at resp. 48, 62, 71, 73, 100, 101, 125, 348, 360, 553, and 604.
John quotes the verse at 188, 456, and 469—where he quotes the rest of the verse and uses it to
show the virtue of silence. See also Neyt and de Angelis-Noah (1997 [SC 450], 78–81).
33
â•‡ resp. 604 (SC 451: 818–20).
of oneself predicated on expectation of God’s just judgment. Remembering

one’s position before God keeps a monk from falling into dangerous heresies,
because it reminds him that intellectual speculation for its own sake ends in the
opposite of Poemen’s virtues: he who concerns himself with Origenist doc-
trines “has as his concern holding himself to be a gnostic, becoming puffed-up,
reckoning himself and measuring himself in every work, and apostasizing
from humility.”34 Barsanuphius’ contrast between Origenist speculation and
striving after humility has its inspiration in earlier tradition, certainly, but Poe-
men nowhere (in any extent apophthegmata) refers to monks as “earth and
ashes.” That claim represents Barsanuphius’ unique addition and betrays the
biblically inspired filter through which he appropriates Poemen’s mode of
ascetic spirituality.
Though an emphasis on humility is not only compatible with but demand-
ed by Desert literature, its expression in terms of mortality is uniquely Gazan.
That is, Barsanuphius’ reference to “earth and ashes” is a claim about who and
what humans are. This claim in turn defines humility, which begins with
self-understanding: “humility says: ‘Who am I? I am earth and ashes.”’35 Else-
where Barsanuphius writes, “We desire to hold ourselves as we, in fact, are,
‘earth and’ dust [γῆν καὶ κονίαν].”36 Barsanuphius thus predicates humility not
only on practices of remembering future judgment, but on the existential fact
of mortality. John makes a similar move in response to an anonymous lay-
person who had asked him about the difference between the centurion who
would not suffer Christ to enter his home (Matthew 8.8) and Abraham who
begged his angelic (divine) guests to enter his tent (Genesis 18.1–16a)—how
is it that both are praised for what appear to be opposing actions? That is, if the
centurion was humble, what was Abraham? John responds unequivocally:
Both were perfect in faith in God and made proper use of the time with faith and
humility. For the patriarch Abraham also said that “I am earth and ashes.” And
considering himself thus he reveals that he did not consider himself worthy of
giving hospitality. And since he was still perfect, he received everyone.37
Abraham’s hospitality is revealed as humble by his existential self-reflection,
which told him that while he was unworthy to offer hospitality to angels, sub-
mission to the demands of love and custom required it. This recognition of
one’s lowly, fundamentally mortal condition, lies at the heart of Gazan humility.
As Lorenzo Perrone puts it, “The emphasis placed on these words . . . means
recognizing man’s constitutional precariousness and nothingness, and conse-
quently rejecting every claim for the self.”38 The idea is that pride and vainglory
34
â•‡ resp. 604 (SC 451: 820). 35
â•‡ resp. 48 (SC 426: 258), see also 61, 100, 101, and 360.
36
â•‡ resp. 61 (SC 426: 304).
37
â•‡ resp. 456 (SC 451: 544); see also 62 (SC 426: 314) where Barsanuphius explicitly adduces
Abraham as an exemplar of humility.
38
â•‡ Perrone (2004, 139).
find few footholds in someone who keeps constantly in mind his precarious
bodily condition—his need for food and sustenance, and the constant threat of
inevitable death with the bodily decay and memorial oblivion that follow.
In some letters the Old Men say “I am earth and ashes” in their own voices, as
a sort of self-identification. In these instances one gets the impression that they
are reminding themselves as much as their correspondent that, although fam-
ous and favored in God’s sight, they are still mortal men. Barsanuphius three
times calls himself “earth and ashes”: once when sending his “ἀνάλοβος” (a part
of his monastic garb depicting the cross) as a token of his spiritual presence—as
a relic, one might say; once when his correspondent was grieved that he had
only offered to bear half his spiritual burden, and not all; and once when his
brother had fallen ill and Barsanuphius rebukes him for accounting himself too
high on account of a famous relative (in this case, Barsanuphius himself).39
Barsanuphius sends the token, he bears half the burden—but he is only “earth
and ashes.” In these instances we wonder how much Barsanuphius and John’s
acclamations of humility and worthlessness are simply rhetorical tropes—
whether they really felt themselves so inferior even while asserting their spirit-
ual authority and acknowledging their own spiritual power. For example, Neyt
and de Angelis-Noah argue, in agreement with Perrone quoted earlier, that this
self-imposed epithet was a sign of Barsanuphius’ continuous humility, whatever
tone he may have taken with his correspondent.40
We later readers might think it a clever bit of rhetorical posturing aimed
at keeping power over correspondents, but Dorotheus—pupil of Barsanu-
phius, beloved son of John, future abbot and, perhaps, editor of their
Â�correspondence—in his one reference to Genesis 18.27 makes a compelling
plea for the old men’s sincerity. He says, “the nearer one draws to God, so
much so one sees oneself a sinner . . . Behold, so it is with the saints. As they
draw near to God, so much more they see themselves as sinners. For Abra-
ham, when he saw the Lord, called himself ‘earth and ashes.’”41 Dorotheus’
point concerns what we might call “relative position.” He gives as example
one who in Gaza is addressed as “my lord who holds first place [Κῦριε ὁ
προτεύων].” Such a one regards himself when at home as “great and first in
the city.” If that man traveled to Caesarea, he would consider himself “lesser
than the great,” and in Antioch merely “a common citizen and stranger.” If
that same man came to Constantinople, to the emperor himself, he would
consider himself “a beggar.” So it is with the saints. In relation to criminals
they might seem something, but no one made of earth is anything at all in
relation to God. If we apply this thinking back to Dorotheus’ spiritual men-
tors, neither Barsanuphius nor John need consider themselves great. Even
39
â•‡ resp. 71, 73, and 348 respectively.
40
â•‡ Neyt and de Angelis-Noah (1997 [SC 426], 54).
41
â•‡ Doctrinae Diversae 2.34: Pauli (2000, 174).
as they assert their own spiritual authority and offer spiritual patronage to
their correspondents, they regard themselves as nothing before God.
Dorotheus quite clearly distinguishes earthly glory and divine—the saints,
he says, “clothed in virtues, flee human glory that they might not be stained by
it.”42 Seeking glory from God, the saints keep his commandments and so obtain
holiness and a keen awareness of their own faults. That is, humility comes about
only from ascetical work properly directed toward spiritual accomplishment.
Dorotheus’ thinking on “progress” helps to explain this claim. One procures
virtues and, therefore, “advances” spiritually in light of and toward God’s judg-
ment. God’s judgment, however, is inscrutable, as Dorotheus explains. In his
teaching dedicated to “not judging one’s neighbor,” Dorotheus offers his audi-
ence a difficult ethical question: two little girls stolen from their parents and
sold to strangers, are raised in circumstances entirely opposite (one by a dan-
cing troupe and one by a nun) and grow up, he says, “one in the hands of God
and the other in the hands of the devil.” Does God, he asks rhetorically, judge
them by the same criteria?43 Dorotheus’ conclusion is very simple: “A human is
able to know nothing of the judgments of God, but God alone is the one who
perceives all things and is able to judge according to each one, just as he alone
knows.”44 Humans should not, therefore, make any assumptions about the out-
come of God’s judgments. To return to his discourse on humility, we find that
Dorotheus follows up his argument by recounting the death scene of Abba
Agathon: “When he was about to die, his brothers said to him, ‘And are you
afraid, Father?’ He said, ‘As far as I could I have tried to keep the command-
ments, but I am human. How do I know if my work is pleasing to God? For the
judgment of God is one thing and the judgment of humans another.’”45 The
saints, however holy and virtuous they appear to their disciples, know that,
ultimately, they must stand before the judgment of God. And though they have
done their best, God’s judgment remains inscrutable even to them. Dorotheus
uses the inscrutability of God’s judgments to argue strenuously for mercy and
tolerance toward one’s neighbor—a point that will come up again and again in
the Ladder—but he recognizes the obverse as well, that humility means an
increasingly negative self-awareness relative to God whose glory shines all the
more terrifyingly the nearer one comes to him.
While this contemplation of mortality has much in common with what we
have seen in Vita Antonii and Desert Literature, the tenor is changed. For
example, for Antony the condition of mortality could renew ascetic energy
while the uncertainty of life kept malaise from creeping in. Likewise, among
the Desert Fathers, we have seen how the same contemplation guides monks
42
43
â•‡ Doctrinae Diversae 6.73: Pauli (2000, 248–50).
44
45
â•‡ Doctrinae Diversae 2.37: Pauli (2000, 178), condensing Agathon 29 (PG 65: 117B). Doro-
theus does not include the whole deathbed dialogue, but leaves its salient points intact.
through the difficulties of renunciation and opens up the possibility of making

a “new beginning each day.” In the literature considered thus far, mortality has
opened up a space for ascetic operation reasonably unfettered by worldly
demands and future fears. Barsanuphius and John, as we saw in the last section
certainly took up this way of thinking, connecting mortality to judgment as a
spur to renunciation and denigration of temporal concerns, allowing ascetic
writers to favorably contrast the glory to come with present suffering or humili-
ation. However, Barsanuphius and John’s focus on “earth and ashes” means, as
we have seen, dwelling particularly on mortality as a mode of being proper to
humans. Rather than contrasting the humility of the present life with the glory
of ages to come, they speak of a human constitution that is eternally contingent
and, therefore eternally humble, whose humility, in fact, only increases in the
presence of God’s glory. In Gaza, then, mortality is made constituent of the
human condition, whether this or the other side of death. While the Ladder will
not take up this idea particularly, Climacus is keenly aware of the indissoluble
bond between soul and body, and presents his vision of spirituality as a funda-
mentally embodied one, and the monk as exuberantly contingent upon God’s
mercy now, later, before, and after judgment.
Basil Comes to Gaza: The Limit of Death

Contiguous with his emphasis on the monk’s mortal identity, Barsanuphius
dwells on physical death as the limit and extent of ascetic endeavor and, par-
ticularly, of obedience. In this he takes up ideas found scattered through Basil
of Caesarea’s ascetic works. This emphasis on the extent of obedience will also
play an important role in the Ladder.
In his Asceticon Magnum—a series of longer and shorter responses to ques-
tions about monastic life and organization—Basil of Caesarea adduced the
example of Christ’s obedience to the Father as normative for monastic obedi-
ence. Basil was especially fond of quoting Philippians 2.8: “He humbled him-
self, becoming obedient unto death, even death on a cross.”46 At one point, Basil
was asked “How should one be eager ‘to risk’ even ‘danger for the sake of ’ the
commandments ‘of the Lord’ (Acts 15.26; 2 Cor 11.26)?” His response is
telling:
In the first place by reminding oneself that the Lord himself “was obedient” to the
Father “even unto death” (Phil 2.8), and by being fully persuaded of the power
of the “commandment” of the Lord which “is eternal life” as it is written (John
12.50). Then also by believing in the Lord who said: “Whoever wants to save his
46
â•‡Basil, reg. fus. 28.2, 44, 55; reg. br. 69, 103, 116, 119, 152, 172, 176, 199, 206, 317. He also
quoted portions of Jesus’ statement on his mission for judgment at John 6.29–34 with some fre-
quency: reg. fus. 5.3; reg. br. 1, 60, 137, 138.
life, shall lose it, whoever loses his life for my sake and the sake of the Gospel, is
the one who shall save it” (Mark 8.35).47
In light of Christ’s example and the hope that obedience to him offers, death
holds little terror for Basil. Instead, his response encourages monks to look
beyond physical death to the far grander vistas of eternal life. While, for Basil,
“death” becomes the “measure of obedience” because it is the measure of
Christ’s obedience, as a physical event it is indifferent—merely one possible
outcome of the very important work of obedience.
In the foregoing chapters we have not seen much from Basil. In the Vita,
Antony displayed a remarkable indifference to death, and Athanasius deni-
grated “fear of death,” yet Antony’s disciples were deeply saddened at his depart-
ure, which suggests that not all were capable or at least prepared to accept such
indifference. Likewise, this pattern of thought is not so visible in Desert litera-
ture which, considering death most frequently in terms of terrifying images of
judgment, emphasized fear of an unknown eschatological verdict. Barsanu-
phius, however, takes up this more “Basilian” line of thought and makes endur-
ance unto death a crucial virtue that informs and characterizes all others.
Physical death functions as the limitation for spiritual progress, both as an end
toward which one strives and as the cessation of all possible action.
Matthew 10.22 and Endurance

Like Genesis 18.27, Matthew 10.22b is stitched into Barsanuphius’ thinking:
“He who endures to the end will be saved.” Barsanuphius quotes or alludes to
this verse eighteen times, making it one of the single most-cited verses in his
correspondence.48 By contrast, John only alludes to it once.49 This contrast sug-
gests that Matthew 10.22 expresses Barsanuphius’ unique perspective, disen-
gaged from a more general tradition, and his usage makes it clear that when he
says “end” he means “death.”
For Barsanuphius, lifelong endurance is, perhaps more than any other virtue,
salvific. For example, he comforts the sick old monk Andrew thus: “Be, there-
fore, trustful of the Lord that no one enduring until his end in this place is cast
out of the pen of sheep belonging to Christ our God (see John 10.26–29).”50
Why should endurance in the monastery (to which “this place” presumably
refers) be so salvific?
If brothers can endure the little difficulties of daily life together then they
develop patience and with it, peace and love—divine attributes given to them
by Christ for their labors.51 Barsanuphius envisions this community—not
47
â•‡Basil, reg. br. 199 (PG 31: 1213C–1216A, trans. Silvas [2006, 381]).
48
â•‡ resp. 14, 23, 27, 30, 55, 57, 59, 66, 74, 76, 90, 115, 118, 187, 214, 613, and 823.
49
â•‡ resp. 382 (SC 427: 356). 50
â•‡ resp. 77. 51
â•‡ resp. 57.
simply the sum of those living in a certain proximity, but the peaceful bond of
love that unifies them—as eternal and eschatological.52 It is the community of
spiritual fathers and children, of spiritual brethren—it is bounded by the limits
of virtue rather than by time or space. Endurance keeps monks in the “place”
(i.e., the constellation of activities and relationships) wherein they can make
progress, where they can practice virtues, where they can find salvation.53 Thus,
while “endurance” on its own is devoid of content (enduring in what, we might
ask), Barsanuphius has in mind the endurance of trials,54 illnesses,55 and the
long-suffering opposition of temptation—particularly the temptation to des-
pair or departure56—which keep the monk toiling and grant him the necessary
“faith . . . humility and long-suffering of endurance through which ‘he who
endures is saved.’”57 The point of endurance is that all virtue must be cultivated
until death. Endurance, essentially meaningless in isolation, stamps all virtues
with its own character.
The Boundary of Progress

Barsanuphius and John not only conceive of physical death as the “limit” of
labor, but also as the “boundary” beyond which labor is no longer possible. We
have already seen this classic topos in their teaching on the memory of mortal-
ity. This second way of conceiving death as “limit” assumes a radical opposition
of ages of the sort envisioned in Desert literature, sharpening the urgency of
ascetic labor. John of Beersheba’s enclosure prefigures and anticipates his eter-
nal rest. Yet we must keep in mind Barsanuphius’ aphoristic maxim: “Here the
toil, there the reward.”58 The proleptic experience of eschatological beatitude is,
as Daniel Hömbargen argues, at best partial, and its enjoyment should never be
cause for relaxation. He writes,
In earthly life a monk should not strive for spiritual knowledge, which is only a
reward in heaven, instead, he should dedicate himself exclusively to the ascetic
practice . . . this reveals a conception of the ascetic life which strongly opposes
that of Evagrius. When Evagrius divides the spiritual life into praktiké and knowl-
edge, the first stage is a preparation for the second, which is a goal to be reached
during this lifetime . . . a result of the ascetic practice and belongs to the spiritual
progress a monk should make on earth. For Barsanuphius, however, it is only a
reward bestowed after death.59
Hömbargen contrasts attitudes that see the summit of perfection as something
to be attained in this life with attitudes such as those of Barsanuphius that see
52
â•‡ resp. 77, 187; see also 214, 823.
53
â•‡ The obverse is certainly true: Barsanuphius tells a struggling monk that departure will mean
his fall (resp. 553–54).
54
â•‡ resp. 30, 66. 55
â•‡ resp. 74, 76, 90, 613.
56
â•‡ resp. 74, 57, 59, 214, 823. 57
â•‡ resp. 115 (SC 427: 442).
58
â•‡ resp. 600 (SC 451: 810). 59
â•‡ Hömbargen (2004, 179–80) .
perfection as something only received after Christ’s judgment. Rest—and with

it spiritual contemplation—are rewards reserved for heaven. For Barsanuphius
and John, the grave bounds the possibility of progress, of repentance, and, with
them, of salvation. And the distinction between this life and eternity remains
always absolute. The present life is a threshing floor and, though Christ win-
nows the wheat from the chaff in this present life, the results must await the
eschatological resurrection.
There is an ambiguity in the phrase “unto death” (ἕως or μέχρι θανάτου), as the
prepositions can mean either “until” (in a temporal sense) or “as far as” (in a spa-
tial sense). One may endure “until one’s death,” meaning “as long as one is alive,”
or “so far as death,” meaning “even if this action leads to death or one dies while
doing it.” Barsanuphius tells Andrew that being a monastic means giving oneself
entirely to God, and that means holding nothing back—not even care for one’s
bodily health. Barsanuphius says:
If you truly believe that God has carefully led you here, believe in him as your
seal, “casting all your care on him” (1 Pet. 5.7), and he himself will ordain all
things pertaining to you as he wishes . . . He who gives himself to God with his
whole heart (see Jer 24.7, Wis 8.21) ought to give himself over to God even unto
death, for he [God] knows much more than us what benefits our soul and body.60
Monks offer up to God even their judgment of what is and is not good—a
point to which we will return shortly. Just as they relinquish personal prop-
erty to the monastery, monks offer their natural self-preservation to God. If
this self-offering ends in death, then that is to be accepted as the result of
God’s providential arrangement. Barsanuphius, however, is not an extremist:
the sick should not maintain the same regime as the healthy, but they should
not consider sickness an excuse to give up their monastic vocation entirely.61
Partly, Barsanuphius’ command to endure in monastic work, even if it entails
physical deterioration or death, comes from his firm eschatological hope,
predicated now on an Antonian assumption of the continuity of ages, that
God’s concern with individuals extends not only through the present life as
well as the next. Barsanuphius considers physical death far less important
than eternal beatitude, and in light of the latter, the former should be viewed
as a matter of indifference—simply the end of one’s work on earth.
While Barsanuphius’ use of Matthew 10.22 is unique, we have seen echoes of
his ideas in John’s emphasis on wholly giving oneself to God. To hold back out
of fear of suffering or even death leads to “duplicity” (διψυχία), a doubled and
fractured self, whereas the monk should be simple, whole, complete (ἁπλοῦν).
The unified identity for which monks labor in light of eschatological judgment
requires the indifference to physical death that only an equally eschatological
hope can provide.
60
â•‡ resp. 72 (SC 427: 346). 61
â•‡ resp. 77–78, 92, etc.
PRACTICING DEATH IN GAZA
So far, we traced the Old Men’s ideas on how monks engage with death: the
careful and restricted memory of judgment, and, especially, the limit and scope
of “godly endurance,” and the monk’s self-consciousness of his own mortal
condition. These ideas come together in the Gazan deployment of “death” as a
description of monastic practice. The conceptual framework of death—only
hinted at in Vita Antonii and traced in Desert literature—approaches norma-
tivity in Gaza. For Barsanuphius and John it is fair to say that to be a “monk” is
to “die” to oneself and others. Barsanuphius draws on death with some regular-
ity to describe the monk’s social status,62 and even describes his own cell as a
“cemetery” in which he rests, by God’s grace and his own struggle, from pas-
sions and temptations.63 Barsanuphius, emphasizing not only an opposition
but continuity between this life and the next, conceives of rest as both eschato-
logical and present—the hermit’s life is, when compared with the coenobite’s,
one of “rest,” though perfect rest is to be found only after death. Barsanuphius’
experience of rest now prefigures his experience beyond death and so his “rest”
and his freedom are, therefore, equatable with his status as “dead.” Yet, Barsanu-
phius reminds interlocutors—even in their “rest” they are mortal, earth and
ashes, struggling until their dying breath. The monk’s cell, paradoxically the
place of his struggle and his rest, becomes the nexus of heaven and earth, of
“time present and time future” in which the living anticipate their own mortal-
ity in hope of eternal beatitude beyond.
In this context, the Gazan Fathers conceive of monasticism as a “practice of
death” that implicates the ascetic life at all stages. They deploy death particular-
ly to describe the severance of relationships that entrance into the monastery
requires, and then to describe the lifelong denial of one’s will through obedi-
ence. The Old Men’s deployment of “death” draws together the practice of
remembering death and judgment, endurance in the monastic life, and the
monk’s mortal identity. Thus, in Gaza for the first time “death” plays a domi-
nant, even normative, role in conceptualizing ascetic spirituality.
Relationships Then and Now

A pious layman named Aelianus once asked the Old Men how to renounce the
world. Their correspondence is particularly intriguing, since Seridos’ last will
and testament named Aelianus as a possible successor after his death—under
the assumption that Aelianus would become a monk. Aelianus, however, was
unaware of Seridos’ will until, all the other possible successors having demurred,
his name alone remained. John then had Aelianus tonsured and he became not
62
â•‡ resp. 68, 130, 142. â•‡ resp. 141–42.
63
only brother but abbot of the monastery.64 The correspondence gives us a rather
nice “before-and-after” picture of what we have seen at work in the stories of
Abbas Anoub and Poemen, and their complicated relationship. We can see
with Aelianus how monastics understand and imagine the radical changes in
relationships and attachments that take place on entrance into a monastery.
Before becoming abbot, Aelianus was married with children and property. He
wondered, therefore, what should he do with his wife, children, and property?
John advises him simply: leave your wife to the care of her nephews, give her and
your children incomes appropriate for their expenses, and as for the rest, ask
Barsanuphius what to do. To preface this advice, though, John paraphrases Luke
9.62: “No one setting hand to plough and looking back is fit for the kingdom of
God.” He softens the blow somewhat, saying, “No one setting hand to plough
and looking back goes immediately.”65 He does not seem to have in mind fitness
for the kingdom of God,66 but the fact that Aelianus’ tone had implied an imme-
diate renunciation. Aelianus wants to become a monk now but if he remains
caught up in affairs of family and money he will only delay. Having opened gen-
tly, John then recalls the fate of Lot’s wife (Gen 19.26), and finally makes clear
just how serious the demands of renunciation are: “And again, the lion is caught
by a single hair, and the eagle by the tip of his talon.” It is all or nothing for Aeli-
anus. As long as he is concerned for his family and goods he will find neither the
“withdrawal” nor the “freedom from care” about which he originally wrote.
Rather, like the senator-turned-monk censured by Basil,67 he remains trapped
and in danger of the annihilation and exclusion exemplified by Lot’s wife.
So Aelianus writes to Barsanuphius, who responds in even stronger terms.
He too, recalls Lot, saying that “whoever is able to flee will be saved as Lot from
Sodom.” Barsanuphius then elaborates on what John had already said, describ-
ing (also in terms of Luke 9.62) the difference between those who stay in the
world and those who flee. He writes,
Those bound up with earthly things become earthly, but those renouncing them
ascend from the earth—therefore it is clear that they become heavenly (see 1 Cor
15.48). And we wretches do not understand, that even if we do not wish to with-
draw from these for God’s sake, we have to depart unwillingly in the hour of death.
Child, God’s command is that a person immediately cut off from all . . . “No one
putting hand to plough and turning back is fit for the kingdom of Heaven” (Luke
9.62). And again . . . “Let the dead bury their own dead” (Luke 9.60) and again
“Who loves father or mother more than me is unworthy of me” (Mat 10.37)68
Barsanuphius sharpens the dichotomy to which John had already pointed: either
flee the world and ascend to heaven, or stay and be destroyed. He appends an
interesting, albeit very traditional point in his distinction between renunciation
64
â•‡ On which see Hevelone-Harper (2005, 62–68). 65
â•‡ resp. 571 (SC 451: 746).
66
â•‡ Pace Chryssavgis 2006–07, 2: 152. 67
â•‡ Cassian 8 (PG 65: 245C–D).
68
â•‡ resp. 572 (SC 451: 750).
“for God’s sake” and “involuntary” renunciation. The latter recalls Evagrius’
description of the monk torn unwillingly away at death, and John’s reminder that
memory of death must be freely chosen.69 The former helps sever the attachments
to the material world that make death “involuntary.” One cannot “partially” with-
draw from the world—one cannot renounce a few things and retain others. Barsa-
nuphius sees no middle ground, and so he describes the situation in the absolute
terms of life and death.
Both Old Men recognize that the destruction of relationships is a painful
process that really does resemble death. John affirms the pain of severing rela-
tionships precisely because he recognizes the depth of the marital bond and,
therefore, just how much is required if someone like Aelianus is to become a
monk. To Theodore, who was distraught at leaving his family for monasticism,
he says,
It is written concerning man and woman that “The two will become one flesh”
(Gen 2.24). Therefore, just as if some bit of your own flesh were cut off, the rest
of your body would suffer for a while until the wound was healed and the pain
stopped, so also in this it is necessary for you to suffer for a time as if your flesh
were cut away from you.70
Barsanuphius responds to Theodore at the same time in a different manner. He
writes, “If you have chosen for yourself the model of one dead [τύπον νεκροῦ],
ask a corpse if it desires to see its own wife or if it judges her should she leave
and commit adultery. If you have ‘let the dead bury their own dead’ (Luke 9.60),
why aren’t you preaching the kingdom of God? How long will you sleep?”71
Here Barsanuphius returns to Luke 9.60 to argue that not only are those left
behind dead but, in a rather different way, so is the one who leaves them. Barsa-
nuphius takes up the haunting image of questioning the dead, which we have
seen put to such use by Macarius, to claim once more that renunciation and
withdrawal are absolutizing activities, permanent in their effects, and total in
their demands. They constitute a change no less radical, then, than death.
The extent to which Barsanuphius took his own advice is evident from his
treatment of his own family. In another letter, Barsanuphmius, who had a bio-
logical brother, refuses even to acknowledge that man’s existence. He writes,
“Concerning your brothers—I do not know that I have a brother except for
Jesus. Do you have brothers? Do with them as you wish, I have nothing to do
with it. If he himself [Jesus] says, ‘Who is my mother and who are my brothers?’
(Mat 12.48) is it for me to tell you to disobey God’s commandment and hold
friendship with fleshly brothers?”72 The command to leave behind one’s family
becomes the command of salvation, while the renunciation of earthly siblings
opens up the possibility of having Jesus as brother instead. Barsanuphius thus
69
â•‡ Discussed in Chapter 4. 70
â•‡ resp. 129 (SC 427: 486).
71
â•‡ resp. 130 (SC 427: 486). 72
â•‡ resp. 138 (SC 427: 512).
freights monastic profession with all the apocalyptic urgency that Jesus’ words
in the Gospels can carry.
The Character of New Relationships

