Self-effacement is presented by standard dictionaries as the disposition of a withdrawn personality lacking self-assertion or social sensibility. To not take initiative and stake out one’s ego, even in an ephemeral situation, is seen as a character flaw, a lack of personality, or more serious on the spectrum of social disorders.
This notion of self-effacement is quickly refuted in the anecdotes of historical hermits.
Self-effacement was a virtue among historical hermits, not because it was a useful device for dropping out of situations but because it was a reflection of a deeper philosophy of living, wherein helping others was not to be taken as a credit or exception, and withdrawal not to be taken as a weakness but strength, transcending the momentary.The project of the historical hermit required a declining of the worldly, tacitly expressed in self-effacement.
Some of the best anecdotes about self-effacement will illustrate the virtue, in a way that is startling to the modern observer. The stories break down false perceptions. Because so many sayings and anecdotes were gathered about the Christian desert hermits, here are three representative anecdotes. (The names of the characters are, for now, omitted as distracting.)
1. A chatty theologian came to visit a famous old hermit and elaborated on many theological fine-points. The hermit remained silent, so that the miffed theologian left, commenting to the old man’s assistant that the hermit had said so little. The assistant asked him to wait. He went in to the old hermit and explained how the theologian was offended. The hermit replied that the theologian was talking about subjects the hermit knew nothing about. “I only know about the passions of the soul,” he explained. The assistant went back to the theologian and explained the hermit’s response. The theologian went back in, spent the rest of the visit listening to the old hermit’s wisdom, and went away edified.
2. A bishop having heard of a famous old hermit was eager to visit him and showed up one day. He chattered about his work and his ecclesiastical responsibilities. He made personal observations. The hermit was largely silent. The bishop noticed and was ready to leave. He asked the hermit for some parting advice. The hermit looked at the bishop and said, “You ask my advice. Then, please heed it. Never come here again. You will return to your city and speak freely about me, and I will be inundated with visitors, and so I will have to leave this place, my home, and go further into the desert.”
3. The hermits in the desert lived in individual huts, cells, or cottages, within proximity of one another, coming together once a week for religious services. One Sunday, the hermits were all assembled, listening to a visiting priest (who had probably heard confessions). The priest announced that a certain Brother So-and-So must leave the assembly immediately because he was a sinner. The young man, shamefaced, did so. At that moment, an austere old hermit with long gray beard, most esteemed, stood up and began to make his way out of the assembly. “Wait, Abba!” cried the priest. “Where are you going?” The old hermit turned back half-way. “I, too, am a sinner,” he said quietly.
These stories represent different and refreshing ways of viewing self-effacement. Silence is a form of withdrawal, tacit disapproval. Perhaps the silent hermit of the first story seems “passive-aggressive.” He does not complain but replies to bad behavior with silence. One can imagine his assistant knowing this routine and absorbing the burden of the chatty theologian’s annoying presence.
In the second story, the hermit is more bold, saying exactly what is wrong with the bishop’s behavior. The hermit safeguards his solitude, his spiritual priorities, and has little sympathy for or interest in the worldly responsibilities of the bishop. Thomas Merton once quipped that the desert hermits were so successful because the bishops were far away.
In the third story, self-effacement is intrinsic to the old hermit’s spirituality, and he protects the young brother’s opportunity to remedy his life and make progress, while this solution does not occur to the visiting priest, invoking the authoritarian solution of humiliation. The old hermit, further, protects the solidarity of the hermits in general, who are dedicated to helping one another, not ostracizing any who makes an effort.
In this regard is a short anecdote about a young brother who comes to a wise old hermit and confides his troubles, plagued by certain thoughts for the last thirty days. “You have been plagued by these thoughts for thirty days?” says the old hermit. “I have been plagued by such thoughts for the last thirty years!” The hermits were humble, realistic, and dogged in their pursuit of virtue. Why, then, should they put down another?
One of the great desert hermits was Moses, a black man who had been a robber, knew the world well, and then came to spirituality, becoming a hermit. Moses is famous for his cogent advice to a young brother who asked what to do about thoughts. Moses said, “Go to your cell and stay there, and your cell will teach you everything.”
In a further anecdote about Moses, self-effacement is again expressed as a method of guarding solitude. It happened that he was out walking near a crossroads. A party of pilgrims approached. They asked eagerly for the cell of Moses. Moses replied, “Why do want to see the cell of that old fool?” But the pilgrims insisted on knowing the whereabouts of the cell of Moses. “In that direction,” said Moses, pointing exactly in the opposite direction of his cell.
Something piquant about these stories suggests that the desert hermits were no fools. The hagiography of Athanasius, filled with monsters and demons, does not ring well with the quiet persistence and psychology of the hermits. Similarly, the salacious hermit portraits of Flaubert and Anatole France entirely miss the strength of spirituality and self-effacement that is authentically reprinted in the desert hermit sayings.The tales are for modern mentalities.
A wonderful and literal story of self-effacement is to be found in Kamo no Chomei’s Hosshinshu, a collection of hermit stories from twelfth-century Japan. For many years, a brilliant instructor of novices had taught at a particular temple, garnering great repute and many disciples. But the old teacher longed for the solitary life, and one day he retired, disappearing from the temple and the city. Years passed. One day a man was traveling to a distant province. He had been the teacher’s disciple many years before. The man came to a wide river. He could not pass, for there was no bridge, but others lingering on the shore informed him that a ferryman would escort them all across momentarily. The ferryman appeared. The traveler looked up. The ferryman was his old teacher. Tears welled in his eyes. He wanted to say something. They had eye contact, just for a moment. The teacher acknowledged nothing. The travelers entered the ferry, the traveler of the story sitting at the fore of the boat in order not to see his teacher, and not to be seen with tears in his eyes. At last, they reached the other shore, and the traveler walked on, continuing his journey. Two months passed when the traveler made the return trip. He came to the same river, but another ferryman was working there. The traveler asked other travelers about the ferryman he remembered, describing him. “Oh,” they replied. “About two months ago, he abruptly left. We have never seen him again.”