Well and good—Barsanuphius and John have high hopes for those who would
enter monastic life. It is transformative and its first step is renunciation not only
of goods but of relationships as well. Of course, the monk is not alone, is he? He
enters a coenobium full of others struggling, undoubtedly, with the same
doubts, fears, desires, and memories as himself. Not only that, but the commu-
nity constitutes, by definition, a new constellation of relationships in which—
since obedience and brotherhood last until death—the monk is bound for life.
First and foremost, the monk must be obedient in all matters to his abbot.
Â�Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky have argued that the goal of monastic life was to
minimize social interaction for fear of distraction, factionalism, and other
related problems.73 Against this claim we may recall the monk, discussed earl-
ier, who wanted “stillness” (ἡσυχία) and was rebuffed by both Old Men, and told
to stay in the coenobium. Neither Old Man is concerned with minimizing rela-
tionships as such, but with carefully shaping them. If blood ties and social
friendships are replaced with an abbot and monastic brothers, how ought the
monk to conceive of his new family?
Both Barsanuphius and John are clear on the subject: a monk approaches
relationships in humility and without recourse to combative argument or
recrimination. A monk’s renunciation of biological and other conventional
relationships carves out the freedom needed to approach all relationships with
equal love and justice. Barsanuphius writes to his biological brother, whom we
have seen him reject elsewhere:
This tribulation [an illness] has partly come to you since you attributed impor-
tance to me, who am nothing, and to yourself: to me as some great man and to
yourself as the brother of such a man. Do you not know that we are children
of Adam’s transgression? And we are earth and ashes (Gen 18.27)? Give thanks
therefore to God who has driven you to this state. If we have the humility of Jesus,
we can say, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?” and what follows.74
Here, the monk’s “mortal identity” underpins Barsanuphius’ claims. No one is
“great,” or at least, no one is “greater,” since all are sinful, all mortal, all ultimate-
ly children of the same biological forefather. On that account Barsanuphius
countenances no favoritism based on pre-given “natural” (biological) or con-
ventional (business, friendly, marital) relationships. He accepts no convention
in order that he may approach the very possibility of relationship from an
entirely different direction: the imitation of Christ in humility and love.
73
â•‡ Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky (2006, 197–205). 74
â•‡ resp. 348 (SC 450: 368).
Barsanuphius’ final letter to John of Beersheba expresses this exquisitely with

an allusion to Macarius the Great’s advice: “Do not close the door, for mortifi-
cation lies not in closing the door but in closing the mouth.”75 Even an anchorite
such as John of Beersheba whose enclosure is presided over by Barsanuphius
(who saw no one at all save Seridos), must be open to others. Even Barsanu-
phius (at least prior to his final enclosure) remains open through correspond-
ence. As he says to Andrew, “‘Brother, your key opens my door,’ for I am witless
and I do not dare to hide the marvels of God!”76 Barsanuphius understands the
importance of maintaining relationships in the monastery even with difficult
brethren. For that reason, the dead must neither harbor resentment, nor allow
themselves the volatility of emotion nor arrogate to themselves positions of
authority.77 Instead, the monk must humble himself before others: “Whoever
wishes to please God cuts off his will before his neighbor, doing violence to
himself.”78 Indeed, humility may be the defining characteristic of monastic rela-
tionships. However, humility relies in its turn on the practice of death, which
means that the monk turns against himself the weapons with which he might
otherwise exert his will over others. The monk does not claim to teach or to
arbitrate disputes, regarding himself or others; he enters into no contracts—
which, Barsanuphius reminds one monk, “is not proper to monks, for . . . this
work is not proper to love.”79 Love for others requires, paradoxically, violence
toward oneself. Humans, as we have seen in Desert literature, whether inten-
tionally or not, exert their own fractured will, and so either one follows this will
(as in biological and business relationships), or one fights against it (as in Chris-
tian, and especially monastic relationships). Curiously, this battle against him-
self allows the monk to imitate Christ who suffered patiently, although, as John
reminds another correspondent, no one can equal Christ’s loving acceptance of
suffering.80
Lifelong endurance defines the character of monastic relationship, thus con-
necting relational “death” back to death as limit. Barsanuphius tells John of
Beersheba:
Brother, we are strangers, let us be strangers and not measure ourselves in an-
ything, and no one will attach importance to us and we will find rest. Having
joined us, wrestle in order to endure. For it says, “He who endures to the end will
be saved” (Mat 10.22). In all things struggle to die to every person and you will be
saved. And say to your thought: “I died and lie in the grave.”81
To be able to endure in a community one must die to everyone through self-
humiliation. Not simply, it seems, to those whom one leaves behind in the
75
â•‡ resp. 54 (SC 426: 272); alluding to Macarius the Great 16 (PG 65: 269B).
76
â•‡ resp. 90 (SC 427: 382); quoting Peter the Pionite 2 (PG 65: 376C).
77
â•‡ resp. 37, 68, 213 (possibly alluding to Poemen 76 [PG 65: 540D–541B]).
78
â•‡ resp. 121 (SC 427: 456). 79
â•‡ resp. 486 (SC 451: 596).
80
â•‡ resp. 483 (SC 451: 590). 81
â•‡ resp. 55 (SC 426:274); see also 38, 52, 505, and 553.
world, but even to one’s own monastic brethren. Barsanuphius surely echoes
the advice given Abba Poemen when he was tempted to anger by his brothers,
and the advice offered by Moses the Ethiopian to those who would be monks:
Remember always that you are already dead.82 It is only by counting oneself as
dead or as a stranger that the monk can live in a monastery in peace, because it
is only when he counts himself as dead that he can forge relationships in
humility.
Humility in relationships means especially that the monk never judges oth-
ers or even ask why their lot is different from his—he simply obeys and gives
thanks. As in Desert literature, relational “death” demands self-judgment, as
the young monk must learn to accuse himself constantly. In doing so he comes
to recognize his own sin and, if constantly preoccupied with that, finds no time
to see sin in others; thus he learns to see them as better than himself. The humil-
ity that comes from recognition of one’s earthy, sinful, and mortal condition,
enforces the practice of death and submission of oneself to others. In another
letter, Barsanuphius elaborates this living death in terms we have seen often
enough: “Whoever is among people and yet wishes to die to them, does not
judge, and does not despise anyone, and does not enforce his individual will—
this is what it means to die to all while among them.”83 Equanimity, meekness,
nonjudgment, self-accusation, an excised will, humility, and love—these char-
acterize the person who lives among others as one dead.
The Only Way to Salvation

Though it relies on and cultivates virtues such as humility, endurance, and
heavenly relationships, the monastic’s “death” itself revolves around one activ-
ity: the “cutting-off of the (individual) will.” Irénée Hausherr remarked that for
the Gazan Fathers this activity is “the central thought of their spirituality . . .
this principle orders the whole of their doctrine.”84 John remarks at one point:
“What follows is godly progress: to cut off the will, so that, even in good things,
a monk cuts off his own and instead does that of the saints; in evil things, of his
own he flees what is improper.”85 Concerning “progress” (προκοπή), a great con-
cern for the Gazan Fathers,86 Lorenzo Perrone argues that it refers not to “an
established pattern of progressive stages” but rather to “one essential message
continuously driven home: the “way” the pupil has to follow.” This “way” con-
sists, Perrone concludes, in “the progressive renunciation of one’s personal will.
It is no exaggeration to say that precisely this ‘way’ marks for them the essence
of Christianity.” Indeed, while we find the motif in earlier Desert literature, “no
82
â•‡ As discussed in Chapter 4, in this volume: Poemen 76, Moses 12, etc.
83
â•‡ resp. 151 (SC 427: 538). 84
â•‡ Hausherr (1937, 1257). 85
â•‡ resp. 380 (SC 450: 414).
86
â•‡ Discussed in resp. 2, 21, 89,122, 160, 197, 202, 203, 250, 278, 383, 496, 600, etc.
other source of ancient monasticism so radically insists on the ‘cutting away’ of

the will . . . as embodying the quintessence of the way to perfection.”87 “Pro-
gress” refers, not to cutting off one’s individual will once for all, rather, it is more
like a continual “shaving away” of the will, one desire and attachment at a time.
If Gaza makes one great contribution to monastic spirituality, it is certainly
this absolute focus on cutting off one’s will. But, if that is the central principal of
Gazan asceticism, we find that it also operates at the entangled center of the
myriad ways in which Barsanuphus and John deploy the language of death.
Aryeh Kofsky remarks in passing that “overall, it seems that Barsanuphius and
John are less interested in the will of the flesh—namely, desires and passions—
and more interested in cutting out the personal will per se.”88 This point could
not be more important. As with the Desert Fathers, cutting off the individual
will has less to do with renouncing objects of desire or choice than with the
destruction and recreation of the broken and fractured process of choice itself,
a process that the Great Old Men refer to as death and resurrection. Thus, to
understand how and why “cutting off the will” centers Gazan asceticism, it is
necessary to appreciate its meaning in the context of the practice of death.
Barsanuphius contextualizes the process of cutting off one’s will within the
more general framework of dying for God’s sake to oneself and to the world.
Barsanuphius expresses this idea beautifully to Andrew. Andrew has asked
Barsanuphius to forgive all his sins and Barsanuphius has already responded
that God is forgiving so long as Andrew perseveres. Andrew, concerned that
Barsanuphius avoided his question, put it to him a second time.89 Barsanuphius
responds rather more clearly, saying (effectively) that God alone bestows for-
giveness, but that in order to appreciate and hold on to that gift, Andrew must
order his life appropriately. Unsurprisingly, Barsanuphius then describes the
radical internal reorganization required of one who “has tasted” God’s gifts,
saying that “he becomes stranger to the ‘old self ’ (Col 3.9), being crucified to the
world, and the world to him (see Gal 6.18), living always in the Lord.” Desire for
God’s gift of forgiveness requires a radical death to oneself and the world which,
far from an inactive or emptied state, is life in the Lord. In light of this, Barsanu-
phius counsels Andrew to enter wholeheartedly into the self-crucifixion that
makes him live in Christ:
Therefore, brother, hate completely that you may love completely, depart entirely
and draw near entirely, despise adoption that you may receive adoption (Rom
8.23, Gal 4.5). Stop doing [your?] will and do [God’s?] will [Ἄφες τὸ ποιῆσαι θέλημα
καὶ ποίησον θέλημα], cut yourself off and bind yourself [together], put yourself to
87
â•‡ Perrone (2004, 135–37); Kofsky (2006, 332–33) agrees.
88
â•‡ Kofsky (2006, 336); expanding on Perrone (2004, 142–43).
89
â•‡ Barsanuphius devotes five letters (resp. 111–15) to Andrew’s apparently persistent worry
about being forgiven. In them he consistently attempts to redirect Andrew’s attention away from
his own ability (or lack thereof) to procure forgiveness toward a profounder appreciation of God’s
gifts and the sort of life that responds properly to them.
death and make yourself alive (see 1 Kgds 2.6), forget yourself and know yourself.
And behold you have the works of a monk.90
While he seems generally to have in mind something like the gospel paradox of
hating mother, father, and brother and yet loving one’s neighbor and enemy,
Barsanuphius’ language is ambiguous. It is, for example, possible that he means
to leave off one’s individual will in order to do God’s will. It is also possible that
the transformative power of crucifixion to the world falls between the first term
of each pair and the second. Between perfect hate and perfect love the monk
must develop the tranquility, which John ascribed to Barsanuphius. So also
between casting aside and taking up a will, whether one’s own or God’s, this
same radical transformation must take place, which makes one’s individual will
like the godly will of the saints.91 This transformation is as painful and complete
as amputation and death, yet gives way by the mystery of God’s grace to life and
wholeness. Barsanuphius’ language recalls Aelianus’ severance of familial rela-
tionships, but here the cut goes far deeper. The monk must cut himself down to
nothing—must die—in order to become whole, carefree, alive, able to love.
Before this transformation, even attempting God’s will would come from self-
ishness, a point which Barsanuphius makes explicitly elsewhere.92 After this
transformation, even doing one’s “own” will would be merely to do God’s will
with which, as we shall see later, the monk has replaced his individual will. The
excision of will constitutes the deepest, most fundamental layer of the trans-
formative death that leads the monk into true life.
For the Gazan Fathers, cutting off one’s will means rejecting not only specific
desires and hopes, but even the capacity for judgment by which one chooses to
accept or reject those desires. In this regard they both accept and expand on
Desert ideas of rejecting the θελήματα—ambiguous objects of will and, as I have
argued as regards Desert literature, expressive of a fracturing of the process of
willing itself. For example, in one exchange, John tacitly agrees with Basil of
Caesarea’s brief commentary on Matthew 23.25–26 and 2 Corinthians 7.1, both
of which exhort a purification of both interior and exterior aspects of the
human person. Basil had simply pointed out “that it is impossible for one who
is attached to any visible thing, or for one held by something which draws him
even the littlest bit from a command of God, to become a disciple of the Lord.”93
John’s correspondent mentions this passage and asks whether to pursue a debt
owed him by his relatives and which he wishes to give to the poor. He clearly
understands enough to realize that pursuing accounts receivable is probably
the sort of thing Basil had in mind as attachment to the world.94 John responds
with his characteristic laconism: “If you do not cut off the fleshly mind and
90
â•‡ resp. 112 (SC 427: 438). 91
â•‡ resp. 380 (SC 450:414). 92
â•‡ resp. 66.
93
â•‡ Basil of Caesarea, moralia 2.2 (PG 31: 705AB). 94
â•‡ See Basil, reg. fus. 9.
receive a little godly impudence [ἀναίδειαν κατὰ Θεόν], you will also fall into
people-pleasing. May God grant you strength to do his will in all matters.
Amen.”95 It is hard to know what to make of John’s answer. I think that, since he
hopes that this monk will do God’s will in everything, and not his own, that he
will not pursue matters with his relatives—however noble his own motivations
may be, they remain expressions of one’s individual will, which, like the “fleshly
mind” must be cut off entirely. John’s response seems to pick up where Basil’s
commentary leaves off. If a person must be detached from every worldly con-
straint, he must ultimately detach himself even from his individual will and
that means that he must reject his own seemingly noble inclinations. If done
out of one’s individual will, even alms for the poor remain an act of “the fleshly
mind.”
Not only do they call it “death,” but Barsanuphius also founds excision of
one’s will on the memory of death. A monk asks him “Be merciful with me,
master, and tell me how I can be saved in this time, for a thought of terror
ascends to my heart. What therefore do you command that I do?” This monk’s
terror recalls those three brothers who visit Sisoes only to be rebuked for their
undue fear of punishment.96 Barsanuphius takes a somewhat different tack:
At all times if a person can cut off his will in everything, and have a humble heart
and hold death always before his eyes, he can be saved by the grace of God. And
wherever he may be, terror will not master him. For such a person “forgets those
things which lay behind and stretches toward those which lie before him” (Phil
3.13). Do these things and you will be saved without care [ἀμερίμνως] through God.97
Here, Barsanuphius treats excision of will as one of three activities necessary
for salvation. Humility, the cutting-off of one’s will, and memory of death, com-
bine to keep a person from terror at the prospect of perhaps not being saved,
and compel him to look forward rather than back. Those things that lie behind
are, most likely, past sins and, perhaps more importantly, the power which their
memory exerts over a person. We are, with Barsanuphius, not far from the
concerns advanced by Evagrius and Mark. The memory of sin could easily lead
to fear concerning salvation and, if unchecked, to terror and despair. By remem-
bering death, the monk keeps in mind not only that judgment is coming, but
that it has not yet happened, and so it becomes possible to attain virtue, since
he knows time to be left for progress. Looking forward is important but, as we
shall see in the Ladder, self-examination cannot cease from being retrospec-
tive, and there are times when, Climacus will argue, a little terror is a good
thing.
95
â•‡ resp. 319 (SC 450: 316). 96
â•‡ Sisoes 19, discussed in Chapter 4.
97
â•‡ resp. 232 (SC 450: 160); similar is 554 (by John).
Obedience: A How-to Guide to Excising the Will

We have already seen that, among the Desert Fathers, obedience presented
both opportunity and means of cutting off one’s individual will and so of attain-
ing the virtues of humility, patience, and discernment. The Gazan Fathers con-
tinue in precisely that vein, except that they explicitly bring obedience under
the heading of death. Though obedience is without doubt dear to Barsanuphi-
us,98 John speaks of it more consistently and in broader terms, so this section
will focus on John’s letters.
For John and Barsanuphius both, cutting off the will means obeying one’s
spiritual father, whether abbot or, in the case of abbots and hermits, another
monk.99 John’s all-embracing vision of obedience holds together “excision of
will” for God and for one’s neighbor, since the abbot embodies both. As superior
over a monk, he represents God whose will the monk expects to find in the
abbot’s commands. As a man and fellow-monk, the abbot represents the “neigh-
bor,” that vague everyman figure whom the monk is called to love and before
whom he must humiliate himself. To be sure, the monk must also submit to his
brethren as though they, too, were “above” him, but none can supersede the
abbot whose authority is absolute. The monk’s new relationships define his life in
the monastic community, and his endurance there, as we have seen above, is
predicated on making and keeping peace with his brethren until death and, per-
haps most importantly, on living obediently until death. If a monk endures in
community, he endures under an abbot. Even if he seeks advice from another, as
many did with Barsanuphius and John, they were still ultimately responsible to
their own abbots—and, indeed, Barsanuphius and John support Seridos and his
successor Aelianus in every matter, even if they privately correct him.100 Endur-
ance until death really means obedience until death, as Barsanuphius says: “The
one who wishes to become his disciple (see Mat 16.24) must cultivate obedience
unto death.”101 This demand was leveled even at Abbot Seridos, whose obedience
to John “until death” provides the editor of the Gazan correspondence with a
perfect example of denying one’s individual will.102 Demands of obedience never
98
â•‡ See, for example, resp. 21, 34, 61, 549, 551.
99
â•‡ resp. 249, 253, 288, 318 (see N 290 and Syncletica 2), 549.
100
â•‡Concerning different styles of direction in Gaza, and distinctive self-consciousness of
authority, Neyt (1974, 343–56); and Perrone (2004, 144–47). While their distinctions are valid, as
far as obedience goes, the demands remain constant (so Hausherr [1937, 1258]). Nevertheless,
Barsanuphius and John, whatever they said in private to the abbot, publicly supported his author-
ity. The “chain of command,” as Hevelone-Harper calls it, was maintained with great care, and
only served to reinforce the absolute value of obedience (2005, 44–55). See also Chryssavgis
(1996, 126–30).
101
â•‡ resp. 359 (SC 450: 380); see also 288, 549, and 551 on obeying one’s abbot (or spiritual
father) unto death. It is in keeping with Barsanuphius’ commanding style that he conflates the
spiritual father with God—even in matters of life and death.
102
â•‡ resp. 188, 570c.
cease, even for those in authority—there is no “freedom from,” only “freedom

for” obedience.
Obedience is a lifelong condition whose character is such as to relativize
physical death to a matter of indifference: “Death is not death outside of sins,
but translation from suffering to rest, from darkness to ‘unspeakable light’103
and eternal life.”104 John connects this idea back to the Desert ideal of a “good
death,” saying, “If someone dies in the monastery with humility and obedience,
he will be saved through Christ. For Christ gives account for him.”105 Basil of
Caesarea’s treatment of death, discussed earlier, echoes through these words of
John’s. One who dies in obedience escapes judgment, precisely because he does
not do his individual will, he does God’s will, and so who would give account to
the Father but Christ? This idea will be of tremendous importance for John
Climacus.
The Will of God, Prayer, and the New Self

We have seen that the memory of death as judgment and mortality feeds into
the Gazan conception of ascetic renunciation as a “practice” of death. This
practice, in accordance with Barsanuphius and John’s emphases on death as the
limit of opportunity and extent of obedience, must be lifelong and complete.
The practice of death leaves no trace of the man who first entered the monas-
tery. That man is gone. The practice of death has as its core the emptying of the
layman, stripping him of his old identity, and readying him to receive a new,
monastic one. What, then, does he receive? Paradoxically, he gains his own self
back, now aligned with God’s will, and the result is what the Old Men some-
times call a “deified” human because the emergent monk accepts and accom-
plishes God’s will rather than a human one. For the Old Men it is always God’s
will that the monk prays may be done on earth as in heaven. John writes thus to
the wayward carpenter,
Brother, already it has been made clear to you that it is not beneficial for you to
depart from the coenobium. And now I’ll tell you that if you depart, you will
come to a fall. Therefore you know what you are doing. But if you desire in truth
to be saved, obtain humility, obedience, and indeed submission—that is, cutting
off the individual will—and you will live in heaven even when on earth.106
John’s advice draws together a number of threads that were laid out in the
foregoing sections. His closing phrase “in heaven and on earth [ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ
καὶ ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς]” is strikingly similar to the Byzantine text of Matthew 6.10 (the
Lord’s Prayer): “as in heaven and on earth [ὡς ἐν οὐρανῷ καὶ ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς].” The
103
â•‡ See Ps-Macarius, Collectio B 51.1.7 (GCS 56: 137).
104
â•‡ resp. 218 (SC 427: 670); see also resp. 219 and 223. â•‡ resp. 582 (SC 451: 774).
105
106
â•‡ resp. 554 (SC 451: 714).
similarity is that of recitation, and is likely intentional and certainly natural,

given that John is speaking about giving up one’s individual will. The full peti-
tion in the Lord’s Prayer is that God’s “will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”
Here, John implies that the monk lives “in heaven and on earth” precisely
because his life consists in doing not his individual will but God’s: “But, accord-
ing to the Apostle, godly will is to cut off the fleshly will.”107 His life becomes,
then, the active fulfillment of his own request to God.
The juxtaposition of earth and heaven corresponds to a juxtaposition of per-
sonal and divine wills. Barsanuphius claims that cutting off one’s will consti-
tutes the meaning of Christ’s admonition to “hate one’s own life” in order to
follow him. How else, he asks rhetorically, “does one hate his own life except by
cutting off his individual will for the Lord in all things, saying ‘Not as I will but
as you do’ (Mat 26.39)?”108 Barsanuphius, at another point, reminds his corres-
pondent that “If someone desires to impose his individual will he is a son of the
Devil, and if someone does the will of such a person, he does the Devil’s will
(see John 8.44).”109 The request to be delivered from the Evil One is, therefore, a
request for help in excising one’s individual will. The monk who accomplishes
his individual will becomes like Satan; the one who accomplishes God’s will
becomes a child of God. Between the two possibilities is the practice of death
by which the monk transitions from the old self, a child of the Devil, to the new
self created according to God.
We may conclude that at stake in renunciation is the development of a new
sort of person—a “heavenly” rather than an “earthly” human. John’s use of the
Lord’s Prayer suggests as much, while Barsanuphius’ language of “earthly”
and “heavenly,” intentionally recalls Paul’s eschatological juxtaposition of
Adam and Christ (1 Cor 15.47–56). Barsanuphius’ use of Paul’s typology
implies that the “heavenly” self is to be equated with the “new” self, and that,
at least to some extent, with Christ. However, rather than speaking of “now”
and “then,” Barsanuphius transmutes Paul’s temporal language into a spatial
metaphor. No futurity delays the acquisition of a “heavenly” self. It is not only
possible here and now, it is the essential goal of monastic renunciation. Nev-
ertheless, it requires a lifelong process of transformation through obedience,
self-examination, and repentance. His renunciatory “death to the world”
merely clarifies the monk’s vision, allowing him to see how deep his ties to the
“earthly” world run. He will spend his life cutting them and taking on, little
by little, a “heavenly” lifestyle.
But this change is the work of deification, of becoming in some sense divine.
Barsanuphius, in one of his rare but important references to the widespread
107
â•‡ resp. 173 (SC 427: 576); see Eph 2.3.
108
â•‡ resp. 572 (SC 451: 752); see Diadochus, perf. 66 (Rutherford [2000, 86–88]).
109
â•‡ resp. 551 (SC 451: 706).
(though often vaguely defined) Byzantine conceptualization of salvation as dei-

fication (θέωσις), concludes thus:
The Son of God became human for you; through him, become God.110 For he
wishes it, when you do. And I pray that you be freed from “the old self ” (Rom 6.6,
Eph 4.22, Col 3.9). But you are found in this region. If, therefore, you fight, the
Son of God has given you a mind—give him this for the sake of heaven, “seeking
things above, despising things below” (Col 3.2). There he is “at the right hand of
God” (Col 3.1) to where I pray that you attain, with all “those who love his name”
(Pss 68.37).111
Deification is not a topic on which Barsanuphius spends much time. Unsur-
prisingly, he assumes some notion of deification as the end of the Christian life,
but has little interest in exploring what, precisely, that notion might entail. Cer-
tainly, Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky argue from Barsanuphius’ few mentions
of it that “Deification (θέωσις) through mystical experience becomes the ultim-
ate monastic goal. It is also understood according to traditional monastic spir-
ituality as an imitation of the Son of God” or, as they put it later, “the total
self-transformation of a monk.”112 Though Barsanuphius has little interest in
defining deification, it is unlikely that mystical experience means the dream
visions and trance states that Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky think it does. Such
equations are essentially foreign to Byzantine soteriological thought, monastic
or otherwise.113 It would be more accurate to say that deification as total trans-
formation and imitation of Christ includes an intellectual, a relational, and
volitional element, as, indeed, the above quotation suggests. The transforma-
tion begins here and now, and, certainly, Barsanuphius would like to tell the
hermit to take on his eschatological and even deified identity immediately. But
he cannot, because the opposition of ages is too strictly delineated in Barsanu-
phius’ thought. Instead he can suggest a partial solution: to offer God the
“mind,” to think, if not actually dwell, in heaven. In doing so, the monk interi-
orly anticipates his eschatological dwelling, which will be heavenly in both
mind and body. The practice of death becomes the struggle to be freed of “the
old human” and so become like Christ. Or, as Barsanuphius puts it elsewhere,
from the “alpha” to the “omega,” from the beginning state to the perfect, from the
beginning of the road unto its completion, from the “putting off the old man with
its” desires (see Col 3.9) to the “putting on the new human fashioned according
to God” (Eph 4.24), from becoming a “stranger upon the” sensible “earth” (see
Jer 14.8) [to] becoming a citizen of heaven (see Phil 3.20), and an inheritor of the
noetic earth of the promises (see Mat 5.5).114
110
â•‡ Chryssavgis (2006–2007, 1: 208, n. 180) thinks Barsanuphius has in mind Athanasius, inc.
54.3 (SC 199: 458). Differences in phrasing make this identification improbable.
111
â•‡ resp. 199 (SC 427: 630).
112
â•‡ Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky (2006, 94 and 182).
113
â•‡ On which see especially Russell (2004). 114
â•‡ resp. 49 (SC 426: 262–64).
“Putting off the old human” corresponds to the beginning of ascetic struggle:
the total renunciation of the world, past relationship, goods, and desires. For
this to work, the monk’s gaze passes to heaven only through the refractory
prism of divine judgment. Because eternity divides according to actions and
dispositions developed in the present life, the monk who shifts his gaze and
with it his hopes, to heavenly goods, must live a life worthy of or at least in
accordance with those goods. Thus the intellectual, perceptual renunciation of
the world carries with it a totalizing ethical demand, that the monk actually acts
in accordance with the mind given him by God. Because of this, the destruc-
tion of the old self—a process of dying—is not the end. It only enables the
monk to put on a “new” self, which Barsanuphius considers to be more proper-
ly human than the old one, and, it seems, certainly godlike, deified.
Death, then, leads to the formation of a properly human being—which is
also a god. Ceasing to do his individual will, the monk accomplishes God’s;
giving up his blood relations, he is adopted as a son of God. The monk who
learns to cut off his individual will obtains humility, with which goes compas-
sion for neighbors, refusal to judge others, a recollection of one’s own sin, a
constant remembrance of one’s own sin. It also means obtaining the ability to
hold oneself as a mortal and sinful human being who, whatever his apparent
accomplishments, expects death and judgment, and stands in need of God’s
grace and love. This existential construction of death as the process of renovat-
ing the human being will be, for John Climacus, the central and guiding prin-
cipal of ascetic spirituality. He will, however, go further than Gaza, drawing in
not only obedience and the cutting off of the will, but failures in both, and
repentance as well.
AMBIGUIT Y AND CRUCIFIXION
To conclude, I want to show briefly how Barsanuphius and John’s deployment

of the language of death refers especially to Christ’s unique death. The Vita
Antonii’s pointedly participatory representation of the holy man constructs
spirituality in mimetic terms—Antony becomes the “physician of Egypt” in
imitation of and by participation in Christ’s work as the “physician of the world.”
The imitation of Christ, however, is a much less prominent theme in Desert lit-
erature, and even then not really connected to death.115 However, a sense that
asceticism—like martyrdom and Christian spirituality more generally—means
imitating Christ and especially his death comes to the fore in Gazan literature.
115
â•‡ Though see N 203, Wortley (2013, 145). See also Diadochus, perf. 82: Rutherford (2000,
112–16); and Gould (1993, 183): these mostly point out that death leads to resurrection. Resurrec-
tion, though made possible by Christ, need not be construed as an “imitation” of Christ.
As Paula de Angelis-Noah says, for the Old Men “the ascetic ideal is the imita-
tion of Christ,”116 which Hevelone-Harper extends to the layperson as well.117
For the Old Men, then, monastic practice is the means by which one attains a
properly Christian identity, and their deployment of the language of death
reflects their concern with imitation of Christ. In doing so, they begin to clear a
way of monastic spirituality that we shall see carried through holistically in the
Ladder.
The Ambiguity of Death

To begin with, we cannot get too comfortable with a facile proclamation of the
monk as “dead.” Death, at least for Barsanuphius, holds as many negative con-
notations as it does positive ones. While he is certainly fond of describing the
monk as one who is dead, or has died to all, he also quotes Luke 9.60 with some
regularity.118 This verse reads, “But Jesus said to him, ‘Let the dead bury their
own dead; you go and proclaim the kingdom of God.’” When Barsanuphius
admonishes Theodore it is in these terms—he conceives monastic withdrawal
as a departure from the dead. John calls the monk to press forward in repent-
ance and obedience,119 to ignore bodily needs,120 and to remember the urgency
of ascetic progress. Barsanuphius several times couples Luke 9.60 with a com-
mand to “wake up” or a warning not to sleep too long. To Theodore, he argues
that a sign of having left the dead is to be awake; so those who have claimed to
do so ought to act like it. This wake-up call sometimes carries an eschatological
overtone. Barsanuphius writes to Euthymius, “Remember how the Lord says,
‘Leave the dead to bury their own dead.’ Pay attention to yourself, for those will
not deliver you in the fearful hour [ἐν τῇ ὥρᾳ τῇ φοβερᾷ]. Often I say to you,
‘wake from your heavy slumber—for you do not know at what hour the Lord
comes—so that he will find you prepared’ (see Luke 12.39–40).”121 Here, Barsa-
nuphius motivates his exhortation to “wake up’ by recourse to death (the “fear-
ful hour”) and Christ’s parousia with its implied judgment. Barsanuphius’ usage
of Luke 9.60 reinforces the urgency of ascetic withdrawal as well as the absolute
dichotomy that we have already seen in his language of “earth” and “heaven.”
What is interesting is that Barsanuphius is as happy to use the language of
“the dead” to describe those whose lifestyle ascetics renounce as he is ascet-
ics themselves. This points us to a crucial ambiguity in the language of death.
116
â•‡ De Angelis-Noah (1983, 505). See also Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky (2006, 93–94); Reg-
nault (1961, 320–21); and Neyt (2004, 156–57).
117
â•‡ Hevelone-Harper (2005, 105).
118
â•‡ John never alludes to Luke 9.60. It is a favorite only with Barsanuphius and its deployment,
therefore, a helpful witness to his theology.
119
â•‡ resp. 4, 37, 68, 495. 120
â•‡ resp. 517. 121
â•‡ resp. 138 (SC 427: 514).
In terms of ends, it can describe either a heavenly or a worldly, a saintly or a

sinful existence—death “to the world” and death “for the soul” are both, in
different senses, death. Of course, we have, in Chapter 2, within this volume,
seen this equivocity in Paul’s epistles as well as the development of alterna-
tive definitions of death by Philo, Clement, and Origen. Like those authors,
Barsanuphius talks about spiritual “death”—a death that comes not to the
body but the soul.122 A brief comparison of passages by Barsanuphius and
Ps-Macarius exemplifies this ambiguity. Ps-Macarius describes the soul no
longer bothered by passions in the following vivid terms:
It is as if someone dies in a city: neither does he hear the voice of those there or
the chatter of the sounds, but he has died once and for all and is transported to
another place, where there are no sounds or cries of the city. So also the soul,
when it is sacrificed and dies, in which city it resides and lives—the city of the
evil of the passions, neither does it hear the voice of the thoughts of darkness. No
longer does it hear in itself the chatter and cry of vain thought and perturbation
of spirits of darkness . . . Let us strive now also to be sacrificed by his power and
to die to the age of the wickedness of darkness . . .123
In this passage Ps-Macarius characterizes the insensibility of the corpse as anal-
ogous to ascetics shutting their senses to the thoughts and impulses of the pas-
sions and the demons. Evagrius does much the same, when he says: “Cast from
you every breath of wickedness and mightily mortify the members of your
flesh. In the same way as an enemy, once removed, does not present a cause of
fear, so also the body, being dead, does not stir up your soul. A dead body does
not know the pain of fire, nor a self-possessed man the pleasure of dead
desire.”124 Evagrius and Ps-Macarius both see in the image of the corpse a pow-
erful analogy for the tranquility of apatheia, for which monastics strive.
Barsanuphius, by contrast, uses a strikingly similar image to a precisely
opposite end. He tells a hermit who has asked “how someone comes to self-
control, and how he distinguishes physical infirmity from demonic, and how
much he ought to drink”:
I consider that no one can discern what you request of me, save the one who
comes up to this measure. For a living human has a sense of hotness and of cold-
ness in those things which are offered to it—but a dead body has no sense of these
things, for its sense is destroyed. Likewise, someone who learns them comes to
the measure of understanding of letters and knows to discern them—but some-
one who neither studies them neither comes to them, even if he asks and hears
ten thousand times what the letters are is still unable to grasp their meaning. So
also with what you have asked: however much you say to someone, it is more
necessary to gain the experience.125
122
â•‡ resp. 229, 230, 233 (using the language of “second death” from Revelation), 354, 379, 501
(where he adduces anger and lust as the twin causes of death), and 553.
123
â•‡Ps–Macarius, Collectio H, 1.8 (PTS 4: 9–10) 124
â•‡ spir. mal. 3 (PG 79: 1148B).
125
â•‡ resp. 154 (SC 427: 546).
Understanding the proper limits of even basic ascetic practices—such as self-

control in one’s diet, or real versus false physical exhaustion—requires discern-
ment only gained from lived experience. Thus, the image of the senseless corpse
serves very nicely as a negative example, since its insensibility, like the ignor-
ance of an illiterate, precludes the possibility of discernment. The corpse sounds
more like the “dead who bury their own dead” who are insensible not to temp-
tation but to the consequences of sin. Barsanuphius, at least, reminds us that
death remains a highly ambiguous image and certainly a precariously perched
conception of the ascetic life. There is a fine line between John’s “exemplar of the
corpse,” the “τύπον νεκροῦ” discussed earlier, and “the dead who bury their own
dead.” Barsanuphius never explains the distinction—and this, like deification,
is one of the points where his reticence in defining terms can be frustrating—
but, for him at least, the ambiguity appears to be inherent to the language of
death and, especially, the corpse.
Bearing the Death of Christ

What, then, is the distinction between good and bad metaphorical deaths? It is
worth recalling John’s description of Barsanuphius’ cell as his “cemetery.” He
claims that there Barsanuphius “rests from all passions. For he has died com-
pletely to sin, and his cell in which he has been captured [ζεζώγρηται] as in a
grave, for the name of Jesus.”126 Barsanuphius has not simply died, but died “for
the name of Jesus.” Barsanuphius dies for Jesus’ sake, just as he frames renunci-
ation freely chosen as being “for God’s sake.” But, more generally, his death is
contextualized in relation to Jesus. He does not undertake a self-serving asceti-
cism, but, rather, seeks to offer himself to Christ. We must view the Gazan
deployment of “practices of death” in view of service to Christ. For example,
John offers some illuminating advice on endurance and obedience. He says that
“Whoever seeks eternal life, should seek to keep Christ’s word ‘unto shedding
of blood’ (see Heb 12.4) in cutting off the individual will. For no one seeking the
individual will, which is displeasing to God, has a portion with Christ.”127 While
John’s language certainly recalls the phenomenon of Christian martyrdom,
more generally he is arguing that the fundamental practice of “cutting off one’s
will” is an act of obedience unto death. The metaphorical death to which the
ascetic submits becomes, therefore, the limit of his obedience to and, more
than that, his participation in Christ. Christ is the reference for ascetic practices
and, therefore, the criterion by which to determine whether one’s “death” is
beneficial or merely an expression of damnation.
We may go further, and say that the ascetic’s “death” is an act of imitation of
Christ performed out of obedient devotion. To explain, Barsanuphius writes to
126
â•‡ resp. 142 (SC 427: 520); so Brown (2008, 219). â•‡ resp. 583 (SC 451: 776).
127
John of Beersheba at a point when John has reprimanded Seridos for the latter’s
administration of the monastery. Barsanuphius responds with a scathing
rebuke, in which he brings together many of the points on which this chapter
has dwelt: he tells John to recall that he is “earth and ashes,” that he should weep
and mourn rather than slander, that he should never forget the abbot’s position
of responsibility for and authority over him, that he should count himself as
nothing, and more. Finally, Barsanuphius concludes: “Pass over from the world;
mount the cross. Be lifted from the earth (see John 3.14, 12.34), ‘shake off the
dust from your feet’ (Mat 10.14).”128
We have already seen the language of “passing over from the world”—it is the
language of dying to oneself. Here, though, Barsanuphius describes that pas-
sage in terms of an ascent to the cross and escape from hostile territory (the
reference to Mat 10.14). Christ’s crucifixion provides, here, the motive, the
model, and the means of ascetic practice: to become new one must die Christ’s
death. Another time, a layman asks Barsanuphius how to “worthily give thanks
to God.”129 Barsanuphius responds eloquently: “If people give thanks and gifts
for sensible [αἰσθητῶν] and corruptible deeds, what can we possibly offer to the
one crucified for us, if we wish to repay him? We ought to endure unto death for
him.”130 Barsanuphius, like Basil of Caesarea, takes Christ’s incarnate life and
death as a model of obedience, but Barsanuphius also claims, provocatively,
that all the enormities of monastic practice, and in particular its focus on
“dying” to oneself and the world, are founded on a principle not of legalism or
fear, but instead on gratitude for the indescribably great gift that God gave
humanity on the cross. Jesus’ crucifixion, which salvifically draws all human-
kind to himself, demands and describes the “death” that the monk must die.
At the heart of the practice of death, we have seen, is the excision of will. This,
too, the Old Men conceive as an imitation of Christ. Indeed, Barsanuphius
explains to Dorotheus that Matthew 16.24 (“Whoever desires to follow after
me, let him deny himself and take up his cross”) means “to cut off the will in all
things and not to think of oneself as someone.”131 Crucifixion, then, comes to
refer specifically to the core practices of monastic “death.” Moreover, both Bars-
anuphius and John cite John 6.38 (“I have come down from heaven not to do
my will but the will of the one sending me”) as an explanation of obedience and
the excision of will.132 It is an interesting facet of Gazan theology that Jesus the
teacher and nomothete is also the model of obedience. The Old Men derive this
conception from their scriptural formation and so, for them, obedience to one’s
128
â•‡ resp. 48 (SC 426: 260); see also 88, 112, 351.
129
â•‡ Perhaps taken from Tobit 13.11, more likely the source is liturgical, perhaps part of a “Litany
of Thanksgiving” and the priest’s prayer of thanksgiving after the Eucharist.
130
â•‡ resp. 404 (SC 451: 468). For the theme of thanksgiving more generally see 6, 20, 29, 70,
114–16, 137b, 182, and 199.
131
â•‡ resp. 257 (SC 450: 224).
132
â•‡ resp. 150 (by Barsanuphius) and 288 (by John); see Kofsky (2006, 335–36).
abbot—obedience even and, perhaps especially, unto death—is ultimately both

justifiable and comprehensible as an imitation of Christ’s obedience to the
Father in the incarnation, though with particular reference to his obedience
unto death. It is this latter aspect of Christ’s life that both Barsanuphius and
John, like Basil of Caesarea before them, draw specifically from Philippians 2.8.
The Great Old Men draw on Paul’s eulogy of Christ to portray endurance unto
death as singularly Christ-like and use the characterization to underpin vari-
ous virtues, of which thanksgiving to God is foremost. Thus, Jesus’ death exem-
plifies obedience and endurance, certainly, but it also models humility.
According to John, bearing one’s cross actually brings a monk to stillness
(ἡσυχία).133 Finally, humility, obedience, and endurance find their personal
confluence in Christ’s kenotic love. Barsanuphius sums up for Euthymius thus:
our great and heavenly doctor gave us cures and balms . . . Above all he gave us
humility which banishes every vainglory and “every exalted thing which sets it-
self against the knowledge of the glory of the Son of God” (2 Cor 10.5); obedience
which extinguishes all the “flaming darts of the enemy” (Eph 6.16);134 and cutting
off our will in all things for our neighbour . . . But the great balm, strengthening
“all the members” (see Rom 12.24, 1 Cor 12.12) and “healing every disease and
malady” (Mat 4.23), he gave us love like his own. For he himself became our
example. For it says, “He humbled himself, becoming not simply obedient, but
even unto death” (Phil 2.8). And “laying down his own life for us” (1 John 3.16),
he taught us, saying “Love one another, just as I have loved you” (John 13.34).135
Each virtue offers a cure for something, but all the virtues come together in the
self-giving work of cutting off one’s will for the sake of others. That is to say, the
curative powers of the virtues culminate in love. Barsanuphius here takes up
Phil 2.8, in which Deutero-Paul draws together humility and obedience in his
description of Christ’s actions. But Barsanuphius explicates their unity as love,
an interpretation he arrives at by referring the Deutero-Paul’s Christological
language back to Jesus’ words in John’s gospel, where love is expressed precisely
through death for others.
Conclusion: The Obedient Monk Meets the Crucified One

Barsanuphius takes up the metaphorical references that death holds for ascetic
practice and molds them to crucifixion. Revolving the constellation of ascetic
practices around Christ’s life, Barsanuphius distinguishes a spiritually beneficial
133
â•‡ resp. 314 (SC 450: 308).
134
â•‡ Again, Barsanuphius has substituted another virtue for Deutero–Paul’s “shield of faith.” In
resp. 461, Barsanuphius substitutes “weeping” and here “obedience.” It is illustrative of his her-
meneutic that he sometimes pastes virtues near to his own heart into a Pauline framework of
apocalyptic “spiritual warfare.”
135
â•‡ resp. 61 (SC 426: 304–306).
“death” from a state that simply expresses perdition. The ascetic dies out of
obedience to Christ and in thanksgiving for his death. However, the ascetic’s
“death” becomes a means of imitating Christ—to “die” for Christ means being
“crucified.” By such language, Barsanuphius contextualizes ascetic practices and
ideals within an incarnational framework. Thus “death”—and particularly that
obedient form of death that excises the will—underpins the Christ-like virtues
of obedience, humility, and love.
Barsanuphius, however, goes somewhat further, turning to the existential
radicality that attainment of those virtues implies: a slow, painful death on the
cross, but one whose very instrument becomes the means of a paradoxical vic-
tory. The cross works wonders, but the greatest wonder is that it not only kills
but that, since crucifixion is a death “to sin,” the cross brings the monk to
resurrection.
If you wish, therefore, not to limp [μὴ χωλεύειν], take the staff of the cross and
affix your hands to it and die, and you will no longer limp [οὐκέτι χωλαίνεις], for
a corpse does not limp. And if you have this staff, you have no need of a door-
keeper. For with this staff you may pursue not only the dogs, but also the leader
of the beasts, the “roaring lion” (1 Pet 5.8) . . . And whoever is nailed to this rod
is delivered completely from the hemorrhagic flow. For dying he dies to sin. And
what hope is expected after these things except the third-day resurrection? It is
enough for the one crucified to be raised with Jesus.136
The ascetic dies, yes, but not just any death. This death makes a person whole—
no longer “limping.” We have seen how, not only for Antony and the Desert
Fathers, but for Barsanuphius and John as well, the prospect of judgment
devalues temporal goods, health, even one’s own life. Barsanuphius continues
that line of thought here, spiritualizing the “limp” and arguing that through
death and whatever physical suffering it may entail one can become a whole
being. Death is not the end for the monk who imitates Christ’s death through
renunciation and obedience. Not even resurrection is the end. The end—if I
may call it that—is eternal life. In a passage that calls Paul to Gaza, and presages
the developments we shall see in the Ladder, Barsanuphius sums up the limi-
nal, transformative work of Christian monasticism:
Depart from oldness that you may find newness. And believe in Christ that you
may be crucified with him and killed with him and buried with him and raised
luminously with him and caught up gloriously from the earth with him and live
eternally with him.137
136
â•‡ resp. 61 (SC 426: 306). 137
â•‡ resp. 209 (SC 427: 654).
6
The Ladder of Divine Ascent:

Death Makes the Christian
With our weak spirits we should grow old in eternity if we were not kept
young by death.
G. K. Chesterton, Manalive
This study, thus far, has traced the development and elaboration of a “memory
of death” and a “practice” of death among Greek Christian ascetics. The mem-
ory of death incorporates contemplation of mortality and judgment. Contem-
plation of judgment means fear of punishment and hope of beatitude, and the
two seem to operate best together. At the same time, not all authors surveyed
think so highly of these practices, some out of mistrust of memory itself, some
on account of possibly extreme results—while Poemen might use the memory
of death to drive a monk to tears, Sisoes saw it driving the monk to despair. The
line between mourning and depression is seldom clear. More generally, though,
different authors focus spirituality in different ways. For example, Vita Antonii
emphasizes much more the consciousness of mortality, while Gaza focuses
almost exclusively on the judgment to which death gives way. Both might speak
of the “memory of death,” but they would not really mean the same thing by it.
Language of death has also been used as a conceptual framework to describe
ascetic practice as a whole. This did not arise in Vita Antonii, though Antony’s
admitions about “daily dying” hint at it. Some Desert Fathers speak of “dying”
to oneself or others, but others display ambivalence about the language of
death. This can be because, when the Desert Fathers describe asceticism as
“death” they rely implicitly on an optimistic assessment of what renunciation
can accomplish. Or it can be because of differing attitudes toward convention.
For example, while Sarapion the Syndonite might have flouted custom in man-
ner worthy of Diogenes himself, others, Athanasius and Barsanuphius among
them, would heartily reject such Cynic moves. For them, asceticism operates
through careful reconstruction of social mores and not the haphazard rejection
of all mores: all might use metaphors of “death” for monastic practices, but they
The Ladder of Divine Ascent: Death Makes the Christian 183
would actually intend different practices. Certainly, the Gazan Fathers classify
under ways of “dying,” ideas common in the Desert literature—severance of
relationships, contemplation of spiritual things, and the denial of one’s individ-
ual will by means of obedience. Moreover, Barsanuphius, following Basil’s
Asceticon, sees death as the limit of withdrawal and, especially, obedience. That
being said, the Gazan Fathers do not resolve the tensions that emerged in Des-
ert literature. Rather, they take up one side of the tension and pull on it very
hard. Moreover, Barsanuphius’ frustrating reticence in defining terms (a reti-
cence which, as we shall see, Climacus by no means shares), kept the ambigu-
ities of death from being fleshed out, and it is even possible that Barsanuphius’
use hints at the same kind of mistrust found in Desert literature.
So, as we turn again to John Climacus, we have elaborated not one but several
trajectories in tradition, all of which increasingly use language of death to
motivate, develop, and describe the aims and ideals, as well as the practices of
Christian asceticism. Nevertheless, there is as much ambiguity to death and
ambivalence toward its achievements as there is engagement with and practice
of it. A number of different threads of thought have been developed, and, as he
does with desert psychology, with monastic organization, and with so much
else in his literary and theological inheritance, Climacus weaves these strands
together into an organically unified and coherent whole. Climacus by no means
excises the ambiguities and ambivalences of other authors—his is a garment of
one piece, yes, but with rough edges.
In this final chapter, therefore, I show that, for Climacus, death is not one
among many means of cultivating the ascetic life. Nor is it beholden to high
expectations that are too often dashed against the rocky struggle of daily
monastic life. Rather, he draws on, molds, and even harmonizes the themes and
material laid out in the earlier chapters to craft a comprehensive vision of
asceticism as imitation of Christ. I argue first, that his vision takes shape
through an engagement with time made possible by the memory of mortality
and judgment. I then show that the monk works out this engagement as a prac-
tice of death in obedience. Finally, I show that Climacus conceives of monastic
identity as an imitation of Christ through the practice of death, and that this
lifestyle incorporates repentance that allows for failures and earthy realism
about what is and is not achievable for ascetics.
THE TEMPORAL AND ICONIC FRAMEWORK

OF THE ASCETIC LIFE
This first section concerns the memory of death and judgment, and shows how
it creates a framework within which ascetic progress is possible. We will exam-
ine a few tales to which Climacus devotes an inordinate amount of space in a
treatise where few stories are given more than the hint of shape. The first depicts
the death of a penitent monk that occurs in a special penal monastic founda-
tion that Climacus calls “the Prison.” We will turn then to three visions or ecsta-
sies: two experienced by unnamed monks of Egypt and Tholas; and one by
Hesychius the Horebite, a companion of John at Sinai. The final scene depicts
the surprising death of a holy old man, Stephen, whom John clearly held in
high esteem. The first will show how the sensible world images the spiritual,
and the temporal the eternal. The interlude will show how death as an event of
mortality delays what the first scene shows as already present, opening up the
futurity that death implies. The final scene will show the importance of the past
for the monk moving forward—it will demonstrate the “retrospective” nature
of the ascetic life. In the Ladder, we shall see past, present, and future all merge
in the monk’s engagement with death and make possible the kind of self-(un)
fashioning we have seen so much of in Desert and Gazan literature.
Overture: Death in the Desert

While this sections concerns the imagination and memory of death, in order to
explain what Climacus has in mind, we will proceed by examining death-
scenes. Since we have not dwelt on such scenes in other literature, save for Eva-
grius and Theophilus’ “visions” and Antony’s own paradigmatic death in Vita
Antonii, we need to pause and get acquainted with the tropes of dying in the
desert. Against the common themes and expectations of deaths, Climacus’ sub-
versive achievement will be more readily apparent.
Good and Bad Death

Desert death scenes divide, broadly, into “good” and “bad” deaths, in which
many of the usual signs by which witnesses would attempt to discern or com-
ment on the status of the departed, are visible, yes, but highly spiritualized.
Relatives cannot be present, though fellow ascetics might be; burial is of no
importance; sickness, violence, and mourning are often signs of nothing.
Instead, Desert literature focuses on the ascetic’s attitude toward his own death,
which, as with Stoic philosophers, expresses his way of life—either as prepared
or unprepared for death and the judgment that follows.
For the prepared, death may almost be another episode in his life. Some texts
describe the monk dying in the midst of his work, as Pambo in the Historia
lausiaca: “After a little while the man of God fell asleep, not from an attack of
fever, nor from any illness, but while he was stitching up a basket, at the age of
seventy.”1 Elsewhere, Paphnutius seems almost to die simply because he cannot
1
â•‡ h. Laus. 10.5: Bartelink (1974, 48); Pambo’s age is almost certainly a biblical allusion to the
length of life divinely ordained for humans. See the story of Chaeremon at 47.4.
continue his work: “When he had also sent this man [a disciple] on ahead to
heaven, Paphnutius himself lost the will to live, for he was no longer able to
practise ascesis.”2 Paphnutius and Pambo die as they lived, allowing the event of
death to express the sort of character they had cultivated. A tale of Arsenius
illustrates this perfectly. He died weeping, but this was not a sign of his impiety
or unpreparedness. Rather, it was the final expression of a man who “had a
crevice in his chest carved out by the tears she shed his whole life.” His disciples
saw him weeping at death and asked him “Truly, Father, are you also afraid?”
They could not fathom that such a man should be afraid, but Arsenius’ response
was telling: “My fear at this hour has been mine since I first became a monk.”3
Arsenius’ fear is consonant with the actions and attitudes he had displayed in
life, and, though it surprises his disciples, his dying words and attitude perfectly
express his lifelong ascesis.
The story of Pambo illustrates another facet of the “good” death. The monk is
not described as “dying,” but simply “falls asleep” or “surrenders his soul.”4 In
one monastery, apparently, “the monks within the walls were such saints that
all could work miracles and none of them ever fell ill before he died. On the
contrary, when the time came for each to depart, he announced it beforehand
to all the others and then lay down and fell asleep.”5 When Antony died, he was
joyful, “like one greeting his dearest friends.”6 At the point of death, Sisoes’ face
“shone like the sun.”7 The ascetic approaches death knowing two things: that
death leads to judgment and the possibility of beatitude, and that he has spent
his life seeking and preparing for exactly that. Thus, the ascetic approaches
death calmly, almost voluntarily, with the same imperturbable will with which
he has approached everything in life. If he is afraid of death it is only because
the fear of death was always his tool for living freely, as one already dead. Sum-
ming up the joyful death of the holy, one old man, at the moment of his death,
laughs three times. Asked why, he says, “â•›‘I laughed because you all fear death; I
laughed again because you are not prepared; but the third time I laughed
because I go from labor to rest.’ And immediately the old man fell asleep.”8
For the wicked, by contrast, death comes unexpectedly and usually involves
cruel sickness. John Moschus records the death of “Thalilaios, the impious
archbishop of Thessalonica” who “feared neither God nor the reward which
was in store for him” and, in the midst of his wickedness is found dead with
his head in a privy drain. Moschus then compares this death to that of Arius
who suffered similarly, describing both deaths as divine retribution for their
2
â•‡ h. mon. 14.23: Festugière (1971, 109, trans. Russell 1980, 98).
3
â•‡ Arsenius 40 (PG 65: 105B–C).
4
â•‡ h. Laus. 5.1–3, 7.6, 60.2, 10.5; prat. 86, 105, 123, 178, 182, 202.
5
â•‡ h. mon. 17.3: Festugière (1971, 114, trans. Russell 1980, 101).
6
â•‡ Agathon 29 (PG 65: 117B–C). 7
â•‡ Sisoes 14 (PG 65: 396B–C).
8
â•‡ N 279 (Wortley 2013, 186).
wickedness.9 At other times, the fact of death itself is a sign of God’s judgment.
Athanasius makes this point in a tale of Antony, who had a vision of two
brothers in trouble, but only one was found alive. Athanasius says of the unex-
pected death of a brother that
If someone asks on what account he did not speak before the death of the other
brother, he does not ask correctly, putting it this way. For the judgment of death
was not Antony’s, but God’s, who passed judgment concerning him who died and
revealed and uncovered the situation of the one who lived.10
For the wicked, then, death, especially an unpleasant death comes through the
judgment of God, and can even express that judgment.
The literature does not claim that only the healthy were good monks, or that
an unpleasant death must be a sign of God’s judgment, although it is possible to
read some stories in that way. Because of the danger of over-simplification, sev-
eral tales help clarify the situation. Palladius records the story of Benjamin who
had reached “the perfection of asceticism” and had “the gift of healing.” He says,
In this mountain of Nitria was a person called Benjamin, living to about eighty
and practicing asceticism to the end, being judged worthy of a gift of healing . . .
This man, judged worthy of such a gift, for eight months prior to his death had
dropsy. And his body was so swollen as to look like another Job. Dioscorus the
bishop . . . said to us, “Come, see a new Job in this swollen body and incurable
suffering acquiring boundless thanksgiving.” Then that blessed man, Benjamin,
said to us, “Pray, children, that my ‘inner man’ not get dropsy, for this one [i.e.,
the ‘outer man’] neither benefitted me when healthy nor harmed me when ill (cf.
2 Cor 4.16).11
Palladius writes that “I deemed it necessary to describe this affliction, so that we
may not be surprised when some unpleasant end befalls the righteous.”12 Clearly,
some were worried that a painful death meant that a monk was less than perfect,
since the best ascetics simply fell asleep while working or teaching. The repeated
references to Job, and to the “inner man” (see 2 Cor 4.16) point us toward a
Â�subtle, spiritualized definition of what makes a death “good” or “bad.” The
healthy monk dies with clarity and tranquility. He is, ultimately, able to approach
death, rather than be overtaken by it. The good death, then, is not simply a vol-
untary one or an apparently painless one. It is the death wherein the monk can
continue to express himself as a “dead” man and, most importantly, as an
9
â•‡ prat. 43 (PG 87.3: 2896D–2897C, trans. Wortley [1992, 33–34]).
10
â•‡ v. Anton 59.5 (SC 400: 292); see also Antony 21 and resp. 599, which depends on it; see also
prat. 129, 145.
11
12
â•‡ h. Laus. 12.2: Bartelink (1974, 56); so also for the monk Stephen at 24.1–3; see also resp. 144,
223, and 599.
imitator of Christ. The will with which the monk approaches death is not his
own. That has been destroyed by obedience. It is, instead, a reflection of the will
of Christ who offered himself for others. Thus, the monk makes death also a
matter of imitation, particularly since the physical event may be understood as a
final manifestation of his way of life.
The event of death, when described as “surrendering the soul” makes it a
moment of self-offering. This self-offering, again, accords with the way in
which the ascetic has always offered himself to God. Arsenius, though he may
have wept at death, approached it confidently. Abba Daniel reported that, “At
the point of death, Abba Arsenius sent us this message, ‘Do not worry about
making offerings for me, for truly I have made an offering for myself and I shall
find it again.”â•›’13 Arsenius does not seem to expect his death to require anything
other than what he has already offered God, and this offering may be said to
carry through to his death, when he can finally offer himself fully.
Central to the spiritualization of a “good” death is the notion (inherited in
some ways from the Stoics and accounts of martyrs such as Perpetua) that
death can be, for those prepared, a free act. In this moment, the prepared
ascetic can imitate one obedient old man: “When the old man’s summons
came, he saw one angel on his right and one on his left saying to him, ‘Do
you wish to come, abba, or should we depart?’ And the old man said to
them, ‘I am willing. Remain. Take my soul.’ And thus he died.”14 The ascetic
can, paradoxically ask for and accept the “hour of necessity” and tell those
sent that they are allowed to “snatch his soul.” Death’s “badness” concerns
the same: the approach of something fearful and surprising, an expression
perhaps of the surprise with which sinners greet the revelatory judgment of
God. The wicked do not approach death. They are overtaken by death
because they have not dedicated their lives to preparation for it. The ascetic,
on the other hand, who has lived with death every day, lived as though dead,
and about to die every hour, approaches death naturally, joyfully, Â�peacefully—
he moves, through death, from his foretaste of eternity to the good things
themselves, offering himself to God fully, as he has done partially through-
out his ascetic life. A tale of Patermuthius encapsulates the contrast of those
who are and those who are not prepared: a monk was terrified of death,
because he was not ready; so Patermuthius prays and grants him three years
to prepare and at the end that time, Patermuthius “presented him to Christ
no longer a man but an angel . . . [Patermuthius] set him in the midst of
them [the brethren] in good health and [this man] spent the whole night
teaching them. Then the brother began to feel drowsy, and falling asleep,
died.”15
13
â•‡ Arsenius 39 (PG 65: 105B). 14
â•‡ N 23: Wortley (2013, 22).
15
â•‡ h. mon. 10.17–19: Festugière (1971, 82–83, trans. Russell 1980, 85).
Instruction and Silence

The gathering of disciples for the abba’s death presents another trope of death:
testamentary instruction. This motif, however, is sometimes developed and
sometimes refused in ascetic literature. The instructions that ascetics give at
death generally take their own lives as an example and, perhaps, as warning for
the young. The tale of Pambo nicely illustrates this point:
They said about Abba Pambo that when he was dying, indeed at the hour of his
death, he said to the holy men standing about, “Since I came to this place in the
desert and built my cell and lived in it, I do not remember eating bread not earned
by my own hand, and I have not regretted a word I have spoken until this hour.
And so I go to God—as though I have not even begun to serve him.”16
Pambo gives his disciples an account of his life that offers them an example of
how to direct their own, as well as a confession of the fears that beset ascetics.
In a similar vein, Antony’s death scene, as we have seen in Chapter 3, contains
ethical as well as burial instructions, and Arsenius consciously follows suit at
his own death.17 The abba is not always willing to give advice, but in some cases
he can, at least, be coerced into it. Such scenes are generally rather pedestrian
manifestations of testamentary literature. It is worth nothing that testamentary
scenes refract the elder’s life into an exemplary tale, which is undoubtedly why
the Apophthegmata Patrum’s redactors spliced Arsenius’ death scene together
with advice he gave at other points in his life.18
More interesting are those death scenes that seem deliberately to defy the
usual expectations of testamentary literature. In these scenes, the elder is
begged for a revelation, but will not give it or offers only a partial version. The
tale of Zacharias’ death is instructive: “Abba Poemen said that Abba Moses
asked Abba Zacharias, who was about to die, ‘What do you see?’ Zacharias said,
‘Is it not better to be silent, Father?’ And he said, ‘Yes, child. Be silent.’â•›”19 As
Agathon died he told his disciples that he stood “before the judgement seat of
God.” As they persisted in questioning him about it, he finally responded in
exasperation: “Please do not speak to me any longer, for I do not have time.”20
These two stories make somewhat different points. The second concerns
Â�distraction—Agathon, though perhaps willing to reveal something of what
happens at death, is understandably preoccupied with his own judgment, and
not with the questions of his disciples, who seem not to grasp the importance
of the moment. Zacharias, on the other hand, flatly refuses any revelation of
16
â•‡ Pambo 8 (PG 65: 369C–D); so also h. Laus. 10.6 and h. mon. 11.5–8; Cassian 5, Romanus 1,
Chomas 1; see also N 22, 63, 341.
17
â•‡ v. Anton 89–92; Arsenius 40. 18
â•‡ So also Agathon 29, Silouan 2.
19
â•‡ Zacharias 5 (PG 65: 180C); similar is the story of John of Lycopolis at h. mon. 1.65; cf. h.
Laus. 1.3.
20
â•‡ Agathon 29 (PG 65: 117B–C).
death. The speculative or mystical stories of the soul’s flight to God through
judgment after death, scattered through the Desert literature, have no place at
Zacharias’ deathbed. Instruction is good, revelation better, but neither is given
at the risk of usurping or anticipating a judgment that belongs to God alone.
Desert death scenes, manifesting visibly the expectations of memory of
death and judgment, hint that the monk lives even until death in uncertainty
born of hope and fear. His death expresses and clarifies the character that he has
developed in life, even as it may express God’s judgment on him. However, very
often, because writers wish to praise their heros and damn their enemies, the
division of “good” and “bad” death undercuts uncertainty, giving instead the
same calm assurance as Antony had for Amoun’s soul. Fear and hope find their
objects, and both are revealed by the ways in which one approaches or is over-
taken by death, and by the revelation that death means a judgment whose out-
come cannot, for all the preparation one may make, be anticipated. So, with
these tropes in mind we turn to Climacus’ subversive deployment of similar
scenes.
First Scene: Exeunt the Penitents

The Fallen Monks
Our first scene takes place in that most distasteful, shocking, and disturbing
portion of Climacus’ book—the Prison.21 This place makes its first appearance
in rung four, on Obedience, as the place of the penitents to which the abbot of
the Alexandrian monastery would send those monks who had fallen and yet
wished to remain monks.22 John Duffy calls it “certainly the strangest part of
the work, and easily the most moving . . . a veritable visit to the underworld,
with a catalog, in gruesome detail, of self-inflicted misery, deprivation, and
punishment. With the visitor we see the harrowing sights and hear the groans
and anguished questions of the tormented.”23 It was not, it seems, for just any-
one. And yet, reading Climacus’ extended description in rung five one gets the
impression that people did not choose to leave the prison monastery—they die
there instead, treating its overseer, Isaac, as their unquestioned abbot. Later
copyists seem to have been aware of the universality and tremendous import-
ance of the Prison scenes, since they illustrated it at great length, often includ-
ing a picture for each group or action described by Climacus.24 Moreover, there
21
â•‡ See Ware (1982, 5, 22). 22
â•‡ §4 (704A–B).
23
â•‡ Duffy (1999, 14); see Chryssavgis (2004, 22–23) who argues that we should “not suppose
that John intended people to be put off by, for instance, the fifth step relating to repentance, and
especially by the horrendous account of the monastic penitentiary of Alexandrian Prison [sic] in
the same step.” The account is certainly disturbing, though, and Climacus’ own rhetoric suggests
that he, at least, was aware of just how disturbing it might be.
24
â•‡ On these illustrations, see Martin (1954, 47–120).
exists a fascinating “penitential canon,” a series of hymn verses dedicated to the

“holy convicts,” asking forgiveness and promising repentance, which takes its
material directly from Climacus’ fifth rung.25 This scene, as prurient as it may
seem, fired the imagination of Byzantine hymnographers, and allowed them to
at least mentally place themselves within the Prison, asking with the “holy
criminals” (ἅγιοι κατάδικοι) for God’s mercy.
The Prison is a place full of surprise and paradox. First, Climacus does not
seem to envision its inhabitants as any more unique or marginal than, for
example, their brethren at the great coenobium (§4). He begins by describing
repentance in glowing terms and comparing its relationship to obedience to
Peter’s relationship to John—both ran to the empty tomb to find Christ. John
got there first, as obedience does, but Peter arrived as well, as repentance does.26
Climacus certainly envisions it as a virtue necessary for his readers (and him-
self). He exhorts his readers, saying, “Let us hear and keep and do, all of us who
have suffered an unexpected fall.”27 The Prison, then, descriptions of which fill
out what one should “hear, keep, and do,” offers an example of repentance for
all monks, whether or not they ever visit or find themselves guests there.28
Repentance shows us the contours of progress, and so, as the penitential canon
says, “All of you, come and eagerly imitate them; for behold a type of salvation
is set before us.”29
The penitents may, therefore, function for readers as types of the ascetic life,
whether novice or abbot, fallen, virtuous, and advanced. Unlike the monastery
at Alexandria, filled with well-drawn characters and named individuals, Cli-
macus eschews all individuating description from the Prison, omitting even
Isaac’s name.30 The penitents are referred to as a group, or else as “some,” or
“others,” or “one of them.” They are described using quotations from the Psalms,
and speak in stock phrases and Scriptural quotations. They are not, I think,
flesh-and-blood characters, but rather general types of ascetic looks, responses,
25
â•‡ “Compunctionate Canon Recounting the History of the Holy Criminals in the Ladder
(Καν[ὼν] κατανυκτικὸ[ς] τ[ὴν] ἱστο[ρίαν] διαλαμβάν[ων] τ[ῶν] ἐν τῇ κλίμακι ἀγίων καταδίκ[ων]). The
“canon” is the standard Byzantine hymn form, composed of nine “odes” (of which the second is
omitted, yielding eight in practice), based on nine “songs” found in Scripture. Each ode is com-
posed of an initial stanza (or troparion) called irmos, which gives the melody, followed by a vari-
able number of troparia with some kind of refrain between, and closed with a repetition of the
irmos, called katavasion. This canon has four troparia per ode, and uses modal melodies in the
fourth plagal tone. The first letter of each troparion (irmoi and katavasiai excepted) forms an
acrostic (a common device in Byzantine canons): “A Type of Visible Mourning and Repentance”
(ΠΕΝΘΟΥΣ ΕΝΑΡΓΟΥΣ ΚΑΙ ΜΕΤΑΝΟΙΑΣ ΤΥΠΟΣ). The canon may be found in Martin (1954,
128–49).
26
â•‡ Note also a similar remark at §28 (1133B).
27
â•‡ §5 (764C): “Ἀκούσωμεν καὶ φυλάξωμεν, καὶ ποιήσωμεν, ὅσοι τι ἀδόκιμον πτῶμα πεπόνθαμεν.” See
§15 (885D–88A).
28
â•‡ So Bitton-Ashkelony (1999, 191).
29
â•‡ First Troparion of the First Ode: Martin (1954, 128).
30
â•‡ Readers can find it, instead, at §4 (704B).
and demeanors. There is a sense in which Climacus leaves the penitents empty
so that readers may find space for themselves in the Prison. The death of one of
these, then, can be the death of any monk.
The Hour of Death

“The last hour of one of these was a fearful and pitiful spectacle.”31 In the
description of that hour with which he follows this ominous sentence, John
does not disappoint. He vividly and harshly dramatizes the final moments of a
penitent, who would die surrounded by his brethren, questioned to the last
about his own progress and the others’ expectations for judgment:
For when his fellow convicts perceived one departing before them about to die,
they circled around him while his mind was yet in good health. Thirsty, mourn-
ing, with a most pitiful look and sullen word they questioned him who was about
to depart: “What is it, brother and fellow convict—how is it? What do you say?
What do you hope? What do you expect? . . . Are you freed or are you still liable
[ἢ ὑπεύθυνος ἔτι ὑπάρχεις]? . . . Have you received confidence or do you still have an
uncertain hope [ἢ ἄδηλον ἔχεις τὴν ἐλπίδα]? Have you received freedom, or is your
thought still confused and uncertain?”32
Two things are worth noting. First, the penitents refer to themselves and their
fellow as “fellow convicts.” They exist on the same social stratum—brothers
bound by their failures. Second, there is their reference to “uncertain hope.”
“Ἄδηλον,” which I have translated as uncertain, might also be rendered “unclear”
or even “unrevealed.” The emphasis, though, is on uncertainty since the peni-
tents live with an uncertainty formed from their failures.
The questions continue on and on, culminating in scriptural quotations,
which effectively ask whether he has heard a voice within saying something like
“your faith has saved you” (Mark 5.34), or perhaps something like “Let sinners
depart into Hades” (Ps 9.18).33 The dying man then responds in kind by quoting
one of several verses of Scripture:34
31
â•‡ §5 (772C). 32
â•‡ §5 (772C–D).
33
â•‡ §5 (772D): this “inner voice” speaks Scripture, and when speaking of hope it quotes John
5.14, Mat 9.2, or Mark 5.34. When describing fear, it quotes Ps 9.18, Mat 22.13, or Isa 26.10. While
descriptions of hope vary, those of fear consistently refer to being dismissed from God’s presence
and sent elsewhere. Echoes can be heard of Evagrius 1 and Theophilus 4, as well as Ps-Macarius,
Collectio H 22.
34
â•‡ Climacus uses this technique earlier in §5 as well as at §27 (1116A–B) to illustrate a diverse
but indefinite series of possible slogans or responses to a particular issue to which all must
respond. He thus preserves an important respect for individuality in the ascetic life. Climacus is
particularly sensitive to the fact that, although all ascetics generally have the same goal, and ought
to have similar motives, they do not all arrive by the same way (something he elaborates in §26, on
Discernment). He gives the reason for this quite bluntly at §28 (1140C): “Neither in body nor in
spirit are all alike.”
To these questions some of those dying would respond, “Blessed be the Lord who
has not rejected my prayer, and [turned away] his mercy from me” (Ps 65.20);
again, some would say, “Blessed be the Lord, who has not given us to beasts as
prey for their teeth” (Ps 123.6). But others asked sadly: will our “soul pass through
the raging water” (Ps 123.5) of the spirits of the air? These did not take courage
as yet, but looked steadily at what would transpire in that accounting. Others,
sadder still, responded differently and said, “Woe to the soul that did not keep its
vow blameless35—in this hour and this only, will it know what is prepared for it.”36
After this response, we can only presume that the penitent dies. In the para-
graph preceding the death scene, Climacus notes that when one knew he was
about to die, he would go to the overseer Isaac, and “beg with oaths to be
deemed worthy not of human burial, but of the burial of an irrational animal—
to be tossed out into the midst of the river or in the field with the beasts. And
often that lamp of discernment obeyed [ὑπήκουσεν],37 bidding that he be carried
out deprived of psalmody and all honor.”38 How like Antony and Arsenius’ dis-
ciples Isaac appears here.
Despite its apparently unique formulation, the penitent’s death scene is
remarkably similar to those of abbas in Desert literature. Likewise, the brethren
and the dying all inhabit the same stratum—the dying is not called “father” or
in any way distinguished from his fellow convicts. We will use these two points
to explore just what the Prison can reveal about the importance of the memory
of death.
Penitents and Elders

In the scenes we have examined earlier, elders die surrounded by disciples eager
to learn what the abba experiences at death. Such questions, however, often met
with rebukes or silence. In the Prison, such questions receive answers—at least,
such answers as may be given. It was also a particular trait of holy monks to have
foreknowledge of impending death, a trait that here passes to the penitent as
well. It was also, from Antony onward, characteristic of the more popular
ascetics to ask for secret or at least simple burial. Arsenius’ gruff reply put it per-
haps better than any other: “Don’t you know how to tie a rope around my feet
and drag me to the mountain?”39 Climacus clearly has in mind the scene char-
acteristic of Desert elders, but he subverts it to his own unique purpose.
The death of the penitent in the Ladder is comparable to the death of a Desert
abba. The lowest die like the most exalted (and, as will be seen later, the holy die
35
â•‡ Cf. §27 (1108D): “A bride who does not guard her marital vows defiles her body; but a soul
which does not guard its religious vows [συνθήκην] defiles its spirit.” See §1 (632B).
36
â•‡ §5 (773A–B).
37
â•‡ Rader lists the even more emphatic “ἐποίησεν ὑπακούσας” as a textual variant for “ὑπήκουσεν.”
38
â•‡ §5 (772C).
39
â•‡ Arsenius 40 (PG 65: 105C), taken from v. Anton 89–90; see also prat. 178.
like the condemned). Indeed, the demands that elders put on their disciples for
discreet burial are now requests made by the subservient to their overseer. Cli-
macus, by thus subverting a classic topos, emphasizes the fear and uncertainty
of the moment—whereas the reader of the Apophthegmata Patrum knew to be
confident for the dying elder (whose soul would no doubt be seen ascending to
heaven), no one has any confidence for the dying penitent. And, if one in whom
no confidence is possible dies like the best, then we are left to wonder what to
make of elders.
Climacus’ subversion of the elder’s death scene has also a second and very
nearly opposite effect. We have examined Antony’s profound vision of the soul’s
ascent after death in Chapter 3, and in their accounts of it both Athanasius and
Palladius describe the damned as “debtors” (ὑπεύθυνοι). Ὑπεύθυνος refers to one
who owes someone something, and especially an account.40 It seems never in
Desert literature to have a positive connotation. If a monk is “liable” (ὑπεύθυνος),
he is a debtor to sin,41 or punishment42 or, as in Antony’s visions, the “enemy.”
Indeed, in those visions of death, those liable are damned, taken by the enemy
to whom they have given themselves up through sin and indolence.43
In the Ladder, however, Climacus uses the term “ὑπεύθυνος” liberally, apply-
ing it to penitent monks in the earlier quotations.44 In delightfully paradoxical
language, he calls them “blessed debtors” (μακάριοι ὑπεύθυνοι)45 and “those
debtless debtors” (τῶν ὑπευθύνων ἐκείνων τῶν ἀνευθύνων).46 Yes, these men are
“condemned” (κατάδικοι), but of their lives Climacus says, “Repentance is the
daughter of hope and the denial of despair. The one repenting is condemned
but unashamed.”47 In this union of liability with freedom from debt we see the
essence of the death scene: it is fundamentally uncertain, mildly optimistic,
and never despairing. Climacus implies that those condemned, those who
would be accounted damned in other visions of death, still have hope—in fact,
to be and expect to be treated as a convict is “the denial of hopelessness.” The
other side of his subversion—that even elders have cause for concern—will
become clear later on.
The Memory of Judgment

The reason for this apparent paradox lies with our penitent’s activities in life,
and is intimately connected with the second point the story raised. In this scene
40
â•‡ S.v. ὑπεύθυνος LSJ.
41
â•‡ h. mon. 20.2: Festugière (1971, 119); Ps-Macarius, Collectio H 22 (PTS 4: 194). See also Zech-
er (2014a).
42
43
â•‡ Obvious in Palladius’ version; as also in Ps-Macarius, Collectio H 22 (PTS 4: 194).
44
â•‡ See, for example, §14 (869C): Gluttony asks monks why they should demand any knowledge
of her, they who are “my debtors” (οἱ ἐμοὶ ὑπεύθυνοι).
45
â•‡ §5 (769D). 46
â•‡ §5 (765A). 47
â•‡ §5 (764B)
the living and the dying occupy the same status. In part, this simply continues
Climacus’ subversion of the elder’s death scene. However, it also has a pro-
founder theological importance. Because the dying have the same status as the
living, enquiry into their death is, in a sense, inquiry into one’s own. The breth-
ren’s questions are, therefore, far more than idle curiosity or a needless torment.
Climacus says approvingly that “Silence in knowledge is . . . a prison of mourn-
ing, friend of tears, worker of the memory of death, portrait-painter of punish-
ment, enquirer [φιλοπράγμων] into judgment”48 Φιλοπράγμων connotes
something like a “busybody.” The scandal or, at least, surprise, that this word
generates is certainly not lost on Climacus, for which reason he includes it in a
list of virtues explicitly opposed to contemptible “talkativeness” (πολυλογία). A
φιλοπράγμων is, instead, a blessed “silence in knowledge” (σιωπὴ ἐν γνώσει). Cli-
macus marvelously incorporates this scandalous semantic element into his
description of the penitents at their brother’s deathbed. The brethren conclude
their questions thus: “Speak to us, we beg you, that we may know in what con-
dition we are about to be.”49 When they question their brother, the brethren are
blessed, wise, and understanding “busybodies.” Why? Because they are really
asking about themselves—what he can expect is what they can expect, if,
indeed, they may expect anything at all.
In their interrogation emerges the imagistic contemplation of judgment,
since these questions echo those the condemned brethren ask themselves daily.
The same habits that define monastic life also overshadow the moment of
death. Earlier in the rung, Climacus said of those in the Prison:
All of them sat always seeing death with their eyes and saying, “What then will be
the result? What the sentences? What our end? Is there restoration? Is there for-
giveness for those in shadows, for the humble, for the convicts? . . . Will the judge
be conciliated in the end? At least partially? Even half the deserved punishments?
For they are truly great, and demanding many tears and labours.”50
Their daily activity was already the contemplation of death, whose content is
judgment. In this presentation, contemplation of death elides into a contempla-
tion of judgment and its outcome. Climacus has already said of these that,
“Among them, if it became necessary to utter a sound, their constant and
unceasing conversation was the memorial of death and thought of eternal
judgment.”51 Of course, in this regard, the convicts are no different from the
holy, upon whom Climacus also enjoins memory of judgment. Their memory
is simply sharpened by their keen awareness of their failings and generally
lowly condition.52 Memory or imagination of judgment, the kind of thing we’ve
48
â•‡ §11 (852D). 49
â•‡ §5 (773A).
50
â•‡ §5 (769B–C). 51
â•‡ §4 (685B).
52
â•‡ Acute but not inappropriate, if we take seriously Climacus’ admonitions at §1 (632B) and
§27 (1108D–1109A).
seen strewn through Desert and Gazan literature, here defines the activity of
the penitent as well as of monks more generally.
Memory of judgment operates always in the present moment by making
symbols out of the sensible world. One discerns signs in daily life of an eternally
important reality which, whether one has yet experienced it or not, is always at
hand. Climacus says in rung seven, on Mourning:
Let your reclining on your bed be for you a type of your interment in the grave,
and enjoyment of the table be a memorial of the agonizing table of those worms.
Neither, receiving a cup of water, be forgetful of the thirst of that flame. And in
every way do violence to nature.53
Climacus understands that temptations lurk in the mundane activities of daily
life. Eating a meal is an opportunity for gluttony; sleep for lethargy; dreams a
time for lust to creep in. These temptations do not come from the activities
themselves, but from demons using those activities as an opportunity for
attack. Climacus tells also of a baker who has found the way to preserve tears
(τὸ δάκρυον). He explains that “I have never thought of myself as serving men
. . . but God. And condemning myself as unworthy of all stillness, I have had
this visible fire as a reminder itself of the coming flames.”54 In each of these
tales, Climacus sees a spiritual reality through the veil of daily life—the apoca-
lyptic struggle of monks with demons, angelic spectators, God’s final judgment,
and glimpses of eternity beyond. One can, by doing so, counter demonic assault
as well as the wear and tear of daily life. As such, memory of judgment func-
tions paraenetically by reminding the monk of the punishments that await
Â�sinners—the negative imagery inculcates fear, a very important response for
Climacus and one to which I will return.
More than paraenesis, though, judgment metaphysically underpins present
events. Climacus relates the story of a robber who became a monk. The abbot
received him only after making him undergo a public confession, with all the
trappings of a convict being dragged to the gibbet—even having other monks
beat him “lightly.” When the robber makes his confession, Climacus reports,
“one of the brothers standing around told me that he saw a fearful figure hold-
ing a writing tablet and pen, and, he said, each sin the prostrate man men-
tioned, that fearful one crossed it out with the pen.”55 Thus, while the scene in
the church was an artificial judgment, it provided a glimpse into very real spir-
itual judgment. The judgment has already begun because, as the story suggests,
deeds are already recorded. Confession, however, and repentance cross them
out and so while one’s sin puts one constantly under judgment, repentance
constantly gives the hope of acquittal. In fact, when questioned about the mat-
ter, the abbot told Climacus, “I did it for two reasons. First so that, having
53
â•‡§7(805A–B). 54
â•‡ §4 (685C).
55
â•‡ §4 (684C); and so for the rest of the quotations in this paragraph.
brought him to confession, I might free him from eventual shame through
present shame [διὰ τῆς παρούσης αἰσχύνης τῆς μελλούσης ἀπαλλάξω]. And this is
what happened. For, brother John, he did not rise from the floor until he
received forgiveness for everything.” The abbot then adduces the above vision
of the fearful angel as proof. The second reason, he says, is to exhort others to
Â�confession. Memory of judgment certainly functions paraenetically for the
robber-cum-monk, who amends his life because of it. But it is not merely an
artifice or a hortatory device—there really is an angel marking down deeds and
preparing the coming judgment. And because judgment is real, it is all the
more a motivator to the monk. However, in contrast to Antony’s “aerial path,”
Climacus explicitly claims every confession as another “beginning.”
In his various exhortations to monks to act “like convicts” Climacus height-
ens the sense of judgment as something already begun. While he uses the
vocabulary of the convict in reference to the penitents in Prison, Climacus also
applies it to apparently holier and more successful ascetics. When discussing
stillness, Climacus says:,
One fettered in prison dreads the one who punishes. But one in a wilderness cell
has borne fear of the Lord. The former does not fear the court as the latter fears
the judgment of the judge. There is need for you to have much fear in stillness,
my marvellous friend. For nothing is able to drive out acedia like fear. While a
condemned man constantly looks intently for when the judge comes around to
the prison, the true worker looks for when he who strives will be freed. A burden
of depression [φορτίον λύπης] is bound to the former, but to the latter accrues a
font of tears.56
The prisoner fears an inevitable punishment and so becomes depressed. The
one who cultivates stillness fears the Lord as a judge but with the hope of “being
freed” and of attaining salvation. The contrast between these echoes Macarius’
injunction that monks must weep now in order not to weep later—for the
monks’ tears are an expression of fear mingled with hope; for the damned, tears
only express despair. Nevertheless, the analogy serves Climacus well, and he
uses it to explain how a monk must act at confession,57 and how he can main-
tain mourning.58 Seeing himself as a convict focuses the monk’s activity. Com-
pared to the sentence under which he feels himself to labor, distractions,
temptations, and weariness alike lose their import, interest, and power. But,
again, despite its artificiality, the self-presentation of the convict relies on the
reality of judgment already begun.
56
â•‡ §27 (1113B–C).
57
â•‡ §4 (708D–709A): “Be in appearance and thought like a criminal when you confess: bowing
to the ground and, if possible, wetting the feet of your judge and doctor like the feet of Christ (see
Luke 7.37–50, Mar k 14.1–9, John 12.1–8)”.
58
â•‡ Summary after §26 (1085C–D): “Just as, having received his verdict, and going to execution
[πρὸς τὴν καταδίκην], a person does not talk about the theatres, so neither does a person who truly
mourns ever attend to the stomach.” See also §7 (813D).
Interlude: Three Sketches of the Memory of Death

“Prepare your works for death” (Proverbs 24.27).59 If memory of judgment
describes a spiritual reality already present, contemplation of physical death
forestalls the terror of that reality to some extent by recalling its inherent futur-
ity. Deployed in this way the memory of one’s eventual death continues to urge
the ascetic on, but also gives a crucial forward-looking perspective to the ascet-
ic life that keeps the monk from the paralysis to which fear of judgment on its
own might lead. Climacus weaves the concerns of Sisoes and Barsanuphius
into the same symbolic act, suggesting that, because judgment awaits death and
is necessarily uncertain until then, the present moment is never a “final”
moment. Nevertheless, because of the uncertainty of mortal existence, every
moment should be treated as though it was one’s last. Memory of death serves
to allay despair and inculcate humility, and, when coupled with the earlier-
discussed memory of judgment, serves to spur the monk to constant action.
The sketches that follow highlight the gravity and efficacy of the memory of
physical death.60
One monk had a habit of going into ecstasy at the memory of death and
would be found catatonic, like an anaesthetized patient on the operating table.
Another related that he found himself unable to escape the memory of death,
which, “firmly established in his heart,” stood spectrally before him and hin-
dered him from slackening his regimen, “as though it were a judge.”
Another “lived in every carelessness, giving no care whatsoever to his own
soul,” although he was himself a monk. Climacus presents here another death
scene in which we can see the classic topoi of the Desert subtly altered to bring
out different details. It is again of a penitent, though one in no Prison save his
own cell. He is a flesh-and-blood character, named Hesychius “the Horebite.”
Once he fell very sick, and “for about an hour was absent from the body.” Upon
his “return,” he begged others to leave him, walled up his cell, and lived there
silently, in rather extreme bodily ascesis, for twelve years.61 When he was “about
to die,”62 his fellow monks broke down the door. The change in his appearance
and demeanor shocked his brethren, who undoubtedly remembered a better-
fed, better-rested man than they found. Climacus describes a changed man
“always seated, meditating on the things which he saw in the ecstasy, never
changing his habit, but always out of his mind, and silently weeping hot tears.”
He is at the point of death and so they ask him questions. And, again, he reveals
59
â•‡ §27 (1116A–B): “Ἐτοίμαζε εἰς τὴν ἔξοδον τὰ ἔργα σου.” In Proverbs, “εἰς τὴν ἔξοδον” means only
“outside” or “in the outdoors.” Climacus, however, relying on the wider possible semantic range
associated with ἔξοδος, takes it to refer to “death.”
60
â•‡ §6 (796C–97A): these sketches make up a large portion of Climacus’ chapter on “Memory of
Death.”
61
â•‡ His actions recall the Gazan practice of “extreme enclosure,” discussed in Chapter 5.
62
â•‡ §6 (797A): “Ὅτε δὲ ἤμελλεν τελευτᾷν.”
nothing of what he saw or would see. His only words strongly recall Sisoes 19:
“Forgive me. No one who has known the memory of death will ever be able to
sin (see Sira 7.36).”63 With that he dies. His burial is neither in the field nor the
river, but “reverently in the cemetery near the castrum.”
The memory of death clearly holds an incredible power for Climacus. It pre-
vents those who have “founded it firmly in their hearts” from slackening their
pace of ascetic progress. It sends others into swoons so that they live quite liter-
ally as dead. And those who were negligent it makes heedful, turning unrepent-
ant sinners into saints. When the brethren went to look for Hesychius’ remains
(presumably to bury them) they found nothing. Climacus treats their absence
as a sure sign of Hesychius’ acceptance by God, “the Lord demonstrating by this
his much cared-for and praiseworthy repentance, for all those wishing to cor-
rect their ways, even after much carelessness.”64 Where one might have expect-
ed visions of a soul ascending to Heaven, we find instead evidence of bodily
assumption—an tomb empty like Christ’s.
For Hesychius, the memory of death functioned paraenetically, as a tool first
for dissuading himself from sin, and second for focusing on repentance,
expressed through tears. In this regard it was the same for the unnamed Egyp-
tian monk who was prevented from laziness by the memory of death. Hesy-
chius does not say how, or particularly what he saw, but one may surmise from
what Climacus says elsewhere that by undergoing a temporary death (rather
than the more usual imagining or picturing of it)65 he experienced firsthand the
judgment that Climacus elsewhere describes in more or less detail. But, together
with the judgment, Hesychius experienced the devastating effect of death itself.
He encountered his own mortality and the transience of worldly distractions,
and so when he returned to his body, he shut himself away from all those temp-
tations. The demons could no longer hide behind the veil of the perceptible
world. Pleasures could no longer appear innocuous, and he could see the eter-
nal meaning of ephemeral activities. Perhaps this sounds like an exaggeration,
but Hesychius’ behavior warrants the description. Closing himself off from the
sights and sounds of the sensible world, he could see only his own ecstasy—
which is to say, he lived always with his own mortality, knowing the transience
of the world in the blinding light of eternity and judgment.
In each of these sketches it is the future that matters. Monks see judgment in
their imagined experiences of physical death. But they are not yet dead. They
have time. Hesychius’ outlandish behavior reflects his realization of what a pro-
found gift he has been given in futurity—and how urgently he must use the
present. The memory of death as mortality reminds the monk that judgment
has not yet overtaken him, and so creates space within which he can work and
progress, if only through repeated repentance.
63
â•‡ Hesychius here echoes Sisoes 19 (PG 65: 397D–400A). â•‡ §6 (797A–B).
64
65
â•‡ See §7 (808A–B) and see also Zecher (2014b).
Scene Two: The Elder’s Soliloquy

Climacus closes the seventh rung with a haunting description of the death of “a
certain hermit, Stephen,” who lived near Elijah’s abode on the far side of Gebel
Musa. This was a man who “came to the eremitic and solitary life having spent
many years also in the monastic wrestling school, adorned with fasts and espe-
cially with tears, among other good advantages.” Becoming famous, he departs
and undertakes a life “with scope for more beneficial, more restricted, and
painful repentance.”66 Days before his death he returns and becomes sick. The
day before his death:
He went into ecstasy, and opening his eyes he looked to the right and to the left
of the bed. And as though being accused by some, he spoke so that all standing
about could hear sometimes “Yes, truly, this is the truth, but I have fasted for so
many years.” Or, “No, not at all, truly you lie, I have not done this.” Or again, “Yes,
this is true, yes, but I have wept, I have served.” And again, “No, you falsely accuse
me.” But sometimes he said to one: “Yes, truly, yes. And to this I do not know how
to respond. In God is mercy.”67
Climacus is shaken by this whole episode. He says, “And this was truly a mar-
vel, terrifying and fearful, this hidden and unrelenting accounting. And more
fearful, was that they also accused him of things which he had not done.”68
Repented sins may be off-limits, but when demons take the accounting, any-
thing, even ficitons, may be thrown in the monk’s face. If this is what takes place
at death, even the great and holy come to a fearful end, regardless of their ascet-
ic regimen, their virtues, their deeds, their reputation however well deserved.
The angelic (perhaps demonic) judgment lays bare that reputation, and through
the combination of true and false accusations, demands a perfect Â�self-awareness
on the part of the ascetic. We have seen the angel with his “tablet” of sins, a
common apocalyptic motif. But Climacus subtly recommends this angelic per-
spicacity to men when he notes that the brethren at Alexandria keep a “little
book” attached to their belts, in which they write down their thoughts through-
out the day to take to confession.69 What must impress us about Stephen is less
the falsity of the accusations than the old man’s ability, honed through years of
exactly such reflection and recording, to sift through deeds that were and were
not his own.
The Uncertain Judgment

Climacus is most frightened, despite his rhetoric, not by false accusations—
which one expects, after all, from demons—but that one such as Stephen could
possibly have been accused of something for which he had no response. He says
66
â•‡ §7 (812A–B). 67
â•‡ §7 (812C).
68
â•‡ §7 (812C–D). 69
â•‡ §4 (701C–D).
this about “one of his faults [εἵς τινα τῶν ἑαυτοῦ πταισμάτων].”70 Πταίσματα is an
important word for Climacus. The penitents dwell on their πταίσματα, worrying
on account of these whether they will see God’s “good things” after death. This
is also how Climacus deploys the word in conjunction with the memory of
death: “As a concept precedes a word, so the memory of death and faults
[πταίσματα] precedes mourning.”71 Faults imply that one will come under judg-
ment and make its uncertainty something frightening. In the story of Stephen,
we must bear in mind that his πταίσματα lie in the past, while death is still in the
future. One is accused at death about things that must lie in one’s past, and the
time of accusation and judgment is necessarily a retrospective one. This is cer-
tainly most true at death, but any accusation, insofar as it is true, must be about
something in the past. Thus, the constant self-examination of the monks
bespeaks a constantly retrospective attitude, constantly calling up the past in
light of a future judgment, just as monks are to do before every confession.
Between past and present then lies the iconic present moment, prefiguring
judgment based on past deeds.
Drawing out this sense of uncertainty on account of past faults, we see that
Climacus finds most terrifying not the accusations or even the “more fearful”
false accusations, but rather Stephen’s silence before one of them. Climacus
cries out thus:
Good Lord! The hesychast and anchorite said about one of his sins that “to this
I do not know how to respond.” This man was a monk for about forty years, and
had tears! Woe is me, woe is me, where then was the saying of Ezekiel, that Ste-
phen might say to them, “In that which I find you, in that shall I judge you, says
the Lord.”72 Truly he was able to say nothing of the kind. On what account? Glory
to Him who alone knows. Some told me, as though they were in the presence of
the Lord, that he fed [or, raised] a leopard by hand in the desert.73
Stephen fits the mold of a Desert elder. He has been a monk most of his life. He
has lived first in obedience in monasteries and then in the desert in stricter
ascesis with God alone as his master. He is self-aware, and above all has “tears.”
For Climacus, as we shall see later, tears and mourning are incredibly important
and remarkably effective for repentance—in a sense, symbolizing the work of
repentance as a “second baptism.” Stephen had even come to that freedom
before, and authority over the world that the Desert Fathers saw expressed
through an Adamic relationship with animals—feeding or rearing a leopard in
the desert is a sign of great purity and holiness.74 And this man was not only
accused but found his defense eventually reduced to silence. Whereas in the
Prison the penitents were portrayed like elders, here the elder is portrayed like
70
â•‡ §7 (812D). 71
â•‡ §6 (793B).
72
â•‡ The reference is unclear, but perhaps it is Ezekiel 7.5 or 24.14. 73
â•‡ §7 (812D).
74
â•‡ See, for example, Paul of Thebes 1; h. mon. 4.3, 9.5–7, 12.8, 21.15–16; h. Laus. 18.28; prat. 58,
107, 125, 181, etc.; on which Harmless (2004, 292–93).
one of the penitents. He dies in uncertain straits. Climacus says simply, “Being
thus questioned he was separated from the body. What the judgment, what the
decision, what his sentence or the end of the accounting, was not made clear.”75
Stephen dies in the same uncertainty as a penitent, the same uncertainty with
which monastics live their whole lives.
While this uncertainty could give hope to penitents, when applied to elders
and solitaries it tempers hope with fear. The ascetic’s activity is repentance
before the prospect of judgment, and as Climacus has made clear again and
again, that judgment is not handed down this side of death. Stephen lived with
it in mind, remembering judgment, remembering death, and at the end he
could recall his failures and achievements together. But even this is not enough.
There are still accusations that ascesis cannot answer. What hope, Climacus
seems to ask, is there for the rest of us? None, he says, “of those who mourn
expect inheritance at death—for it is hidden and uncertain.” Yet Stephen in his
silence did not despair. He knew what Climacus would remind readers of else-
where: “Nothing is greater than or even equal to God’s mercy. The one who
despairs kills himself.”76 Stephen says simply, “I do not know what to say. In
God is mercy.” Stephen has no response because he is not “able,” he cannot
redeem himself. But he needs no response because God can save him, and, in
Christ, has done so.
Past, Present, Future

Discerning eternal reality in daily activities, one begins to see the present life
not simply as less valuable than the next, but, rather, full of types (τύποι) and
images (εἰκόνες) of eternity. The monk who understands the present world as an
image of the next learns to pierce the veil of sensible reality and mundane activ-
ity, and find its proper, eschatological meaning. The whole of one’s life becomes
an image of eternity and so one undertakes every activity as though one was
already being evaluated and consigned to an eternal fate based on that evalua-
tion. Life in this world is always dividing good from bad, saint from sinner,
since there is no existence that is not judged according to ethical criteria and,
especially, obedience to God. God’s judgment, however, operates on deeds
already done, and so the monk prepares by looking backward. He recalls his
sins and so learns to avoid them. The meditation on judgment, made possible
by the iconic present moment, requires a constantly retrospective gaze. As in
Desert literature, God’s judgment is ongoing, because every action is added to
the case (although confession and repentance remove actions as well). But the
prospect of mortality serves, in the Ladder, not only to highlight the urgency of
renunciation, but to remind the monk that he has not yet been judged. So long
75
â•‡ §7 (812D). â•‡ §5 (780B).
76
as death looms, the monk still has time. This side of mortality has never before
been so highlighted as Climacus does. The monk lives constantly in the bal-
ance, which Climacus organically shapes out of the imagistic memory of death
and judgment, with neither artifice nor ambivalence. Thus, memory of judg-
ment and death, honest to the facticity and futurity of every moment, shows the
ascetic’s situation not as it already is, but as it is always becoming—shaped by the
past, but not yet solidified by death, and so always open to repentance and
progress.
The Opposition of Ages

Climacus’ characterization of the memory of death rests implicitly on both the
metaphysical “opposition of ages” that underpinned so much in Desert litera-
ture, and the “continuity” highlighted prominently by Athanasius and subtly by
Barsanuphius. Climacus’ descriptions of death nuance this line of thought. For
him, the duality of mortality and judgment quite naturally reveals the present
world in its twofold eschatological significance. On the one hand, memory of
judgment shines eternity’s light through the ephemeral world and, in its opa-
city one can see eternal significance in even the smallest action—baking bread
can remind the monk of hell, and so aid him in his quotidian discipline, which
appears no longer mundane but of vast, eternal importance. At the same time
the fact of death as an end to ephemeral existence appropriately values present
“goods” such as family, friends, dignity, and wealth. In light of both mortality
and judgment, the present world’s iconic value is revealed as merely that—it is
an image of the things to come and never a substitute.
Climacus has little to say about the delights of eternity. His outlook is too
austere for that, and so, like many of his forebears, although he imaginatively
describes death, judgment, and subterranean terrors, he is consistently reticent
about eschatological beatitude. He hints in the final rungs at delights in store
for God’s servants. For example, when Climacus speaks of apatheia, it is in
eschatological terms and, indeed, Climacus seems less than sure whether it can
or need be attained in the present life.77 Taking up traditional teaching on the
subject he pushes it into an eschatological—postmortem—framework. Within
that framework, he describes apatheia in expansive, yet strongly biblical terms:
Consider apatheia as a palace of the heavenly king in the heavens and the “many
rooms” (John 14.2) as dwellings within this city: the fortified Jerusalem,78 the for-
77
â•‡ See, for example, §26 (1029D): “Not all are able to become dispassionate, but all are able to be
saved and to be reconciled to God.” There is also Gluttony’s speech at §14 (869D–72A): “The thought
of death wars against me always but nothing among humans can completely destroy me.” See §25
(993B et infra), on the paradox of being ἀπαθὴς and συμπαθὴς; §26 (1028A); §14 (865A–B); etc.
78
â•‡ See §3 (665B): where Climacus, by a curious etymological argument, calls Jerusalem the
land of apatheia.
giveness of failures. Let us run, brethren, so as to gain entrance into the palace’s
bridal chamber.79 But if from some anticipation of a burden, or if we run short
of time, what misfortune! Let us run to some dwelling near the bridal chamber.
And if we slacken, or become yielding, at least let us be found in every way within
the wall.80
Climacus weaves together beautifully three classic eschatological images: the
heavenly Jerusalem (Heb 12.22, Rev 21.2), the bridal chamber, and what Jesus
describes as “my father’s house.” The eschatological hope of the monk is the
“bridal chamber” (νυμφῶν) within the rooms of the city by which image Clima-
cus implies union with Christ as the climax of eschatological hope. Thus Cli-
macus uses topographical language to describe a mode of existence defined by
union with Christ and freedom from the passions that express fallen existence.
Future hope requires strenuous present activity if the monk is to attain it. Cli-
macus speaks of “faltering” or “slackening,” having in mind the Pauline image
of a race to be run (see 1 Cor 9.24; 2 Tim 4.17; Heb 12.1). Climacus envisions a
clear connection between present and future ages wherein one’s behavior in the
present and, perhaps more to the point, one’s use of the present time (1 Cor
7.31), determines one’s eschatological dwelling. As Barsanuphius put it: “Here
the labour, there the reward.”81 Yet Climacus not only exhorts his readers to
run, but also depicts the “holy criminals” as exhorting each other the same
way.82
Likewise, the fortified Jerusalem is also the forgiveness of “faults’—the
“πταίσματα,” which we discussed earlier in relation to the Penitents. The person-
al failings that necessitate repentance and make judgment a fearful prospect are
not to be found in the “land of apatheia”—not because it is attainable only for
the perfect but, rather, because God is merciful. Such is the point of Climacus’
tale of the elder, Stephen: no matter one’s personal achievements, one has still
failed, and, though these failings will be reckoned, God is merciful, and on that
fact the monk can rely.83
One lives to become like Christ, preparing for the bridal chamber, and yet
already striving to taste something of it—in types of judgment, and more espe-
cially in prayer84 and desire.85 Preparation for a mode of being possible only
after death inculcates a present mode of living that has always a future focus.
Indeed, whatever taste one has of that future state only heightens the sense that
he has not yet achieved his desire. That future existence for which one prepares
79
â•‡ See Mat 9.15, Mark 2.19, and Luke 5.34. 80â•‡ §29 (1149D–1152A).
81
â•‡ resp. 600 (SC 451: 810).
82
â•‡ §5 (769D); see §1 (637B), where Climacus quotes Heb 12.1, but substitutes δράμωμεν for
τρέχωμεν.
83
â•‡ So also §28 (1137B).
84
â•‡ §28 (1129A): “Prayer is in its proper quality companionship and union of man with God.”
85
â•‡ §27 (1097D–1100A): “I have seen hesychasts, insatiably nourishing their burning desire for
God, producing fire for fire, eros for eros, desire for desire.”
now is one of more perfect imitation of Christ. Notably, Climacus sprinkles the
earlier-quoted passage with several Scripture verses that he uses to describe an
imitation of Christ made possible by Christ, for which one prepares now and
which one receives later. Climacus implies as much by following his descrip-
tion of Jerusalem with a quotation from Psalm 17.30: “By my God I will climb
a wall.” The thrust of this passage (in John’s interpretation) is that, with God’s
help, the monk is enabled to enter the heavenly community. Yet Climacus goes
on to exhort his brethren to “break down the middle wall of separation,” an
activity that Paul had ascribed to Christ at Ephesians 2.14. The ascetic becomes,
with God’s help, like Christ.86 Or, rather, Christ lives in him—Â�Climacus begins
his eschatological vignette by quoting Galatians 2.20.87 That is, the dispassion-
ate ascetic imitates Christ but only because Christ enables him to do so. Con-
ceiving it in context of a life defined by one’s death, John will present imitation
of Christ as a surrender to, as much as a repayment, of Christ. We shall return
to this point.
Memory and Concept

“As a concept [ἔννοια] precedes a word, so the memory of death and faults pre-
cedes mourning.”88 If we couple the opening line of the sixth rung with what we
have seen of Hesychius’ life and admonition, we see that in light of death, the
world loses its solidity. The ages, present and future, resolve themselves in the
light of that moment and all its content. Hesychius’ story shows how Climacus
connects mortality and judgment so that the “memory of death” can inspire
virtue and draw the monk into his all-encompassing “renunciation.” “Ἔννοια”
denotes a “concept” as much as anything else,89 and so the content of death, as
both destruction of material goods and entrance to judgment, provides the
“conceptual framework” for mourning—which in turn expresses the crucial
practice of repentance. In the Ladder as in the whole tradition that came before,
death’s content is composed of mortality first, and judgment second. Climacus
makes their connection very clear: “death and faults,” considered as mortality
and coming judgment are also that about which one must mourn.90 The monk
weeps because death will take him, prepared or not, and so his time for repent-
ance is limited; and he weeps because, aware of his own failings he foresees
future misfortunes when judgment is handed down. The monks mourns
because of and about death and judgment.
86
â•‡ §29 (1152A). 87
â•‡ §29 (1149D). 88
â•‡ §6 (793B).
89
â•‡ The phrase “ἔννοια [τοῦ] θανάτου” is used by, for example, Ps-Justin, Quaestiones et responsas
ad orthodoxos 447D2–448A7; Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium 3.6.77.1f.; Basil of Caesarea,
Epistulae 26, 46.5.
90
â•‡ So Hausherr (1982, 26–40).
The relationship between “concept” and “memory” is an important one in the

activity of mourning. While one may “possess” a concept, one can not only
“possess” a memory, but can actively “remember.” Climacus treats memory in
all its aspects—as faculty, as object,91 and as verb.92 As Climacs puts it, “Com-
punction [κατάνυξις] is, properly speaking, undistracted pain of soul, which
takes for itself no consolation, each hour imagining [καθ᾽ ὥραν φανταζομένη] only
its death, and drinking like cold water the comfort which comes from the God
who comforts humble monks.”93 By focusing the “φανταστικόν” on death so spe-
cifically, the monk has at his disposal a way of training the memory to avoid
Evagrius’ “impassioned images” (ἐμπαθῆ νοήματα) and Mark the Monk’s “pre-
possession” (πρόληψις). The memory is dangerous, certainly, but disciplined and
constant memory of death will purify from “passionate” or “polluted” memor-
ies, because it helps the monk view the world with entirely different eyes—a
perception that Climacus calls the “sense of death” (αἴσθησις τοῦ θανάτου), a kind
of increasingly intuitive perception of one’s own nature and the eternal realities
that mortal existence tends to hide.94
The sense of death focuses us back on judgment, as the content of one’s ἔννοια.
As did almost the whole tradition before him, Climacus sees two possible out-
comes of judgment: salvation or damnation. This duality, coupled with judg-
ment’s “futurity” through physical death keeps the monk from despair and
pride. Climacus carefully warns his readers not to arrogate to themselves a false
confidence. He says flatly,
Do not be confident until you receive your sentence,95 contemplating the one
who, after sitting down to table at the marriage feast, was bound hand and foot
and cast out into the outer darkness (Mat 22.11–14). Do not be stiff-necked (see
Exod 33.3–5, Acts 7.51, etc.), you who are an earthly [mortal] being, for many,
though holy and immaterial, were cast from Heaven (Rev 12.9).96
Thinking of the penitent monks, we must remember what Climacus says of
those who take up the crucial virtue of mourning (§7): “None of those mourn-
ing would expect inheritance at death. For it is hidden, not definite [Τὸ γὰρ
ἄδηλον οὐ βέβαιον].”97 The appearance of ἄδηλον here parallels its appearance in
the penitent’s death scene—his “hope” is unsurprisingly equitable with “inher-
itance,”98 but both are “hidden” or “uncertain.” The monk must be vigilant until
91
â•‡ For example, §12 (856B). 92
â•‡ §4 (685B), §5 (769B), and §6 (797B–C).
93
â•‡ §7 (808A–B).
94
â•‡ For example, §6 (793C, 796B, and 796C): Climacus’ language reflects the Macarian senti-
ments that influenced Diadochus, though differing from Macarius’ own diction. On which see
Stewart (1991, 116–38); and on its influence on Diadochus, see Plested (2004, 134–40).
95
â•‡ See Elias 1 (PG 65: 183A) and Theophilus 4 (PG 65: 200A–D), discussed in Chapter 4 Rev; so
also Ps-Macarius, Collectio H 26.26 (PTS 4: 218).
96
â•‡ §23 (968C); cf. §26 (1032C–D). 97
â•‡ §5 (780A).
98
â•‡ The favored vocabulary of the New Testament is κληρονομία: Eph 1.14, 1.18, 5.5; Col 1.12,
3.24; Heb 9.15, 11.8; 1 Pet 1.4. But one also finds πληροφορία: Col 2.2, 1 Thess 1.5, Heb 6.11, 10.22.
his last day, laboring under the threat of a judgment that he may find as surpris-
ing as, I am sure, the underdressed wedding-crasher did. He only overcomes
this uncertainty when he receives his sentence. That occurs only at or after
death,99 and so Climacus suggests that monks possess the present time for
preparation and repentance only if and to the extent that they are uncertain.
Uncertain monks live in a balance of past and future, regret, hope, and fear,
rather than despairing expectation of condemnation or prideful confidence in
vindication. Climacus’ anecdotes consistently make exactly this point: the out-
come of judgment, for penitents in the Prison or for the holy elder Stephen, is
not certain. Its uncertainty—and its fearfulness—rests on the πταίσματα, which
lie in the monk’s past and which will be accounted only after death. Yet, as we
have seen, Climacus is quick to say that the same uncertainty should keep a
monk from despair—there is hope as well as fear; not only hope of reward, but
hope founded in God’s merciful character. As we have seen from Desert and
Gazan literature, the monk must meditate on both: hope keeps him from par-
alysis, fear keeps him from growing slack; and the two together link the renun-
ciation of withdrawal to the cultivation of virtue.100
Conclusion: The Framework of Asceticism

The present moment is always illuminated with the light of eternity, allowing
the sensible and mundane world to image spiritual realities. To behold this is
to contemplate judgment, since the spiritual realm is a moral one. Neverthe-
less, judgment remains uncertain prior to death. To remember death, there-
fore, is to behold judgment at a distance and to understand that progress,
repentance, and salvation are always possible. Nevertheless, death is also the
moment when sensible and spiritual merge and the image finally becomes its
archetype. As such, death is also the limit and scope of ascetic progress, and so
memory of death as mortality, held together with contemplation of judgment,
spurs the monk on to immediate action in light of the world he is so fast
approaching. Simultaneously, while he looks forward to what is already
becoming present, the monk must look back, constantly remembering his
beginnings, his sins, and his baptismal and monastic vows. The dynamism of
the ascetic life as progress is only possible when every part of this framework
is joined. Unless the present moment tastes of eternity the monk has no hope,
no fear, nothing to love. Yet without delay, judgment would present only a
cause for despair. Without memory of his past, the monk has no sense of his
own progress and, perhaps more importantly, his own lowliness. The monk
lives in a state of tension, looking to the future with fear and hope predicated
99
â•‡ §7 (808D and 816D), §26 (1021B), and §27 (1116A–B).
100
â•‡ See Chryssavgis (2004, 110–11, 159–61).
on the inexorable uncertainty of God’s judgment, the futurity of death, and the
retrospective awareness of his own faults.
Climacus inherited from the Vita Antonii, from Desert literature, and espe-
cially from Gaza, a powerful tool in the memory of mortality and judgment. He
put that inheritance to work and crafted from it a symbolic framework within
which he could conceive of the ascetic life more generally. Not only has he
deployed the “memory of death” to motivate and clarify ascetic renunciation,
not only has he connected it to a variety of virtues as did Barsanuphius and
John, he has actually made death the means by which monks engage with time.
Climacus’ so natural, so organic conception of the memory of death provides
an existential, temporal, iconic framework within which the monk labors and
which directly enables him in the pursuit of virtue. Progress is a process of
reshaping oneself—and being reshaped—bounded ethically and temporally by
the virtues and, primarily, humility and hope, the brighter twins of despair and
pride. Within this temporal and iconic framework, then, Climacus works out
his vision of ascetic spirituality as a living death longing for resurrection.
THE ASCETIC LIFE AS DEATH AND RESURRECTION
Procopius of Caesarea, writing about the castrum commissioned by Justinian, said

that “In this mountain of Sinai dwelled monks, for whom life is a sort of careful
‘practice of death.’â•›”101 His words, originally taken from Plato, but by the sixth cen-
tury detached and made the common currency of Christian asceticism, echo
silently through the whole of the Ladder, as Climacus shapes the ascetic life and its
eschatological purpose and hope precisely by his imaginative descriptions of death
and resurrection. At the end of the fifteenth rung, on Purity (Ἀγνεία), Climacus
describes a pure ascetic as one “who, attaining purity while in the flesh, has died
and risen; and from this time has already grasped the prelude of the incorruption
[or, immortality] to come.”102 Merely to taste the future age, one must have died
and risen. And so the present life becomes an opportunity for “practice” not only
of death but, as we have heard Epiphanius put it, of “death and resurrection.”
Climacus says of “those who think about things above,” that “being separ-
ated, [namely, dying] they ascend in portions, while those who think on things
below, return thither again, for there is no middle place for those who are separ-
ated [namely, who die].”103 That is, those who see the age to come typified in the
present world and set their minds to its contemplation already live there if only
in soul, while their body will follow at the proper time, prefiguring in their lives
the state of death but longing for the unity of resurrection. Those who live
101
â•‡ Procopius of Caesarea, De Aedificiis 5.8.4.
102
â•‡ §15 (904C). 103
â•‡ §26 (1036B–C).
only for and in the present world, not discerning its iconic nature, experience it
only. For them there is no ascent, because there is nothing between earth and
heaven. They are only dust returning to dust. Elsewhere, Climacus describes
the dispassionate monk as one tasting resurrection before the resurrection.
Some, he says, “declare apatheia to be resurrection of the soul before the
body.”104 This passage reminds us that, for John, “resurrection” is a mode or way
of life defined by virtues such as apatheia, allowing the ascetic to focus on the
things above rather than those below. The iconic world becomes increasingly
transparent for the ascetic who focuses on heaven, so that at the summit of both
the active and contemplative life, he lives already in a resurrectional mode
untroubled by the vicissitudes of the present life.
Of course, we want to remember that while Climacus allows the possibility
of living a resurrectional life “in the flesh,” he understands it as an imperfect
orat least incomplete one. Already ambivalent about apatheia as a possibility
this side of death, Climacus actually attributes the idea of apatheia as preresur-
rectional resurrection to “some people,” while others call it a knowledge “infe-
rior only to that of angels.” This is one of those moments where Climacus holds
together without adjudication various traditional ideas. However, he then
explains that he has it on good authority (“I heard this from one who has tasted
it”) that apatheia really is “the perfect uncompleted perfection of the perfect.”105
This last opinion does not necessarily exclude the first two, but, as in Climacus’
other lists, each item exposes a different facet of apatheia. If it is a taste of resur-
rectional life, or knowledge of God as far as possible for embodied creatures, it
is also and above all a process without end. Climacus preserves, even among
the “perfect,” a sense of forward (and upward) progress in God. The tension
between “perfection” (τελειότης), which carries a connotation of completion,
and “uncompleted” (τὸ ἀτέλεστον) plays out in Climacus’ understanding of the
ascetic as a “blessed living corpse.” That is, before resurrection must come
death, and so this section will focus on this trope as a way of constituting the
ascetic’s identity through death, conditioned by the iconic and temporal frame-
work of death within which the monk labors.
Obedience and Living Death

“Memory of death is daily death; memory of departure is hourly groaning.”106
What does Climacus mean? Despite his clear claim that a very real death and
104
â•‡ §29 (1148B–C); the “some” most likely refers to Diadochus, perf. 82 (Rutherford 2000, 116):
“But if someone while living could die through toils, he would become wholly a house of the Holy
Spirit. For before he dies, this sort of man rises—such was the blessed Paul and all who struggled
and yet struggle against sin.” This claim also echoes Climacus’ words concerning those who have
conquered lust in §15 (892D–93A).
105
â•‡ §29 (1148C): αὔτη οὖν ἡ τελεία τῶν τελείων ἀτέλεστος τελειότης . . . 106
â•‡ §6 (793B).
resurrection are necessary, Climacus speaks more cautiously and with more
sophistication than many of his forebears in Egypt and Gaza about a monastic
“living death.” Climacus is keenly aware of the ambiguities of thanatological
language, recognizing that “death” spoken of in an unqualified way can have as
many negative connotations as positive. For example, “willing death” can be
understood as “suicide,” something of which Climacus clearly disapproves. Cli-
macus demonstrates the ambiguity of death by his equivocal use of the term
“living corpse.” In rung two, on “Detachment” (Ἀπροσπάθεια), Climacus speaks
of these corpses negatively:
We who desirously and zealously desire to run, let us examine with understand-
ing how the Lord has condemned all those living in the world as “living corpses”
[ζῶντας νεκροὺς], saying to one: “Leave the” worldly “dead”, “to bury the dead”
(Luke 9.60) with the body.107
In this passage, reminiscent of Barsanuphius’ treatment of Luke 9.60, the “liv-
ing dead” are those who still live according to the desires and ways of the world:
zombies, effectively, ticking on lifelessly, disordered, and worse, disobedient to
God. Later, when discussing obedience, Climacus uses the same vocabulary to
describe a diametrically opposite state. He says of those living in obedience that
“the blessed living corpse [ὁ ζῶν νεκρὸς οὗτος ὁ μακαρίτης] is distressed when he
sees himself doing his individual will, since he fears the burden of his own judg-
ment.”108 Climacus now speaks of the “living corpse” as blessed. In this case,
rather than describing a life incapable of detaching itself from worldly desires,
living death describes a life that has become so detached as to have given up its
own ability to choose and desire. The vocabulary and imagery of death are not,
it seems, inherently beneficial ones—death can be good or bad, and so the
image requires contextualization.
For Climacus, the distinction is clear: obedience, like the monastery wall,
separates the blessed dead within from the zombie hordes without. Constrast-
ing it with those outside—who have left and are truly “dead’—who “live” in
obedience only to their own disordered desires, Climacus takes up the theme
of obedience to God, through a spiritual father. He describes obedience as a
total state—not an act or even a habit of acting, but a state of being that resem-
bles death. It is worth quoting Climacus’ exuberant description of obedience as
death:
Obedience is in every way a denial of one’s own life, revealed actively through the
body. Or perhaps obedience is the opposite: mortification of members in a liv-
ing intellect (see Col 3.5). Obedience is unexamined motion, a voluntary death,
an uncluttered life, carelessness of danger, an unconcerned defence before God,
107
â•‡ §2 (657B); so also Summary after §26 (1089A) where Climacus compares one in despair to
a dead man.
108
â•‡ §4 (680Β).
Â�
fearlessness of death, peaceful voyage, a dozing stroll . . . Obedience is the will’s
[lit., willing’s] tomb, and humility’s raising.109
In Climacus’ description, one hears echoes of John Kolobos watering his stick,
Bessarion commanding a novice to cast his son into the river, Aphrodisius
spending thirty years under Saba’s watchful eye, and those other tales of
unbending, often absurd, obedience for which the Desert was famous. Obedi-
ence makes a dead man out of the monk, and in doing so, transfers the respon-
sibility for his continued existence to his director or spiritual father, by which
Climacus usually means the abbot of the monastery.110 Climacus says, “A dead
man does not rebut or differentiate among goods or apparent evils. For the one
piously putting his soul to death will answer for everything.”111 When the monk
dies his “voluntary death,” it is no longer he but his master who lives, and so no
longer he but his master will answer for actions that can no longer be properly
called his own. Crucially, though, Climacus says that the master puts the dis-
ciples’ soul to death—it is not like suicide. I note this because when Climacus
uses suicide as a metaphor he refers it to despair: “Nothing is equal to the com-
passionate mercy of God, let alone greater—and so if someone despairs, he kills
himself.”112 What John means, I think, is that God, whose mercy is unsurpassed,
presents no reason for despairing and, therefore, God does not “kill” people. If
someone falls into despair, it is through a lack of trust in his mercy and so com-
parable to suicide. In obedience, the ascetic does not kill himself—that would
be pride or despair (really the same thing), an assertion of his individual will,
or an attempt to take Heaven by his own means. Rather, the ascetic, like the
ideal martyr—Perpetua guiding the sword, or Polycarp refusing the nails—
submits willingly to another who “kills” him.
Climacus asserts numerous demands, familiar from Gaza, of the monk who
would be obedient. As always, the monk denies his family and country, the
constellation of relationships that once defined him. In his third rung, on Exile
(Ξενιτεία), Climacus describes the situation with characteristic gusto: “Exile is
separation from all things, through doing the inseparable thought of God. Exile
is a lover and worker of insatiate mourning. An exile is one fleeing relationship
with those he knows and those he does not.”113 He finds new relations in his
fellow ascetics (brothers), his director (father), and the angels who, unlike
worldly relations “are able to help you in the time of your death if they are your
109
â•‡ §4 (680A): See John the Sabaite’s story of an obedient disciple (§4 [720A–21A]), whom Cli-
macus calls “a man truly living in dying [τὸν ἀληθῶς ἐν κοιμήσαι ζῶντα].” The language recalls also
Abba Rufus’ encomium on obedience (Rufus 2 [PG 65: 392A]).
110
â•‡ For example, the one giving orders in §4 is always the abbot.
111
â•‡ §4 (680A): Οὐκ ἀντερεῖ, ἢ διακρίνει νεκρὸς ἐν ἀγαθοῖς, ἢ τὸ δοκεῖν πονηροῖς. Ὁ γὰρ θανατώσας
αὐτοῦ εὐσεβῶς τὴν ψυχὴν, ὑπὲρ πάντων ἀπολογήσεται. The context clearly reveals the subject of
“θανατώσας” as the father and not the son. See Hausherr (1990, 226).
112
â•‡ §5 (780B); so also in the Summary after §26 (1089D). 113
â•‡ §3 (664C).
friends.”114 Climacus adds to these highly traditional “spiritual” relations the

fruits of the monk’s ascetic struggle. He calls the monk’s moans his children, the
memory of death his bride, compunction his mother, and his body his slave.
The monk is grafted into an entirely new family tree. His entire identity is con-
stituted by the ascetic struggle and its context within a community composed
of like-minded men and supportive spiritual beings. Like Antony, like the nov-
ices advised by Macarius, or like the monks under Barsanuphius’ care, the
monk in flight uses the memory of death to overcome the impinging memories
of family and friends, who would maliciously draw him back into the world.
Obedience is contextualized, however, by the exigenecies of monastic life,
and so Climacus’ monk, as in earlier Desert traditions, obeys God through his
human master.115 At the monastery in Alexandria, the abbot, wishing to show
off the prudence of an old monk, Laurentius, second priest in the monastery
and a monk of forty-eight years standing, called him over to table and let him
wait for over an hour. Finally, when lunch was over the abbot summarily dis-
missed poor Laurentius and sent him to Isidore to recite Psalm 39.1: “I waited
patiently for the Lord and he answered me.” Climacus later asks Laurentius
what he thought about during that hour of waiting, and is shattered by Lauren-
tius’ reply:
Considering the shepherd as the image of Christ, I did not consider that I re-
ceived the command from him, but from God. Thus, Father John, [I considered
myself] not as before a table of men, but as before the altar of God, and I stood
praying to God. Neither did I entertain any evil thought toward the shepherd, on
account of my faith and love for him.
The human master images Christ, the divine master, whom the monk attempts
to obey precisely through his unquestioning obedience—a sort of death to his
desires and beliefs, culminating in a willing renunciation of his ability even to
choose.116 This passage also highlights obedience as operating within the iconic
epistemology discussed earlier. Thus not only does the abbot image Christ, but
the luncheon table images the divine altar. Importantly, then, the one who kills
the monk is, in a sense, Christ; and the one who lives when the monk is dead, is
also Christ.
Setting up another mediation, appropriate to the more advanced, Climacus
appeals later to conscience. This functions for the hesychast monk analogously to
the abbot for the coenobitic monk. Climacus commands monks in the Â�twenty-sixth
rung, on Discernment (Διάκρισις) to “use our conscience, directed by God, as
Â�purpose and rule in everything, so that, knowing ‘whence comes’ the breath of the
winds (John 3.8), we may set sails accordingly.”117 Beautifully evoking
114
â•‡ §3 (665C–68A). This is perhaps because they are also God’s friends: §1 (632B).
115
â•‡ The following story is found at §4 (692A–B).
116
â•‡ §4 (692B, 725D–28A); §15 (888C); §25 (1000B–C); etc. 117
â•‡ §26 (1013B).
the Johannine image of the Holy Spirit, in this passage both master and impulsion
are God, working through the monk’s own faculties, but even in this instance dis-
cernment is still a repudiation of one’s individual will insofar as it does not per-
fectly follow God’s. In the prior rung, on Humility, Climacus says that “the humble
man always despises his individual will as an error, and, making his petitions to
the Lord in unswerving faith, learns what he should do . . . such a worker does and
thinks and speaks everything in accordance with God, and never trusts him-
self.”118 Positing explicitly and unflinchingly what was implied in Desert literature,
Climacus claims that the choice of God’s will or the individual’s is absolutely
exclusive: one can only sail under one wind. Obedience, then, must always be to
God, but mediated, whether through a human master—a Moses as Climacus says
in the first rung, who can mediate between God and men—or to one’s own con-
science, trained through years of obedience to that Moses.119 In Climacus’ formu-
lation, obedience describes the entirety of the ascetic life. There is no point at
which the monk can choose not to obey. Indeed, he no longer chooses at all.
Obedience, then, even unto death,120 becomes the scope and limit of the ascetic
life. Thus, like the Gazan Fathers before him, Climacus sees physical death as a
necessary but indifferent limit of obedience.
Obedience, because it describes a mode and scope of existence, also presents
the sort of freedom toward the world that Antony found and for which the Des-
ert Fathers longed—but that seemed so often out of reach. The desires, beliefs,
relationships, and judgments that were formerly the monk’s own property have
been lost to the will of a master, with submission to insults and lowliness until
the monk no longer even notices these conditions. He no longer has any famil-
ial or societal ties to the world, and he no longer has a will with which to sin. He
is unbound by the world, and so he is free toward it. When Climacus asked
some obedient old men why they lived that way, some responded that “they
gained perfect freedom from sense, and insensibility amid insults and
rebukes.”121 They no longer take notice of how they are treated or whether they
suffer good or ill. One can hear Antony telling his disciples that monks do not
seek revenge or concern themselves with honor, or Macarius inviting them to
abuse the graves. Insensibility, in this way, is freedom, and Climacus has shown
the path to that freedom: finding the harshest, roughest master one can, and
submitting constantly to abuse and insult.122 In this regard he adduces the
memory of death as an aid. He says, “Memory of death brings forth, for those
118
â•‡ §25 (1000B–C): for Climacus, as for Evagrius before him, the director’s authority does not
depend on his brilliance or even his good character. See §26 (1057B) and Evagrius, Eulog. 15 (PG
79: 1113A–B).
119
â•‡ §1 (633D–36A). 120
â•‡ §4 (716A); §24 (984C–D). 121
â•‡ §4 (688B).
122
â•‡ This, he says, was Saba’s advice to three would-be monks: §4 (724A–B).
in community, troubles and meditations or, rather, a pleasure in dishonour.”123

It is not entirely clear how recollection of death accomplishes this, except per-
haps that meditation on death as judgment spurs the monk to struggles and
virtues now; while recollection of mortality, which denigrates temporal goods,
keeps him from struggling against dishonor.
Obedience is therefore not ultimately concerned with the replacement of a
sinful will with a healthy one, as one might think—that the monk’s will is per-
haps sick with sin and, once healed by obedience, can be relied upon in health.
Rather, even as an old man the monk remains like “an obedient child,” a sight
that Climacus calls “fearful yet befitting angels.”124 Climacus even describes
the overseer of the penitent monks as “obeying” them in their dying wishes.125
Indeed, obedience demands the hatred of one’s individual will, not because it
is necessarily “sick”—although Climacus, like most Desert Fathers, asserts
that the monk is beset by temptations until his last breath126—but because his
will is not God’s will. The elder’s orders image the commands of God, and so
the monk’s receptivity to his earthly master is, in fact, receptivity to his Heav-
enly Master. The things that a master commands his disciple may be stupid,
even dangerous, but by learning to be attentive to them, the monk learns to
put aside fear and mistrust. But then, as Climacus notes, if a monk is obedi-
ent, God will direct him—God who has spoken through sinners, fools, and
even donkeys. The monk learns to hear in his master’s words the voice of
God, and so he does not receive his master’s faculty of willing, but learns
instead to have a constantly open and attentive receptivity to God’s will, and
by precisely such receptivity, in which he stays dead, does he ultimately find
health.
The Tears That Lead to Joy

Perfect obedience is, however, not to be expected from many, maybe not from
anyone at all. For all those who fail to obey—even in little ways or Â�unexpectedly—
repentance is in order. To understand repentance as an expression of “living
death,” we must first look briefly at Climacus’ emphasis on “mourning” (πένθος).
Climacus’ sixth rung, on the Memory of Death (Μνήμη τοῦ Θανάτου) links the
rungs of Repentance (Μετάνοια, which assumes a memory of death and judg-
ment) and Joy-bearing Mourning (Χαροιὸν Πένθος), which, as we have seen, is
preceded by memory of “death and faults.” The sixth rung does not, then, detail
a virtue learned for its own sake. It concerns, rather, a virtue—an activity of
â•‡ §6 (793C).
123 124
â•‡ §4 (688B). 125
â•‡ §5 (772C).
â•‡ See, for example, §13 (860A) and Summary after §26 (1088B): here the “limit” of death is
126
invoked as the extent to which struggle is necessary, echoing and recalling Basilian, Desert, and
Gazan ideas, discussed in Chapter 5.
remembering—learned only in order to develop others, notably, repentance

and mourning. Mourning, though, as Hannah Hunt has shown, is central to
Climacus’ understanding of the ascetic life. 127 Climacus writes, in a tone simi-
lar to Barsanuphius’, that
We will not be accused, no, indeed, we will not be accused at the soul’s departure
if we have not worked wonders, or if we have not theologized, or if we have not
become contemplatives. But we will give account to God in every possible way if
we have not mourned unceasingly.128
Mourning is one of those activities the monk never abandons as he ascends

toward higher virtues. Indeed, it helps propel the monk to those virtues.
Mourning “purified from every stain” is present with “carefully undertaken
repentance” like flour and yeast in the unleavened bread of humility, baked
with a “fire of the Lord.”129 In the same breath Climacus compares mourning to
the water through which dough is then kneaded, which, he daringly claims,
unites the soul with God.130 The memory of death (as also of judgment) is cen-
tral in the activity of those repenting and the begetter of mourning and tears.
Of course, the quotation also demonstrates that tears are, like the memory of
death, begetters of other virtues as well. Climacus, like those before him, values
fear, but, more than fear, he values hope and love. Joining all these, he says,
“Tears about one’s departure bring forth fear. When fear has brought forth fear-
lessness, joy shines forth; but the flower of holy love rises when infinite joy
ceases.”131 These apparently opposite reactions to the memory of death operate
together in Climacus’ understanding. Thus, tears and mourning do not depart,
but they do transform, and so are “joy-bearing” and, more than that, “love-
bearing.” But tears only make sense as expressions of repentance and well up, as
Climacus says, for the monk who meditates ceaselessly on his own death and
God’s coming judgment.132
127
â•‡ On mourning in Climacus see especially Hunt (2004, 51–96).
128
â•‡ §7 (816D); recalling Barsanuphius’ advice: “Weep, rather, and mourn” (resp. 600 [SC 451:
810]).
129
â•‡ An aside is in order. When Climacus says “fire,” he generally means “desire,” and this in a
positive sense. One of his most beautiful slogans is “bringing fire to fire” to denote the increase of
godly zeal. See particularly his lovely encomium of the devout monk at §1 (644A): “Who, there-
fore, is the faithful and prudent monk, who has kept his own vigor unquenched? Who until his
death has not ceased from adding fire to fire, heat to heat, haste to haste, and desire to desire?”
Climacus repeats this almost verbatim at §27 (1100A) and, again, much the same at §27 (1105B).
See also §15 (880C). Climacus has a high regard for ἔρως, even if he believes it often put to poor
use. It is a matter of analogy, though: divine ἔρως is good, drawing people to God just as God came
to them in Christ; worldly ἔρως epitomizes an obsession with all that is false and transient—not
only will it inevitably fail, it will destroy the soul with despair. On this topic, see especially Yan-
naras (1969) and Chryssavgis (1985).
130
â•‡ §25 (989D): NB. This points also to Climacus’ belief in the universality of repentance,
μετάνοια μεμεριμνημένη, is also the title of §5: Περὶ μετάνοιας μεμεριμνημένης καὶ ἐναργοῦς
131
â•‡ §7 (813B–C). 132
â•‡ §27 (1113B–C).
The Hope of Repentance

All of this is so amazing because tears symbolize for Climacus the whole move-
ment of repentance. Repentance is, according to Climacus, the “daughter of
hope and the denial of hopelessness.”133 We have seen in the Holy Criminals an
image of repentance which Climacus wishes to apply to all monastics. As Bro-
uria Bitton-Ashkelony puts it, “In [late antique] monastic culture, where self-
criticism and purification of the personal consciousness marked its very
existence, μετάνοια was a necessity. Indeed, it was seen as the path leading to the
gate that offered access to individual salvation, paved with divinely sanctioned
hope and permanently open.”134 Repentance does not, for Climacus, simply
mean “getting up” after a fall, though it does mean that;135 nor does it denote
only ritualized acts of “penance,” though it incorporates those as well. Rather,
repentance is the state of mind in which a monk, through increasing awareness
of God’s judgment and his own failures, learns to rely at all times on God’s
mercy and to hope only in God’s love. By doing so he denies that the ascent to
God is one he makes under his own strength. But he also denies that it is impos-
sible for him. He has hope in God, and he fears only God. Repentance, like
obedience, expresses the state of tension of fear and hope, the terror of judg-
ment, and the promise of mercy, within which monks live as though dead.
Tears are certainly the proper activity in the face of death and judgment, but
only insofar as one has something to mourn. Confidence about judgment
would not breed tears. Tears come from recollection of one’s sins and awareness
of one’s lack of progress (although, as Barsanuphius would agree, this aware-
ness increases with one’s progress). Yet tears are also effective. They do not sim-
ply bespeak failings, they wash them away—tears are purifying. In the same
vein as Barsanuphius, Climacus boldly describes the various aspect of repent-
ance, from impulse to effect, in terms of tears and mourning. Climacus goes so
far as to compare these godly tears to baptism. He says,:
The font of tears after baptism stands greater than baptism, even if this saying is
rather daring. For the former [baptism] is a purification from previous evils in
us (see Rom 3.25); but this [font of tears is purification] from later-arising evils.
While we received baptism as infants, we have all defiled it. But through tears we
cleanse it [our baptism]. For if this were not given philanthropically from God to
people, those being saved would be truly few and hard to find.136
In this Climacus echoes the Gazan Fathers in their specification and elaboration
of a Desert tradition especially associated with Poemen.137 The idea of tears as a
“second baptism” can be traced also to the Apopthegmata Patrum. Barbara
133
â•‡ §5 (764A). 134
â•‡ Bitton-Ashkelony (1999, 181).
135
â•‡ §4 (696D). 136
â•‡ §7 (804A–B).
137
â•‡See resp. 148, 257, 461, discussed in Chapter 5; as well as Poemen on tears in Chapter 4.
Müller sees enough indirect evidence in the Apophthegmata Patrum to allow us

“to speculate that the Desert Fathers understood their tears as a sort of baptis-
mal bath.”138 Certainly, such claims were made explicit in the Gazan correspond-
ence, and we see here Climacus’ belief that no one remains perfectly pure until
death. Everyone requires repentance. But repentance can be found in tears, in
the process of mourning for oneself that requires a realization of one’s sins, of
the judgment that befalls sinners, and a desire to return to the purity conferred
in baptism. Tears are the means and sign of repentance, brought on by former
misdeeds and keeping the monk from future ones—a new purification like bap-
tism. Climacus says a little later that compunction (κατάνυξις) thinks hourly of
death and finds therein the comfort that God alone can give to humble and con-
trite monks.139 Mourning then operates between past and future, transforming
the present into a constant baptismal washing, a continuous repentance. What
is amazing, though, is that tears then become constitutive of virtues such as
humility, and preparatory for joy and even the love for which all monks strive.
Failure is presupposed and in no way an obstacle to ascent—provided, of course,
that one rises from it through obedience and continues along in tears.
The impetus for mourning always lies in the past. The monk does not mourn
for future sins (which he hopes to avoid), or for his own future damnation
(since it is always a matter of uncertainty). Despair alone would weep for these
things. The monk mourns instead for his own past sins. Thus, mourning intro-
duces a retrospective aspect to monastic development. It reaches its apotheosis
in the judgment at or after death, when all deeds are seen retrospectively, but
the monk must have developed this perspective along the way. In the story of
the elder Stephen, we saw that he could, when accused, recall what he had done
and not done, and what penance and atonement he had made for his sins. Yet,
while this could imply some self-assurance on his part, Stephen still came to a
point where he could not respond. As well as he knew himself, as many labors
as he had undertaken, he still could not answer every accusation, and so he fell
back, as every penitent sinner must, on God’s mercy. Ultimately, this is the
value of tears: they aid and express a penitential lifestyle. Penitence requires
self-awareness, an expectation of judgment, a realization of the urgency of
change, and, above all, the consistent denial of despair in the hope of God’s
mercy. And all of this is the work of dying, because it is the stumbling climb of
obedience. Repentance and mourning are both part of learning the perfect
obedience that is death, and all are done by means of and within the memory of
death. Thus can Climacus say that “Memory of death is daily death; memory of
departure is hourly groaning.”140
138
â•‡ B. Müller (1997, 310): the image was, in fact, already used by Clement of Alexandria (q.d.s.
42.14) and with some regularity applied to the martyr’s deaths in Christian literature.
139
â•‡ §7 (808A). 140
â•‡ §6 (793B).
Conclusion: The Liminal State of Death

The Ladder presents the present life as one of lived death, undertaken through
obedience to God through a human master. Yet it also depicts the resurrection-
al life as one of obedience—directly to God. If it is a lived death now, it will not
cease to be one in the coming age. But this lived death is also life more real than
most humans ever experience. The essence of human life, it seems, is found
only in death, because only then does one become properly receptive to the will
of God, and only within a constant self-renunciation is one reconstituted
entirely through relationship to God. Yet all fail. None can be proud if they are
really aware of their failings, because they cannot expect vindication in God’s
judgment. That is, none are perfectly obedient, and so all have need of repent-
ance. Repentance, expressed in tears, becomes constitutive of the “living death”
that monks undertake.
For Climacus, asceticism is best characterized in the curious paradox of
the “blessed living corpse.” It is a state of tension between hope and fear,
made possible through consistent engagement with death and the iconic
epistemology which that engagement makes possible. To conclude this sec-
tion, I want to point how far Climacus carries the metaphor of death. He
applies to the monastery itself—he understands the whole of the monk’s
environment in terms of death. He quotes with approval the Alexandrian
abbot who calls the Great Coenobium “an earthly heaven.”141 That is, in the
monastery one tastes one’s hope through the anticipatory “death” of obedi-
ence. Indeed, Climacus continues, “Therefore, as angels serving the Lord, so
ought we to order our heart.”142 The monks live, as Barsanuphius once wrote,
“on earth as though in heaven.”143 Yet, Climacus elsewhere calls the monas-
tery “tomb before the tomb . . . For no one leaves the tomb until the general
resurrection.”144 The monastery may be an “earthly heaven,” but that makes
it as much an “image” of things to come as anything else in life. Climacus’
iconic epistemology reveals the monastery as a foretaste of eternity whose
dwellers are dead and waiting for their hope. However, this death is a good
one, separated by the monastery wall from the death of pride or despair and
the zombie-state of self-direction. Thus Climacus continues, “But if some
depart, know that they have died.” Only those who commit the willful act of
departure—of disobedience that does not result in repentance—actually
“die” in the sense of being lost. Those in the monastery are “dying,” yes, fall-
ing and falling again, but their deaths, daily and repeated, each one making
a new beginning, ultimately give way to “the general resurrection” in which
the “dead” existence of obedience is revealed, as the next section will show,
as most truly alive.
141
â•‡ §4 (713B). 142
â•‡ §4 (713B–C).
143
â•‡ resp. 77. 144
â•‡ §4 (716B).
IMITATING CHRIST THROUGH DEATH
Climacus’ epistemic framework of engagement with time and eternity through

death and his conceptualization of the ascetic life as “death” through obedience
in the tension of hope and fear, together serve to cultivate a particular identity.
As we saw in the Introduction and Chapter 1, identity—a particular
self-understanding and holistic lifestyle—is Climacus’ driving concern, and its
cultivation requires organizing principles. Death provides such a principle, but
only in context of Climacus’ overarching understanding of Christian identity
as imitation of Christ. That is, Climacus uses death as the means of creating
Christians whose lives reflect Christ in their ascetic labors. Climacus begins the
Ladder by calling the Christian “the imitator of Christ, as far as humanly pos-
sible, in words, deeds, and thought, rightly and blamelessly believing in the
Holy Trinity.”145 Imitation of Christ is, as it were, the wood out of which the
rungs of the Ladder are fashioned.146
The phrase, “so far as humanly possible,” crucially qualifies Climacus’ notion of
imitation. To explain, in the twenty-sixth rung, on Discernment (Διάκρισις), Cli-
macus sets out three “alphabets,” one for beginners, one for those on the way, and
one for those approaching perfection. The letters correspond to concepts only as
a cipher to an encrypted message. Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky argue that
The use of cryptic language here is clearly pedagogical, making it easier to memorize
the monastic ideals represented . . . But it is not simply a program for ascetic progress
from the beginning to perfection; rather it is a set of symbols designating a new state
of self-consciousness, which can be defined as mystical and spiritual reality.147
That is, Climacus seeks to develop a way of self-understanding, of thinking,
perceiving, and acting, and he puts this into a handy mnemonic and meditative
list. Tellingly, he ends the final “alphabet” of virtues, one designed for those
“being perfected in spirit and body” with “Ω—imitator of the Master with the
Master’s aid.”148 At the summit of ascetic activity, then, the end of the Ladder’s
ascent, is the grace of Christ that makes Christianity possible as a defining
identity. Imitation of Christ is not, then, simply another human act. It is the
development of an identity possible only because of and through Christ him-
self. Indeed, for Climacus the recollection of Christ’s self-giving in death cre-
ates an impossible debt that the monk cannot repay, no matter how much he
suffers.149 Yet Climacus (or a loving disciple) concludes the Ladder by saying,:
Run, I beg you, with that one who said “Let us hurry on until we all reach the
unity of the faith, and the knowledge of God, unto perfect manhood, unto the
145
â•‡ §1 (633B). 146
â•‡ See, for example, §29 (1149D).
147
â•‡ Bitton-Ashkelony and Kofsky (2006, 112). 148
â•‡ §26 (1017C).
149
â•‡ §23 (968D); also §3 (668B) and §25 (996C): one drives out pride by remembering the same
fact.
measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ (Eph 4.13),” who, being baptized
when thirty years old in visible age, fulfilled the thirtieth rung in the noetic
ladder.150
The monk who achieves love comes to the God who “is love” (quoting 1 John
4.16) through imitation of Christ. This imitation, though, makes sense only as
an awed response to the overwhelming gift given in Christ. Imitation operates
in the curious tension of divine and human in the person of Christ—thirty
years old “visibly” yet remaining the “invisible God.” In this regard, then,
Christ’s death and resurrection are both model and inimitable ground of the
ascetic life. Climacus uses this tension between imitation and awe at Christ’s
death to form the monk’s proper attitude toward his own life and death. By
doing so, Climacus effectively resolves the tensions to which language of death
gave rise in Desert literature: the hope of self-transformation and the earthy
skepticism of those who know what it means to fall come together in Climacus’
vision of monastic “death” as imitation of Christ.
Failure
First, imitation of Christ allows for failure. To remain sinless, Climacus says, is
to never see death. If a monk could be perfect he would not have to suffer death.
Climacus gets the idea by working through Romans 7.24, where Paul asks
“Who will deliver me from this body of death?” Climacus interprets this “body”
to mean “the flesh’: “mine and not mine, friend and enemy, the flesh.” He then
says that “If death, as was said above, is the flesh, whoever wholly overcomes
the flesh will not die.” Well and good, but Climacus then asks the despairing
question: “Who then is that man, who will live and not see death151 from the
defilement of his flesh? I beg that he be sought.”152 Climacus sets up a hope for
life—to completely conquer the flesh. And then he demolishes it by asking
rhetorically whether any such victor can be found.
Climacus then moves to restore hope through an imitation of Christ. Clima-
cus asks, “Who is greater—the one dying and rising, or the one never dying at
all? On the one hand, blessing the latter, one is wrong, for Christ, dying, rose.
On the other hand, [blessing] the former, one is constrained to believe there is
no rejection for those dying, or, rather, lapsing.”153 Part of imitating Christ,
paradoxically, is “lapsing”—failing, sinning. Of course, for Christ, death did
not represent a lapse, which is why Climacus has to say “or, rather, lapsing.” The
experience of death and resurrection provides an appropriate symbolic frame-
work for Climacus to expound the hope that survives failure. If death was the
150
â•‡ Concluding Summary (1161A).
151
â•‡ Perhaps referring to Enoch (Gen 5.25 LXX and Heb 11.5). But Enochs are few and far
between.
152
â•‡ §15 (885D–88A). 153
â•‡ §15 (888A).
end, then there would be no hope; but one can, like Christ, rise again. Resurrec-
tion does not, however, imply leniency in God—a point which Climacus is
careful to make immediately after. Claims of leniency, he says, originate with
“the man-hating enemy of fornication,” about which Climacus is speaking in
the present context. The imitation of Christ, while providing a framework of
Christian progress that can incorporate failure, does not dismiss failure as
unimportant or in any way acceptable. We are, instead, back among the peni-
tents. Ever conscious of failure, ever terrified, yet hopeful, they engage in the
memory and practice of death par excellence—and, if we take Climacus ser-
iously here, they actually imitate Christ by their penitence, which draws their
deaths toward resurrection.
Tension
Second, Climacus uses Christ’s example to explain how the monk should prop-
erly fear but not despair about death. Climacus says that “While “fear of death”
(Ps 54.5) is a property of nature which attached from transgression, terror at
death is a sure sign of unrepented errors.” The “disobedience” here likely refers
to the human condition following Adam’s disobedience, rather than a specific
act. We saw in Chapter 3 that Athanasius, for example, saw “fear of death” as
being a result of humanity’s servitude to sin, while Desert and Gazan Fathers
tended to see fear as healthy, provided that it referred not to a loss of physical
pleasure, but to the limited time available for repentance, and the fact of God’s
judgment. Climacus, however, moves in a different direction, drawing the line
between fear and terror at death in terms of Christ’s own attitude. He continues,
“Christ is afraid of death, but not terrified, that he might wisely show the prop-
erties of his two natures.”154 That is, Christ certainly did not have unrepented
sins, but Climacus, a good Chalcedonian and, perhaps, a Dyothelite, affirms
that Christ in his humanity took on even the properties of human nature which
accrued as the shared inheritance of Adamic disobedience. Christ thus pro-
vides the example for the ascetic’s attitude toward death. The monk can, Clima-
cus suggests, approach death like Christ did, so long as he lives in repentance
and obedience. Recall Climacus’ belief about confession as wiping away past
sins, and his emphasis on repentance—the monk, even though he fails, can
have hope in Christ and so not despair in his own approach to death. The ten-
sion we have seen in the memory of death—between hope and fear—is, then,
also an imitation of Christ’s human response to death.
Climacus also uses Christology to explain how memory of death functions
among higher virtues. We must recall what was shown in Chapter 1, that Clima-
cus imagines progress within rather than through virtues—they are gathered
154
â•‡ §6 (793C).
together and united in the monk. The “diptych” structure of the Ladder lends
particular poignancy to what Climacus says in the twenty-eighth rung: “Some
say that prayer is better than memory of one’s departure; but I hymn two natures
of one person.”155 As in Christ, humanity and divinity held firmly together, so in
the monk the memory of death is operative and necessary even as he ascends to
the activity of prayer. It is intriguing to hold this dogmatic statement of Christ’s
two natures together with the one from rung six. They are, I might note, the only
such references Climacus makes. The monk in prayer is united with God. Nev-
ertheless, remaining human, he is still susceptible to temptation, just as Christ
was. This duality hearkens back to the iconicity of the world in the monk’s mem-
ory of judgment—sensible and spiritual held together. The monk lives between
two worlds or, rather, within two worlds. He lives as an eternally composite crea-
ture who may strive for union with God in prayer but remains always human,
mortal, an imitator however imperfect of the perfect God-man, Christ.
Unity
Finally, the imitation of Christ in “death” provides the unity of the ascetic life
that not only defines the monk’s longed-for identity, but confers on him crucial
stability as he progresses in God—the more he is united with God, the more he
is truly human, and the result is a simple, albeit composite, creature, a unity
rather than a duality. This person whom Climacus calls childlike (νήπιος), sim-
ple (ἁπλοῦν), and single (ἕν),156 is a Christian. Or, rather, every true Christian—
imitating Christ in every aspect of his existence—is “simple.” This creature lives
in contradistinction to the evil person, who, Climacus says, lives a double life.
He says, “Just as the wicked man is twofold—one thing publicly, another pri-
vately (see Luke 12.3), so the simple man is not twofold, but a single thing.”157
The simple are always the same, never having to hide their character. But the
wicked are deceitful, cunning, hiding behind a mask of apparent virtue. If one
could see behind the mask, though, one would find creatures like the Devil.
They appear human, but are become demons.158 The curious thing about the
demons, Climacus says, is that, while angels obey God, the Devil can do only his
individual will.159 Every being (apart from God) is “bound” in some way. This is,
of course, the now-familiar problem of the “fractured will,” raised so pointedly
in Desert and Gazan literature. Climacus has taken up the tradition in making
obedience the means of death—it is in obedience that the monk “cuts
155
â•‡ §28 (1137A).
156
â•‡ See, for example, §24 (984C); §26 (1057A); §28 (1129D), etc.
157
â•‡ §4 (688B–C); so also §22 (949C): “The vainglorious monk is a faithful idolater, showing
piety to God in appearance, but desiring to please not God, but men.” See resp. 846 (SC 468: 328),
which pits “ἄπλοτης” against “διψύχια.”
158
â•‡ See, for example, §8 (832A). 159
â•‡ §4 (717D–20A).
off ” his individual will. Obedience, since it frees the monk from bondage to his
individual will so that he can obey God instead, makes a person “simple,” even
“foolish,” but that foolishness and child like simplicity expresses the openness to
God’s will whose cultivation looks like death. So, the simple man, the dead man,
since he is not a demon, is instead an angel—like the obedient old men Clima-
cus saw in Alexandria, a sight “fearful yet befitting angels.”160 Yet, to become an
embodied angel, the monk must make his way through repentance. He will
inevitably fail in obedience either to his spiritual father or to the commands of
God. And so he must have recourse to the uncertainty that memory of death
and judgment provide, as well as the activity of repentance expressed best
through tears. The unity of natures in Christ, which Climacuse makes the unity
of practices and virtues, calling particular attention to the monk’s engagement
with death, describes and delimits the unity of the monk’s Christian self. It is a
composed unity, body and soul bound together, mortal and immortal, capable
of unceasing and eternal progress in love, which Climacus calls “rest of angels,
progress of the ages.”161
Conclusion: A Ladder of Dying and Rising

The view of time, which is defined by memory of death and judgment, describes
the “triad” of the Ladder. Its contorted “shape” denies a reader’s desire for a too-
literal interpretation of the image, or an over-extended mapping of the meta-
phor onto the spiritual life. The Ladder is not a ladder. But it is an image of
progress, specifically progress as movement toward and within; of Christian
identity as an eminently human imitation of Christ. The ascent is often halting,
beset by obstacles and falls little and great. In this halting climb we find the
“dyad,” without which the ascetic would be something inhuman, and certainly
unChristian. The upward path is tortuous and as long as he is on the path, the
monk resides on a frontier without conclusions, dwelling simultaneously in the
uncertainties of hope and fear, rather than the false certainties of pride or
despair.
The monk, like all others, is called to perfection and to the perfect imitation
of Christ. Yet the monk, like all, has sinned and very likely will sin again. He is
not perfect. He must repent. While it would be wonderful never to fall and,
therefore, never to die, such is not the lot of humanity, which limps beneath the
burden of Adam’s sin, laboring to pay an unpayable debt.162 One who falls need
not stay down, and the sleeper can be awakened. But Christ, in his incarnate
life, by his unanswerable death and resurrection, makes this possible. Christ is
160
â•‡ On Climacus’ elaboration of the “angelic life”—another trope common in ascetic literature,
which, like death scenes, he subverts and develops in new ways, see Zecher (2013).
161
â•‡ §30 (1160A).
162
â•‡ See §4 (724C–D), following Mark the Monk, Operibus 20 (SC 445: 136).
the ascetic’s model—though Christ did not sin, he did suffer the consequence
of sin: death and even a healthy fear of death. So, just as Christ labored in the
fallen human condition, so fallen humans can labor to be like Christ. It would
be no exaggeration to say that, for Climacus, death bounds and defines pro-
gress in becoming like Christ, even as the “death and resurrection” of repent-
ance expresses the existential condition of humanity in light of God’s mercy.
Death is, therefore, the ontological precondition for progress, its memory the
impetus to progress, and its practice the principle of progress. Thus, the mem-
ory of death frames the possibility of Christian identity; the metaphor of death
shapes that identity as a way of life; and both refer ultimately to Christ, whose
life the monk receives in death.
Conclusion: John Climacus’ Achievement
Die now, die now, in this Love die; when you have died in
this Love, you will all receive new life.
Die now, die now, and do not fear this death, for you will
come forth from this earth and seize the heavens. . .
Rumi, Ode 636, trans. A. J. Arberry
THE PARTS AND THE WHOLE
Climacus took up the various threads of “death” in ascetic literature and wove
of them a brilliant tapestry, stitching together an image of Christ out of the quo-
tidian grind, the frequent failures, and the introspective struggle of ascetic life.
For him, as for those before him, death is event, limit, metaphor, and tool. Yet
only in the Ladder is it so holistically deployed as the organizing logic and sym-
bolic meaning of the ascetic life. Every point is visible somewhere in the litera-
ture surveyed, but it was Climacus’ great genius to cling tenaciously to all
points, even those that appeared in conflict. For Climacus, the ascetic life
means progress, in repentance, obedience, and the cultivation of a Christ-like
identity. Progress is made possible by the iconic temporality within which the
monk finds himself, and which he engages through contemplation of mortality
and judgment. Thinking of what the future certainly holds—judgment and
eternal destiny—at every moment the monk sees the world in light of its eternal
significance. Memory of mortality, however, keeps him looking forward to an
as-yet unsettled future, urging him on in obedient renunciation. Yet he looks
back to his failures in obedience and love, and so he mourns in retrospect,
repenting so as to move forward once more. Each bite he takes, every drop he
drinks, every task he performs, no matter how mundane, remind him of the
judgment to come at death, and the eternal destiny to which it will consign
him. In this he finds his spur to further renunciation as well as in mourning and
repentance, the content of his labors. Thus, progress is movement forward and
upward within the bounds of death toward love conditioned always by hope and
fear. This threefold engagement with time thus performs the balancing of fear
and hope whose necessity Desert and Gazan Fathers clearly saw.
Conclusion: John Climacus’ Achievement 225
Within this iconic framework, Climacus deploys the metaphor of death as

the definitive image of the ascetic life. Characterizing obedience as the excision
of will, and this as death, Climacus describes a life bounded, as Basil had sug-
gested, and Barsanuphius argued, by an obedient “death.” The monk obeys God
through a human intermediary. He surrenders himself to another and so opens
himself to receive God’s will. He progresses in this regard, becoming more and
more a dead man—one who has denied his very self, the faculties by which he
can discern, choose, and pursue objects of desire. The “voluntary” and the
“intellectual” alike are killed in Climacus’ scheme, though he emphasizes the
will, as has most of the tradition before him, since doing so implicates ways of
thinking and perceiving, as well as acting. Thus, not only objects of choice, but
even the ability to choose is cut off, discernment handed over, desires denied—
nothing is left, whether in mind or heart. All the ways in which the Desert
Fathers and, more especially, Barsanuphius and John, conceived of “death” to
oneself and one’s neighbor, come together in Climacus’ vision of obedience
operative by means of the memory of death.
In this way, Climacus’ Christological and Trinitarian reflections on death are
particularly evocative. Situating himself in dogmatic as well as spiritual tradi-
tions, Climacus draws doctrine into the Christian life, and capitalizes on ideas
of “imitating Christ,” which are often less visible elsewhere. While the Gazan
Fathers had referred ascetic “death” to Christ’s crucifixion and thereby clarified
the ambiguity to which the language of death is prone, Climacus goes much
further. He uses the language of Christ’s natures as well as crucifixion to open
up monastic identity. The monk becomes like Christ, but his imitation of Christ
plays out precisely through his failures. Repentance lets the monk turn his
“death” into a prelude to resurrection. Likewise, Climacus’ Trinitarian language
reminds readers that progress is always within a Christian identity and that the
monk seeks, ultimately, to become a Christian by living as though dead. Only
thus can he hope for resurrection.
Even then, though, Climacus would remind the reader that resurrection
continues the mode of existence already defined as dead. We could say, in an
appropriately paradoxical fashion, that for Climacus, resurrection is itself lived
death. Perhaps, though, we simply have it backward and Climacus wishes to
correct our error—what we call death is, in fact, life. Not in a physical sense, as
Heraclitus or the Orphics might have put it: physical death really is death.
Rather, for Climaucs, “death” refers to a mode of existence that is really a way of
life: the “death” to oneself is “life” in God.
THE GIFT OF TRADITION
I have cataloged the salient work and contributions of biblical authors and phil-
osophical schools, Athanasius’ Life of Antony, Desert literature, and the Gazan
Fathers, in sufficient detail in the central four chapters of this study. Though I
have ended with Climacus, I would emphasize once more that their work is
important and ought to be appreciated as so many unique voices proclaiming
the life of ascetic spirituality. Through their engagement with each other, tradi-
tion began to take shape—a trajectory of thought emerged, in which death held
an increasingly important place for the Christian ascetic. It is in this vast liter-
ary conversation that Climacus sets himself, as though at one of Cassian’s con-
ferences, adding his voice to those of the “discerning Fathers.”
Climacus, however, achieves something in his conception of ascetic life as
“living death” that previous tradition did not anticipate. He effectively recon-
ciles the optimism that the language of death in the Vita Antonii and Desert
literature implied, with the earthy realism of Gaza, and through his emphasis
on obedience and repentance, builds into the practice of death an allowance for
the faults that bring a monk under judgment in the first place. Climacus is fully
aware that renunciation and withdrawal are difficult and that one falls unex-
pectedly, but his conception of the monk’s engagement with death and judg-
ment actually allows the monk to dwell in uncertainty. More than this, though,
Climacus draws all together in terms of a Christ-like identity characterized by
death. The language of “living death” finds in the Ladder its fullest expression
as a principle of ascetic life that not only expresses the hopes and ideals of ascet-
ic identity, but allows for and even incorporates the ways in which life fails to
live up to expectations. Climacus does not attempt to smooth out the rough
edges of ascetic spirituality. He probably did not have in mind any kind of con-
scious “synthesis.” Rather, his was a genius that saw in what he inherited all that
he needed in order to express what he found through experience.
What did Climacus achieve? What was his contribution to spirituality, his
legacy for Byzantine theologians, scholars, monks, and laypersons? It was, this
study has demonstrated, no less than a profound and radically original vision
of Christian identity that is new precisely by being traditional. Various authors
would use his work for various ends—drawing here and there, picking out ref-
erences that particularly suited their own purposes. And yet Climacus’ monu-
mental achievement stands apart from the more limited usage to which later
generations would put it, just as the traditional materials so important to Cli-
macus remain alongside it. Climacus offers not simply a theory of asceticism,
but a vision of the Christian life whose practiced reading in monasteries and
churches has, throughout twelve centuries that separate his lifetime from our
own, inspired and directed generations of Christians.
Of course, Climacus would say, first, that he was following tradition. As this
study has shown, his self-assessment would be absolutely accurate: he takes up
all that was left to him by centuries of monastic writers, and, treating it as trad-
ition, puts it together with his own experience. However, therein lies his crea-
tivity. When the threads are woven together, a new picture emerges. Climacus
would also say that he simply described what is possible in response to and in
Conclusion: John Climacus’ Achievement 227
imitation of Christ as the person in whom divine and human natures unite. The
Son’s place in the Trinity, his Incarnation, and his eschatological judgment cre-
ate a tensed space—a tomb and forecourt of heaven—within which the ascetic’s
identity takes shape. Christ’s death and resurrection create an unpayable debt,
but it is not payment that interests Climacus. It is acceptance. For Climacus, to
imitate Christ is to surrender oneself to him. It is to accept that he alone shows
a properly human life, and it is to attempt, with his help, to live his life rather
than one’s own. Climacus takes up the dogmatic, the ascetic, the spiritual trad-
ition of his forebears and, crafting his vision in words not his own, teaches his
reader that to die is, ultimately, to allow Christ to live within oneself.
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Primary Sources
For all ancient texts in major series, only the series abbreviation and volume number is
given. For primary sources, the “alternate text” and “translations” are provided here as
resources to readers, but except where explicitly noted, have not been used in this study.
Acta Martyrum
Text: Musurillo, H. (ed. and trans.), 1972, Acts of the Christian Martyrs, OECT
(Oxford: Clarendon Press).
Apophthegmata Patrum
Alphabetical Collection
Text: PG 65: 72–440.
Guy, J.-C. (ed.), 1984, Recherches sur la tradition grecque des Apophthegmata Patrum,
Subisidia Hagiographica 36 (Brussels: Société des bollandistes), 19–36.
Translation: Ward, Benedicta, SLG (trans.), 1975, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The
Alphabetical Collection, CS 59 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications).
Anonymous Collection
Text (and translation): Wortley, John (ed. and trans.), 2013, The Anonymous Sayings of
the Desert Fathers: A Select Edition and Complete English Translation (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press).
Alternative text: Nau, F. (ed.), 1907–09, 1912–13, “Histoires des solitaires chrétien,”
Revue de l’orient chrétien 12, 48–68, 171–81, 393–404; 13, 47–57, 266–83; 14, 357–79;
17, 204–11, 294–301; 18, 137–46.
Alternative translations: Stewart, Columba, OSB (trans.), 1986, The World of the Desert
Fathers: Stories and Sayings from the Anonymous Series of the Apophthegmata
Patrum (Oxford: SLG Press).
Ward, Benedicta, SLG (trans.), 1984, Wisdom of the Desert Fathers (Oxford: SLG Press).
Systematic Collection
Text: SC 387, 474, 498.
Translation: Wortley, John (trans.), 2012, The Book of the Elders. Sayings of the Desert
Fathers: The Systematic Collection, Cistercian Studies 240 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian
Publications).
Aristotle
Ethica Nicomachaea, Bywater, I. (ed.), 1894 (Oxford: Clarendon Press).
230 Bibliography
De memoria: Thomson, George Robert (ed. and trans.), 1906, De sensu and De memoria.
Text and translation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).
Translation: Sorabji, Richard (trans.), 2004 (2nd ed.), Aristotle on Memory (London:
Duckworth), 41–60.
Athanasius of Alexandria
Vita Antonii: SC 400.
Translation: Gregg, Robert C. (trans.), 1980, Athanasius. Life of Antony and the Epistle
to Marcellinus CWS (New York: Paulist Press).
De incarnatione: SC 199.
Contra Gentes: Thompson, Robert (ed. and trans.), 1972, Contra gentes and De
incarnatione, OECT (Oxford: Clarendon Press), 2–133.
Barsanuphius and John of Gaza, Quaestiones et Responsiones

Text: SC 426–27, 450–51, and 468.
Translation: Chryssavgis, John (trans.), 2006–07, Barsanuphius and John. Letters, 2
vols., Fathers of the Church 113–14 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of
America Press).
Basil of Caesarea
Asceticon magnum, regulae brevius tractatae: PG 31: 1052–1305.
Asceticon magnum, regulae fusius tractatae: PG 31: 889–1052.
Translation: Silvas, Anna (trans.), 2005, The Asketikon of St Basil the Great, OECS
(Oxford: Oxford University Press).
Regulae morales: PG 31: 692–869.
Cicero
Disputationes Tusculanae: LCL 141.
Clement of Alexandria
Quis dives salvetur?: GCS 17.
Stromateis: GCS 15.
Cyril of Scythopolis
Vitae: TU 49.2.
Translation: Price, R. M. (trans.), 1991, Lives of the Monks of Palestine, CS 114
(Kalamzoo, MI: Cistercian Publications).
Daniel of Raithou
Vita Joanni cognomento Scholastici, vulgo Climaci: PG 88: 596–608.
Alternative text: Acta Sanctorum, 3.2: 834F–838F.
Diadochus of Photice
Capita centum de perfectione spirituali: Rutherford, Janet E. (ed. and trans.), 2000, One
hundred practical texts of perception and spiritual discernment from Diadochos of
Bibliography 231
Photike, Belfast Byzantine Texts and Translations 8 (Belfast: Institute of Byzantine

Studies).
Alternative text: SC 5.
Alternative translation: Ermatinger, Cliff (trans.), 2010, Following the Footsteps of the
Invisible. The Complete Works of Diadochus of Photikê, CS 239 (Kalamazoo, MI:
Cistercian Publications).
Dorotheus of Gaza
Opera: Pauli, Judith, OB (ed. and trans.), 2000, Dorotheus von Gaza. Doctrinae diversae:
Die geistliche Lehre, 2 vols., Fontes Christiani 37.1–2 (Freiburg: Herder).
Alternative text: SC 92.
Translation: Wheeler, Eric P. (trans.), 1977, Dorotheos of Gaza. Discourses and Sayings,
CS 33 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications).
Evagrius Ponticus
De diversis malignis cogitationibus (recensio brevius): PG 79: 1200D–34A.
De diversis malignis cogitationibus (recensio fusius): SC 438.
Institutio sive Paraenesis ad monachos (recensio brevior): PG 79: 1235–40.
De octo spiritibus malitiae (recensio A): PG 79: 1146A–64D.
De rerum monachalium rationes: PG 40: 1252D–64C.
Sententiae ad Monachos: TU 39.4: 143–65.
Tractatus ad Eulogium: PG 79: 1094D–1140A.
Tractatus de oratione: PG 79: 1166A–1200D.
Tractatus practicus vel monachos: SC 170–71.
De vitiis quae opposite sunt virtutibus: PG 79:1140B–44D.
Translation (for all the above works): Sinkewicz, Robert E. (trans.), 2003, Evagrius of
Pontus. The Greek Ascetic Corpus, OECS (Oxford: Oxford University Press).
Kephalaia Gnostica: Guillaumont, Antoine (ed. and trans.), 1958, Les six centuries des
‘Kephalaia Gnostica’ d’Évagre le Pontique, PO 28.1 (Paris: Firmin–Didot).
Gregory of Nyssa
Contra Eunomium: GNO 1.1, 2.2.
De oratione dominica orationes: GNO 7.2.
De opificio hominis: PG 44: 123–257.
De virginitate: SC 119.
Historia Monachorum in Aegypto

Text: A.-J. Festugiere (ed.), 1961, Historia Monachorum in Aegypto, Subsidia Hagio-
graphica Graeca 34 (Brussels).
Translation: Russell, Norman (trans.), 1980, Lives of the Desert Fathers, CS 34 (Kala-
mazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications).
Isaiah [of Scetis/Gaza], Asceticon

Augoustinos Monachos (ed.), 1962, ΛΟΓΟΙ (Jerusalem 1911, 2nd ed., S. N. Volos:
Schoinas).
232 Bibliography
Syriac text: CSCO 289–90, 293–94 (Scriptores Syri 120–23).

Translation: Chryssavgis, John and Pinkett, Pachomios [Robert] (trans.), 2002, Abba
Isaiah of Scetis. Ascetic Discourses, CS 150 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications).
John Climacus [Scholasticus, Sinaites]

Ad pastorem: PG 88: 1165A–1207B.
Epistulae: PG 88: 623A–28C.
Scala Paradisi: PG 88: 624A–1164D.
Alternative text: Sophronios Monachos (ed.), 1959, Κλίμαξ (Constantinople, 1883;
repr. Volos: Schoinas).
Translations: Moore, Archimandrite Lazarus (trans.), 1978, The Ladder of Divine
Ascent, (1959; repr. Brookline, MA: Holy Transfiguration Monastery).
Luibheid, Colm and Russell, Norman (trans.), 1982, John Climacus: The Ladder of
Divine Ascent, CWS (New York: Paulist Press).
John Moschus, Pratum Spirituale

Text: PG 87.3: 2851–3116.
Mioni, Elpido (ed.), 1951, “Il Pratum Spirituale di giovanni Mosco: Gli episodi inediti
del Cod. Marciano Greco II, 21, OCP 17, 61–94.
Nissen, Th. (ed.), 1938, “Unbekannte Erzählungen aus dem Pratum Spirituale,” Byzan-
tinische Zeitschrift, 38, 251–76.
Translation: Wortley, John (trans.), 1992, The Spiritual Meadow of John Moschos, CS 139
(Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications).
Macarius of Corinth and Nicodemus of Athos

Text: ΦΙΚΟΚΑΛΙΑ ΤΩΝ ΙΕΡΩΝ ΝΗΠΤΙΚΩΝ ΠΑΤΕΡΩΝ, 1982 (Venice, 1782; 2nd
ed., Athens, 1893; reprinted in 5 vols. Athens: Aster).
Translation: Palmer, G. E. H., et al. (trans.), 1979–95, The Philokalia: The Complete Text,
4 vols. to date (London: Faber & Faber).
Mark the Monk

Opera: SC 445, 455.
Translation: Vivian, Tim and Casiday, Augustine (trans.), 2009, Counsels on the
Spiritual Life, 2 vols. in 1, Popular Patristics (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary
Press).
Palladius, Historia Lausiaca

Bartelink, G. J. M. (ed.), 1974, Palladio. La storia Lausiaca (Verona: Fondazione Lorenzo
Valla).
Alternative text: Butler, Dom Cuthbert (ed.), 1904, The Lausiac History of Palladius, 2
vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).
Translations: Clarke, W. K. Lowther (trans.), 1918, The Lausiac History of Palladius,
Translations of Christian Literature Series One (London: SPCK).
Meyer, Robert, 1964, Palladius: The Lausiac History, ECW 34 (Washington, DC:
Catholic University of America Press).
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Plato
Platonis opera, Burnet, J. (ed.) 5 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1900–07; repr.
1967–68).
Pseudo-Macarius
Sermones (collectio B): GCS 55–56.
Sermones (collectio H): PTS 4.
Translation (collection H): Maloney, George A., SJ (trans.), 1992, Pseudo-Macarius. The
Fifty Spiritual Homilies and the Great Letter, CWS (New York: Paulist Press).
Seneca
Ad Lucilium epistulae morales, Reynolds, L. D. (ed.), 2 vols., Oxford Classical Texts
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1965).
Translation: Fantham, Elaine (trans.), 2010, Selected Letters, Oxford World Classics
Ad Marciam de consolatione: LCL 254.
Ad Polybium de consolatione: LCL 254.
Other Ancient Sources

Alexander of Aphrodisius, Problemata: Ideler, J. L. (ed.), 1841, Physici et medici Graeci
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Anastasius of Sinai, Narrationes: Nau, F. (ed.), 1902, ‘Le texte grec des récits du moine
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Augustine, Confessiones: CCSL 27.
Benedict of Nursia, Regula Monachorum: SC 182.
Chrysippus, Fragmenta: SVF, vol. 2: Chrysippi fragmenta logica et physica, vol. 3:
Chrysippi fragmenta moralia.
Collectio Monastica, CSCO 238–39.
Constitutiones Apostolorum: SC 320, 329, 336.
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Diogenesus of Oenoanda, Fragmenta: Smith, M. F. (ed.), 1993, Diogenes of Oenoanda:
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John Cassian, Institutiones: SC 109.
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Index
Frequently Cited Scripture Passages 3.10, 59, 62
All Old Testament citations are from the 3.10–11, 62
Septuagint (LXX).
Philippians
Genesis 2.8, 62, 158–59, 180
18.27, 154–58, 165
1 Peter
Ben Sirach 5.6f., 62, 113, 161, 181
7.36, 54–55, 106, 145, 198
28.6, 55, 97 2 Peter
3.7, 52, 117
Matthew
7.13, 57, 112 People
10.22, 159–160, 166 Aelianus (layman-cum-abbot of
16.24, 2, 58, 60, 135, 171 Thawatha)â•‡ 148, 162–64, 169, 171
22.11f., 191, 205 Agathon (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 141, 157, 188
25.30ff., 57, 106, 147 Ammonas (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 53, 108, 123,
126, 128
Mark Amoun (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 27, 92–94, 101
9.43f., 56, 57, 88, 126 Andrew (Gazan monk)â•‡ 159, 161, 166, 168
Anoub (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 123, 126–27, 142,
Luke 163
9.60, 163–64, 176, 209 Antony the Greatâ•‡ 2, 26–28, 52–53, 80–102,
9.62, 58, 163 104, 108, 109–10, 111, 113–15, 122–23,
125, 142, 146, 150, 151, 153, 157, 175,
Romans 181, 182, 184–85, 186, 188, 193, 212
6.1f., 2, 58–59, 60, 174 Aristotleâ•‡ 44, 65
on cognitionâ•‡ 132, 138
1 Corinthians on deathâ•‡ 71
15.31, 86, 100 on memoryâ•‡ 74–75, 138
15.47f., 59, 163, 173 Arsenius (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 103, 117, 127,
130, 185, 187–88, 192
2 Corinthians Athanasius (of Alexandria)â•‡ 26–27, 52, 80–102,
4.16, 59, 186 104, 125, 159, 182, 186, 193, 202, 220
5.17, 54, 59
7.9f., 61, 117 Barsanuphius of Gazaâ•‡ 25, 28, 64–65, 70,
137–38, 143–81, 183, 197, 202, 203, 207,
Galatians 209, 214, 215, 217, 225
1.10, 125 on death as limitâ•‡ 158–61
2.16–19, 60 and exegesisâ•‡ 155, 176, 158–59
2.20, 58, 204 on mortal identityâ•‡ 154–58
3.27f., 58, 59, 62 Basil of Caesareaâ•‡ 12, 26–28, 52, 64, 143–44,
163, 179
Ephesians on death as limitâ•‡ 2, 158–59, 183
2.1f., 58, 129, 173 scriptural exegesisâ•‡ 144–45, 158, 169, 180
6.16, 151, 180
Clement of Alexandriaâ•‡ 65, 72, 83, 130, 177,
Colossians 216
3.5, 60, 209 on educational programâ•‡ 44
3.9, 168, 174 on practice of deathâ•‡ 69–70
250 Index
Cyril of Scythopolisâ•‡ 25, 27, 144, 151 Pambo (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 184–85, 188
on philosophyâ•‡ 69–70 Philotheus of Sinaiâ•‡ 5
Platoâ•‡ 73, 75, 83, 100
Daniel of Raithou (Sinaite monk)â•‡ 29–31, 46 on death as separation of soul from
Diadochus of Photiceâ•‡ 7, 26, 80, 108, 111, 125, bodyâ•‡70–71
173, 175, 205 on philosophy as practice of deathâ•‡ 66–68,
Dorotheus of Gazaâ•‡ 16, 25, 28, 143–45, 153, 74, 207
156–57, 179 Plotinusâ•‡ 71, 74, 75
Poemen (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 105, 113, 129, 133,
Elias (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 104–105 134, 140, 142, 154–55, 188
Elias of Creteâ•‡ 6–9 and his brothersâ•‡ 123–24, 126–27, 163, 167
Euprepius (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 107, 135 on mourningâ•‡ 118–19, 122, 150–52, 215
Evagrius of Pontusâ•‡ 2–12, 17, 21, 26, 44, Procopius of Gazaâ•‡ 30, 207
49–50, 63–65, 127, 177, 212 Pseudo-Macariusâ•‡ 2, 14, 26, 131, 177. See also
eschatologyâ•‡ 26, 115–16, 160–61 Evagrius v. Ps-Macarius
on the dangers of memoryâ•‡ 138, 146–47,
170, 205 Rufus (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 132–34
on imagining judgmentâ•‡ 107–109
on memory of deathâ•‡ 110, 111, 115 Sarapion the Sindonite (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 66,
on practice of deathâ•‡ 68–70, 142 125, 182
v. Ps-Macariusâ•‡ 14–15, 130–32 Senecaâ•‡ 76, 146, 149
on sadness (λυπή)â•‡ 61 Seridos (abbot of Thawatha)â•‡ 143, 148, 162,
on thoughts and representationsâ•‡ 22, 166, 171, 179
41–42, 131–32. See also Aristotle Sisoes (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 106, 136–38, 170,
185, 198
Hesychius the Horebite (Sinaite monk)â•‡ 184, Stephen the Sabaite (Sinaite monk)â•‡ 184,
197–98, 204 199–201, 203, 216
Hesychius of Jerusalemâ•‡ 5 Symeon the New Theologianâ•‡ 6, 46
Syncletica (Egyptian nun)â•‡ 70, 113, 117–18
Isaac (head of Alexandrian prison)â•‡ 35, 189,
190, 192
Theodora (Egyptian nun)â•‡ 112
Isaiah of Scetis/Gazaâ•‡ 16, 143–44 Theodore (Gazan monk)â•‡ 164–65, 176
Isidore (Alexandrian monk)â•‡ 211 Theodore of Pherme (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 113
Theodore the Studiteâ•‡ 6, 10
John of Gazaâ•‡ 143–81 Theophilus of Alexandriaâ•‡ 103–104
on obedienceâ•‡ 171–72
John of Lycopolisâ•‡ 112, 122, 188 Xoios (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 113
John of Sinai (Climacus)â•‡ 1–28, 29–51,
182–223 Zeno (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 108
dates of lifeâ•‡ 31–33
educationâ•‡ 30, 35 Subjects
influencesâ•‡ 12–13, 14, 23–24 angelsâ•‡ 92, 94–95, 105, 130, 133, 146, 208,
John Kolobos (Egyptian monk)â•‡ 133, 210 210–11, 213, 217, 221–22
apatheiaâ•‡ 44, 46, 69, 124–25, 140–41, 177,
Laurentius (Alexandrian monk)â•‡ 211 202–203, 208
Macarius the Egyptian (Macarius the Great) baptismâ•‡ 2, 58–59, 115

Mark the Monkâ•‡ 7, 26, 107, 112, 114, 117, 139, bodyâ•‡ 39–41, 42–43, 50, 56, 66–68, 71–72, 90,
144, 222 152, 164, 186, 219
on prepossession (πρόληψιϚ)â•‡ 138, 146, 205 burialâ•‡ 56, 59, 192, 198
psychologyâ•‡ 22, 41, 138 Antony’sâ•‡ 84, 99–101
Martyrius (Sinaite monk)â•‡ 30, 32
Moses the Ethiopian (Egyptian monk)â•‡ coenobiumâ•‡ 15, 126, 134, 139, 162, 165, 172,
123–24, 126, 135–36, 167, 188 190, 211, 217
corpseâ•‡ 55, 124, 164, 177–78, 181, 208–209, 217
Nilus of Ancyraâ•‡ 7, 30, 112, 114, 135 cynicsâ•‡125
Index 251
death and destructionâ•‡ 54, 56–57, 71 monastic prisonâ•‡ 189–96
death scenesâ•‡ 99–101, 157, 184–89, 191–96, readershipâ•‡ 7–8, 10
199–201. See also burial; ladder of divine scholia onâ•‡ 7–10, 35
ascent, monastic prison; physical death, tripartite structureâ•‡ 43–48
good or bad liabilityâ•‡ 93–95, 191, 193
deificationâ•‡173–75 loveâ•‡ 19, 44, 48–49, 62–63, 67, 69, 119–21,
detachmentâ•‡ 39–41, 152–53, 209 159–60, 165–67, 180, 214, 218–19, 224
discernment (διάκρισιϚ)â•‡ 35, 39, 48, 61, 134,
177–78, 191, 195, 201, 211–12, 218, 225 making progressâ•‡ 4, 35, 42, 43–44, 46, 47–50,
divine judgmentâ•‡ 56–58, 73, 78, 104–109, 111, 81, 84, 86–87, 110–11, 150, 157, 160,
157, 202. See also visions 161, 167, 183, 190, 191, 198, 206–207,
at deathâ•‡ 199–201 208, 215, 218, 220, 221–23
by demons or angelsâ•‡ 199–201, 211 martyrdomâ•‡ 2, 28, 69, 70, 98, 178, 187, 210,
216
educationâ•‡ 52–53, 64–66, 83 memory (faculty of)â•‡ 74–75, 77–78, 138,
enduranceâ•‡ 98, 107, 146, 150–53, 159–60, 162, 146–47, 170, 205. See also Aristotle on
166, 171, 178, 180 memory; Evagrius; Mark the Monk;
memory of death; prepossession
familyâ•‡ 88, 123–24, 126–28, 159–60, 163–65, memory of deathâ•‡ 2, 6, 50–51, 57–58, 74–78,
169–70, 211 148–53, 170, 204–207, 223. See also
fearâ•‡ 76, 134, 161, 188–89, 197, 201, 206, 214, Evagrius, Mark the Monk,
217. See also hope, judgment, prepossession, freedom
motivations as judgmentâ•‡ 88–90, 104–109, 145–48,
of deathâ•‡ 90, 104, 148–49, 185, 220, 223 193–96, 199–202
of Godâ•‡ 114–15, 135, 215 as mortalityâ•‡ 54–55, 86–87, 90–91, 97–99,
of judgmentâ•‡ 56, 77, 88–89, 106–108, 111, 109–11, 147, 197–98, 224
137, 147, 152, 170, 182, 195–96 monastic cellâ•‡ 74, 107–10, 123, 162, 178, 197
freedom, 119–21, 125, 126, 139, 148–49, 165, monothelite controversyâ•‡ 52–53
172, 212–13 mortalityâ•‡ 58–60, 154–58. See also
Barsanuphius; memory of death as
Gaza schoolâ•‡ 12, 16, 25, 143–45. See also mortality
Barsanuphius; Dorotheus of Gaza; John motivationsâ•‡ 18–19, 35, 62–63, 98, 191, 206,
of Gaza 214, 224
Gospel of Matthew on deathâ•‡ 56–59, 78, mourning (and tears)â•‡ 6, 31, 47, 48, 61,
104–105 106–107, 116–19, 150–53, 194–95, 196,
200, 204–206, 213–16. See also Poemen
heresyâ•‡ 140–41, 20–21 as baptismalâ•‡ 151, 215–216
hesychasm (living in solitude)â•‡ 30, 48, 50, 203, and sadness (λυπή)â•‡ 41, 55, 61, 90, 117, 151,
211, 224–26 182
hesychasm (monastic movement)â•‡ 5–7,
11–12, 26 new human (new creation)â•‡ 59, 94, 98,
hopeâ•‡ 59, 70, 86, 89–91, 106–107, 114, 115–16, 172–175
152, 161, 182, 189, 191, 193, 196, 201,
203, 205–206, 214, 215, 217, 219–20. See obedienceâ•‡ 2, 35, 62–63, 84–85, 90–91,
also fear; love; motivations 132–35, 170–72, 179–80, 208–13,
humilityâ•‡ 46, 48, 62–64, 123, 150, 152, 154–58, 217–18. See also will, cutting off,
165–67, 175, 180, 212, 214, 216 opposition of agesâ•‡ 59, 111–17, 123, 160–61,
imitation of Christâ•‡ 20, 60, 69, 81–82, 202–204
165–166, 174–181, 204, 218–221, and continuity of agesâ•‡ 91–95, 100–101,
225–227 112, 139–40, 159–60, 202
Origenism (and Origenist controversies)â•‡
Ladder of Divine Ascent, 1–28, 29–51, 182–223 63–64, 69–70, 116, 143, 155
bipartite structureâ•‡ 39–43
iconography ofâ•‡ 8, 37 Paul on deathâ•‡ 55–56, 58–60, 129, 181, 208,
originsâ•‡34–36 219
manuscript traditionâ•‡ 8–10, 43 penitential canonâ•‡ 11, 189–90
252 Index
philokaliaâ•‡ 6, 26, 144 schoolroom exercisesâ•‡ 65–66
physical death.â•‡ See also mortality; divine Sinaite schoolâ•‡ 5–6
judgment; memory of death shaping traditionâ•‡ 63, 146–47, 150, 152–153,
as entrance to judgmentâ•‡ 56–58, 72–74, 182–83, 208, 210–11, 224–27
105, 172, 201 spiritual exercisesâ•‡ 75–77, 90–91, 108–109,
good or badâ•‡ 100–101, 178, 184–88 138, 146, 149
indifferentâ•‡ 56–57, 78, 158–61, 212 stages of educationâ•‡ 43–44, 48, 67
as limitâ•‡ 62, 158–61, 166, 183, 206, 212–13 πρακτική and θεωρητικήâ•‡ 43–44, 116, 134
Platonismâ•‡ 44, 64, 67–69, 71, 73, 75, 78
pleasureâ•‡ 67, 76–77, 88–91, 110, 113–14, tears. See mourning
117–18, 119, 121, 151–52, 198, 220 thoughts (λογισμοί)â•‡ 22, 41–42, 106–109, 118,
practices of deathâ•‡ 2–4, 66–70, 78–79, 96–99, 128, 131, 151, 177, 199
122–36, 162–75, 178–81, 207–22. See tombâ•‡ 100, 119. See also burial
also apatheia; heresy; renunciation; living amongâ•‡ 97–98, 122–23, 126, 198,
tombs, living among; will, cutting off 217
refusal to judge (not judge)â•‡ 61, 135–36 transformation of relationshipsâ•‡ 162–67
resistance toâ•‡ 136–41 triodionâ•‡10
praemeditatio futurorum malorum.â•‡ See twofold deathâ•‡ 72, 177
spiritual exercises
prayerâ•‡ 6, 50, 70, 109, 116–17, 131–32, 138, unity of human beingâ•‡ 15, 43, 48–50, 221–22
172–73, 203, 220–21
preposession (πρόληψιϚ)â•‡ 138, 146, 205 visionsâ•‡ 34, 73, 174, 186, 196
repentance (μετάνοια)â•‡ 46, 48, 61, 116–18, the aerial pathâ•‡ 94–95
121–22, 139, 151, 173, 175, 198, 199, Amoun’s ascentâ•‡ 92. See also amoun
204, 206, 213–14, 215–16, 217, 220, 222. of deathâ•‡ 110, 134, 197–98
See also Ladder of Divine Ascent; the giant and birdsâ•‡ 93–94
monastic prison Vita Syncleticaeâ•‡70
penitents in the Ladder, 189–96
renunciation (ἀποταγή)â•‡ 46, 58, 70, willâ•‡ 14–15, 128–30. See also obedience
84–85, 89, 96–97, 98, 109–110, 112, 114, cutting offâ•‡ 128–35, 141–42, 167–75,
116–17, 119–21, 133–34, 139, 153, 158, 178–80, 210, 208–13, 221–22
162–65, 201, 204, 207, 224
as practice of deathâ•‡ 172–75, 211 zombiesâ•‡ 209, 217

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Jonathan Zecher - The Role of Death in The Ladder of Divine Ascent and The Greek Ascetic Tradition

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OX F O R D E A R LY C H R I S T IA N ST U D I E S

Titles in the series include:

For Tatiana, my beloved

I first encountered the literature of Christian monasticism on a train from

months. In such a death-denying world, reading ascetic literature seriously

together, that sometimes were worked out in opposition to each other—and

Introduction: Approaching the Ladder as a Text in Traditionâ•… 1

Conclusion: John Climacus’ Achievementâ•… 224

Alphabeticon Referenced as “Name #”. PG 65: 71–440, supplemented by

reg. br. Asceticon Magnum: regulae brevius tractatae, PG 31:

q.d.s. Quis dives salvetur? GCS 17.

cap. prac. Tractatus practicus vel monachus SC 170–71.

ep. Epistulae, PG 88: 623A–28C.

Mark the Monk

De lege De lege spirituali, SC 445, 74–128.

Collectio B Sermones (collectio B), GCS 55–56.

cons. Marc. Ad Marciam de consolatione, LCL 254.

ep. Ad Lucilium epistulae morales, in L. D. Reynolds (ed.), Ad

Other Ancient Texts

h. Laus. Palladius of Helenopolis, Historia Lausiaca, Bartelink, G.J.M.

CCSG Corpus Christianorum Series Graeca.

DOP Dumbarton Oaks Papers.

For this corruptible must put on incorruption,

Climacus and his contribution to Christian ascetic spirituality, we must also

THE PLACE OF THE STUDY

The Ladder in Byzantium and Beyond

Climacus’ Spiritual Sons

c.1120) massive and esoteric commentary, and Nicephorus Callistus Xantho-

The Character of the Text

The State of Climacian Studies

The Discerning Fathers

Chryssavgis exerts great effort to find hesychast leanings in Climacus.34 How-

The Need for a Hermeneutic

The Ladder and Greek Ascetic Tradition

Evagrius and Macarius on Sinai

â•‡ §1 (PG 88: 632C).

drawn by Irénée Hausherr between two “grands courants” in Byzantine spirituality.

Scetis Came to Gaza, Gaza Came to Sinai

Formation and Adaptation

Evagrian–Macarian or Desert–Gazan. He writes, “Either scholars seem to pre-

Each of the three models described here contributes something to under-

TRADITION AND THE INDIVIDUAL MONK

With these three models (Evagrian–Macarian, Desert–Gazan, and adaptive–

Forming Monks, Forming Christians

Shape and Not System

The Doctrinal Context

his treatment of monastic identity within the parameters of what he under-

Most often, Climacus combines and reshapes traditional material. A simple

â•‡ See also Johnsén (2007, 239–73).

141, 142, and Operibus 148 (SC 445: 110–12, 178).

Climacus’ working of traditional material, by which he holds together various

Tradition and Not Sources

THE SHAPE OF THE PRESENT STUDY

In keeping with the hermeneutical considerations outlined earlier, I have made

and rhetorical materials), foregoing extended examination of other obvious

material either original or lifted directly from the Apophthegmata.90 Thus,

â•‡ So concludes Chadwick (1974, 43–44, 60).

memory of death103 and a vision of death in Vita Johannis Hesychastae.104 Bars-

Introduction: Approaching the Ladder as a Text in Traditionâ•… 1

Conclusion: John Climacus’ Achievementâ•… 224